Tavington: The Legacy: Chapter Five: Night At Fort Carolina
That night, Dr. Mooreville did not sleep. He had stationed himself in a relatively comfortable chair by the door of Col. Tavington's bedroom, inside the room naturally. When most people keep watch for would-be assassins, they wait in the hallway. Mooreville had always found his a foolish practice. The loyal servant stands watch all night, hearing nothing, only to open the chamber door in the morning to find his master dead. That was the way it always happened in stories. It was also the way it had happened to Tavington's grandfather, though they younger dragoon was unaware of the truth. That was one piece of history he could live without, the doctor had decided mostly because he could not bring himself to retell it. It was the one time Mooreville the loyal had failed.
Mooreville was not a man prone to depression, but the news of several recent deaths weighed heavily upon him. The most tragic of them all was Lt. Bordon. Mooreville was an old friend of Lord James Bordon, the young lieutenant's father, and knew he would have to be the one to deliver the sad news. More tragic still, the younger Bordon had been James' only son and had died without producing an heir to continue the Bordon bloodline, which was second only to that of the Moorevilles and Tavingtons.
The hours passed slowly and Mooreville had little else to do but watch Tavington sleep. First and foremost, before he had become a dragoon, Mooreville had been a physician. He had been happy too. People from all over England had come to see him, many sacrificing their life savings or selling their treasured belongings to afford the trip to London and the subsequent treatment. He had been famous for curing those thought incurable. There were lovely young ladies of marriageable age stricken with pneumonia, innocent children suffering from polio, elderly men with crippling rheumatism, and dozens of victims of the white plague. He had healed them all. It was as though he had some sort of magical touch, some sort of gift or power.
Then, one day his wife fell ill. Isabel Mooreville had been a loving wife and a caring nurse to all the patients who visited. She was quiet but her silence often spoke louder than words, she was gentle, yet she was firm, and most important of all, he had loved her. He had loved her more than he though it was possible to love anyone. She had loved him in return, as she had loved everyone, with a selfless dedication. Even when she was lying on her deathbed, coughing up blood, barely able to speak, she had begged him to tend to the other patients.
He had done everything in his power to save her, but she had died, and taken his gift for healing with her, though he didn't know it until it was too late. Only a day after the death of his beloved wife a stranger came to the house of Mooreville. He had been upstairs, completely consumed with grief, when he heard someone knocking on the street door. He dried his eyes and went downstairs.
The man at the door was tall, muscular with broad shoulders. He was dressed in a most peculiar uniform. Mooreville had seen military uniforms before, but never one with so much green trim. Stranger still, he was fully armed with a well-worn cavalry saber and two flintlock pistols tucked into his belt. He had thick, curly black hair that hung loose about his shoulders.
"You will forgive me my timing," the stranger whispered, "for your wife has only just departed this earth. However, there is someone in desperate need of your skills and I am prepared to pay handsomely."
The very idea of working at such a time was offensive.
"Forgive me, sir, but you will have to find some other physician. There is Dr. Greysmith. He lives down the next road a bit. Number thirty-seven, you should find it easily enough."
Much to Mooreville's surprise the stranger had grown quite angry. "You are the only physician that will do in this particular case. I have asked you politely and am prepared to offer you enough to buy your wife in a fashionable manner. You will either accept my offer, or I will force you to." The stranger drew his sword and held it up so that the light reflected off of the newly-sharpened blade.
Seeing as he didn't have much of a choice, Mooreville locked his front door and followed the stranger down several streets and through some dark and twisting alleyways until they came to a modest little house in one of the commoner districts of London.
Here the stranger threw the door opened and led Mooreville inside, through several neat and modestly furnished rooms, until they came to a closed door.
"Inside is my daughter in law," the stranger explained. "Her name is Elizabeth. They say you are the best in the city. Do what you can."
Without further explanation, Mooreville found himself standing in a dimly lit chamber. The room smelled of sickness and stale air. There was a bed, and lying on it was an extraordinarily beautiful young woman. Her brown hair had been neatly, and seemingly lovingly, braided. Her cheeks were sunken, her lips blue and stained with blood. He knew before even having to examine her that she was already dead.
Exiting the room to deliver the sad knew to the man in the odd uniform, Mooreville found him in sitting in a chair by the fire, directly opposite what appeared to be a larger, younger version of himself. Mooreville assumed, and correctly, that this was the man's son.
He looked up and, seeing the doctor, asked simply, "Is she?"
Mooreville nodded.
He turned to his son, "Then I am through here." "Father!" the larger man blubbered, "You can't leave me, father! What will I do? What can I do? I. I. can't live without her!"
"You will learn, or you will perish," the father stated flatly. "That is the way of things." Again, he turned to Mooreville. "Allow me to escort you home, doctor. The streets of London are no place to walk about at night without proper protection." He patted his sword affectionately.
They turned to leave.
"Father."
"I will return for my grandson," he added with a quick glance back at his son.
They went out again into the streets. For a while they walked in silence except for the sound of their shoes on the cobblestones. The stranger held an old metal lantern in one hand, but kept the other on the hilt of his saber. Mooreville thought he saw, out of the corner of his eye, tears welling up in the man's eyes.
"Are you really Dr. Handalgo Mooreville, then?" he asked finally. "Born in India? Son of Lt. Christopher Mooreville and Lady Samantha?"
Mooreville was startled. Many people knew his last name but very few knew his first name, let alone how to pronounce it. "I am."
"Perhaps your father mentioned me once or twice. I'm Tavington. Col. William Tavington, Green Dragoons."
The doctor was stunned. His father had often mentioned someone named Tavington as the officer he had served under before joining the East India Company.
"Yes, he did talk about you. He served under you, didn't he?"
"You could say that."
There were several more minutes of silence before they reached Mooreville's door once again.
"Tell me then, Dr. Mooreville, now that your wife is dead and your miraculous ability to heal seems to have faded, what do you intend to do?"
"I really hadn't thought about it," he admitted.
The dragoon smiled. "I wouldn't worry about it then. You shall have a new purpose quite soon enough." With that, he had left a very confused Dr. Mooreville standing on the front step of his own house. One week later, Mooreville had become the bearer of his father's sword, the first of the lesser dragoons, and consequently, Tavington's grandfather's one and only friend. He was one of the few who were allowed to call the Grand High Dragoon by his middle name, Banastre. "Bloody Ban Tavington." Mooreville like it.
"Mooreville, find my grandson. Take care of him."
Those had been Ban's last words, what he had whispered to Mooreville as he lay dying. They had only known one another for five years before the unexpected happened. Ban had always been so confident; perhaps it was that very confidence that condemned him in the end. He had died with one of the Duke of Fairenvail's golden daggers through his chest, the victim of a long and bloody conflict that should have ended centuries ago.
"Idiot! You let him go off to America with that fool Cornwallis? Have you forgotten everything you promised?"
The angry voice startled Mooreville out of is reverie. He looked up, expecting to find some ghostly specter of Ban standing before him. There was nothing, nothing except a well decorated room in a typical South Carolina plantation home that had been converted into a makeshift field hospital, and Tavington sleeping, looking eerily like his mother.
"Did you speak with Lord Cornwallis?" Tavington asked, opening his soulless green eyes a bit and fixing them on Mooreville.
"I did," Mooreville replied. Tavington's voice sounded better, less strained, and with a good deal of its old coldness. Finally, that opium overdose was wearing off. "He's was going to try and have them hang you for insubordination."
Tavington managed a slight laugh. "That's quite typical of Lord Cornwallis. I halfway expected something like that. Was he having dinner when you spoke with him?"
"Yes, actually. Why do you ask?"
"It's how Lord Cornwallis deals with his losses. He drowns his sorrows in frequent, fancy dinners."
The doctor thought for a moment. "You told me I could blame you if I wanted. Blame you for what?"
"For the loss, of course. I know that the Lord General does."
"Why would I blame you? When did you ever do anything wrong?" Mooreville laughed harder than he had in years.
AUTHOR'S NOTES ON THE STORY SO FAR. A big thanks to anyone who has reviewed it!!! Since the character of Col. Tavington was somewhat based on British officer Banastre Tarleton, I decided to make Tavington's grandfather's middle name Banastre. It's just a reference to the real history. Just to prevent any confusion, the Tavington who is the main character of this story (and the villain in The Patriot) is William XIII, his father (the drunk guy who was married to Elizabeth) is William XII, and grandfather William Banastre Tavington is William XI.
That night, Dr. Mooreville did not sleep. He had stationed himself in a relatively comfortable chair by the door of Col. Tavington's bedroom, inside the room naturally. When most people keep watch for would-be assassins, they wait in the hallway. Mooreville had always found his a foolish practice. The loyal servant stands watch all night, hearing nothing, only to open the chamber door in the morning to find his master dead. That was the way it always happened in stories. It was also the way it had happened to Tavington's grandfather, though they younger dragoon was unaware of the truth. That was one piece of history he could live without, the doctor had decided mostly because he could not bring himself to retell it. It was the one time Mooreville the loyal had failed.
Mooreville was not a man prone to depression, but the news of several recent deaths weighed heavily upon him. The most tragic of them all was Lt. Bordon. Mooreville was an old friend of Lord James Bordon, the young lieutenant's father, and knew he would have to be the one to deliver the sad news. More tragic still, the younger Bordon had been James' only son and had died without producing an heir to continue the Bordon bloodline, which was second only to that of the Moorevilles and Tavingtons.
The hours passed slowly and Mooreville had little else to do but watch Tavington sleep. First and foremost, before he had become a dragoon, Mooreville had been a physician. He had been happy too. People from all over England had come to see him, many sacrificing their life savings or selling their treasured belongings to afford the trip to London and the subsequent treatment. He had been famous for curing those thought incurable. There were lovely young ladies of marriageable age stricken with pneumonia, innocent children suffering from polio, elderly men with crippling rheumatism, and dozens of victims of the white plague. He had healed them all. It was as though he had some sort of magical touch, some sort of gift or power.
Then, one day his wife fell ill. Isabel Mooreville had been a loving wife and a caring nurse to all the patients who visited. She was quiet but her silence often spoke louder than words, she was gentle, yet she was firm, and most important of all, he had loved her. He had loved her more than he though it was possible to love anyone. She had loved him in return, as she had loved everyone, with a selfless dedication. Even when she was lying on her deathbed, coughing up blood, barely able to speak, she had begged him to tend to the other patients.
He had done everything in his power to save her, but she had died, and taken his gift for healing with her, though he didn't know it until it was too late. Only a day after the death of his beloved wife a stranger came to the house of Mooreville. He had been upstairs, completely consumed with grief, when he heard someone knocking on the street door. He dried his eyes and went downstairs.
The man at the door was tall, muscular with broad shoulders. He was dressed in a most peculiar uniform. Mooreville had seen military uniforms before, but never one with so much green trim. Stranger still, he was fully armed with a well-worn cavalry saber and two flintlock pistols tucked into his belt. He had thick, curly black hair that hung loose about his shoulders.
"You will forgive me my timing," the stranger whispered, "for your wife has only just departed this earth. However, there is someone in desperate need of your skills and I am prepared to pay handsomely."
The very idea of working at such a time was offensive.
"Forgive me, sir, but you will have to find some other physician. There is Dr. Greysmith. He lives down the next road a bit. Number thirty-seven, you should find it easily enough."
Much to Mooreville's surprise the stranger had grown quite angry. "You are the only physician that will do in this particular case. I have asked you politely and am prepared to offer you enough to buy your wife in a fashionable manner. You will either accept my offer, or I will force you to." The stranger drew his sword and held it up so that the light reflected off of the newly-sharpened blade.
Seeing as he didn't have much of a choice, Mooreville locked his front door and followed the stranger down several streets and through some dark and twisting alleyways until they came to a modest little house in one of the commoner districts of London.
Here the stranger threw the door opened and led Mooreville inside, through several neat and modestly furnished rooms, until they came to a closed door.
"Inside is my daughter in law," the stranger explained. "Her name is Elizabeth. They say you are the best in the city. Do what you can."
Without further explanation, Mooreville found himself standing in a dimly lit chamber. The room smelled of sickness and stale air. There was a bed, and lying on it was an extraordinarily beautiful young woman. Her brown hair had been neatly, and seemingly lovingly, braided. Her cheeks were sunken, her lips blue and stained with blood. He knew before even having to examine her that she was already dead.
Exiting the room to deliver the sad knew to the man in the odd uniform, Mooreville found him in sitting in a chair by the fire, directly opposite what appeared to be a larger, younger version of himself. Mooreville assumed, and correctly, that this was the man's son.
He looked up and, seeing the doctor, asked simply, "Is she?"
Mooreville nodded.
He turned to his son, "Then I am through here." "Father!" the larger man blubbered, "You can't leave me, father! What will I do? What can I do? I. I. can't live without her!"
"You will learn, or you will perish," the father stated flatly. "That is the way of things." Again, he turned to Mooreville. "Allow me to escort you home, doctor. The streets of London are no place to walk about at night without proper protection." He patted his sword affectionately.
They turned to leave.
"Father."
"I will return for my grandson," he added with a quick glance back at his son.
They went out again into the streets. For a while they walked in silence except for the sound of their shoes on the cobblestones. The stranger held an old metal lantern in one hand, but kept the other on the hilt of his saber. Mooreville thought he saw, out of the corner of his eye, tears welling up in the man's eyes.
"Are you really Dr. Handalgo Mooreville, then?" he asked finally. "Born in India? Son of Lt. Christopher Mooreville and Lady Samantha?"
Mooreville was startled. Many people knew his last name but very few knew his first name, let alone how to pronounce it. "I am."
"Perhaps your father mentioned me once or twice. I'm Tavington. Col. William Tavington, Green Dragoons."
The doctor was stunned. His father had often mentioned someone named Tavington as the officer he had served under before joining the East India Company.
"Yes, he did talk about you. He served under you, didn't he?"
"You could say that."
There were several more minutes of silence before they reached Mooreville's door once again.
"Tell me then, Dr. Mooreville, now that your wife is dead and your miraculous ability to heal seems to have faded, what do you intend to do?"
"I really hadn't thought about it," he admitted.
The dragoon smiled. "I wouldn't worry about it then. You shall have a new purpose quite soon enough." With that, he had left a very confused Dr. Mooreville standing on the front step of his own house. One week later, Mooreville had become the bearer of his father's sword, the first of the lesser dragoons, and consequently, Tavington's grandfather's one and only friend. He was one of the few who were allowed to call the Grand High Dragoon by his middle name, Banastre. "Bloody Ban Tavington." Mooreville like it.
"Mooreville, find my grandson. Take care of him."
Those had been Ban's last words, what he had whispered to Mooreville as he lay dying. They had only known one another for five years before the unexpected happened. Ban had always been so confident; perhaps it was that very confidence that condemned him in the end. He had died with one of the Duke of Fairenvail's golden daggers through his chest, the victim of a long and bloody conflict that should have ended centuries ago.
"Idiot! You let him go off to America with that fool Cornwallis? Have you forgotten everything you promised?"
The angry voice startled Mooreville out of is reverie. He looked up, expecting to find some ghostly specter of Ban standing before him. There was nothing, nothing except a well decorated room in a typical South Carolina plantation home that had been converted into a makeshift field hospital, and Tavington sleeping, looking eerily like his mother.
"Did you speak with Lord Cornwallis?" Tavington asked, opening his soulless green eyes a bit and fixing them on Mooreville.
"I did," Mooreville replied. Tavington's voice sounded better, less strained, and with a good deal of its old coldness. Finally, that opium overdose was wearing off. "He's was going to try and have them hang you for insubordination."
Tavington managed a slight laugh. "That's quite typical of Lord Cornwallis. I halfway expected something like that. Was he having dinner when you spoke with him?"
"Yes, actually. Why do you ask?"
"It's how Lord Cornwallis deals with his losses. He drowns his sorrows in frequent, fancy dinners."
The doctor thought for a moment. "You told me I could blame you if I wanted. Blame you for what?"
"For the loss, of course. I know that the Lord General does."
"Why would I blame you? When did you ever do anything wrong?" Mooreville laughed harder than he had in years.
AUTHOR'S NOTES ON THE STORY SO FAR. A big thanks to anyone who has reviewed it!!! Since the character of Col. Tavington was somewhat based on British officer Banastre Tarleton, I decided to make Tavington's grandfather's middle name Banastre. It's just a reference to the real history. Just to prevent any confusion, the Tavington who is the main character of this story (and the villain in The Patriot) is William XIII, his father (the drunk guy who was married to Elizabeth) is William XII, and grandfather William Banastre Tavington is William XI.