Tavington: The Legacy: Chapter Six: "Opium Dreams"
Mooreville had smoked enough opium to know what withdrawal was like. Having been born in India he'd developed an addiction to it at fifteen, shortly after his father died. It had been a way of dulling the ache in his chest and filling the void that had seemingly opened beneath his feet. He'd turned to the drug out of free will. Poor Tavington, he thought, it wasn't like he had much of a choice.
The night had passed uneventfully. Obviously their enemies were biding their time. The old doctor had dozed off near dawn, and awoke to find his patient absolutely miserable, suffering through his first day in nearly two months without being drugged senseless. Naturally, he'd offered the young dragoon a healthy dose of opium. His wounds were mostly healed, but Mooreville doubted his obviously shattered constitution could handle the strain of giving up the drug all at once.
Much to the doctor's surprise, Tavington had refused the stuff. There was something in the connection between addiction and choice. Yet, the more he thought about it the more it made sense. Tavington had always been the sort who wanted to be in complete control of his senses at all times. Despite emotional stress that would have driven other, lesser, men to drink themselves into oblivion, William had always found other outlets for his aggression. Though considering some of the stories Mooreville had heard from the surviving dragoons perhaps it would have been better if Tavington took to the bottle once in a while.
"Well, if he wants off the stuff now then he just might be strong enough," Mooreville told himself. "After all, he's one of the few who could have survived with those injuries."
The doctor began to worry about noon when Tavington's headache had given way to a full blown fever. After a few hours filled with fits of delirium he had finally slipped into a feverish sleep. There had only been one other time since he had lost his seemingly miraculous ability to heal that Mooreville had wanted it back quite so badly. He had wanted to save his wife, and now he wanted to save the only man who had ever been anything close to a son to him.
He'd been in the army long enough and spent enough time around sick and wounded men to know when the end was near.
For the first time in nearly two years, Col. William Tavington had the misfortune of dreaming about her. Wasn't it bad enough that his head and neck hurt? His semi-conscious mind demanded, trying to ward off the unwelcome memories.
"Do you remember the first time we met?"
"Of course I remember. Still assuming all of us peasants are ignorant and forgetful, my dear Duchess?"
They had met the first day he had come to live at his aunt's boarding school for "privileged young ladies." She had long, messy black hair and a peach-colored dress that was ripped in several places.
"I figure that you're the only one who can make her shut up!"
Karenna Maria Johanna Carrenworth, the future Duchess of Fairenvail, had been something of an oddity in the world of privileged young ladies. Such an oddity, in fact, that he had come to regard her as something completely different; Karenna was in a class all her own.
They had been lovers only briefly during the winter the army spent in Philadelphia.
"I've already run away from home. I'm disguised as a man; and I'm fighting in the British Army. Gawd! William, I don't think sharing your bed for the night is going to ruin my reputation. The way I see it, it's damn well ruined now."
"She certainly has a way with words," Bordon stated once in a moment of pure sarcasm.
It had only lasted a week.
"I liked it much better when we were rivals," Karenna laughed. "There's something about going to bed with the man that you're trying to get the better of that doesn't quite sit right with my mind and the whole concept of things."
Rivalry. That had always been the basis of their relationship, and they had completed in everything from shooting apples off the trees in her father's orchards to how many lines of Virgil they could translate from the Latin in five minutes. Both were particularly poor losers, and often would not speak for several days following one of their little competitions.
Most people knew to stay out of the contests between the two. Poor Eleanor Cornwallis had learned the hard way. Karenna had suggested a horseback- ridding contest. It was the third one that month and she was desperate to pull off at least one victory.
"We'll see who can jump the fence at the far end of Morganna's property," Karenna suggested.
"Honestly Karenna, I really don't understand this bizarre compulsion you seem to have."
"What bizarre compulsion, William?"
"The bizarre compulsion to make an absolute fool of yourself."
They had been on their way to the far edge of the estate when they were met by Eleanor Cornwallis, who had been out for an early morning ride. Dressed in her spotless new riding habit, she turned up her pig-nose even further at Karenna. Karenna was the sort of girl who didn't own a dress without at least three spots and tears, and who had never learned to ride sidesaddle.
"And where are you two going?" she asked haughtily.
"Gawd! Why do you have to be so nosey, Eleanor? What, do you own the academy now?"
"Of course I don't own the academy. Don't be stupid! Now tell me what you two are doing."
"We're going to see who can jump the fence down there," Karenna answered pointing to the fence in the distance. She was desperate to send Eleanor on her way and get on with proving her superiority.
"Don't worry. It's something so very unrefined and positively unladylike that it wouldn't interest you," William added.
Eleanor scowled. "You two are fools! Neither of you could jump that fence."
"And I suppose you can?" William asked with an evil smirk.
"Of course!" Eleanor bragged. "My father saw to it that I had private riding lessons from the best instructors in England."
The whole thing had disintegrated into a fierce argument, and then, finally, a three person contest. The three of them had galloped at that fence full speed. William and Karenna had sailed over it with room to spare. It wasn't until they were on the other side, William staring at Karenna in amazement (she'd finally done it) and Karenna smiling her "so there, William!" smile that they realized that Eleanor was nowhere to be found. Needless to say, she hadn't quite made it. That riding accident had crippled Eleanor for life, and Tavington had always gotten the impression that the dear girl's uncle had never quite forgiven him. Cornwallis had been quite certain that Tavington had somehow talked his niece into attempting such a dangerous thing. It never dawned on Cornwallis that his niece had been an eager participant.
When he told Karenna that he was going off to help put down the rebellion in the colonies her response had surprised him despite the fact that it was perfectly in keeping with her character.
"Thank God! A war! Now there's a wonderful chance to prove that I am decidedly better than you."
"You're a woman!" Tavington reminded her, though it sounded odd to say such a thing. He had never really though of Karenna as being a "woman." She had always been just Karenna.
"So? I'll bet a few of those rebel women are dressed up as men to fight against us. From what I've overheard from father they're positively mad with hatred for us over there. Besides, father's going to drive me to the madhouse with all this constant talk of parties, suitors, and weddings."
So it continued. Karenna disguised as a boy from Yorkshire named Jimmy Smythe. It was relatively convincing too, especially when she slipped into a perfect Yorkshire accent. He'd even managed to use his influence to secure her a position in a regiment of light cavalry.
"Gawd! You cheating bastard! You never told me that being Grand High Dragoon automatically made you a colonel. Unfair! I'm Corporal Smythe here! Come on, you can get me something better than this!"
"I'm afraid not. Just think of it as a chance to prove yourself further."
Five months ago had been the last time the two of them had spoken on friendly terms. They were in Cornwallis' office, late at night, and sharing a bottle of the general's best wine. Not that Cornwallis knew anything about it, of course. The general had always attributed any alcohol that mysteriously disappeared to a rather undesirable habit of O'Hara's.
Karenna had downed a few glasses and was starting to get a bit tipsy. Tavington was leaning against the fireplace mantle, examining a portrait of the first royal governor of South Carolina, who, in his opinion, bore an uncanny resemblance to mad George III. He hadn't been expecting what was coming.
Karenna looked up from her glass and asked, quite simply, "William, would you marry me?"
"Marry you?" he nearly choked on his own wine. "Don't joke. You know how I feel about people trying to be funny."
"I'm not bein' funny, Will," her voice was slurred a bit due to the alcohol. "I've been thinkin' about it. I'm gonna be a Duchess when my father dies. I gotta get married someday. If I have to marry somebody, I guess you'd be better than most. We could spend the rest of our lives trying to destroy each other."
The though had occurred to him years ago. "And I would be Duke of Fairenvail."
That was the last time they had spoken as friends.
It was the evening after the skirmish by the stream, the day after he had dealt harshly with the rebels in that little town of Pembroke.
Still dizzy from pain and blood loss, Tavington remained in bed for a few hours after the surgeon finished sewing up the wound in his side where that annoying colonial boy's bullet had grazed him. The colonel found himself even more determined than ever to destroy that fool, Benjamin Martin. He could almost see the idiot now, alone, crying, mourning the death of his beloved son.
["Before this war is over, I'm going to kill you."]
"Your brandy, sir."
He looked up, the dim lighting in the tent, provided by a solitary candle, illuminated the features of Capt. Wilkins. He took the brandy and had a few sips. It dulled the pain in his side a bit.
"Are you alright, sir?" Wilkins asked with genuine concern.
"Get out, Wilkins!" Tavington commanded, not in the mood to be bothered.
"Yes, sir."
This must be what it's like to mourn, the dragoon thought. He was surprised at the resurfacing of emotions he had long thought dead. He had been five when his mother died, and too young to remember the events clearly, so he wasn't quite sure if what he felt was sadness.
Bordon had always been there. Bordon, more than anyone, knew what he was thinking, what he was feeling, and most importantly, what he wanted.
"Wilkins, get me a brandy."
He never had to give Bordon orders like that. Dear God! He was lying in bed injured! Bordon would have bought him a brandy and a nice cold cloth for his forehead. and Bordon would have done it without saying anything, without having been told what to do. Then he would have found a chair and made himself comfortable. The dragoon captain had a certain passion for reading; he particularly enjoyed the epic poems of Homer, Virgil, and Ovid. Bordon would pull a well-worn volume from the pocket of his red and green jacket, turn to his superior officer and ask something to the effect of, "Would you care for a little Homer this evening, sir? The Iliad perhaps?"
"Yes. Thank you, Bordon."
And Bordon would commence reading, his deep, slightly accented voice putting even the greatest bard of Homer's own time to shame.
Eventually Tavington would fall asleep, but Bordon would sit there, just in case his commander needed anything during the course of night. Another Brandy? Some Virgil?
Now he was dead. For ten years, Bordon had been there. The reliable, trustworthy, and often silent right-hand, content to follow his master's lead. It wasn't those qualities that Tavington missed. There were hundreds of men in the world who could be reliable, trustworthy, quiet, and entirely void of ambition. No, he missed Bordon because Bordon had been the only other person, besides the mother he barely remembered, who had ever truly cared about him. Karenna was too determined to prove her own worth, Mooreville was patronizing. There was no replacing Bordon.
That night he fell asleep decidedly depressed, reciting some of the better portions of The Iliad to himself from memory. He was shocked to when he awoke in the middle of the night to find Karenna standing over him.
Her black eyes were cold and hard, her lips were set in a firm, straight line.
"A church, William?" her bottom lip quivered. "A church full of innocent people?"
"They were rebels. You've killed a fair share of them yourself."
"They were armed rebels, William. There is a difference between war. and slaughter."
That day, he not only lost Bordon, but his chance at becoming a duke as well. Unknown to him at the time, but a few days later, he nearly lost considerably more than that, Benjamin Martin shoved a bayonet through his neck.
He opened his eyes. The room was covered in a milky haze, and there, sitting on the end of the bed, was Bordon.
"Lord Cornwallis tried to kill you," the captain said. "He ordered the surgeons to give you a fatal overdose of opium."
"Thank you, Bordon," Tavington whispered and lapsed back into unconsciousness.
Mooreville had smoked enough opium to know what withdrawal was like. Having been born in India he'd developed an addiction to it at fifteen, shortly after his father died. It had been a way of dulling the ache in his chest and filling the void that had seemingly opened beneath his feet. He'd turned to the drug out of free will. Poor Tavington, he thought, it wasn't like he had much of a choice.
The night had passed uneventfully. Obviously their enemies were biding their time. The old doctor had dozed off near dawn, and awoke to find his patient absolutely miserable, suffering through his first day in nearly two months without being drugged senseless. Naturally, he'd offered the young dragoon a healthy dose of opium. His wounds were mostly healed, but Mooreville doubted his obviously shattered constitution could handle the strain of giving up the drug all at once.
Much to the doctor's surprise, Tavington had refused the stuff. There was something in the connection between addiction and choice. Yet, the more he thought about it the more it made sense. Tavington had always been the sort who wanted to be in complete control of his senses at all times. Despite emotional stress that would have driven other, lesser, men to drink themselves into oblivion, William had always found other outlets for his aggression. Though considering some of the stories Mooreville had heard from the surviving dragoons perhaps it would have been better if Tavington took to the bottle once in a while.
"Well, if he wants off the stuff now then he just might be strong enough," Mooreville told himself. "After all, he's one of the few who could have survived with those injuries."
The doctor began to worry about noon when Tavington's headache had given way to a full blown fever. After a few hours filled with fits of delirium he had finally slipped into a feverish sleep. There had only been one other time since he had lost his seemingly miraculous ability to heal that Mooreville had wanted it back quite so badly. He had wanted to save his wife, and now he wanted to save the only man who had ever been anything close to a son to him.
He'd been in the army long enough and spent enough time around sick and wounded men to know when the end was near.
For the first time in nearly two years, Col. William Tavington had the misfortune of dreaming about her. Wasn't it bad enough that his head and neck hurt? His semi-conscious mind demanded, trying to ward off the unwelcome memories.
"Do you remember the first time we met?"
"Of course I remember. Still assuming all of us peasants are ignorant and forgetful, my dear Duchess?"
They had met the first day he had come to live at his aunt's boarding school for "privileged young ladies." She had long, messy black hair and a peach-colored dress that was ripped in several places.
"I figure that you're the only one who can make her shut up!"
Karenna Maria Johanna Carrenworth, the future Duchess of Fairenvail, had been something of an oddity in the world of privileged young ladies. Such an oddity, in fact, that he had come to regard her as something completely different; Karenna was in a class all her own.
They had been lovers only briefly during the winter the army spent in Philadelphia.
"I've already run away from home. I'm disguised as a man; and I'm fighting in the British Army. Gawd! William, I don't think sharing your bed for the night is going to ruin my reputation. The way I see it, it's damn well ruined now."
"She certainly has a way with words," Bordon stated once in a moment of pure sarcasm.
It had only lasted a week.
"I liked it much better when we were rivals," Karenna laughed. "There's something about going to bed with the man that you're trying to get the better of that doesn't quite sit right with my mind and the whole concept of things."
Rivalry. That had always been the basis of their relationship, and they had completed in everything from shooting apples off the trees in her father's orchards to how many lines of Virgil they could translate from the Latin in five minutes. Both were particularly poor losers, and often would not speak for several days following one of their little competitions.
Most people knew to stay out of the contests between the two. Poor Eleanor Cornwallis had learned the hard way. Karenna had suggested a horseback- ridding contest. It was the third one that month and she was desperate to pull off at least one victory.
"We'll see who can jump the fence at the far end of Morganna's property," Karenna suggested.
"Honestly Karenna, I really don't understand this bizarre compulsion you seem to have."
"What bizarre compulsion, William?"
"The bizarre compulsion to make an absolute fool of yourself."
They had been on their way to the far edge of the estate when they were met by Eleanor Cornwallis, who had been out for an early morning ride. Dressed in her spotless new riding habit, she turned up her pig-nose even further at Karenna. Karenna was the sort of girl who didn't own a dress without at least three spots and tears, and who had never learned to ride sidesaddle.
"And where are you two going?" she asked haughtily.
"Gawd! Why do you have to be so nosey, Eleanor? What, do you own the academy now?"
"Of course I don't own the academy. Don't be stupid! Now tell me what you two are doing."
"We're going to see who can jump the fence down there," Karenna answered pointing to the fence in the distance. She was desperate to send Eleanor on her way and get on with proving her superiority.
"Don't worry. It's something so very unrefined and positively unladylike that it wouldn't interest you," William added.
Eleanor scowled. "You two are fools! Neither of you could jump that fence."
"And I suppose you can?" William asked with an evil smirk.
"Of course!" Eleanor bragged. "My father saw to it that I had private riding lessons from the best instructors in England."
The whole thing had disintegrated into a fierce argument, and then, finally, a three person contest. The three of them had galloped at that fence full speed. William and Karenna had sailed over it with room to spare. It wasn't until they were on the other side, William staring at Karenna in amazement (she'd finally done it) and Karenna smiling her "so there, William!" smile that they realized that Eleanor was nowhere to be found. Needless to say, she hadn't quite made it. That riding accident had crippled Eleanor for life, and Tavington had always gotten the impression that the dear girl's uncle had never quite forgiven him. Cornwallis had been quite certain that Tavington had somehow talked his niece into attempting such a dangerous thing. It never dawned on Cornwallis that his niece had been an eager participant.
When he told Karenna that he was going off to help put down the rebellion in the colonies her response had surprised him despite the fact that it was perfectly in keeping with her character.
"Thank God! A war! Now there's a wonderful chance to prove that I am decidedly better than you."
"You're a woman!" Tavington reminded her, though it sounded odd to say such a thing. He had never really though of Karenna as being a "woman." She had always been just Karenna.
"So? I'll bet a few of those rebel women are dressed up as men to fight against us. From what I've overheard from father they're positively mad with hatred for us over there. Besides, father's going to drive me to the madhouse with all this constant talk of parties, suitors, and weddings."
So it continued. Karenna disguised as a boy from Yorkshire named Jimmy Smythe. It was relatively convincing too, especially when she slipped into a perfect Yorkshire accent. He'd even managed to use his influence to secure her a position in a regiment of light cavalry.
"Gawd! You cheating bastard! You never told me that being Grand High Dragoon automatically made you a colonel. Unfair! I'm Corporal Smythe here! Come on, you can get me something better than this!"
"I'm afraid not. Just think of it as a chance to prove yourself further."
Five months ago had been the last time the two of them had spoken on friendly terms. They were in Cornwallis' office, late at night, and sharing a bottle of the general's best wine. Not that Cornwallis knew anything about it, of course. The general had always attributed any alcohol that mysteriously disappeared to a rather undesirable habit of O'Hara's.
Karenna had downed a few glasses and was starting to get a bit tipsy. Tavington was leaning against the fireplace mantle, examining a portrait of the first royal governor of South Carolina, who, in his opinion, bore an uncanny resemblance to mad George III. He hadn't been expecting what was coming.
Karenna looked up from her glass and asked, quite simply, "William, would you marry me?"
"Marry you?" he nearly choked on his own wine. "Don't joke. You know how I feel about people trying to be funny."
"I'm not bein' funny, Will," her voice was slurred a bit due to the alcohol. "I've been thinkin' about it. I'm gonna be a Duchess when my father dies. I gotta get married someday. If I have to marry somebody, I guess you'd be better than most. We could spend the rest of our lives trying to destroy each other."
The though had occurred to him years ago. "And I would be Duke of Fairenvail."
That was the last time they had spoken as friends.
It was the evening after the skirmish by the stream, the day after he had dealt harshly with the rebels in that little town of Pembroke.
Still dizzy from pain and blood loss, Tavington remained in bed for a few hours after the surgeon finished sewing up the wound in his side where that annoying colonial boy's bullet had grazed him. The colonel found himself even more determined than ever to destroy that fool, Benjamin Martin. He could almost see the idiot now, alone, crying, mourning the death of his beloved son.
["Before this war is over, I'm going to kill you."]
"Your brandy, sir."
He looked up, the dim lighting in the tent, provided by a solitary candle, illuminated the features of Capt. Wilkins. He took the brandy and had a few sips. It dulled the pain in his side a bit.
"Are you alright, sir?" Wilkins asked with genuine concern.
"Get out, Wilkins!" Tavington commanded, not in the mood to be bothered.
"Yes, sir."
This must be what it's like to mourn, the dragoon thought. He was surprised at the resurfacing of emotions he had long thought dead. He had been five when his mother died, and too young to remember the events clearly, so he wasn't quite sure if what he felt was sadness.
Bordon had always been there. Bordon, more than anyone, knew what he was thinking, what he was feeling, and most importantly, what he wanted.
"Wilkins, get me a brandy."
He never had to give Bordon orders like that. Dear God! He was lying in bed injured! Bordon would have bought him a brandy and a nice cold cloth for his forehead. and Bordon would have done it without saying anything, without having been told what to do. Then he would have found a chair and made himself comfortable. The dragoon captain had a certain passion for reading; he particularly enjoyed the epic poems of Homer, Virgil, and Ovid. Bordon would pull a well-worn volume from the pocket of his red and green jacket, turn to his superior officer and ask something to the effect of, "Would you care for a little Homer this evening, sir? The Iliad perhaps?"
"Yes. Thank you, Bordon."
And Bordon would commence reading, his deep, slightly accented voice putting even the greatest bard of Homer's own time to shame.
Eventually Tavington would fall asleep, but Bordon would sit there, just in case his commander needed anything during the course of night. Another Brandy? Some Virgil?
Now he was dead. For ten years, Bordon had been there. The reliable, trustworthy, and often silent right-hand, content to follow his master's lead. It wasn't those qualities that Tavington missed. There were hundreds of men in the world who could be reliable, trustworthy, quiet, and entirely void of ambition. No, he missed Bordon because Bordon had been the only other person, besides the mother he barely remembered, who had ever truly cared about him. Karenna was too determined to prove her own worth, Mooreville was patronizing. There was no replacing Bordon.
That night he fell asleep decidedly depressed, reciting some of the better portions of The Iliad to himself from memory. He was shocked to when he awoke in the middle of the night to find Karenna standing over him.
Her black eyes were cold and hard, her lips were set in a firm, straight line.
"A church, William?" her bottom lip quivered. "A church full of innocent people?"
"They were rebels. You've killed a fair share of them yourself."
"They were armed rebels, William. There is a difference between war. and slaughter."
That day, he not only lost Bordon, but his chance at becoming a duke as well. Unknown to him at the time, but a few days later, he nearly lost considerably more than that, Benjamin Martin shoved a bayonet through his neck.
He opened his eyes. The room was covered in a milky haze, and there, sitting on the end of the bed, was Bordon.
"Lord Cornwallis tried to kill you," the captain said. "He ordered the surgeons to give you a fatal overdose of opium."
"Thank you, Bordon," Tavington whispered and lapsed back into unconsciousness.