Tavington: The Legacy: Chapter Seven: "Surrendering"
"That's my last Duchess painted on the wall, looking as if she were alive."
-Robert Browning
The news of the surrender reached Mooreville as he stood over the recently dead body of Corporal Smythe. The duchess had died in a most gruesome fashion. Wilkins had found her on the battlefield following a skirmish with the rebels, a bullet through her heart.
"My sister. please, look after my sister. don't let him. he's mad."
Those had been her last words, supposedly whispered to Capt. Wilkins, though the old doctor suspected the loyalist might have edited them slightly.
"Enjoy hell, Carrenworth bitch!" Mooreville hissed, taking one last look at the body. He had every intention of exposing her for what she was, a woman, and therefore having illegally served in the British army.
"Gen. Mooreville!"
He turned to find Wilkins standing at the tent flap an expression of utter despair on his face.
"What is it, Wilkins?"
"The war's over! General Lord Cornwallis has surrendered to Washington at Yorktown," he fell to his knees and began sobbing inconsolably.
"What are you blubbering like that for?" Mooreville demanded.
"We lost," Wilkins cried between sobs. "What am I going to do now? What the hell am I going to do, Gen. Mooreville? I can never go home! Damn him! This is all his fault! It's that bastard Tavington's fault that I don't have a home to go back to!"
"I think you're forgetting whose decision it was to throw that torch," Mooreville stated, brushing past Wilkins and leaving the tent.
Fort Carolina was nearly deserted, Cornwallis having abandoned the place in favor of his stronghold at Yorktown. He had marched out months ago leaving the wounded, the useless, and the dragoons. The buildings had fallen into disrepair and the remaining soldiers spent their days engaged in the idle pursuits of gambling and drinking. Rude patriot children would walk by, make faces, throw things, all without fear of retaliation. An oppressive blanket of apathy had settled over the dragoons who had survived Cowpens.
Mooreville had given up trying to rally them to the cause of raiding the camps of rebel militiamen.
"We burnt down a rebel's house once," a dragoon by the name of Godfrey had grumbled. "And look at all the hell that came outa that."
"Damn ghost!" Corporal Morgan spat. "Deal the cards, Ox."
"No one tells us what to do but Tavington, and you ain't Tavington," Ox added before he began dealing. He had never been regarded as particularly bright and had proven himself to be incapable of doing two things at once.
"And where the hell is Tavington?" Mooreville wondered.
It had taken six months, but the Grand Dragoon had eventually recovered, despite the opium and a nearly fatal bout with pneumonia. Considering his severely weakened state and permanently shattered constitution, Mooreville had been amazed to find Tavington gone one particularly gray June morning. More amazing still, he'd left nearly everything behind. There was the saber he'd had engraved before leaving for America, two of his favorite flintlock pistols, his jacket (still in relatively good condition despite the bullet hole in the left shoulder area), his helmet, everything.
The greatest shock came when Mooreville checked the pockets of the jacket and discovered the pendant. The silver dragon with emerald eyes hanging from its heavy silver chain. Tavington had never taken that thing off! It was the symbol of his power, what Mooreville had given him when he assumed the title of Grand High Dragoon. He wouldn't take it off. Unless, of course.
No, Mooreville told himself. Tavington might be many bad things. He was cruel, evil, heartless, and completely devoid of any emotions aside from anger, depression, and indifference, but he most certainly wasn't a traitor. No matter how angry he was with Lord Cornwallis, no matter how much he desired revenge, he would never turn traitor. Never.
For several days, Mooreville had hoped that he would return just as suddenly as he had vanished. Those days turned into weeks, then months; and now with the British surrender there was no telling what had become of him. The doctor had come to accept the idea that he might never hear from Tavington again. He had left behind the pendant, the very embodiment of his hereditary power. If he hadn't gone to pursue a course of vengeful, traitorous action, then there was only one explanation. Tavington had, as Mooreville feared he would, come to the inevitable conclusion that he was physically incapable of fighting for the crown again. Thus, thinking his life worthless, and desiring an end to his pain and emotional suffering, he had decided to end it all in the most convenient way possible. That would certainly explain why his third, and quite possibly his favorite, gun was the only thing he hadn't left behind.
"That's my last Duchess painted on the wall, looking as if she were alive."
-Robert Browning
The news of the surrender reached Mooreville as he stood over the recently dead body of Corporal Smythe. The duchess had died in a most gruesome fashion. Wilkins had found her on the battlefield following a skirmish with the rebels, a bullet through her heart.
"My sister. please, look after my sister. don't let him. he's mad."
Those had been her last words, supposedly whispered to Capt. Wilkins, though the old doctor suspected the loyalist might have edited them slightly.
"Enjoy hell, Carrenworth bitch!" Mooreville hissed, taking one last look at the body. He had every intention of exposing her for what she was, a woman, and therefore having illegally served in the British army.
"Gen. Mooreville!"
He turned to find Wilkins standing at the tent flap an expression of utter despair on his face.
"What is it, Wilkins?"
"The war's over! General Lord Cornwallis has surrendered to Washington at Yorktown," he fell to his knees and began sobbing inconsolably.
"What are you blubbering like that for?" Mooreville demanded.
"We lost," Wilkins cried between sobs. "What am I going to do now? What the hell am I going to do, Gen. Mooreville? I can never go home! Damn him! This is all his fault! It's that bastard Tavington's fault that I don't have a home to go back to!"
"I think you're forgetting whose decision it was to throw that torch," Mooreville stated, brushing past Wilkins and leaving the tent.
Fort Carolina was nearly deserted, Cornwallis having abandoned the place in favor of his stronghold at Yorktown. He had marched out months ago leaving the wounded, the useless, and the dragoons. The buildings had fallen into disrepair and the remaining soldiers spent their days engaged in the idle pursuits of gambling and drinking. Rude patriot children would walk by, make faces, throw things, all without fear of retaliation. An oppressive blanket of apathy had settled over the dragoons who had survived Cowpens.
Mooreville had given up trying to rally them to the cause of raiding the camps of rebel militiamen.
"We burnt down a rebel's house once," a dragoon by the name of Godfrey had grumbled. "And look at all the hell that came outa that."
"Damn ghost!" Corporal Morgan spat. "Deal the cards, Ox."
"No one tells us what to do but Tavington, and you ain't Tavington," Ox added before he began dealing. He had never been regarded as particularly bright and had proven himself to be incapable of doing two things at once.
"And where the hell is Tavington?" Mooreville wondered.
It had taken six months, but the Grand Dragoon had eventually recovered, despite the opium and a nearly fatal bout with pneumonia. Considering his severely weakened state and permanently shattered constitution, Mooreville had been amazed to find Tavington gone one particularly gray June morning. More amazing still, he'd left nearly everything behind. There was the saber he'd had engraved before leaving for America, two of his favorite flintlock pistols, his jacket (still in relatively good condition despite the bullet hole in the left shoulder area), his helmet, everything.
The greatest shock came when Mooreville checked the pockets of the jacket and discovered the pendant. The silver dragon with emerald eyes hanging from its heavy silver chain. Tavington had never taken that thing off! It was the symbol of his power, what Mooreville had given him when he assumed the title of Grand High Dragoon. He wouldn't take it off. Unless, of course.
No, Mooreville told himself. Tavington might be many bad things. He was cruel, evil, heartless, and completely devoid of any emotions aside from anger, depression, and indifference, but he most certainly wasn't a traitor. No matter how angry he was with Lord Cornwallis, no matter how much he desired revenge, he would never turn traitor. Never.
For several days, Mooreville had hoped that he would return just as suddenly as he had vanished. Those days turned into weeks, then months; and now with the British surrender there was no telling what had become of him. The doctor had come to accept the idea that he might never hear from Tavington again. He had left behind the pendant, the very embodiment of his hereditary power. If he hadn't gone to pursue a course of vengeful, traitorous action, then there was only one explanation. Tavington had, as Mooreville feared he would, come to the inevitable conclusion that he was physically incapable of fighting for the crown again. Thus, thinking his life worthless, and desiring an end to his pain and emotional suffering, he had decided to end it all in the most convenient way possible. That would certainly explain why his third, and quite possibly his favorite, gun was the only thing he hadn't left behind.