Tavington: The Legacy: Chapter Thirteen: "Motives"

It seemed to William Lucifer Tavington that he spent half his time bailing fools out of debtor's prison. The most recent case had involved an old "friend", Gen. O'Hara. Despite his depression, the former dragoon had been able to derive some sort of pleasure from seeing O'Hara suffering. It was what he deserved, Tavington concluded, and if there was on thing he liked, it was seeing people get exactly what they deserved. Seeing O'Hara locked up was a reaffirmation of his own superiority. He might be poor, he might have been of lower rank, but a he had enough sense to stay out of debtor's prison.

After two years, the one man he never expected to see again was Mooreville. He had left the pendant. That was the sign, the unquestionable commitment. It said, simply, I renounce my position as a dragoon. He would have made the doctor so angry that he would have cursed the name of Tavington for the remainder of his days. He had given up. He had renounced his hereditary obligation. There was nothing Mooreville hated quite so much as a quitter.

Upon returning from the debtor's prison, he found the old dragoon sitting in his law offices.

"Damnation!" Tavington cursed. "He wants me to go back."

Then there was the little voice in the back of his mind that wondered, "What if I want to go back?"

Mooreville had changed. In the space of two years he had aged more than most men do in twenty. Most of his silver-gray hair had fallen out, leaving him comically bald, his red and green jacket was torn and patched in several places, and his boots were in desperate need of shining. He looked old, tired, and frustrated. There were deep wrinkles running through formerly smooth skin and age spots peppering the backs of his hands.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Tavington," he said in a voice that spoke of weary travels and a foreboding sense of inevitable fate.

"Mooreville?" he asked. The change was so great that Tavington could barely believe that it really was his old mentor.

"Yes, it is me, Mr. Tavington. I know I'm not much to look at. Then again, I never was much to look at. Now I suppose I'm the sort of thing that people do their best to avoid looking at."

Mr. Tavington? There was something distinctly unnatural about Mooreville calling him that. The doctor had called him many things, a great deal of them unpleasant, but never Mr. Tavington. It was too formal for a man like Mooreville.

"What do you want?" Tavington asked, taking a seat behind his desk. "Don't tell me you're in dept too."

Mooreville rubbed his eyes; there were dark circles underneath indicating a lack of sleep.

"Finances are the least of my worries at the moment. I'm so glad that you are alive and looking much better than the last time I saw you. You nearly look like your old self again. But I'm rambling. Have you heard about Lord Cornwallis?"

"No, but I saw Gen. O'Hara only a few minutes ago."

"Is he in the debtor's prison?"

Tavington couldn't help but smile. "Yes, actually."

The old dragoon buried his face in his hands. The fingernails were dirty and the palms each sported several scratches. After a while he looked up again and said, "He never was quite right after Lord Cornwallis made him carry out most of the surrender. The poor boy couldn't handle that kind of blow to his dignity. He's had money problems ever since he returned to England. I think he's lost without his military career."

O'Hara had seemed lost, stretched out in a cell, taking swigs from a bottle of cheap liquor and singing a most ridiculous song, all the while flinging foul Irish curses directed at his lordship.

"Now, since you haven't heard the latest news, I suppose I'm going to have to be the one to break it to you. They made Cornwallis Governor-General and Commander-in-Chief of India."

"India's what he deserves. It's hot and crawling with natives. His lordship won't like that at all. It's also one of the few things that proves our Parliament still has some sense. He won't order so many new jackets in India. At the rate he was going in America, I believe that's what they're calling it now, he would have bankrupted England."

Despite his fatigue, Mooreville managed a rough laugh. "You're right, but there's more to it than that. I know Cornwallis and you know Cornwallis. Tell me, what will the man do in India?" He didn't pause for an answer. "I'll tell you what he'll do. He'll throw grand parties at Government House, he'll take in the local festivals, and waste hours each day penning his pathetic memoirs! All the while the lands which we have fought so hard to win from the natives will slowly be reclaimed. Pretty soon the entire country will be overrun with hindoos and flesh-eaters again."

Tavington thought for a moment. "Surely with his military training he can fend off a few natives."

Mooreville's eyes grew wide. "Listen to yourself, William! Have you become so blind in only two years? You served under Cornwallis. If anyone could see the man beneath the impressive exterior, it was you. Cornwallis couldn't defeat a group of rebels armed with pitchforks and antique muskets. Who did he turn to, William? As always, when it came time to break the rules, he turned to the dragoons."

Finding that Mooreville's rambling was becoming tedious, Tavington sighed and finally asked, "What is it you want, Mooreville? If you only came here to discuss your dislike of Lord Cornwallis, then you may go, I have more important things to do."

The doctor reached into his pocket, pulled out the discarded pendant and slammed it down on the desk. CLACK!

"I want you to put that thing back on and get back to doing what you do best, burning, plotting, fighting, and breaking the rules. You are the Grand High Dragoon of His Majesty's Green Dragoons, and whether you like it or not that's what you'll be till you die! I can't run from it; you can't run from it! You owe it to England, but if you won't do it for England, then do it for yourself, Your Lordship, General William Tavington, vice- governor-general of India!"

For once, Tavington was dumbstruck, a slightly embarrassing moment.

"General?" he asked.

"Yes, the Council of Dragoons met last night. We concluded that you can no longer be expected to serve 'under' Cornwallis. If you are to do the job we intend for you to do, you must be something nearing an equal."

"And what exactly is this job you have in mind for me?" Tavington asked, his jade eyes lighting up.

"I thought a title would appeal to you. The Council is also prepared to pay off your father's debts in full, restore your property to you, and do its best to bring a bit of esteem back to you family. In return, we want you to go to India. You are to command half of the divisions of cavalry there and supervise the organization of the regular army. Any decisions regarding the administration and actions of the government that are approved by Cornwallis must be approved by you as well. In this way, we believe that we will be able to save India from suffering at the hands of Cornwallis. It is a most valuable possession of the British Empire. Cornwallis is simply not the man to run it."

"Then why is he?" Tavington asked though he already knew the answer.

"Where else could they send him? He lost in the colonies, but he is still a nobleman, they can't just cast him aside."

"So they decided to ship him somewhere seemingly out of harm's way?"

"Precisely."

Several minutes passed while Tavington considered Mooreville's proposal. He glanced out of the window of the law office. Women emerged from the bakery with baskets filled with fresh loaves of bread, boys came and went from the wig shop, making deliveries of freshly curled and powdered wigs. Discarded newspapers were trampled underfoot. Children ran about idly. This was London, as he saw it everyday through that window. The dragoon was bored with it, and there was no desirable future to be found hidden somewhere within the labyrinth of streets. There would be the minor fees he could charge for freeing a man from debtor's prison. There were the tiny rooms above where he lived, and where he would die if he chose to stay.

Mooreville's offer was good. Though, perhaps a bit too good.

"Making me a general, paying off my father's debts, giving me the chance to get even with Cornwallis and gain a bit of personal glory; it all seems a bit too good of a reward for simply agreeing to return to commanding the dragoons."

Mooreville sighed so heavily that the air in the room became more oppressive.

"There is something else."

"I thought there would be."

"You won't exactly be vice-governor-general, you will be more of a co-vice- governor-general. This is because the Council of Dragoons does not only govern the Green Dragoons, there are other dragoons, most specifically."

He trailed off. Untalented as he was at reading emotions, Tavington could tell that Mooreville was preparing himself to recount the story that he found so painful and offensive to his senses. In what could be a considered an act of consideration, if he hadn't done it out of a desire not to sit through the narrative again, Tavington decided to spare the old man the trouble.

"The Golden Dragoons?"

Now, it was Mooreville's turn at being dumbstruck.

"Bordon told me," Tavington explained quickly. "He told me when I first returned to London. Do they still have that much influence? The Duke of Fairenvail is dead."

Mooreville crossed himself, something no one had ever seen him do.

"No William, the man who killed you grandfather is dead. The late Duke of Fairenvail proved himself a more capable tactician than I. He had a son. The House of Carrenworth still stands, and I have reason to believe that it is this son, Victor Alexander Carrenworth VI, is directly responsible for the murder of James Bordon. I had the misfortune of meeting him once, a pathetic, sickly little man, but his skill with a blade is unmatched. He can turn a rapier into liquid steal. And if that wasn't enough, he's a complete egomaniac and teetering on the edge of the precipice of madness."

"And he will serve beside me as co-vice-governor-general?"

"Not only that, but I am certain he intends to kill you. He is a Carrenworth, and therefore sworn to the destruction of all who bear the name Tavington."

Tavington took the pendant from the edge of the desk and held it up. The silver dragon twirled on its chain like a chained dog trying to reach its master. He observed it for a few moments, thinking. It was a big decision, but he knew he had already made it. Without another thought the restored dragoon fastened the chain around his neck. It was heavy and cold, very much like the time he had first put it on, twelve years ago.

"I knew you would do it," the old man gave a sigh of relief.

"Carrenworth shouldn't pose much of a threat," he mused. "I would like to have a word with him anyway. One Bordon dead is bad enough."

"Spoken like a man who has never faced a Carrenworth in battle. Don't think it's going to be easy. The journey to India is six months long and the whole country is infested with heathen and disease. And speaking of Bordons, I will try my best to find you a suitable second-in-command. I know I cannot replace Henry."

Tavington pulled a record book out of a drawer and flipped through the pages with purpose. "That won't be necessary, Mooreville. I have already found a suitable replacement for Bordon."

"Certainly you don't mean," Mooreville hesitated, afraid to say it. "O'Hara?"

"The same," Tavington replied. "Who better? He understands old man Cornwallis better than anyone."

Though he would never admit it, Tavington had always possessed a certain love of irony.