Disclaimer: I would never be such a fibber as to claim I own the rights to The Patriot
Author's note: There is a moment of gory violence in this chapter, but I stand by my rating, using the Lord of the Rings defense. Tavington doesn't do anything worse than Aragorn does, and those films are rated PG-13. Thank you to all my kind reviewers, especially Zubeneschamali-I love astronomical names!CHAPTER FIVE: Of Arms and the Man I Sing
Tavington opened his eyes reluctantly to the grey light before dawn. There was little movement in the camp: he could distinctly hear the liquid sound of the nearby stream, and he lay still a moment, listening to the bird song. Eventually he would have to get up, and have his dragoons pull this ragged horde together for the march.
Standing in the shallow streambed, cleaning himself up, he saw a few of the slave women getting water for washing and cooking. At least someone was making an effort. He wondered if some of the women were the former property of Miss Wilde. He had no desire to quarrel with her today, so he hoped the women would have the sense to avoid her and the inevitable confrontations that would follow a meeting
Before the sun cleared the horizon, he had given orders to Bordon and Wilkins to have the dragoons and their charges on the move within the hour. He felt a growing unease about their vulnerable situation and the large numbers of straggling civilians wandering about the camp. He had managed to stay alive this long by trusting his instincts. Pausing on his way to his horse, he stared into the shadows of the trees to the west.
There! A flash in the brush that could only be sunlight on metal. He caught Bordon's eye and spoke in a hushed tone. "Call the men to arms, but do so quietly. Our rebel friends don't know they've been spotted. Are our pickets asleep?"
He called to Lieutenant Monroe, a few yards away. Dropping his voice, he ordered, "Get the Negroes and take them to the streambed. Tell them to lie flat and stay there until this is over. They're less likely to get in our way or be shot at if they're not running around." At that moment, he heard one, then two popping noises to the south.
He glanced over his shoulder to where he knew the wagon must be. He pictured the three girls asleep on their ridiculous featherbed, and hoped they would have the sense to crawl under their wagon. Never had he imagined having women on his hands at such a time.
Grey smoke puffed out of the woods, and a split second later he heard the report of a musket. "Fire at the smoke," he roared. Then a hell of gunfire erupted.
Monroe was shouting at the slaves and herding them past. There were panicked cries, but for the most part they were in the habit of obedience, and were making for the stream. The dragoons had taken cover behind horses and trees, or were prone on the ground with their weapons. Dense smoke filled the air, and Tavington feared it would soon be impossible to see where the shots were coming from. A horse screamed appallingly, and fell with a shuddering crash.
Hoofbeats were fast approaching. To the south, between the trees, he saw a group of riders, half-hidden in the smoke. He made a dash for his pistols, and looked for a clear shot.
David McKay ran right in front of him, nearly taking a bullet in the back of his head. "Move aside, Mr. McKay," Tavington shouted, "and clear my line of fire." McKay whirled and saw the pistol pointed at him. Frightfully startled, the boy jumped behind a horse and used the saddle to support his own pistol for better aim.
Tavington took a rough count of the horsemen. Ten, no—twelve riders. They must be mad to attack a force so superior. They were firing wildly as they galloped, wasting their shots. Amateurs, he thought contemptuously. He had no clear idea how many muskets were in the trees to the west, but it was already too smoky for them to do any but accidental harm. Aiming the heavy pistol with great care, he squeezed the trigger and gave a grunt of satisfaction as his target flew backwards off his mount. The riders were fifty feet away, then thirty, and Tavington fired his second pistol at the same moment that McKay fired his. A rider whooped and fell, twisting, to the ground. Well, one of us got him. Then he drew his sabre, and the enemy was upon them.
With a two handed grip, he swung his sword at a passing rider, unhorsing him and slashing the animal across the withers. He dodged the horse's struggles and plunged his weapon with a practiced hand into the man's kidneys. That's a kill.
He straightened and looked around. The muskets to the west were silent, useless now for fear of hitting their own men. A few rebels were still mounted, slashing desperately at the remorseless hands dragging them down. From their shouts, it was apparent that they had not known what they were getting into. They probably thought Bordon and his patrol were all there were of us, and didn't scout properly. Amateurs, he thought again.
The four riders left were trying to hack their way directly through the dragoons, probably hoping to get to the shallow stream and escape across it to the east. One rider fell from his horse, sword in hand, and stumbled away, running low.
"Kill that bastard!" he heard Bordon bellow. Tavington ran after the enemy, losing sight of the dismounted man in the gunsmoke. Passing a knot of dragoons neatly dispatching a pair of the rebels, he decided they were doing fine on their own and ran on.
A thin shriek, shriller than a bird, cut above the curses, shouted commands, and clash of metal on metal.
Julia. He heard the shriek redoubled and seconded with a woman's wild, frightened cry.
Tavington sped on, leaping over a dead horse, and evading a cooking fire. Roughly shoving past a pair of men locked together in combat, he nearly tripped as he came up to the wagon and saw what lay before him.
Miss Wilde had indeed had the sense to get under the wagon with her sisters, but the unhorsed rebel, in his panic, was trying to crawl under the wagon and join them. A pistol shot sounded, and the man jerked, twitched, and was still. Julia dashed out from under the wagon's opposite side as Miss Wilde tried desperately to pull her back with her, and they fell together, nearly underneath the pounding hooves of one of the mounted rebel's horses.
Tavington went after the rebel with all the fury he possessed. Reaching up and savagely yanking at the man's jacket, he toppled him from his horse. The man fell with a howl of pain, and tripped over Julia and Miss Wilde, huddled at his feet. Grabbing Miss Wilde by her long hair, he pulled her up in front of him, shielding himself from Tavington's sword, his back to the wagon.
The other dragoons pressed forward, but Tavington shouted them back. "No, he's mine." Coming closer, he gave the man a wolfish grin, and snarled softly, "You idiot. It's not going to save you." He tried not to look at Miss Wilde's eyes, black and enormous with shock. He heard Julia whimpering to one side, and the sounds of Amelia crawling out from under the wagon to look.
Reflecting only a moment on his options, he shifted his grip on the sword hilt, and quicker than the man could follow, plunged his point above Miss Wilde's shoulder and directly into the man's eye.
Miss Wilde's gasp of disbelief was drowned out by the wounded man's keening wail of agony. She stumbled to the ground, reaching out desperately to pull Julia close. The rebel fell to his knees, clutching his face. Tavington pulled his sabre free from the eye socket with difficulty, and grasping the hilt with both hands, swung the blade with all his strength, decapitating the man in mid-scream.
The head flew past the horse and was kicked aside by another, skittering out of sight. The headless trunk, pumping spurts of blood from the dying heart, collapsed across Miss Wilde's legs, pinning her to the ground.
"Off! Off! Get off of me!" Miss Wilde punctuated each cry with a shove with one hand, while with the other hand she tried to cover Julia's wide, wide eyes. The child struggled out of her grasp, and scrambled away from the gory sight before her.
Tavington kicked the dead man away, and pulled Miss Wilde up with his left arm in one lithe movement. Holding her fast against him for a long moment, he looked into dazed, dark eyes. After a moment, she swallowed and shut her eyes, and dropped her forehead against his shoulder. He held her a little longer, feeling her heart beating wildly against his own, feeling the soft warmth pressed trustingly to his body, feeling her. He looked up and took in the situation.
The last of the rebel riders was down, dead in the sparkling streambed, where the slaves had pulled him from his horse and savaged him before Monroe and two other dragoons could get there and finish him off. Bordon was squatting down next to another of the rebels who appeared to be dying, undoubtedly trying to get what information he could from him. A moment later he rose, and approached Tavington.
"He's dead, sir. This was a spontaneous gesture. Apparently some of the rebel militia returned to the Crawford plantation and got the story from the overseer. They believed that the raiding party was our full strength and set out without delay."
"Get three men and get back into those western woods. See if you can find those marksmen. Call in the pickets, if they're still alive." Tavington thought a moment more. "Find out who's wounded. See if we've lost anyone." Bordon nodded and walked away, relaying his orders to the other officers.
Tavington looked down at Miss Wilde, still held close. "Are you all right?" He slackened his grip, and she held on to his arm, a little off-balance.
"Just barely," she replied, with a wan smile. She looked around, and put out a hand to Julia. Amelia looked on, still and silent. Miss Wilde drew her into her other arm, and the three girls clung together.
Miss Wilde touched Julia's face, wiping blood from it. Her hair swung loose, brushing blood onto Julia's cheek again.
"I have blood in my hair," Miss Wilde said wonderingly.
Tavington touched her shoulder reassuringly. "At least it is not your blood." He wiped his blade on the dead man's coat, and sheathed it.
Julia stared at the mangled corpse. "Well, I guess that really is worse than Aunt Sarah Jane Minerva's picture."
"Oh, Julia," groaned Miss Wilde. "Don't look, darling." She straightened and looked around, concerned. "Where is Cousin James?"
"Here," answered a deep, slightly slurred voice. "I feel like I've been kicked by a horse. No. I was kicked by a horse." Wilkins, a few yards away, sat up slowly, cradling his head in his hands. A huge purple bruise, oozing blood, was forming above his left eye. Miss Wilde was quickly at his side, appraising his injury.
"A glancing blow, luckily, or you would be dead. Julia, climb into the wagon and get one of the rolled bandages from the medicine chest."
Tavington looked him over. "His helmet took some of the force of the blow." Miss Wilde gently and expertly wound the bandage around her cousin's head. Tavington asked brusquely, "Do you think you can ride, or will you need to be carried in the wagon?"
Stung, Wilkins answered, "I can ride away from here---sir." Tavington chuckled darkly, and walked back to the shambles around the wagon. The featherbed was trampled, bloody, and leaking white feathers that drifted gently around the scene of carnage like snow.
"Someone get this carrion out of the way. Lieutenant Hunt! Get some of those blacks to help us clear this mess up!"
Willing hands carried off the headless corpse. Others pulled the dead man from under the wagon. Julia gave an odd little gurgle at the sight of the ruined head.
"Good shooting, Miss Wilde," complimented Tavington. The young lady shook her head and nodded toward Amelia.
"I killed him," the girl whispered. She stood, silent as always, looking reflectively at the gruesome sight.
Tavington came up and patted her gently on the back.
"Well done, then." He praised her as he would any young soldier making his first kill. Feeling she needed more, he continued. "You saved your sisters, and you have done nothing for which you need be ashamed."
She looked him in the eye for the first time. "I am not ashamed. I'm glad he's dead." Tavington saw she had a pistol in each hand. She caught his glance and answered, "Yes, I fired the other one, too, but I think I hit a horse." She made a face, and Tavington smiled.
"Nevertheless, you've done very well, indeed. Are those your father's pistols?" Amelia handed one to him, and he took a moment to admire it. It was well balanced and beautifully chased: a splendid piece of work. "Those are fine weapons. Your father would be very proud of the use you put them to today." He gave her a smile, and she smiled faintly in return, meeting his eyes again.
Julia came up and put her hand in his, wanting his attention. "You cut that man's head right off. Right off, just like that," she repeated, in disbelief.
He frowned, and refrained from stroking her hair when he saw his right hand was still wet with blood. "Sometimes it has to be that way."
"But you did it so well. He must be the deadest man who ever lived." Baird, passing by as he collected his gear, laughed aloud, and went off to repeat what he had just heard to his friends. Miss Wilde gave a sigh of despair.
"Colonel, I take it we're going to leave as soon as possible?"
"As soon as everyone is accounted for, and I feel our party is in proper marching order."
"Then I suppose I had better find my boots." She looked down at her feet and walked away, complaining bitterly, "Good God! I have blood on my stockings, too."
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