Disclaimer: I have not yet found a way to own the rights to The Patriot

 CHAPTER EIGHT: The Talisman

The next few days were a nightmare of blazing heat, stifling humidity, and sudden, torrential rains. Tavington and his men were tortured by swarms of mosquitoes, flies, and unknown crawling creatures. The thick mud never seemed to dry out, slowing the dragoons down notably as they probed the countryside for resistance. Tavington focused on the task at hand, dismissing all other concerns for the time being.

Loosely knit as they were, it was hard to come to grips with the rebels, or even to be sure who they were. Loyalties were in constant flux, family connections complex. A man might describe himself as Loyal to Tavington, and possibly even think it true; but that might not prevent him from trading with rebels, dining with rebels, and even sympathizing with rebels if they were his friends or kinsmen. A man might call himself a Patriot, and be willing to fight the British, but not be willing to attack Loyalist homes. Sometimes both Loyalists and rebels had no real quarrel with the British, but bitter feuds with each other that made nonsense of the names they gave themselves and their enemies. Sometimes neighbor attacked neighbor, not out of political conviction, but only to pillage with impunity. In this tangle of allegiances, how was a man of action like Tavington to sort things out?

Tavington had decided to cut through the Gordian knot by identifying as a rebel anyone who aided rebels in any way. He had explained his criteria to David McKay, when the boy joined the Dragoons at the end of June. McKay had suffered enough himself to have lost all sympathy for the rebels, but he still felt there were shades of grey in the matter of loyalty.

"With respect, sir, what about the neutrals?"

"There can be no neutrals in this war. If a man is not loyal to his King, he is in rebellion against him." The young officer still looked confused, so Tavington decided to give him an example.

"This May, after the battle of Waxhaws, we came across a farm where some of our wounded were being cared for."

"Then the owner was loyal."

"No. The owner was also caring for the enemy's wounded. A Christian act, you might say, but a disloyal act nonetheless. If that were not enough, the man's son was caught red-handed with dispatches for the enemy. When I put the young man under arrest as a spy, a younger brother of the spy attacked the guards, and I was obliged to shoot him. Of course, we then burned the house and outbuildings, took the horses, and freed the slaves. Should the rebels at this household have been pardoned their treason because they also cared for some our troops?"

"I don't see how we could, sir."

"We couldn't. In my opinion, aside from the other egregious acts they committed, simply giving aid and comfort to the enemy was enough to brand them traitors."

Young McKay had taken his point: that a treacherous act makes a traitor, and an act assisting rebels, of whatever kind and for whatever reason, was proof of rebellion. It must be so, or they would spend their entire time in the Carolinas splitting hairs.

It seemed ironic to Tavington that some of the men in arms against them had served the King in the last war. Bordon's contacts among the Cherokees told him of fierce battles, of savage atrocities unlike any in this war. Atrocities that, as the Indians told it, had not been confined to their side. Certainly the men who had fought in that war had learned to adopt many of the Indians' tactics against them. That knowledge was now being utilised against Tavington and his men: the stealthy pursuit, the sudden ambush, the melting away into the underbrush when faced with superior odds. The country itself was not always hospitable to cavalry, and the infantry was particularly vulnerable to the Indian-style attacks of the rebels. Tavington could conceive of a force that would be better suited to this conflict, perhaps armed with rifles for better accuracy and thoroughly trained as skirmishers; but in the meantime, he had to use what troops were at his command in the most effective way possible. It was a pity that the Lord General lacked either the imagination, or the flexibility, or the will that was needed to wage war here and win.

By Tuesday, the inclement weather had too many of his men looking worn-out and ill. Sickness always took a heavier toll than battle, and the growing number of men showing symptoms of a feverish ague alarmed him. He decided to turn back to Fort Carolina to give them a chance to rest and recuperate. Even a tent was better than no roof at all. Then, too, the men would have their women there to look after them.

Why did I think about that? Now I'm going to start thinking about her again. This is madness.

He saw Wilkins on his big chestnut gelding, looking all in. Often he felt the temptation to talk to the man about his cousin, but pride prevented him. He had no particular liking and certainly no great respect for the fellow, and the fact that Miss Wilde was his cousin was something of an irritation. The thought that his sentiments for the lady might be the subject of camp gossip repelled him. He hoped that Wilkins would not be joining them for dinner Wednesday night, but it would be just the sort of thing that malicious old harridan would do. He hardly knew which was more disagreeable: a pretentious old provincial lady playing the grand dame, or said lady's vicious sniping at her niece. Aside from her amiable sisters, Miss Wilde's family was not her greatest asset.

Still, he looked forward to seeing her, looked forward to seeing her well-disposed and pretty sisters, looked forward to a meal not partaken of in the presence of other soldiers. After getting some rest, even verbal fencing with her Gorgon of an aunt would not be such a grim prospect.

First, though, he would have to clean himself up. God, I would like a proper bath again sometime before I die. That kind of thinking was unhealthy, and he pushed it away. That kind of thinking got men killed. He was tired, and that always caused him to be a little dispirited. He had his life before him, and limitless possibilities. Everything he had ever hoped for seemed to be within his grasp.

Reaching into his waistcoat pocket, he pulled out his talisman. What appeared to be simply a fine gold pocket watch was rather more to him. Opening it, he saw the face that had accompanied him halfway around the world. His mother, forever young and happy, painted on the inside of the watchcase, reminded him of what happened to the weak and tenderhearted. Love her he always would, but he must never allow himself to be like her; for the race was to the swift, the battle to the strong, and fortune favoured the brave.