Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to The Patriot, especially not this very unhappy part.
Author's note: Warning: Since throughout this story I have used Tavington's point of view exclusively, and have followed his scenes from the film, I found it necessary, as a matter of integrity, to include this section. This chapter covers the scenes in the film from "Heart of a Butcher," through "Gabriel's revenge." Needless to say, the burning of Pembroke church with all the villagers is an invention of screenwriter Robert Rodat and the producers of The Patriot. No such atrocity took place in the course of the Revolutionary War. Banastre Tarleton did in fact burn a town in South Carolina, but not the inhabitants. One of the Legion's captains, Christian Huck, burned an empty church. The filmmakers were interested in creating obvious villains in a summer blockbuster, and not in creating a balanced and thoughtful study of the Revolution.
I have written it to make my story completely faithful the film. I have tried in the preceding chapters to lead up to it, and in this chapter I try to present circumstances that would make otherwise decent troops commit such an act. You may not wish to read it, but I think there are some good things in the chapter. The story line, however, will still be understandable if you skip to the next installment.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN: Scorched EarthIn the end, Benjamin Martin's sins had returned to visit him.
It was their Cherokee scouts who tracked the two men to the cabin. Bordon had told his Indian friends about Martin, and found them eager to help. Some of them had long memories, and the atrocities at Fort Wilderness had been too long unavenged. These particular militiamen were particularly hated: notorious scalp-hunters, feared for their robberies and murders amongst the tribes. No colonial magistrate had ever held them accountable, no hint of punishment had ever threatened them; as long as they directed their violence against Indians, they were not held culpable of any real crimes.
Tavington had to get these men to talk. They must know the names of Martin's entire band. Even better, they would know where all these men came from; where they lived, where their families lived, and who was supplying them. Tavington could strike at the root of the local militia and kill it for good and all.
Bordon himself, a kind man at heart, believed the end to justify the means, if the rebellion could be crippled and further bloodshed averted. Bordon's experience with the Indians had included learning of their methods, and he himself had experienced painful ritual ordeals. He was willing to do what was necessary, and Tavington respected him for it. He had brought Wilkins along as well. His knowledge of the locals was essential: furthermore, since Tavington's engagement to his cousin, Wilkins regarded his colonel as part of his family. "A man has to stand by his kin," he had acknowledged. With them were two of the most embittered dragoons in his command. Both had lost their entire families within the past three years, and were notable fighters, having, as one of them had said, "nothing left to lose."
One of the rebels, Slade, had been wounded in some skirmish or other: the fellow Rollins had stayed with him. The Cherokee scouts led Tavington and his men to the place, a decent backcountry farmhouse. They would have been happy to stay and help in the questioning as well, but Tavington wanted as few witnesses as possible. The more secret they kept this information, the more rebels they would net if they moved quickly.
The Cherokees had said that the farmer and his wife who had owned the place were dead. The McLeods had been outspoken in their loyalty to the King, and had run afoul of Benjamin Martin's band or one of the other militia groups infesting the country. The empty house had been a convenient hiding place for the scalphunters.
The witless look of surprise on Rollins' face as they burst into the cabin, pistols at the ready, was almost reward enough. The rebel was subdued, and Bordon began with his friend.
Tavington grew bored, and he and Wilkins stepped outside for a walk. It was mild despite the season, and Tavington felt the bittersweet melancholy that always came to him at this time of year.
"Beautiful country," he murmured to himself. "Everything grows here."
A scream came from the cabin. Tavington sighed, and led the way back.
Stretched out of the kitchen table, dripping blood, lay what had been a man. Tavington could smell blood and urine mixing with the dusty scent of the dried herbs hanging from the ceiling.
Bordon looked at Tavington unhappily. "I'm sorry, sir; he died." He raised the man's head, and let it fall back with a thud.
Tavington could not hide his annoyance. They must not let this opportunity pass them by. He lifted the side of the table, letting the useless dead man slide to the floor. "Bring me the other one." He would stay, and see there were no mistakes made this time.
McDonald and big blond Van Wagner, his two troopers, dragged in Rollins. He was a scrawny, pockmarked Cracker, and represented to Tavington everything he hated about rebels. He stood before his captors without trembling, but what others might have called courage appeared only impudence to Tavington. This is just the sort of dirty, ignorant brute who insulted Ferguson's remains and jeered as our officers hanged. He could even be the creature who tried to force himself on Amelia the night Arcadia was raided.
Bordon threw the man's pouch onto the table. It was filled with coins of all nations and denominations, and sundry pieces of loot. With a voice filled with contempt and loathing, Bordon said, "This one's a rebel, and a thief."
The rebel was unrepentant. "I'm not a thief," he said, with a shadow of pride. "I'm a patriot."
Tavington glanced at the heap of money. It was no small sum. Mr. Rollins had been a busy man. Possibly he was not merely a thief. More likely he was a robber, and had killed as well.
Tavington could hardly bear to speak to such a man. It would be such a pleasure to simply draw his pistol and blow the vile fellow's face in. But that could wait. First he must try every means to get the information they needed.
"Ah---I wonder how patriotic you'd be, if I offered you the chance to walk out of here alive; and to triple all of this---and all you have to do is tell me where I can find Benjamin Martin and his rabble."
Rollins looked at him, clearly weighing the possibilities. He smiled: a horrid expression. He spat fully and accurately in Tavington's face. Obviously, he had reasoned correctly that Tavington might let him walk out of the cabin, but would not let him live to take another two steps further.
Van Wagner slammed the rebel face down on the table. Rollins was still defiant. "Do your worst."
Tavington wiped the foulness from his face, and wondered how soon he could be rid of the smell of rotten teeth and tobacco. Well, I always knew we would have to do this the hard way.
Coolly, he warned Rollins, "I always do."
He told them everything, of course. Tavington had to admit the man was tougher than he had expected, but as he told Bordon, "Even a cur will sometimes face a pack of wolves." No matter: though the man knew he was going to die, there were ways of dying that were less horrifying than others. Then, too, there were parts no man wished to lose, even if he knew he would never use them again.
Tavington found himself sickened, but refused to let it show. He could not ask his men to do something he flinched at himself. This was not like battle, where the passionate violence, the risk to oneself, gave a certain dark rapture to the moment. This was as dull, ugly, and distasteful as watching a butcher at work.
He pointed out to Rollins that Martin would never know how he suffered. He asked the man what he thought he owed Benjamin Martin: was he perhaps a close friend? Did he have kin among the other members of the band? Was there any good reason to feel such pain?
In return he received everything he hoped for.
Rollins obviously did not know everyone in the militia intimately, but he knew best the old backwoodsmen who had served with Martin in the last war. Tavington was pleased: these were the men he considered most dangerous, and the ones he hated most. Their families would soon know the price of treason.
Even better was the revelation of the rebels' home base. The village of Pembroke was a nest of traitors: every family in the town had a kinsman in the militia. The local storekeeper provided them with supplies. Rollins had even heard a rumour that the storekeeper's daughter was the sweetheart of Gabriel Martin. The very parson of the town rode with Martin and his men. Tavington nearly slapped his own forehead with exasperation. Of course! That imbecilic preacher we caught back in late October!
Finally, he was satisfied and granted Rollins the promised bullet. There was little pleasure to be had in shooting such a broken thing, but he had given his word, and indeed could not risk someone coming upon the dying man. They disposed of the bodies and returned to camp. Tavington was full of plans for the morrow.
Tavington, Bordon, and Wilkins, between them, had worked out a map of the rebel homes. They would work their way through them, starting with the closest ones. The houses and barns were to be burned, and the livestock killed. After such a disaster, some of the men would have to leave the militia to look after their families, thus weakening the enemy's forces. For that reason, Tavington did not want the families harmed. They were far more useful alive, and dependent on their menfolk.
Such was his plan: it was not always feasible.
One such occasion was particularly unfortunate. Tavington was with Bordon's troop, when they came across the small holding of one John Billings, reportedly an old friend of Martin's. Lieutenant Monroe and two of the dragoons dismounted and walked toward the house, when suddenly a small boy with a pistol jumped out at them from behind a chicken coop.
David McKay saw the threat, instantly pulled his own pistol, and shouted at the boy. "Drop that weapon now!" The boy spun around and aimed at McKay. The young officer froze, unable to pull the trigger. Monroe, more experienced and decisive, saw McKay's peril and shot the child. The small body was flung three feet by the impact of the bullet.
Some of the dragoons, horrified, gathered around, when a red-haired Amazon with a musket erupted from the house, shrieking. She fired; and a dragoon named Dawson, standing next to Monroe, was hit in the chest with a round of buck and ball. He collapsed, and Monroe and his other companion, Tom Baird, drew their sabres. The woman put up an impressive fight, slamming Monroe across the face with the musket barrel and breaking his nose. Baird ran her through the body, and she sobbed and cursed as she fell to the ground, crawling toward the dead boy. She never reached him. After a moment, she sighed and lay still.
Tavington rounded on the shaken Dragoons. "Baird! See to Dawson! Lieutenant Hunt! I want this place fired now!"
Baird, crouching over Dawson, called out, "He's dead, sir."
"Put him on his horse, and he'll be buried back at camp." Tavington called out, "Let this be a lesson to you all! A rebel in a petticoat can kill you as dead as her husband could! Their children are ready to shoot you in the back! They're as much our enemies as their fathers! Never trust any of them, and show them no mercy, for you will receive none!"
Bordon had dismounted, and was looking at the bodies. He straightened suddenly and whispered to Tavington, "Sir, the boy's pistol---it was a toy."
Flames rose from the cabin. Tavington looked at the woman and child in disgust. Could anyone really be so stupid as to give a child such a toy, and then to let him wave it in front of armed men?
He lowered his voice, speaking for Bordon's ears alone, "You are never to tell anyone else that. I won't have Monroe blaming himself for what was not his fault. It would only weaken him, and make him hesitate to defend himself in future. The boy's death was his parents' doing, and there's an end of it."
By the time the troops had joined forces at Pembroke, the Legion was angry and on edge. All of them had experienced ugly incidents, and there had been casualties. It was now well known amongst them that Pembroke had been identified as the rebel supply base, and Tavington's men were eager to make an example of the enemy there.
Tavington had thought for some time about what he wanted to do in Pembroke. All the events of the past months had combined to create a personal hatred for this enemy unlike any he had ever felt since he became a soldier. The insolence of the rebels, their dispossession of those who dared show loyalty to the Crown, the supreme horrors of King's Mountain: all made him want to strike down these people so completely that they could never pose a threat again.
He had decided to burn the entire village to the ground, leaving nothing. It was winter, and losing their homes at such a time would be catastrophic.
He ordered the infantry detachment and the Green Dragoons to gather every inhabitant of the village into the church. There were complaints. There was resistance. The villagers were openly hostile and took every opportunity to procrastinate and dawdle as they were herded along. He looked at the empty windows, at any moment expecting a marksman to shoot from hiding. He could see that his officers and men were equally apprehensive.
When Wilkins told him they had rounded up everyone that could be found, he decided to face these people. Benjamin Martin, their leader, had still not been located. If he could find one Loyal subject in Pembroke, he could hope to find the last piece of the puzzle.
Rather than walk into the church with his subordinates, he decided to ride in on Xanthus, to further intimidate the rebels. Once in, he automatically removed his helmet, and addressed the villagers.
"This town has given aid to Benjamin Martin and his rebels. I wish to know his whereabouts." There was only stillness. He could see their fear, but also their contempt and hatred.
"So—" he continued, to make himself clear, "anyone who comes forward may be forgiven their treason." There was still no response. His glance swept the interior of the church. They were a hardened lot. His eye fell on a group before him. A pretty young woman, with dark hair like Elizabeth's, and her parents, he presumed. Would they not confess, even to protect her? They stared at him as if he were speaking some unknown tongue.
Tavington kept his mask of aristocratic disdain firmly in place. Behind it, he was ready to explode. It really was impossible even to communicate with these creatures. They had obviously never imagined that their treason would have consequences to themselves. A new impulse, boiling up inside of him like lava, possessed him and seemed to him good. Wherever these people went, they would always be a danger to his troops and to loyalist civilians. Within a month or two, there would be a new, unknown rebel supply base to track down and deal with.
Not wishing to waste any more time with them, he said coldly "Very well, you had your chance." He began to turn Xanthus away, when a voice called, "Wait!"
Tavington looked for the voice. A heavy-set man in a wig pushed forward, pointing to the fat father closest to Tavington. "This man gives Martin and his men supplies!"
The fat man tried to shout him down. "Be quiet!"
The first man went on hurriedly, "He brings them to Black Swamp by the old Spanish Mission!"
The pretty girl he had noticed before cried out shrilly, "He's a liar!"
Tavington looked at them all with loathing. He mastered himself with difficulty.
"This man here?" he said, indicating the fat man.
"Yes," the anxious man replied. This must be the storekeeper Rollins told us about. And this, Tavington thought, his eyes sliding over the girl, must be Gabriel Martin's sweetheart. A vulgar little hussy. Urging her lover to kill us with a fine patriotic fervour, no doubt. He thought of Rollins with grudging respect. So there was one bit of information he kept back.
Tavington repeated carefully, "Black Swamp, you say—by the old Spanish mission?" He looked at the man who had talked, and saw no loyalty there, but only fear for his life. Indeed, anyone daring to express loyalty in such a place would have been tarred, feathered, and driven out long ago. "Thank you very much," he said politely. He put on his helmet, and rode out into the grey winter light. He nodded to the infantrymen. "Shut the doors."
"But—" complained the informant, "You said we'd be forgiven!"
"And indeed you may!" declared Tavington, "but that is between you and God!" He guided his mount away from the church, away from those people who would soon no longer trouble him or anyone else.Wilkins approached him, "Ready to fire the town at your orders, sir."
"The town?" Tavington sneered. "Burn the church." He wanted more than anything in the world to be done with those people for good. Make an end of them, put them out of the world, put them out of my misery.
Wilkins stared at him, flummoxed. He protested, "There's no honour in this."
Still soft after everything that has happened, Cousin James? And you the one who puked your heart out at the sight of our dead at King's Mountain?
Aloud he asked, "Didn't you say that all who stand against England deserve to die a traitor's death?" Wilkins looked at him helplessly. "Burn the church, Captain," Tavington repeated, as if to a slow-witted child.
Wilkins looked at his fellow officers, but Tavington had sensed that he had their full support . Wilkins must have sensed it, too, for he finally picked up a torch and hurled it onto the church roof.
As much to himself as to Wilkins, Tavington said quietly, "The honour is found in the end, not the means. This will be forgotten."
He turned to lead them away. "Bordon!" he called. Some of his troopers saw the church starting to burn and eyed each other uncertainly. A few looked grim, and then shrugged. This place would never pose a threat to them again.
As Tavington left the village, his mind lost the terrible clarity he had felt at the church and tumbled into a chaos of confusion. His blood was still up, pumping as if he had fought a battle. He wondered if he had, and who had won.
At length, they found the campsite in the swamp. And Martin was not there.
Not that the man at the church had lied. There was plenty of evidence that this place had been used as a camp, and recently, too; but it was deserted. Tavington eyed the robbers' lair with disgust. It was littered with loot: silver candlesticks, a fine desk, jewelry, and money were scattered about on the desolate island in the marsh, along with cooking pots and animal bones, and all the other ugly detritus of undisciplined men. What a suitably sinister place for a bandit leader.
Fluttering around the edges of his consciousness were the memories of people screaming inside a burning building. Tavington refused to listen to the screams. They were people who could do no further harm. They were people he did not know. He directed his attention to the here and now.
He split up his force to search a wider area. He felt a growing desperation. He must, absolutely must, find Martin. His future depended upon it, and Elizabeth and her sisters were depending upon him. He needed to find Martin to justify every questionable act he had ordered; and it was beginning to occur to him that some of his acts might be viewed as very questionable indeed by people who were not in possession of all the facts.
Uneasily, he considered his recent activities. Who would talk about them? His own men of the British legion had participated, both Dragoons and infantry, and it was possible some might talk, though perhaps not in a believable way. Anything the rebels said would likely be dismissed as exaggerations or inventions created to sway popular opinion. As long as there was no open scandal, it was unlikely that the Lord General would call him to account, if only he could deliver the promised Ghost. And as for the people of Pembroke---well, there were none of them left to bear witness.
It was early the next morning that the rebels arrived.
He was encamped with Bordon and a small detachment. Meticulously shaving himself, crouched in the streambed, he was not aware of the attackers until he heard Bordon's call to arms. He saw the riders coming down the hill at full gallop, and cursed himself as all kinds of fool for being too distracted to set pickets.
Dashing to his horse, he pulled his weapons from the pistol buckets. He fired once, then twice: both times bringing down his man. The rebels came on and were firing too; they dismounted and came running towards them. Some fell, but some of the Dragoons were going down as well. Tavington shifted his pistol into his left hand, and turned it butt-upward to use as a club. He drew his sabre and gave himself up to battle, free from all guilt and doubts: smashing one's man skull with the pistol, and driving his sabre into another man's heart with precision.
He recognized the blonde hair and handsome face of Gabriel Martin, son of the Ghost, the stupid boy who had begun all this last May with his dispatches. The boy knew how to fight—better indeed than the fool of a parson, fumbling desperately to reload. From the corner of his eye, he saw Bordon engage the Martin boy hand to hand, while he concentrated on reloading his pistol. Bite the cartridge, pour the load, ram it down, and fire—things as second nature to him as breathing. The idiot parson was falling to his knees, blood flowing from his wound like wine from a spigot. Bordon was down, but Tavington had no time to think of him now: he must reload again, but the parson was throwing his weapon back to the boy Gabriel. Bite, pour, ram, fire—and the world spun, the earth rushing up to meet him.
He was face down on the ground, on top of his sword, feeling as if he had been kicked in the ribs. He lay still, and considered every part of his body. Nothing seemed damaged but his side. There was silence, but for the sound of slow footsteps in the grass. Martin's son!
I may die here and now, he thought, this grass may be the last thing I see; and fiercely he pushed the idea away. He was intent only on the sound of the approaching footsteps, closer, closer, pausing now—
He whirled, facing up, sword in hand, ignoring the pain in his left side—and impaled a shocked Gabriel Martin on the point of his blade. The boy was holding a knife. You've associated with scalphunters and outlaws too long, my lad; you won't get a trophy today.
The boy, helpless on the sabre, died slowly. It was always a strange thing to watch: life leaving the eyes, consciousness fading; and he saw it all now as the boy slid further down the sword. When his enemy was plainly no longer a threat, Tavington pushed him away, and struggled up onto his feet and toward his horse, clutching his wound. Big, even-tempered Xanthus did not fail him, but held steady for Tavington to mount and ride hard for help.
Author's second note: It all reminds me of the famous story, also said to have happened during the Second World War, when a British military attaché was visiting Washington D.C. A young American captain was assigned to show him the city, and they stopped before a monument commemorating the War of 1812.
The Briton, puzzled by the reference, asked, "The War of 1812? Whom were we fighting then?"
The American, with some embarrassment, said, "Actually, sir, we were fighting you---The Americans were fighting the British—you remember? The British burned Washington?"
The Brit, horrified, protested, "Burned Washington! We burned Joan of Arc, I know, but never Washington!"
On reflection, I think what makes me angriest about the church-burning scene is not that it vilifies the British, but that it normalizes the Nazis, who actually did commit an act such as the one described during the Second World War in France. To either be so ignorant of history, or so cynical about one's audience, as to pretend that Nazi style atrocities are something that would have occurred in 18th or 19th century European or American warfare---well, it boggles the mind. The reason so many people couldn't believe the rumours coming out of Europe during the Second World War (and the reason some people are still in denial about it today), is that the Nazis really were something new under the sun. It also is a lazy shortcut for someone wanting to create a villain, and an excuse to kill him horribly and feel good about it. That is why I love the film The Patriot, but am exasperated with it: it never actually deals with the real reasons for the Revolutionary War (other than about 3 seconds mouthing the words "taxation without representation"), and falls back on that tired old genre, the revenge melodrama.
That is why you will hear little more about the Pembroke burning in this story. I can't deal with it in a realistic way, because it's simply not a realistic event. First, you would need an 18th century Englishman who thinks like a Nazi, then a group of soldiers and officers who wouldn't shoot him down like a mad dog (there were plenty of cases in the 18th century of mutinous troops), then you would need a superior who wouldn't hang him summarily, and finally you would need a King who would excuse him. In a future chapter, I will fictionalize a real event that shows how seriously the British took crimes against civilians.
Looking at it all from a twentieth-first century perspective, however, one could point out that thousands of children and other noncombatants were roasted alive by bombing in World War Two ( and quite a few wars since), and those were looked upon as unfortunate but necessary casualties.