Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to The Patriot, nor to any farm animals.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: Mrs. Lacey's CowsOver the next three weeks the army made its way to the garrison at Wilmington. Stopping at Cross Creek, as in many other places, they were greeted by friendly and sympathetic Loyalists; but the people were either too poor, too afraid, or too unimpressed by the bedraggled state of the army to offer more than the shelter of their homes and moral support. It was rumoured that the rebel regulars were moving into South Carolina. Tavington knew that this was the time for hard decisions. He wondered if Lord Rawdon was right, and if they should turn back now to defend their winnings. He longed to return to Camden, fearing the worst if the little garrisons dotting the colony were exposed to the full strength of the Colonial forces.
He had been cheered to find that he had been mentioned favourably in the Lord General's dispatches to the government concerning the battle at Guilford Courthouse:
"Lieutenant-Colonel Tavington's good spirit and conduct in the management of his cavalry were conspicuous during the whole action."
Those wounded at Guilford Courthouse mended; or did not. Tavington, after considerable rest, was first able to return to light duty, and now, near the end of April, was almost completely restored to his fit condition prior to Cowpens. O'Hara was still mourning his son, but by the skill of the surgeons, and by reserves of strength and determination that Tavington had not previously perceived in him, was nearly ready to resume his command. Unhappily, Smith was proved right about Webster. The brave and gallant man suffered agonies on the road to Wilmington and finally died, to the grief of the army.
Tavington was reacquainting himself with his soldiers. Duncan Monroe, an officer highly regarded by Bordon, was not a good fit with Captain James. He and Wilkins appeared to like one another, however, so Tavington rearranged his troops to best advantage. There were a few other such cases. David Ogilvie's troop had a merry band of troublemakers, so he broke up that little cabal, scattering the men among the Dragoons as a whole.
Tavington's relations with the Lord General had remained guardedly friendly. Certainly, behaving as if he did not need Cornwallis' favour seemed to improve his commander's opinion of him. It was remarkable that Elizabeth, who had never met the Lord General, seemed to have penetrated his character in a way Tavington had not. He had been thinking about Elizabeth one afternoon, when a packet of letters, carried in an express to the Lord General from Rawdon, was delivered to him. He retired to his room as quickly as possible, and opened the letter with Elizabeth's handwriting first.
Camden, March 27th, 1781
My dearest William,
I pray you are well, as my sisters and I are. We miss you greatly and speak of you often. The Montgomerys, especially George, also wish to send greetings and respects to you.
Aunt Sarah Jane Minerva departed this life last week on the 18th. Though she had been failing for some time, her death was rather sudden. I had spoken to her when her breakfast was brought to her that morning. Later that afternoon, I went to consult her in her room, and found her lifeless in her sitting room chair where she always sat to look out the front window. As you might imagine, there was the usual mixture of emotions one feels at such an event, only (as Julia said) more so. The passing of such a remarkable individual leaves a void, even if she was not always perfectly agreeable in life.
Her funeral was all she could have wished. It was well attended by people dressed in their handsomest mourning costumes. The minister properly limited his remarks to her attachment to her family, her learning and wisdom, and her generosity to the poor. The will was read, and contained a few surprises. I knew and approved of her plans for her house, but she had said nothing of her money. Amelia, Julia, and I were each bequeathed three thousand pounds. I have written a separate letter to Cousin James, informing him that he too was left money. A certain sum was left to the poor of the parish, and the rest was bequeathed severally to the Montgomery children, and in a way that would prevent a foolish or unscrupulous guardian from misappropriating it.
She mentioned you in her will, and wished you to have her Descartes, and the Micrographia. I have set the books aside for you. She left me her pearls, as she had informed me she intended, and her copy of Father's Flora and Fauna, which I thought very kind of her. She also left me the Everleigh family Bible, on the grounds that no one else would care about it. Sadly, that is probably true. There were some other odds and ends—some keepsakes and some family miniatures. Amelia and Julia also received remembrances, but they wish to tell you themselves in their own letters. To my Uncle Ned, she left only disparaging remarks. I know nothing of the reasons for his estrangement from the family, and I shall certainly never know them now, but it was made clear that none of us should ever expect family feeling from him.
My dearest, you know best how I love you and long for your safe return. My life is a dreary routine without you. I endeavour to keep my mind occupied, which is indeed not difficult; since with my Aunt's death, most of the day to day running of the household has fallen to me. These cares, however, are no comfort. It is the thought of you that gives my life its sweetness.
Guard yourself well; for your life no longer belongs only to you, but also to me.
Your loving
Elizabeth
Tavington sat holding the letter for awhile. Every memory of Elizabeth came to him in a rush. He read it again, even admiring such trifles as her beautiful Italian script, and her elegance and good sense in expressing herself. He realised that he was behaving like all the silly lovers he had ever scorned, but he did not feel silly. He had found something lovely and lovable for himself, and he felt no shame in cherishing it.
The next letter, with a smaller and rounder handwriting, he guessed was from Amelia. Breaking the seal, he congratulated himself on his own cleverness.
Camden, March 27th, 1781
Dearest Colonel Tavington,
Our Aunt Sarah Jane Minerva is no longer with us. I think she missed you, as we do.
We are grateful to our aunt for her kind remembrances in her will. She not only remembered us with money, but also with some very thoughtful items. She left me some of her classical translations, some music, and a very beautiful Sevres tea set. She also left me some very nice fabric, with the admonition that I could not begin planning for my future too soon. Do you think it is wrong of me to wish for the war to be over?
You will be pleased to know that Mr. McKay continues to mend. His colour is better, and he is able to hold books and read by himself now. He was so grieved that he was unable to rejoin the Dragoons. He sends you his deepest respects.
He is very anxious that he will be found no longer fit for duty at all. There is so much to be done, and he feels he needs to be doing his part. We try to reassure him that he is already doing his part, in trying so hard to get well.
Remembering the happy time when you were here, I suggested reading Robinson Crusoe with him. He, too, has enjoyed it very much, and he made some very astute observations about the meaning of the book. Mr. McKay feels that it has much to say about the importance of self-reliance and personal resourcefulness in the face of adversity, and that one ought never to fall into dependence or other weaknesses. I was much struck by his insight.
I still help Lilabet with teaching the little Montgomerys. With all that has happened, she is very busy running the house. Cousin Charlotte means well, but she is very concerned about the baby, who is now creeping about the floor, and constantly putting herself in danger. Our cousin is so afraid something will happen to Caroline, that she will not even trust Zilphah alone with her. Zilphah watches little Frank, and I have begun teaching Sophie her letters and how to use her needle.
Our days seem very long without you. We hope you are well, and will continue so.
I remain, sir, your obedient servant,
Amelia Wilde
The last of the letters was sealed with a prodigious lump of wax. Its handwriting was the largest of all, and the ink had spattered pretty freely in its composition. Tavington smiled.
Camden, March 27th
Dearest Colonel Tavington,
I am so happy to write to you. I hope this letter finds you well. I hope this letter finds you. We are all very well, except for Aunt Sarah Jane Minerva, who is dead. She mentioned you in her will, which I thought very nice, but I think she should have left you something better than her old books.
She left us each a lot of money. That is very agreeable. Not so agreeable is one of the things she left me. You know that picture of hers—the dog picture? She left it to me, because, she said, it was her duty to make me brave. I think I am already sufficiently brave. She also said she hoped I would make good use of it someday. I have no idea what she meant.
Mr. Pangbourne did not want to give our money to Lilabet, because he said we should have a real guardian, by which I suppose he means a man. Lilabet sent a message to Lord Rawdon, and then we got the money right away. Lord Rawdon must be a very nice man. I am sorry I did not get to meet him when he was at the house.
Aunt also left me her very nice silver toilette set. It had to be cleaned, of course, but it is very grand and ornamental. There is something very splendid about using a silver-backed brush on one's hair. One feels one's hair must look especially nice afterwards. She also left me three of her very pretty crystal perfume bottles. They are so very pretty, and I just sit and look at them. I like them so much. Lilabet says I am too young to wear the scents in them, though.
Lilabet is working very hard. There has been some trouble running the house lately. Melly and I think it might be because the slaves thought Aunt would free them in her will, and she didn't. She left them to the Montgomerys with the rest of the household goods. It is very hard to get anything done. Lilabet is not sure why Aunt did not free them, but she thinks it might be because Aunt thought Cousin Charlotte would need experienced help. She thinks Aunt might have freed Uncle Ganymede, at least, but perhaps that might have given someone the excuse to turn him out to starve. We would not do that, but Lilabet says that Cousin Charlotte might marry again someday, and her husband might. I can't imagine who would marry Cousin Charlotte. She has six children, and she is always sniveling. George is not as bad as he used to be, though. Now that you are back with the army, the two of us practice fencing. Lilabet doesn't like it. She says we'll put our eyes out.
Melly is giving all the lessons now, except for George's and mine. Lilabet still teaches us. Melly is not doing too badly, and it is good that she has something to do besides mope about that David McKay boy. They go to the hospital at least once a week, and then Melly mopes when she gets back. Lilabet mopes about you, too, I think, but not in such a silly way. She just looks sad and tired.
Please get the war finished. Then we shall have very good times. I often wonder where we shall live. Lilabet says there are all sorts of wonderful places to live, and we shall decide when we are with you again. I suppose it is certain that the one place we shall not be living is Arcadia. We got word that the Crawfords are living there now. Lilabet tried to act as if it did not bother her. She said they should all be very happy now, since they got Arcadia, which is what they wanted, and Charles Crawford did not have to marry her to get it. We heard Charles Crawford got married to someone else. I'll wager a million pounds she is ugly. I hope so, anyway.
I'm sorry this letter is so long. I know I said long letters were stupid. Please read it anyway. We love and miss you and we want you to be safe.
Your obedient servant,
Julia Wilde
There was much in the letters to consider. He smiled a little over Julia's enthusiasm, but was grateful that her naivete caused her to reveal to him things that Elizabeth and Amelia would not. He paused respectfully, thinking of Miss Everleigh, but Julia's letter only hardened his determination never to own slaves. That an intelligent woman would not even at her own death relieve the condition of those most dependent upon her, illustrated to him vividly the inherent stupidity and evil in slaveholding. Perhaps Elizabeth would understand someday, but at the present time she seemed to have a gap in her otherwise sensitive nature. No doubt she had never thought about the issue at all. As to the welcome bequests, he would someday have to express his gratitude to Rawdon for protecting the girls' rights.
Amelia's letter also made him smile. Her obvious infatuation with "the David McKay boy" and his "observations" breathed forth in every line. Innocent enough, but they were both very young: Amelia only fifteen, and McKay barely seventeen. If McKay recovered, they should be in no hurry to settle.
He treasured Elizabeth's letter, but it grieved him as well. He could picture all too clearly the sullen, resentful slaves, and Charlotte's helplessness and her lack of attention to anything not directly involving her children. While he understood that Elizabeth did not wish to worry him with circumstances he could do nothing about, neither did he wish to be kept in ignorance of all her troubles. He shrugged. As long as Julia wrote to him, there seemed little danger of that.
Cornwallis was resolved on his plan to attack the rebels in Virginia. Tavington had been sent ahead with the Dragoons to seize all the boats he could find along the Cape Fear River. The rest of the army would find them waiting and move north directly.
Once the crossing had been managed successfully, Tavington and his Dragoons pushed on ahead, always a day or two ahead of the body of the army. They met no resistance. Local Loyalists, who greeted them and acted as temporary guides through the region, told him that the terror of Tavington's name had kept many of the rebels as far from his path as possible. This information amused the Legion and Tavington himself, and he smirked a little at the advantage being the 'Butcher of the Carolinas' gave him.
Supplies were low, and the countryside almost barren after years of war. Tavington rounded up what he could. It was hard enough to keep his own men fed. Finding food for the some fifteen hundred men who comprised the balance of the army was nearly impossible.
As he ordered the men encamped one evening, he was approached by Sergeant Davies. What appeared to be an extra shadow behind the sergeant Tavington determined to be a scrawny, skulking civilian who, it seemed, wished to have a word with him. He gave Davies a nod, and the sergeant gestured the fellow forward. A small farmer, thought Tavington, from the rough clothes, and a public nuisance, he decided. The fellow was trying and failing to give Tavington a friendly smile. Instead, he looked at once frightened and self-satisfied.
He grinned a moment longer than Tavington's patience would hold. Seeing his colonel's irritation, Sergeant Davies gave the farmer a push. "Speak your piece to the Colonel, and don't waste his time!" Tavington looked at Davies with reproof. "Sorry, sir," muttered the sergeant, "the fellow said he wanted to talk to you about some beeves he's willing to give us."
"Not give," objected the farmer, horrified. "Sell! I hear the King's army pays for the animals it takes!" Tavington lifted an eyebrow, and stared the man down.
Giving a hideously ingratiating smile, the farmer said, "I got me these beeves, and I figured I'd show you what a loyal King's man I am. I'm willing to make you a good price---"
"Where are they?" Tavington interrupted, wanting to get rid of this idiot. The man scuttled off, and returned immediately with a string of four animals.
Placid, docile, and healthy they looked. They were also, quite obviously, milch cows.
Tavington was incredulous. "You want to sell your dairy cattle to us for beef?"
The fellow gaped at him, and then winked slyly at Tavington, as to a man who could see a good joke.
"Well," he drawled, "They're not exactly mine—"
"What do you mean?" asked Tavington, in his coldest, clipped voice. Davies looked at him uneasily, knowing what the frigid tone heralded. The 'loyal King's man,' not hearing the anger in Tavington's voice, continued to dig himself in deeper.
"There's this widow woman over yonder—name of Lacey—husband got hisself killed fighting for the rebels awhile back. I figured it'd serve her right to lose them cows. You and your brave soldiers get a meal, I get paid, and we'll teach that widow woman a lesson about marrying rebels instead of decent—"
Tavington hissed, "How dare you?" Davies discreetly backed away, and the civilian stood, jaw slack, beginning to understand that things were not turning out as he had planned.
Tavington raised his voice. "How dare you make me an accomplice to your petty spite? I know nothing of your loyalty or this woman's rebellion. Do you think you are making a favourable impression on me, robbing a widow of her livelihood?" The idea of this low creature imagining that he had anything in common with him made Tavington feel unclean. It was one thing to be feared for his ruthlessness, or his skill at arms, and quite another to be considered a common pilferer. Tavington's temper, so carefully controlled since he returned to the army, exploded.
Without bothering to turn the man over to his subordinates, Tavington unclipped his sword, unbuckled his sword belt, grabbed the terrified farmer by the back of his coat, and half-kicked him over to a nearby tree stump. Flinging the man over it, he proceeded to flog him thoroughly, satisfying, and brutally. With each blow of the belt the man howled. The Dragoons gathered around, entertained and approving, the closest bystanders relating the story to the latecomers.
Between blows, Tavington explained the fellow's good fortune to him. "Do you understand how lucky you are? I could just as easily have you hanged as a thief!" Thrashing the fellow seemed to relieve any number of frustrations and anxieties. He finished with three blows, the hardest yet, and stood panting over the man. Interesting, he thought, I really do feel much better. Regaining his usual composure, he called out, "Sergeant Davies!"
"Sir!" The sergeant was nearby, and trying not to grin. Tavington looked him over coolly.
"Take this fellow and those cows, and find the woman he stole them from. Return the animals to her with the King's compliments." He brushed his uniform off, and added, "If he gives you any trouble, kill him."
"Yes, sir!"
Tavington studied the whimpering farmer thoughtfully. "If he looks like he'll give the woman any trouble, kill him."
"Yes, sir!"
Some local people had gathered back by the trees, and were enjoying the spectacle from a safe distance. Overhearing Tavington's commands, a woman ran forward and bobbed a curtsey.
"If you please, sir; I am Hannah Lacey. Bill Satterwhite stole the cows from me and we chased him all the way here." She was a rosy, middle-aged woman, and following in her wake were two young girls, wild as deer. Their skirts were kilted up for running, exposing bare feet and long brown legs. Their faces were hidden in the depths of their caps, and they glanced furtively at Tavington as he spoke to their mother.
Tavington pulled the farmer to his feet and spun him around to face his accuser. "Is this not Mrs. Lacey, the owner of the cows?"
The man whined, "But she's a rebel!"
Tavington gave the fellow a shove. "Get out of my sight." Turning to Mrs. Lacey, he said, "Madam, I understand those animals are your property. Do you require any assistance taking them home?"
Mrs. Lacey curtseyed again. "Oh, no, sir! My girls and I can lead them—no trouble at all!" She curtseyed yet again, and the girls followed suit, whispering to each other, as they watched him from the corners of their eyes. Tavington realised that they were looking him over with positively salacious curiosity. Impudent little wenches!
Captains Hovenden and Kinlock rode up, waiting for him to inspect the rest of the encampment. Both had witnessed the scene and were carefully sober, though with evident difficulty. If they laugh, I shall take great pleasure in making their lives hell.
Mrs. Lacey said, "Thank you kindly, sir. It would have gone hard on us without our cows."
The taller of the girls looked at him under her lashes, "We are beholden to you, sir. If there is anything we can do to repay you—"
"Anything at all!" eagerly interrupted the shorter, more buxom girl.
Tavington gave them a slight smile and a polite, dismissive nod, trying not to gaze at the shapely legs of the tall girl, or her sister's heaving charms. Their mother began to pull them away, but the girls, disappointed, resisted. The little buxom one whispered loudly in her mother's ear, "—handsome! Can't we--------see again-----obliged---"
Tavington thought briefly about how long it had been since he had enjoyed a woman. He thought about the long brown legs and ample bosoms of the local nymphs. He thought about how his mother had taught him to accept the gratitude of inferiors graciously. He then thought, as he generally did every few minutes or so, about Elizabeth, curled against him on a rose brocade sofa, and resolutely used the memory to beat away the lure of the Lacey sirens. It took only a moment, and he was himself again.
Deciding he owed it to King and Country to show these yokels what a soldier ought to look like, he slipped his sword belt over his shoulder, and buckled it with unusual care. The silly girls were watching his every move. He very deliberately clipped the scabbard back on to the belt, and carefully adjusted the hang of his sword.
Sauntering over to his horse with more than his usual swagger, he vaulted into the saddle. One girl cooed a sigh; the other squeaked excitedly. He spurred Aeolus into an easy canter, and escaped his admirers and temptation.
Author's notes: Among the legends of Tarleton in the Carolinas is the story of Mrs. Lacey's cows. The story only first appears in print in the 19th century, so it may simply be apocryphal. However, it is an amusing tale and shows a different side of the Butcher of the Carolinas. Years later, when meeting the thief in a public place and noticing a patch sewn on the back of his trousers, Mrs. Lacey asked him, "Bill Satterwhite, are those the pants Tarleton wore out when he whipped you with his sword belt?" The story is generally placed around the time Tarleton was riding to the relief of Ferguson, but the tone was not suitable in that chapter, so I have placed it here. The daughters are my embellishment.
Many thanks to my kind reviewers: Zubeneschamali (you'll hear from me soon), SlytherinDragoon (you got the emerald ring. Yay!), Foodie, Anchovyeater, Redone, TaraRose, Ladymarytavington, Lintasare, Vivienne Tavington, Kate Lynn, CEA (don't let your teachers ruin history for you!), Arianna Malfoy, JaneyQ, and Kathrinetavington. Your praise and advice have made my efforts so much easier. There are several more chapters to go, but I am now seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. Is that a good thing or a bad thing? Maybe the journey is more important than the destination.