Chapter Two: Meeting My Captor
We rode on through most of the light. I wanted greatly to turn and gaze into the eyes of my captor, but every time I attempted to move, he tightened his grip around my waist. Therefore, I spent the entirety of our ride wondering if the same man whose horse I was straddling was the man who had shot my brother.
I thought a lot about John. Although merely fifteen, he had longed to follow our brother, Nathan, into battle with the Colonials. However, after our father had died, Mother had forbidden him to go, and, after much begging on my part, he conceded to stay with us and take on the role of "man of the family." My eyes watered both from the harsh October wind, and at the thought of losing my brother.
Finally, when I thought that we would never cease riding, we stopped. I peered into the darkness, wondering where I was. The horses had been galloping at a full canter for several hours, so I knew that wherever I was, it was far away from my home.
The soldier I had ridden with dismounted his horse.
"Come on," he said, harshly. He had a thick, British accent. He grabbed me wrist and pulled me off of the horse.
I glared at him; even I knew that he could not see me in the darkness. He pulled me along and I tried to keep up with his quick pace. Dawn was approaching and I was able to see his figure, black against the rising sun. He had long legs and broad shoulders. Finally, we reached a tent in the darkness. He pulled back the flap and shoved me in.
The tent was small and crowded with both a cot and a desk. He lit the lamp that was sitting upon the desk, and for the first time, I was able to look on the face of my captor.
His skin was slightly tanned and his brown hair was tied back, as was standard for military men. I gazed up into his strong, piercing blue eyes, which seemed to be scrutinizing me as well.
"What is your name?" he asked finally.
I gave him my most hateful look. "I have no reason to tell you anything," I answered.
He raised a hand as though he was about to strike me across the face, and I put my hands up instinctively. For some reason, this caused him to laugh.
"Not as brave as you seem, now are you?" he asked, smirking at me.
He was mocking me, and for that I despised him even more. Finally, I spoke. "You have not revealed your identity to me," I said, looking up at him, "and therefore I will not reveal mine to you."
"Very well," he said. "I can guess, at least, that you are a Peterson. My name is Colonel William Tavington."
I stared at him in disbelief. William Tavington was the single most hated and feared man in the colonies. Every patriot family's worst fear was that he would make a raid on their home, as he was known mostly for his brutality. My father, of course, had spoken quite highly of the colonel, saying that the only way to stamp the rebellion out was to attack where people would take it the hardest. He had ceased to make such comments after my mother's family, who were well known for their strong patriotic beliefs, was attacked.
"Well," said the colonel. "I have answered your question, now I expect an answer to mine."
"I am..." my voice caught and I was unable to finish my sentence. Tears welled in my eyes at the thought of what was to become of me, now that I was in the hands of such a horrible man. However, I reasoned with myself, I would have to be strong if I were ever going to get myself out of this. "My name is Charlotte Peterson," I finally answered, holding my head high.
He said nothing, so I decided to use the silence as an opportunity to find out why I was being held captive. "Why are you holding me here?" I asked him boldly.
"I am holding you here because your older brother, Nathan Peterson, I believe, has made quite a nuisance of himself. And, I have learned in my time here, the best way to stop you sentimental colonials from being problems, is to attack a man's home, capture his family."
I stared at him, wondering how one man could be so evil.
"However," he said, startling me from my thoughts, "do not think that simply because you are me prisoner you can laze about doing nothing. Tell me, what skills, if any, have you?"
"Why, sir," I asked through gritted teeth, "should I work for the same man who captured me and probably killed my brother?"
"Because," he said, smirking once again, "the only way I am going to allow you to be fed and sheltered is if you earn your keep. And, you know, some of these men haven't seen a woman in quite a while, so the only way that I can promise you protection is if you earn it."
I glared at him again, and finally answered his original question. "I have some medical expertise."
"Ah," he said, nodding. "And, pray tell, how did you acquire such skills?"
"I have..." my voice caught once again, and I fought to maintain my composure. "I had, up until last night, three younger siblings. After my brother went to war, and my father died, my mother became ill in her grief. Therefore, it became my responsibility to care for them. She was beginning to recover..."
He thought on this for a moment and then asked; "You never cared for any wounded rebels, then?"
I could not tell if this was a serious question, or if he was attempting to mock me further, but I decided to answer his question.
"Actually," I said, "I have tended wounded soldiers. Both colonial and British. There was a skirmish, about a mile from my home not too long ago. Many wounded soldiers came to us begging for help and medical attention. I gave it to them."
"You would save the life of your enemies?" he asked, appearing to be mildly surprised.
"I believe that any wounded man, regardless of his political beliefs, is still a man," I answered, surprising even myself with my boldness.
"I see," he said quietly. Suddenly, however, he turned on me. "Yes, well," he barked, "you have half an hour to rest, and then myself, or one of my men, will come and get you. I'm sure you'll be needed somewhere."
He walked out of the tent, and I sat down on the cot. How could I sleep here? How could I be the servant of this horrible man? Then I realized that if I wanted to live, I had to.
We rode on through most of the light. I wanted greatly to turn and gaze into the eyes of my captor, but every time I attempted to move, he tightened his grip around my waist. Therefore, I spent the entirety of our ride wondering if the same man whose horse I was straddling was the man who had shot my brother.
I thought a lot about John. Although merely fifteen, he had longed to follow our brother, Nathan, into battle with the Colonials. However, after our father had died, Mother had forbidden him to go, and, after much begging on my part, he conceded to stay with us and take on the role of "man of the family." My eyes watered both from the harsh October wind, and at the thought of losing my brother.
Finally, when I thought that we would never cease riding, we stopped. I peered into the darkness, wondering where I was. The horses had been galloping at a full canter for several hours, so I knew that wherever I was, it was far away from my home.
The soldier I had ridden with dismounted his horse.
"Come on," he said, harshly. He had a thick, British accent. He grabbed me wrist and pulled me off of the horse.
I glared at him; even I knew that he could not see me in the darkness. He pulled me along and I tried to keep up with his quick pace. Dawn was approaching and I was able to see his figure, black against the rising sun. He had long legs and broad shoulders. Finally, we reached a tent in the darkness. He pulled back the flap and shoved me in.
The tent was small and crowded with both a cot and a desk. He lit the lamp that was sitting upon the desk, and for the first time, I was able to look on the face of my captor.
His skin was slightly tanned and his brown hair was tied back, as was standard for military men. I gazed up into his strong, piercing blue eyes, which seemed to be scrutinizing me as well.
"What is your name?" he asked finally.
I gave him my most hateful look. "I have no reason to tell you anything," I answered.
He raised a hand as though he was about to strike me across the face, and I put my hands up instinctively. For some reason, this caused him to laugh.
"Not as brave as you seem, now are you?" he asked, smirking at me.
He was mocking me, and for that I despised him even more. Finally, I spoke. "You have not revealed your identity to me," I said, looking up at him, "and therefore I will not reveal mine to you."
"Very well," he said. "I can guess, at least, that you are a Peterson. My name is Colonel William Tavington."
I stared at him in disbelief. William Tavington was the single most hated and feared man in the colonies. Every patriot family's worst fear was that he would make a raid on their home, as he was known mostly for his brutality. My father, of course, had spoken quite highly of the colonel, saying that the only way to stamp the rebellion out was to attack where people would take it the hardest. He had ceased to make such comments after my mother's family, who were well known for their strong patriotic beliefs, was attacked.
"Well," said the colonel. "I have answered your question, now I expect an answer to mine."
"I am..." my voice caught and I was unable to finish my sentence. Tears welled in my eyes at the thought of what was to become of me, now that I was in the hands of such a horrible man. However, I reasoned with myself, I would have to be strong if I were ever going to get myself out of this. "My name is Charlotte Peterson," I finally answered, holding my head high.
He said nothing, so I decided to use the silence as an opportunity to find out why I was being held captive. "Why are you holding me here?" I asked him boldly.
"I am holding you here because your older brother, Nathan Peterson, I believe, has made quite a nuisance of himself. And, I have learned in my time here, the best way to stop you sentimental colonials from being problems, is to attack a man's home, capture his family."
I stared at him, wondering how one man could be so evil.
"However," he said, startling me from my thoughts, "do not think that simply because you are me prisoner you can laze about doing nothing. Tell me, what skills, if any, have you?"
"Why, sir," I asked through gritted teeth, "should I work for the same man who captured me and probably killed my brother?"
"Because," he said, smirking once again, "the only way I am going to allow you to be fed and sheltered is if you earn your keep. And, you know, some of these men haven't seen a woman in quite a while, so the only way that I can promise you protection is if you earn it."
I glared at him again, and finally answered his original question. "I have some medical expertise."
"Ah," he said, nodding. "And, pray tell, how did you acquire such skills?"
"I have..." my voice caught once again, and I fought to maintain my composure. "I had, up until last night, three younger siblings. After my brother went to war, and my father died, my mother became ill in her grief. Therefore, it became my responsibility to care for them. She was beginning to recover..."
He thought on this for a moment and then asked; "You never cared for any wounded rebels, then?"
I could not tell if this was a serious question, or if he was attempting to mock me further, but I decided to answer his question.
"Actually," I said, "I have tended wounded soldiers. Both colonial and British. There was a skirmish, about a mile from my home not too long ago. Many wounded soldiers came to us begging for help and medical attention. I gave it to them."
"You would save the life of your enemies?" he asked, appearing to be mildly surprised.
"I believe that any wounded man, regardless of his political beliefs, is still a man," I answered, surprising even myself with my boldness.
"I see," he said quietly. Suddenly, however, he turned on me. "Yes, well," he barked, "you have half an hour to rest, and then myself, or one of my men, will come and get you. I'm sure you'll be needed somewhere."
He walked out of the tent, and I sat down on the cot. How could I sleep here? How could I be the servant of this horrible man? Then I realized that if I wanted to live, I had to.
