2. Green Destiny
Colonel William Tavington felt cool displeasure as he looked at the jumble of Colonial and British wounded at the nearby farmhouse. He believed in making examples, and considered such a fate for this farm. He supposed the untidy man in the bloody shirt must be the farmer himself, ungentlemanlike as he looked. It was hard to know if the fellow was a rebel or not. Still, it might be best to burn the place. The farmer had aided rebels, and Tavington had decided to consider a rebel anyone who aided rebels in any way. Before he could give the order, however, a boy appeared at his stirrup.
"Colonel, may I speak to you?"
Tavington looked down. A pale, thin, young Colonial was looking up at him, anxiously excited. Certainly he must belong to the farm—probably the farmer's son, for the man looked over at him, worried.
"What is it?" Tavington snapped impatiently. Their wounded had been cared for by the farmer, it was true, but still--
"I would very much like to join the Green Dragoons, sir!" burst out of the boy in a single breath. Tavington was amused, and distracted from the business of example-making. The boy looked so painfully eager. Tavington thought nostalgically of himself at that age, dreaming of conquering the world, like a new Alexander.
Well, he was thirty-five, older than Alexander had been when he had died master of the world. He was no conqueror, but a commander of a provincial legion, fighting rebels in a colonial backwater. So much for the dreams of youth.
The boy looked a little young, and the farmer more than a little distressed. Well, if the boy was volunteering for the King's service, this must be a loyal household, and Tavington mentally dismissed example-making for the present.
"Lieutenant, have a detachment take our wounded to our surgeons at Winnsboro," he ordered. His gaze returned to the boy. Recruits were always welcome, but the boy probably would need his father's permission, and that did not seem forthcoming. They were squabbling together, and Tavington overheard them.
"You said I could go!"
"I said in two years!"
"Really," interposed Tavington. "I very much enjoy listening to your family disputes, but I do have a war to fight. Not that I expect you to understand that."
"Father was a Captain in the last war!" cried the boy, defensively.
The father seemed very put out, which puzzled Tavington, but not enough to care much about it.
"Well," Tavington suggested to the farmer, "if you were a captain (may I have your name, sir?), perhaps you would equip your son for a cornetcy open in Captain Bordon's troop?"
"Martin," said the farmer, dully. "Benjamin Martin. He's only fifteen."
"Captain Martin,' said Tavington. "I was but sixteen when I first entered His Majesty's service." The boy glowed with a pale fire. That father ought to be proud of such a high-spirited lad.
"Colonel," asked Martin, "do you have any children?"
Annoyed at such a personal question, Tavington answered rather superciliously. "No, I do not, sir."
The farmer seemed to be suppressing an explosion of rage. "Well, Colonel, I hope someday you do. I hope you have many children—"
Tavington smiled uneasily and started to interrupt, but Martin continued with quiet fury.
"I hope you have many children, and that all of them torment you as much as mine have me!"
"Really, sir! This is most extraordinary----"
The farmer's rage had left him, and his shoulders slumped in defeat. He turned to his son. "You can go, and you can take Piper," and the boy nearly jumped with elation, "but only if you can jump the paddock gate cleanly on the first try."
Tavington saw that his men, having fought hard, were in the mood for entertainment, and were interested in seeing if the boy could rise to the challenge. Tavington quickly ordered the infantry lieutenant—Grayson was his name---to take charge of the enemy wounded and return them under guard to the encampment. Some of them would die, some would recover. Of those, some could probably be persuaded to promise allegiance to the King, and would be useful replacements.
The boy raced to the stable, and cantered back in a few moments on a good-looking bay gelding. He had been taught well—the seat was good, and he kept his back straight. Tavington thought the heels not quite right, but that could be improved with proper attention. The boy kicked the bay into a gallop and headed for the gate.
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Thomas felt like he was flying. All of his dreams and aspirations were focused in a moment's jump over a three-barred fence. Piper seemed to understand this, because the tall horse was running smoothly, as concentrated on the path before him as Thomas himself.
Thomas felt the horse gather himself for the jump, and then they were soaring over, without the least sound of a hoof touching the wood below them. Piper was running free toward the meadow, but Thomas pulled him smartly about, and headed toward his father and the Colonel. From his vantage point on Piper's back, the Colonel no longer looked like a giant, but like a fellow man and a soldier.
The dauntless young cornet leaped the chasm effortlessly. He and his mount were as one, as they brought vital intelligence to the Colonel--
The dragoons were cheering him. Thomas was too young to hear the irony in some of the voices, and flushed happily. This was as good as any of his dreams. The Colonel was smiling and speaking to another officer beside him. His father was looking at him, his face a mixture of pride and grief.
"Well done, young Martin," purred the Colonel. Tavington turned to Father, "Captain, I believe you must, in honour, keep your bargain."
"Yes, well ridden, Thomas," said his father quietly. "Colonel, you and your men are welcome to refresh yourselves. I need a little time to get Thomas' necessary equipment together. My housekeeper can offer you tea."
"Thank you, sir," said the Colonel, dismounting. "Come along, Bordon, we must let the Captain prepare your new cornet."
Bordon smiled. "Indeed, sir, we are grateful for your hospitality."
While Colonel Tavington and four of his officer entered his home, Thomas was taken upstairs by Father to pack his few possessions.
As soon as they were out of earshot, Father whispered to him, "Have you seen Gabriel?"
Thomas whispered back, "He's in the cellar. I got rid of the dispatches in the privy."
His father looked briefly furious, but then dismissed the matter. "I know you did what you did to protect us, Thomas, but sacrificing yourself by joining the British is going too far!"
"I want to go, Father! You know I've always wanted to be a soldier, and this is my chance. I'll be an officer right away!"
Father was busily pulling out linen from the clothes press. He muttered, "There's no time to prepare you properly." Nathan and Sam were standing wide-eyed in the doorway.
The dauntless young cornet knew he must be prepared for anything----
Father said, "Nathan, Sam, go up to the attic, and bring down the small trunk. There's an old saddlebag up there too."
"Yes, Father." The two little boys ran up the attic stairs, and Thomas could hear them thumping over his head, dragging something along.
"Thomas," Father said, his face grave. "I know you think that war is a glorious thing. It is sometimes: but it is also a terrible thing and a cruel thing. It will change you. The next time I see you, you will be a different person. You may be wounded—" He stopped and rubbed his eyes. "Your mother, when I was troubled, always told me to 'stay the course.' That's what you must do. If you take the King's shilling, you will serve. If you change your mind later, I cannot get you out of it. You must obey Colonel Tavington as you have never obeyed me. You cannot question him, and you cannot shirk his orders. He is a hard man, and he will ask things of you that you cannot imagine yet. Remember, no matter what happens, that I love you. Remember that you will always be my son, and that this will always be your home."
The boys were back, half-carrying and half-pushing the trunk. Nathan had draped the dusty saddlebag over his shoulder. Most of Thomas' possessions, including his copy of Shakespeare's Henry V, were packed into the small trunk. Father packed the saddlebag with some linen and toilet articles "because sometimes you will be traveling light."
Father whispered, "You're not even shaving yet." He took Thomas into his own room, and pulled out the wonderful trunk. Reaching in, he retrieved a pair of pistols, and a fine, but tarnished sword. He looked at the weapons thoughtfully, and then gave them to Thomas to carry.
Father took the trunk and bag downstairs, and Tavington, looking up from his tea, directed a waiting dragoon to load the trunk in the baggage wagon. Thomas, burdened with his new weapons, felt a brief thrill of fear, remembering that Gabriel was in the cellar, right under their feet, and could doubtless hear everything going on in the kitchen. He prayed that his brother would be quiet, just a little, little longer.
The officers all smiled at Thomas' appearance. Captain Bordon, in whose troop he was to serve, was a stocky, red-haired man, with an affable air. He spoke kindly to Thomas, and told him his lieutenant would be Duncan Monroe.
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Tavington finished his tea, and set down the cup, in a thoughtful mood. He had been ready to despise the farmer and the farm, but on reflection, he was no longer comfortable with this. His own goals in life included the reward of a land grant. It was possible that he might be in the same situation as this Captain Martin in a few years. A retired soldier with a prosperous farm and a large number of children to care for—and where was the wife? Apparently Mrs Martin had died. Women died all the time in childbirth.
He laughed to himself, a little bitterly. He was borrowing trouble. He had not even found a lady whose family particularly wished to ally themselves with Tavington, he of the tarnished name and impoverished means. Once the war was over, he must resign himself to some very diligent fortune hunting….
The paymaster had found the boy and his father outside, and was completing the regimental paperwork. Tavington wondered how he would feel about a son of his joining the Army so young. Naturally, he would have the benefit of his own experience in advising his child. Of course, he thought reluctantly, the farmer had been a soldier too, and presumably had used the same arguments….
Tavington silenced his irritating inner voice, and focused on the present. They had a new recruit. That was a good thing. He and his officers were resting comfortably, drinking good tea and eating the housekeeper's excellent biscuits. That was a good thing too. Duncan Monroe was a good lieutenant, and would train the boy well. Everything was as it should be.
The farmer's little golden-haired daughter was half hiding in the housekeeper's skirts, staring at him. A pretty child. He essayed a winning smile, but the little girl was not so easy to please as the flirtatious Charlestown ladies. Tavington shrugged. He really did not care much for children, but had been told it was different with one's own. He hoped so.
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Thomas was leaving; he was really leaving, and he felt afraid for a moment. Lieutenant Monroe greeted him, and told him that they would fit him with a proper uniform back at camp. Thomas' spirits lifted, as he imagined himself in red and green, and crowned with a fearsome plumed helmet.
The dauntless young cornet bade farewell to his family--
Then he saw Father, and Abigail, and his brothers and sisters, lining up to say goodbye. Susan's thin little face was shocked, and his little brothers looked bewildered. He kissed his sisters, and Margaret murmured fiercely, "You mustn't sacrifice yourself! Maybe they would take me instead!"
"Don't be silly, Margaret." He gave her shoulder a squeeze: they had always been fond of each other. "Why in the world would the Dragoons carry off a girl? You'd just slow them down!"
She sniffed tearfully and pressed a pair of handkerchiefs of her own making into his hand. He pocketed them, hoping the watching dragoons would not laugh. He shook hands with his brothers, and whispered to Nathan that he could have his collection of toy soldiers.
Abigail kissed him, and sobbed, "Mr Thomas, don't let those soldiers lead you astray!"
There was some muffled laughter at this, and Lieutenant Monroe, tall in the saddle, said, "Don't worry, we'll teach him everything he needs to know." Some of the dragoons grunted their assent at this, and the Colonel and Captain Bordon exchanged amused and expressive glances.
Thomas put out his hand to shake Father's, but was pulled instead into a crushing embrace. "Good luck, Thomas. God bless you." He released Thomas and looked away, his eyes red.
Thomas mounted Piper then, and rode over to Lieutenant Monroe. The Colonel was ready to lead them out, and Thomas straightened his shoulders, trying to look like the men around him.
A random thought struck him, "Lieutenant Monroe, sir? We're called Green Dragoons. Shouldn't we be wearing—well, green?"
Monroe looked at him, astonished. "Green? No, Mr Martin: you must be thinking of some other Green Dragoons."
Thomas nodded, and shrugged off the thought. As he rode away, he shed tears: tears of grief at leaving his family, and tears of joy that he was at last embarked on a great adventure. He would serve his King, serve his idol Colonel Tavington, and serve both in a uniform infinitely surpassing in smartness anything his elder brother would ever wear in the service of the rebels. A last whisper of fantasy blew across his imagination.
The dauntless young cornet--------
-------is me.
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Author's note: Those acquainted with British Legion lore will understand my in-joke about Green Dragoons wearing green. They did. The producers of the Patriot thought their audience too stupid to understand that soldiers in a loyalist regiment, attired in green as they often were, were fighting for the British. Actually both sides were pretty colorful. Harry Lee's Legion, on the Continental side, also wore green. (Yes, sometimes there were disastrous cases of mistaken identity.) The British artillery wore blue. The very name "Green Dragoons" is a twentieth-century historian's invention.
Thank you to Slytherin Dragoon, pigeonsfrom hell, Zubeneschamali aka Beta Librae, nomorebraces, and ladymarytavington. Reviews to an author are like water in the desert to a traveler.