Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to the Patriot. I think that is fairly clear by now.

3: Destiny Rides to Camden

Benjamin Martin sat on the front porch with the letter. The heat of August made the sun unbearable, and he was grateful for the slight breeze. The boys had gone fishing in the shade by the creek, and the girls were staying for a few weeks with their Aunt Charlotte. Martin had toyed with the idea of a governess now and then, but disliked the idea of a strange woman living in such close proximity. He knew he should be doing more for the girls. With the country so unsettled because of the war, though, it would be unwise to try to send them to school. Besides, with Susan's condition----

Hesitantly, he opened the letter. It was addressed in Thomas' own hand, so he need not fear the dreaded epistle from a commanding officer, advising him of his son's death. He had spent the last few months in nearly unceasing anxiety. Gabriel had sent word when he had made it back safely to Harry Burwell; and rumour had it that Gates and the Continentals were readying themselves for a major battle with the British, now under Cornwallis.

Where was Thomas? Rumour also had it that the Green Dragoons were everywhere, stamping out the few remaining flames of rebellion in South Carolina. Peter Howard in Pembroke had written him, trying to persuade him to join "in the common struggle," but Martin could not take sides. Much as he sympathized with the views of his Patriot friends, he had too much at stake here at home to risk his children's safety. With Gabriel serving under Harry, and Thomas in the British Legion, he had to strike a neutral balance between the two warring parties.

Smoothing out the paper, he smiled at the boyish scrawl before him.

August 8, 1780

Fort Carolina

My dear Father,

I am well and safe, and hope you and my brothers and sisters are as well. We are encamped near Camden, in a newly built log fort. It is more comfortable here than camping on patrol, as here we all have tents and cots, and the food is better. I wish you could see me in my uniform. Now that I have turned sixteen, I've grown into it more. I'm even shaving (a little) now!

Everyone is very kind. My officers are good men, and take great pains to train and prepare me for my duties. Lieutenant Monroe is an excellent swordsman and is teaching me the finer points (haha!) of fencing. I also practice with the pistol and am learning about keeping troop accounts. Some of the men are pretty rough, and Lt. Monroe has told me I must be fair but firm with them.

The women here are very kind too. Many of the soldiers have wives and families at camp. Mrs Poole, a widow, washes and mends my linen, and refuses to take any money for it. She is very nice.

You remember Mr Wilkins from the Assembly? He is serving as a Captain in the Dragoons now, and sends you his respects. It's good to see a familiar face among so many strangers.

I'm sure you heard the story about how the British Legion tricked the rebels, pretending to be the rebel Colonel William Washington and his men. It is all true. I was with the body of the dragoons who arrested the band. The Colonel is a very great soldier, and is very brave, but he has a good sense of humour too, as you can see.

We may be having a big battle soon. Word is that Gates is headed toward us. He'll be sorry if he tries to fight us, but it's best that he comes and we whip him and get it over with. The sooner this war is over the better for everyone.

Please take the money I have enclosed and buy presents for the children, especially something pretty for the girls. Give them my------well, say hello to them for me. I don't want Nathan to think I've gotten soft.

I know that you did not want me to join the Army so soon, but I think it was for the best. I endeavor everyday to conduct myself in a way that would make you proud of me. I remember you told me 'to stay the course.' I think about that, and all the other important things you have taught me.

Your loving son,

Thomas

P.S. If you happen to hear from Gabriel, please say hello to him for me. I hope he understands that he is still my brother, and is not too angry about you-know-what.

Martin gave a wry chuckle. Thomas was still Thomas—still a boy; and best of all, still the sweet, idealistic boy he had raised. He could picture Mrs Poole, too: a plump, motherly kind of woman, looking after Thomas, washing his linen, and doling out good-natured advice. There had been few women with his company in the last war. Perhaps this was better. Women might certainly provide a civilising element in a rough army camp.

-----

Cornet Thomas Martin of the British Legion awoke with an excruciating headache. He lay still a moment, fighting off nausea, and promised himself he would never, ever, engage in a drinking contest again—especially one involving the vile local rotgut. The light filtering into the tent was painfully bright, and he threw a forearm over his eyes. The girl cuddled next to him on the narrow cot objected sleepily as he poked her with his elbow.

"Sorry, Dinah," he groaned.

Dinah, otherwise known as Mrs Poole, or the Widow Poole, or Darling Dinah, slid a companionable arm around him. To Thomas, in his current condition, it was like being hit with a rough-split log. He groaned again, and Dinah, with a sympathetic pat, was unabashedly out of bed and rummaging through her belongings for her trusted cure-all.

Thomas squeezed his eyes open, and was rewarded by the sight of the comely Dinah. She was indeed an army widow, but only two years older than he. She had lost her husband in a skirmish five months before and had stayed with the Legion, making a living as best she could. He gave her a weak smile, and she smiled radiantly in return: grabbing up her shift and slipping it over her head not a moment too soon.

Thomas' friend and fellow cornet, Sam Willett, came bursting through the tent flap, out of breath, but full of news.

"Up and at 'em, Thomas! Word is that the Lord General thinks we've got the rebels cornered, and the Colonel himself will be leading us into battle today! Best you smarten yourself up a bit!" He gave the girl an appreciative leer. "'Morning, Dinah." She responded with a demure smile, and a murmured appeal to keep his voice down.

"You up—you at 'em," snarled Thomas. The tenderhearted Dinah mixed her eye-opener, and offered Thomas a sip from a flask. He took a swallow, trying to keep it back in his throat and away from his tastebuds. He still could not repress a shudder. He could not be sure of all the ingredients, but he knew it contained sloe gin, antimony, mustard, and a little laudanum. It was truly, truly vile, but Dinah swore it would cure anything from a hangover to the pox, large or small.

Sam hurried out to spread his news, and Thomas, with Dinah's help, was soon dressed and groomed as befitted a young officer of dragoons. The small shaving mirror did not allow Thomas to gloat over his appearance in full, but he never lost the thrill of pleasure he felt when seeing himself in uniform.

Swaggering out, the complaisant Dinah hanging on his arm, he soon saw and respectfully acknowledged Captain Bordon and Lieutenant Monroe. Lieutenant Hunt came up to them and the older men started laughing at some joke of the night before. A groom brought him Piper, who was looking glossy and well fed.

Dinah wanted another kiss; and blushing, he obliged her there in front of everyone. His superiors seemed amused. Dinah clung to him, a little teary-eyed.

"Come back to me," she whispered. "I couldn't bear to lose you, too." Thomas held her close, and then released her to mount Piper. The girl touched his boot, smiling up at him tenderly.

"Like a knight in shining armour," she sighed. Thomas blushed proudly, and took the laughter and inevitable remarks of his friends with good humour.

His colonel had ridden up, and viewed the scene with distaste. The boy does not know what he is doing, he thought. Someone must tell him. The Martin boy was not the first young man, away from home for the first time, to make an ass of himself; but Tavington remembered the embarrassments and complications of his own foolish, unguided youth well enough not to wish them on any young officer under his command. He would make a point of talking with the boy later.

----

Within the hour, Tavington looked over the rebel ranks, and smirked unpleasantly. The continental regulars were not bad soldiers, but their militia units were worse than useless. They were advancing unsteadily, and seemed ready to break and run if anyone so much as said "Boo!" to them.

Shifting the focus of his telescope to the left, he saw that Cornwallis had ordered Webster and his men to challenge the rebels. He lowered the instrument, and waited. With minutes, the militiamen were in flight. Webster obviously did not consider them worth pursuing, and had transferred his attention to the Maryland and Delaware regulars. It was still early in the morning, and the sun was not yet beating down relentlessly. A pair of butterflies fluttered together in the tall grass in front of him. He watched them in silent pleasure, enjoying an ephemeral moment of peace and beauty. The butterflies hovered near a flower, and then flew their separate ways. Tavington heard hoofbeats approaching, and he gave the smallest of sighs.

A messenger from Cornwallis rode up to him with an order. His captains were watching him with excited curiosity. Tavington read the message, gave a nod to the galloper, and sent him back to his commander.

Tavington turned in the saddle to Bordon. "Well, Captain, ready the men for a little excursion."

"We are to charge, sir?"

"No, not yet." He could not help smiling. Little as he liked Cornwallis, he had to admit that the man had a sound grasp of battlefield tactics. "Now that the rebels are engaged and distracted, we are to maneuver behind them, and charge from their rear at the Lord General's command."

The dragoons were marshaled, and set out quietly at the trot. Thick gunsmoke, with its smell of rotten eggs, rose from the incessant musket fire in the battlefield; distant screams from men and horses floated on the warm, fetid breeze. Within a quarter of an hour, they were in position, and watching the battle from the other side. No one had noticed them, no one had fired upon them. The rebel regulars had withstood repeated bayonet charges, and had taken heavy casualties.

Thomas could see it all from their position near the trees. He knew they would soon be charging, and his throat was parched with anxiety. He tried to swallow, but was too dry even to manage that. He took a quick sip from his canteen. Lieutenant Monroe had taught him all about charges. The most common injuries, Martin, are broken knees, from crashing into fellow dragoons. You've got to keep your wits about you. Thomas practiced twisting his wrist out and up, remembering how Monroe had told him to hold his sword. Don't hold the sword blade down, young Martin—you'll cut your horse's head off. Twist it blade edge up: you'll protect your horse if you're shot—and more importantly, the hold will give you better leverage and more force when you cut down at the enemy. Thomas felt a twinge in his wrist, and looked quickly about him, to see if anyone had noticed his fidgeting.

Sam Willett caught his eye, and gave an uncertain grin. Some of the men were cracking jokes; some were tense, and their tension was reflected in their horses, which pawed the ground and twitched nervously. The Colonel sat on his splendid mount with Olympian calm. Thomas felt some comfort in looking at him. At least someone knows what he's doing.

Tavington was watching the conflict before him intently. Early on, he had spotted the huge German volunteer calling himself "Baron" DeKalb, who commanded the Delaware Regiment. The German was a brave fellow, and had rallied the Colonials repeatedly. Tavington gaze swept along the rebel ranks. They had lost a lot of men, but were still full of fight. He looked back toward DeKalb's position. DeKalb was not there! He must have fallen, for there was a little group of soldiers crowding around the place where he had stood. He took another look through the telescope. Yes! DeKalb was on the ground and motionless. This is the perfect moment to attack!

Tavington looked anxiously toward the command group. There was no sign of a courier: probably the Lord General had not seen DeKalb go down. It would be pointless to inform him, for by the time the couriers finished their errands, one of the Colonials would have had the presence of mind to assume command. It must be now!

With his best pretense of calm, he said to his captains, "Prepare to charge, gentlemen." The men were quickly deployed, and set out first at a trot, then at a canter, and with Tavington's shout of "Charge!" to a full-out, thundering gallop.

Thomas, surrounded by his friends and comrades, and nearly deaf with the sound of pounding hooves, shouting men, and gunfire, had never felt such passionate intensity. This was life; this was glory. He saw some of the men, waving their sabres wildly. He saw the Colonel, out in front, effortlessly holding his blade in the exact manner recommended by Lieutenant Monroe. He looked proud and elegant, even in this moment of danger and chaos and risk. Thomas glanced at his arm, and tried to make his grip more like the Colonel's. They galloped on, the wind rushing past their faces, pulling at the plumes of their helmets.

The Colonials had seen them now. Faces were turned toward them, mouths open in 'O's' of shock. Thomas could not hear their exclamations, so great was the din around him. Most of the dragoons were shouting oaths, or inarticulate battlecries. Trooper O'Neill, one of his own men, was yelling "Hail Mary, full of grace! Hail Mary, full of grace!" over and over again, like a threat or a curse.

The Colonials were running away now. Here and there, a brave rebel made a stand. They were slashed down: but they took dragoons with them. Flying by, Thomas saw a fight two horses to the left, and a man mutilated in a way he would not have thought possible. He glanced again, but was already too far away. A rebel with a musket was looking around, as if unsure what to do. Thomas cut down at him, hesitantly; he missed, and galloped on.

Some of the Colonials were throwing down their arms, and a few of the dragoons were assigned to rounding them up. This was a dangerous duty, for occasionally it was only a trick. The bulk of the dragoons were past the regulars now, and were coming up on the fleeing militia. Many more of these had already thrown aside their weapons, but were still running, panicked as rabbits.

They were riding into a sparse wood now, and the fleeing men were trying to hide behind the trees. The horses slowed as they twisted through the maze of pine and cedar. Thomas arm was aching, and he began to think about camp and Dinah and a hot meal, when a rebel leaped out at him from behind a tree; and swinging his musket, knocked him out of Piper's saddle.

Thomas hit the ground hard, landing partly on his back. He was a little dazed. The man who had jumped out at him was rushing at him, shouting. He seemed to be moving very slowly, but he kept coming; and Thomas thought, this man will kill me, if he lives to do it.

He fumbled for his sword, and realised that he had dropped it. He was up, scrambling on hands and knees, and saw the precious sabre a yard away. He flung himself on it as the rebel flung himself on Thomas. Thrashing together, Thomas could smell the fellow's unwashed clothes, and felt his breath hot against his face. He flinched away at the feel of the man's rough young beard scraping his cheek. He was thinking less about Monroe's careful instruction than about his many boyhood scuffles with Gabriel. He brought his knee up; and the man cursed, letting go of Thomas and falling back. Thomas snatched desperately at the sabre and without thinking, stabbed it into his enemy's chest.

Time stopped. The rebel stared at him and down at the sword blade penetrating him, eyes full of horror, disbelief, and an odd kind of disappointment. Thomas stared back. The rebel was young: only a few years older than himself. He looked like a regular person—someone he might have seen at the store in Wakefield, or fishing on the Santee. Now blood was dripping from the man's mouth, and a horrible gurgle bubbled up from inside him. Thomas stood there, holding his sabre hilt, not knowing what to do. He had a wild impulse to help the man—take him to the surgeons, see he was bandaged—and he was bewildered.

A calm voice came from behind him. "Pull out your sword, and he will die."

Thomas gripped the hilt more tightly, but could not move.

"Pull out the sword," and Thomas realised that it was the voice of his Colonel, giving an order. Thomas took a deep breath, stifled the urge to apologise to the man, and pulled hard. Steel scraped against bone with a rasp that set Thomas' teeth on edge. Blood gushed from the torn body. The man groaned, and collapsed, and then sighed his last breath out.

Tavington, on horseback, looked down at Thomas with cool approval. "Well done, Mr Martin."

Thomas looked up at him, back at the dead man, and was suddenly and humiliatingly sick: puking out his tea, his breakfast, and Dinah's cure-all, which was infinitely more vile the second time.

----

Within a few days, they were back in Camden, victorious. They had continued their chase after the action at Camden, and had eventually run down Sumter's band, capturing wagons of supplies and rescuing over a hundred of their own men. Sumter had eluded them, but he was a spent force, at least for the time being.

All in all, Thomas felt he had just lived through the most important events of his life. He had killed a man. He had proven to himself and others that he could fight, and win, and endure days in the saddle and all the hardships of war. He had been thinking about Dinah during the entire ride back, and wondered if it would be possible to contrive anything resembling a bath. Perhaps Dinah would bathe him. He smiled, thinking of the line 'None but the brave deserves the fair.' He intended to savour his reward to the utmost.

"Mr Martin!" Thomas turned at his name. Roarke, the Colonel's orderly, was before him. "The Colonel wishes to see you, sir."

With some trepidation, Thomas entered the command tent, and bowed to his Colonel. Tavington was not quite his usual impeccable self. Blood marred his white cravat, and there was a streak of it below his right ear. Still, he looked most awe-inspiring, and Thomas concentrated on keeping his face impassive and his back straight.

"Come in, Mr Martin," said the Colonel. He was not in the best of moods. Thomas wondered that he was not in a state of elation over the victory, and his own very great part in it. The Colonel, in fact, looked more like someone who had lost the battle, than like a man who had been key in winning it. Tavington was going through some reports on his desk: probably the casualty figures. Thomas tried not to peer impudently at his Colonel's papers, which he sensed would not be well received.

Colonel Tavington sat back in his chair, and looked Thomas over thoughtfully. Thomas hoped he would not be rebuked for his unfortunate lapse a few days ago. What a wretched stroke of bad luck, that the Colonel himself should see me at such a weak moment.

The Colonel's lips quirked slightly. "Your first real battle, Mr Martin. You did well."

Hugely relieved, Thomas could not help apologising for his conduct. "I'm sorry, sir, about—well, you know—it won't happen again."

Tavington looked momentarily blank. Then his face cleared, and he seemed to be having trouble keeping his face straight. "That! It's happened to us all, sir--it's nothing to be ashamed of. Time and too many such sights will soon have you as hardened as the rest of us." He frowned, glancing over his reports. "You acquitted yourself well in your first major action. As to your other duties, I hear nothing but good of you from Captain Bordon and Lieutenant Monroe."

Thomas felt himself blushing like a girl, and embarrassed at such another lapse, blushed even more. "Thank you, sir!"

"That is not why you are here, Mr Martin," said Tavington. "I am concerned about other aspects of your conduct."

Thomas, in a panic, searched his memory for any other fault. If the Colonel was not annoyed with him for puking at the sight of a dead man, what could it be?

"Mr Martin," began Tavington, with a slight edge in his elegant voice. "You are an officer and a gentleman in His Majesty's service, and as your commander, I stand in place of a father to you."

An uneasy, wormish feeling crept over Thomas. Colonel Tavington was beginning to sound eerily like Father when Thomas had gotten into trouble back home. Mr Martin, you have neglected to exercise the horses. Mr Martin, did you hoe the beans, as I told you? Mr Martin, why are these toy soldiers still all over the floor? Completely at a loss, Thomas waited to hear how he had disappointed his admired commander.

"Mrs Poole is a good-natured, pretty creature, is she not?" The Colonel raised an eyebrow. "I take it that your time in the Legion has seen you introduced to more than battle."

Thunderstruck, and unspeakably embarrassed to find himself in such a conversation with his Colonel, Thomas began to sweat. This really was as bad as Father.

The Colonel eyed him with cool interest, ignoring his cornet's embarrassment. "Well, sir?"

"Rmphhugggggh," replied Thomas, feeling as if his mouth were stuffed with cotton. Tavington's eyebrows rose even high.

Thomas cleared his throat. "I mean, Colonel, Mrs Poole has been very kind to me. She washes and mends my clothes, and helps me---" Thomas blushed at Tavington's expression. A flash of memory –of finally performing as a man with Dinah at satisfactory length—filled him with secret pride. Defiantly, he added, "And she refuses to take a penny for anything! Sir!"

His Colonel, rather than seeming pleased at this bit of news, frowned again. "Mr Martin, a soldier has a right to a soldier's pleasures and pastimes, but they must not be allowed to compromise his honour or his future career. Mrs Poole is indeed pretty, and indeed good-natured, and she is as free with her favours as one would wish a camp woman to be, but a camp woman is precisely what she is."

Thomas looked a protest, but Tavington continued ruthlessly. "She is not the stuff of which romance is made. A young woman in her situation often looks to better herself by presenting herself as a damsel in distress, and thus ensnaring a young gentlemen; but think, Mr Martin!" said his Colonel, lashing him with every word. "Do you imagine your father would welcome a camp follower as a daughter—and would you wish her as a companion for your innocent sisters?"

The Colonel rose, looking down at Thomas, who tried not to wriggle as a drop of sweat trickled down his spine. "The news that she does not take money from you I find alarming, as I did that tender scene in camp the morning before the battle. She is trying to create in you a sense of obligation. You do not want to be made use of, in such a way that would make not just you, but your entire family, a laughingstock. You do not want to injure your military career; for you must be aware that any marriage you might make would be subject to my approval as your commander."

Thomas forced himself to keep his head up, and look at the Colonel. Tavington seemed pleased, and added more mildly. "Now listen to me. I am not going to order you to discard Dinah Poole, but I strongly advise you to begin paying her as you ought. As you cannot offer her marriage, the kindest thing is to see that she has the money she has earned. And do consider what you are about, and how your father would feel about you bringing home from the war a by-blow, or a case of the pox, or both. A little discretion, Mr Martin."

-----

Thomas nearly ran from the Colonel's tent, aflame with embarrassment. Captain Wilkins, on his way to report, stopped him.

"Is the Colonel still in his tent?"

Thomas pulled himself together sufficiently to answer the captain politely. Wilkins, seeing that something was wrong, smiled kindly. "Anything wrong, Thomas?"

"No, sir," Thomas replied. "It's just—" Seeing a face he had known for years, he felt the need to talk. "The Colonel saw me with Dinah Poole, and told me to be more discreet." He stared at the ground, knowing his face must still be red.

Wilkins grinned at him. "The Colonel's just trying to look out for you, son. He's a little standoffish where camp women are concerned. Doesn't want to lower himself in the eyes of the men, I reckon. And now, of course—" He stopped, and smiled again at Thomas. "He's right, you know. It's all right for some of the others, but you're from around here, and you don't want talk to get back to your family."

Thomas was wondering about something else. "Captain, why isn't the Colonel happy about the battle? He seemed a little—out of sorts, maybe?"

Wilkins looked down at him. He had heard that the Colonel had received a royal dressing-down from the Lord General for charging without orders, but he thought it wrong to gossip about such a thing with the Martin boy. There were all sorts of ways to be discreet, after all.

"Never you mind. He's probably just tired, is all." He grinned again. "I'll tell you a secret. The dragoon captains are going to a surprise party for him tonight. After I report, I'll head out to town, and when the Colonel goes to visit some friends for dinner, we'll all be there. That should perk him up some." He strode away, toward the command tent, leaving Thomas to plan his own victory celebration.

Thomas found that a bath could indeed be contrived, and that Dinah was the most obliging of bath attendants. And he found further, that she was not entirely displeased to have an extra shilling or two.

----

Author's notes: Thanks to my reviewers: ladymarytavington, angelfish23, katres, Zubeneschamali, Carolina Girl, and Wolf Prince. Thus encouraged, I shall write a little more in this universe.

One of the best and most authentic-looking cavalry charges I know of on film is in a nice Australian adventure from the 80's, called The Lighthorsemen. It depicts the last big-scale cavalry charge, when the Australians charged the Turks at Beersheba during the First World War. I recommend it to fellow inquirers into military history. On another note, the recent passing of Ronald Reagan reminded me that whatever one thinks of his work on film, he at least, unlike many other actors, always held his sword correctly when portraying a cavalryman. If you look at the Battle of Camden scene in The Patriot, you will see Jason Isaacs assuming the position most admirably, sabre blade out and up.

Yes, I am using some material from my other story Et In Arcadia Ego. The characters from it, however, will be mostly offstage, and since this is an alternate universe, different things will happen. The next chapter will deal with King's Mountain, and will be very AU indeed.