Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to The Patriot. So help me Hannah.
This chapter moves deeper into my alternate history of the RevolutionChapter 4: Destiny Takes a Detour
William Tavington had left Charlestown in great good humour: the British campaign in South Carolina had been an unqualified success. Since Camden, the rebel militias had been utterly crushed, and the Continental regulars were nowhere to be seen. Now back at camp, he could look over the past few months with a feeling of accomplishment.
His uneasy relations with the Lord General, too, were mending. Their convoys were passing unmolested around the colony. Cornwallis had not taken to Tavington, when the commander had first replaced Sir Henry Clinton, feeling he was reckless and too eager for personal glory. However, he now was willing to give Tavington his due. South Carolina had been won for the King. Whatever pockets of rebellion still existed were subdued and quiet.
Tavington had had the distinct pleasure of driving the usurpers from his fiancée's home, Arcadia. The plantation was now partially functioning with hired labour under the care of an overseer. Elizabeth and her sisters, however, were remaining with her aunt for the foreseeable future, since Camden was more easily accessible in his current circumstances, and somewhat safer for a household of unprotected women and children in any case.
There had been a ball in Charlestown—a gesture of fellowship towards the South Carolina loyalists. Their support had been key in consolidating control here. The ball itself had been tiresome, since his fiancée had been unable to attend, but quite a successful and glittering affair, in the main. Cornwallis, prior to the festivities, had summoned him for some words of special praise. The recognition was intensely gratifying.
Smiling to himself, he remembered another source of pleasure in Charlestown. He had seen Patrick Ferguson there; "The Bulldog" to the Army, Pattie to his friends. Now Inspector of Militia, the Scotsman was having great success in recruiting, partly due to his own skill and personal charisma, and partly due to the military successes of August. Men who might have cautiously stayed at home, waiting on events, were now flocking to the King's banner.
A voice disturbed his reverie.
"Excuse me, Colonel. You wanted the hospital list?"" It was Ned Smith, their chief surgeon. Though things were going well as far the campaign was concerned, the same could not be said for the men's health. Fever had come to visit the camp, and decided to stay. A large number of their men were incapacitated. If they had not already pacified the colony, they would have been in sad straits.
"Thank you, Smith. Are we winning or losing?"
"Hard to tell, sir. As you see, we have not had many deaths, but the fever must run its course before a man can be fit for duty again. It hits some harder than others. The Lord General, as I'm sure you know, is bedridden with it."
Tavington knew all too well. Cornwallis had looked terrible, the last time Tavington had reported to him: face greenish-yellow and slick with sweat. Tavington himself had had a light case of it: two nights of alternating chills and fever. I loathe being sick. Most especially, I loathe being sick in camp.
He went over the lists with Smith, and then sent the surgeon on his way. He got up, stretching, and stepped out of his quarters to have a look around. Not all the men had fallen victim to the fever. There was the Martin boy, pale as ever, but perfectly strong and energetic. He and another young buck, Sam Willett, were trying to get up a dog race. The sensible canines were having no part of it, though; plainly not considering the maggot-infested rations the Army provided them sufficient incentive.
"Here, boy! Come on!" Martin was waving a particularly unsavory piece of mystery meat at the end of the course. "Ajax! Over here!" The dog wagged his tail, and sat down to scratch an ear. Sam Willett laughed, trying to lure his own dog toward him, with no better success. The boys looked up and saw him.
"Good day to you, Colonel!" they called out, almost in unison. Tavington acknowledged their bows, glad that there were soldiers fit enough for such ridiculous antics. I'm so glad they will never know about the time when I was sixteen, and wagered I could outrun a horse. Had I not been so drunk, I would have at least run in the right direction.
Martin was interesting to him for other reasons. In the course of a conversation, it had been revealed that Martin's father did not own slaves. This was certainly unusual for a planter of his property, but Captain Martin had made a success of it. Tavington himself had no desire to be a slaveowner, despite the customs of the country. If Mr. Martin's father could manage without dealing in human flesh, Tavington felt he could as well.
South Carolina planter society was a small world. Young Martin had met Elizabeth's father a number of times, and knew of Elizabeth by reputation. Tavington deplored the heat and humidity of South Carolina summers, but it was truly a beautiful country: everything grew here. With Elizabeth and her family, her ties to her cousin Wilkins, and now with his own acquaintance with the Martins and the connections he had made in Charlestown at the ball, Tavington felt he was beginning to establish a web of personal relationships that would give him a place in this world. Perhaps this was the home he had always searched for.
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A week later in late September, Thomas was thoroughly enjoying his free afternoon with Dinah. The two of them had remained untouched by the fever ravaging the rest of the army, and their feeling of invulnerability gave a new energy to their games. Thomas had been mortified, but also a bit smug, when the violence of their sport had demolished his cot. He had gone to the quartermaster for a replacement, and Pryor had peered at him from under his spectacles and muttered, "Impetuous!" The new cot, however, was delivered as promised, and was an improvement over the old.
The canvas walls of the tent gave an illusion of privacy that was just that---and Thomas was reminded how flimsy were the boundaries of their private Eden, as Captains Bordon and Wilkins walked by outside, talking.
"He's gone to the Lord General again—perhaps this time he'll have his way."
Bordon paused, and Thomas could hear the conversation clearly. "If the Lord General will reinforce us with some infantry at least, it would make of up for the all the Dragoons still on the sick list."
"Oh, we'll have to have some infantry— and maybe the Colonel will wheedle a field-piece or two from his lordship. There's no telling what kind of hornets' nest Ferguson has stirred up."
Dinah wriggled impatiently next to him, her hands wandering, but Thomas motioned her to be quiet. This was too good a chance to miss.. He was tired of always being the last to know anything.
Bordon spoke up next. "The Bulldog says in his message that three or four hundred, including Dragoons, would finish the business." Thomas heard them start walking again, and their voices faded. Dinah, pleased that he was no longer distracted, proceeded to take shameless advantage of him.
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In the end, Tavington indeed had his way. With things so quiet in their area, the Lord General's fears were calmed, and a relief force set out on October first to rendezvous with Ferguson. The Lord General had been generous, and Tavington commanded not just the British Legion, with dragoons and infantry, but a large detachment of light infantry from the 33rd and two three-pounders. Rumours flew their way of a great host of over-mountain men, under Campbell and Cleveland, who were gathering at the border between North and South Carolina. Ferguson, from his last message, was headed southeast toward them, and Tavington was moving north and west to intercept.
The scouts caught a pair of local militiamen on the night of the 6th. The men, Rollins and Billings, were close-mouthed at first about the rebels' movements, but within an hour of being offered a jug of home brew by Sergeant Davies, they were bragging about the size of the force mustered against Ferguson. They were particularly indignant about some of the Bulldog's remarks, and predicted that they would indeed be pissing on him ere long.
Tavington watched Davies play the men for fools, while he himself stood in the shadows, beyond the firelight. While the men's ignorant talk enraged him, he knew it was best to let Davies handle this his own way. The sergeant's jovial manner, his broad hints of dissatisfaction with His Majesty's Army, and his liberality with the jug had caused the men to reveal more than the worst torture could have wrung from them.Clearly Ferguson was in dire straits. Tavington had again sent out scouts, to assess the approaches. At dawn, Tavington would lead his force to the rescue at King's Mountain
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It was early afternoon, and Patrick Ferguson had gathered his forces at the top of the summit. This was sound in theory, but Ferguson could see the practice left much to be desired, for the damned rebels were making their way closer, moving from tree to tree. Sporadic shots were fired. His men had driven off one attack with a bayonet charge, but now the rebels, fearing the bayonet and growing cautious, were not showing themselves at all. Grey smoke puffed out from the woods around them, and his men were falling to snipers' bullets. He had sent messengers asking for support from Colonel Cruger at Fort Ninety-Six, but it was likely that they had never gotten through.
One of his flanks was along an escarpment that the rebels could not hope to climb. The rest of the area was heavily wooded, giving the rebels cover. It was impossible to do more than guess at the odds, but it was likely that they were outnumbered two to one.The tents behind him were full of wounded already. Women were helping the worst injured back, away from the lines. His own poor Sally, red hair flaming in the sun, cast him a brave smile as she bent over a fallen man. He could not allow himself to think about what would happen to her and Polly if the rebels broke through.
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Tavington surveyed the ground before him. The rebels had split into four columns attacking King's Mountain. He was approaching from the south, and from the gunfire, it was evident that the rebels had driven Ferguson into a defensive position atop the mountain.
"Lieutenant Marley!" he called out, "Prepare your cannon to fire at the bulk of the rebels at the left of the slope!" He hoped to create shock and panic with the cannon, and confuse the enemy. His infantry would attack in line, and trap the enemy between Ferguson's men and his own.
He turned to the dragoon captains. "Kinlock and Ogilvie—flank around right and surround the rebels there. Attempt to push them back toward the center. Hovenden, I want you in reserve behind the infantry. Deal with any the rebels fleeing your way. I, with Bordon, and Wilkins, will sweep left and head up the lower slopes of the mountain, clearing out the rebels as we go."
He glanced up at the hilltop. Smoke was rising, and amid the crackle of rifle fire, he heard the thin high sound of a whistle. Pattie. Still alive, then.
The cannon were in position and loaded. "Fire!" shouted Tavington, and the cannons roared in reply. The balls whizzed through the air, traveling toward the enemy, and there a cloud of dust and debris, and faint screams shrilled out."Take the infantry forward!" The ranks of musket-armed men started inexorably toward the rebels. Tavington took a quick look through his telescope at the milling figures on the mountainside. It was hard to see them clearly, but some units were already pulling back, their commanders wisely not choosing to remain sandwiched between two British armies.
"Dragoons, at the trot!" They began the circuit to net the militiamen. The cannons fired again, over the heads of the advancing infantry.
Thomas, in Bordon's troop, readied himself for what would certainly be a crucial battle. They were picking up speed, rounding a curve at the base of the hill. He could see a lot of horses—probably most of the rebels had dismounted and ascended the heavily wooded slopes on foot. He heard the cannon once again, firing on the mountain, making it impossible for the rebels to hold their positions. Some would meet the advancing infantry, some would attack Ferguson and the American Volunteers at the summit, some would try to escape through the woods along the sides of the mountains. Those that came their way were in for an unpleasant surprise.
The first body of militia that came rushing out of the woods at them stopped, appalled, and headed back towards cover. The dragoons charged and cut them down. Other rebels were stopping amidst the trees. A crash of musketfire signaled a volley from the British. As their infantry pressed in and started squeezing the enemy, the line would also stretch out, allowing few of the rebels at the flanks to evade the attackers.
The dragoons were riding up a gentle slope now, weaving through the woods, but still able to run down the over-mountain men. A rebel popped up suddenly from the brush, aiming at someone else. Thomas cut down, slicing through the man's left shoulder. The rifle fell from the man's grasp, and Thomas rode on.
It seemed to take forever, but it probably lasted no more than an hour. Volleys were fired, and then ceased, as the work of the infantry changed to the shouting butchery of bayonet charges. Militiamen hid among the rocks, firing with formidable accuracy on the King's troops. They were flushed out with difficulty, but flushed out they were. Some of the rebels on the right broke out, and made a run for freedom. Hovenden's troop pursued them, and took many prisoners.
Higher up, the dragoons found paths through the woods, and more and more of the militia ready to lay down their arms. Tavington led hiscaptains up the rocks to the summit, and paused. The firing had stopped. He found himself facing a man on horseback, and then looked again at the absurd checked coat and the familiar face.
The unmistakable Scottish voice was familiar too. "And who were you expecting? George Washington?"
"My dear Pattie! I am so relieved to see you alive!"
"You're relieved!" Ferguson put out his good hand for a heart-felt handshake. He turned to some of his officers around him. "This is my old friend, William Tavington, the Butcher of the Carolinas! A very useful sort of friend to have! Let me introduce you to my officers, William…"
Thomas was detailed to supervise a group of the prisoners. Weapons were confiscated, and the men put under heavy guard. Lieutenant Monroe needed a cut to his thigh bandaged, and Thomas noticed some very pretty women among the American Volunteers' camp, who came to the lieutenant's assistance.
One in particular caught his eye, a sparkling girl with blazing red hair and huge blue eyes. She smiled at Monroe as she cleaned the wound and wrapped it. Another girl, equally pretty if less showy, with shining chestnut hair and charming dimples, walked back with her to the tents.
Thomas stared after them. "Look all you like," advised Monroe, with a sardonic smile, "but touch at your peril. The Bulldog won't want anyone playing with his toys."
"The redhead?" asked Thomas. "She's really pretty." He cast another wistful glance.
"The redhead and her sister as well," smirked Monroe.
"Major Ferguson has two---" Thomas was impressed. "I guess rank does have its privileges."
Monroe snorted and clapped him on the back, as he stood up, wincing.
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Tavington stared into the huge mirror, and gave another anxious tug at his lace-trimmed cravat. The bloody thing was a mess, sticking out all over the place. He hated preparing for balls. Ferguson had talked him into having his hair powdered, and he felt a great fool. The Lord General was sponsoring the ball, to celebrate their victory and to raise morale. Elizabeth and her family would be meeting them here, for tonight their engagement would become known outside the circle of her family and his own officers.
"Dinna fash yourself, William!" Ferguson gave the offending cravat a touch, and achieved with one hand, what Tavington had failed to manage with two. "Your fair lady will be swooning at the sight of you in your glory!" With a sly smile he sang under his breath,
"Gi'e me a lass with a lump o' land—"
Tavington stopped him, exasperated. "I am not marrying Miss Wilde for her estate! When you meet her you will understand."
"Aye, I know you too weel to think such a thing. Of course, if a man finds a pretty girl, and the pretty girl has a wee bit of property as well as all a lady's accomplishments, it's no bad thing---"
"Stop."
Ferguson smiled mischievously, and stood by Tavington. The mirror reflected them back—the Englishman all elegant anxiety, the Scot all debonair ease.
"Now then," said Ferguson with an arch look. "We look ravishing. Let's find someone to ravish."
He laughed and headed towards the ballroom. Tavington followed him, still worried. "I pray that you will say nothing of the sort in front of Miss Wilde."
"English! No sense of humour!"
-----November 1, 1780
My dear Father,
You may have heard of our great triumph over the rebels near King's Mountain. Cleveland and Campbell thought they had trapped Major Ferguson and his American Volunteers, but the British Legion arrived in the nick of time, and turned the tables on them, I can tell you. The rebel militias have been decimated and scattered. Campbell and some of his men escaped, but Cleveland and his sons were captured. I am not sure what will happen to them. Rumour has it that the Lord General would like to hang them, but doesn't want to set such an example. They will probably be imprisoned in the hulks in Charlestown Harbour. It is a fate better than they deserve. Their cruelties were almost without example, but I will not burden you with a recitation of them.
We are settled in winter quarters very comfortably. The Lord General felt that a celebration of the victory would improve our spirits, and hosted a splendid ball for us, right here at camp! I heard some of the other officers complaining about the rough accommodations and the lack of some of the refinements they are accustomed to, but I had never been to a ball before, and I thought it was wonderful.
Colonel Tavington's fiancée and her sisters were there. Miss Wilde is the daughter of John Wilde, your old friend the painter. We evacuated them from their home back in July, but I was not introduced to them at the time. I had heard Miss Wilde was very well educated and a blue-stocking, but she was very kind to me and did not try to frighten me with her accomplishments. I know I should not criticize a lady, but I was disappointed that she was not more beautiful. The Colonel is so very fine a man! Miss Wilde must be nearly thirty years old. Her sister, Miss Amelia, though, is about my age, and very, very pretty. She is a little shy, and had never been to a ball either, so we danced together, and then we watched some of the other people and joked about them. Their little sister was there too, and is as talkative as Susan is silent. I thought she was a pest, but the other officers seemed to like her, even the Lord General.
Give my kindest regards to my sisters and brothers. I hope the boys are more help to you than I sometimes was. I long to see you all.
Your loving son,
Thomas
Ben Martin set down the letter and leaned back in his chair. The boys were playing with their toy soldiers in the kitchen. As they knocked them down gleefully, in a pantomime of slaughter, Martin felt his heart constrict with anxiety for his other two boys, now so far away. Thomas was becoming a man, squiring young ladies at balls, and clearly making a career for himself in the Dragoons. John Wilde's daughters? He had visited the family back in '73, before the war. He could just remember the eldest girl, a quiet, not plain young woman, very occupied with teaching her younger sisters. The younger girls were a blur: this Amelia must have been quite little at the time. Martin had spent most of his visit helping Wilde hunt for water birds to paint, accompanied by Wilde's two fine boys. He had heard that both the boys were dead, along with their parents. He supposed the eldest girl had inherited Arcadia—maybe that was the attraction for an ambitious man like Tavington.
He had heard from Gabriel a month ago. For obvious reasons, he could not give his exact location, but he was evidently with Harry in North Carolina under Greene's command. He was a lieutenant now, and understandably proud of his promotion. Gabriel, it seemed, was still corresponding with Anne Howard, so they were more or less officially betrothed. She was a tradesman's daughter and no great match for the heir of Fresh Water, but she was a pretty enough girl and Gabriel's choice. Martin only hoped that his son would live to marry and settle down. Sooner or later the opposing armies would meet. His greatest fear, and the source of his worst nightmares, was that his two beloved sons would confront one another on the field of battle. Thomas had expressed it well in his first letter: the war could not be over too soon.-----
Notes: Thank you to my loyal reviewers: Slytherin Dragoon, pigeonsfromhell, and Zubeneschamali. Thanks also to Carolina Girl for your e-mail. I really appreciate people who take the time to give me words of advice and/or encouragement.
Bluestocking is a derogatory term for a bookish woman.
Patrick Ferguson and his two mistresses were real. I have tried to be as close to historical accounts of them as possible. Ferguson wore a non-regulation checked coat in battle, and one of his arms had been crippled by an earlier wound. I have always hated him and poor Sally being killed at King's Mountain, so in my alternate history, they just aren't.
Colonel Cleveland, a famous leader of Patriot militia, did order terrible atrocities on captured loyalists. One of his favourites pastimes was giving prisoners a choice of death by hanging or cutting off their own ears. I am not making that up. There were cruel deeds committed by both sides.
Elizabeth Wilde, whom some of you might remember from Et in Arcadia Ego, was actually very lovely, in an understated way. I put this in because I am still reeling from the shock of going to Troy with my daughter and being told that Brad Pitt is "old." As for Ben Martin—he was unable to see beauty in any woman who was not blonde.
Yes, I'm really in alternate universe mode in this chapter. I am extrapolating from the film's premise: that Benjamin Martin won the Revolutionary War. Since Thomas joined the Green Dragoons, and distracted Tavington from killing the prisoners at Waxhaws, there was no general outcry against the British (no "Tavington's Quarter" at King's mountain). Gabriel was not captured, nor Thomas killed: thus Ben Martin had no incentive to leave his children and go to war. He has stayed home, acting as an honourable intermediary between the opposing parties, and taking good care of his other five children. Therefore, after the British victories at Camden and Fishing Creek, there was no dynamic militia leader to rally guerilla forces against the Crown. So, Gabriel stayed with the Continental regulars under Harry Burwell; there was no recruiting at the town of Pembroke; Cornwallis' dogs, memoirs, and wardrobe were not stolen; Charlotte's home was not burned; no ships were blown up in Charlestown Harbour in the course of the ball; and there was no reason not to commit forces to go to Ferguson's relief ten days earlier and with a larger force than they did in our plane of existence. The next chapter will take us to Cowpens.