Disclaimer: No, I do not own the rights to The Patriot

The alternative history of the Revolutionary War continues.....

Chapter 6: Destiny Among the Cowpens

All good things must end. Tavington received a courier from the Lord General, ordering him back to duty. They were going in pursuit of Greene and his army. Tavington, in his turn, sent word to the Martin boy, telling him to report to the Army by January 6th. There would be no twelve days of Christmas. They were lucky to have had Christmas itself.

Never had he returned to duty so reluctantly. Everything had changed. Tavington wondered how much of his recklessness in the past had been the result of simply having nothing to lose. Now he bade farewell to a wife and a family, a beautiful home and a prosperous plantation: a life full of promise.

Most bitter was the loss of the magical nights alone with his bride in their bedchamber, enjoying her remarkable progress in yet another delightful accomplishment. The winter nights were cold, and they nestled warmly together, sharing their plans for the future, whispering endearments, talking with perfect freedom to the other about the simple things of everyday life.

She had taken his premature departure hard, and when relaxing in his arms later that night, had surprised him with a suggestion.

"I could always come with you."

He had been on the verge of sleep, but this startled him into alertness.

"Absolutely not. You and your sisters must stay where you are safe. Besides, you have such plans for refurbishing the house—"

"The girls can stay with Aunt Sarah Jane Minerva again. They'd be perfectly safe there. Of course, Julia, at least, would be delighted to join us on the march."

He turned on his side, trying to read her face in the darkness.

"You are not serious. You cannot be serious. You have no idea what this campaign is going to be like. I'm not sure I do either."

"I want to be with you."

"You shall be," he murmured, "pressing her hand to his heart. "Here." She had tried to object, but he silenced her first with a long, deep kiss; and then, for the second time that night, with long, deep, and urgent love-making.

The next morning, Elizabeth kissed him goodbye on the steps of Arcadia, trying to smile, and above all, trying not to look reproachful. She whispered, "Won't you let me come with you?"

Tavington looked quickly away, trying to control his face. Yes, he longed to cry, I've changed my mind. Pack a bag, have Tomyris saddled, and ride away with me. She would do it, he knew. He had only to ask.

But he would not ask. He could not expose her to a hitherto unknown world of squalour and privation; a world of filth, blood and disease. She had come close enough to it on the road when she had refugeed to Camden.

He looked down at her, pressed close and sweet against him, breathing her rose-water and her own alluring scent. "No, my love," he whispered back, their lips almost touching. "Where I'm going you can't follow. What I've got to do you can't be any part of. I need to be able think of you and this place, and to remember that I have all this to come home to."

He had returned to the army full of a grim determination to finish the business at hand as quickly as possible. Experiencing a new way of life had put him out of humour with his old. Gone was his earliest incentive as a soldier: the drive to make his fortune. Marriage, rather than battle, had given him all his wished. On reflection, of course, reasons good for continuing his career in the army presented themselves. The war was far from over. He might have acquired Elizabeth and a splendid estate, but he must still keep them safe.

-----

They moved quickly, in the wet and cold of a Carolina January. The Lord General pushed them hard, hoping to trap and crush Greene's regulars. They had left much of the baggage behind. They had left most of the women behind as well. Only Major Ferguson, among the officers, was accompanied by his two mistresses, Sally and Polly; for they had been through so much already in their travels with the Major that they were as fearless as any soldier. Dinah Poole had sobbed when ordered to stay behind, and had seen Thomas off with every expression of kindness a sweet-natured girl of loose morals could provide.

Thomas knew he would miss her. They likely would never meet again. By the time he was back in South Carolina, she would have found another protector, or maybe even a husband. It would be better for her, and, he acknowledged, probably better for him too. He was not ready to settle down, and he disliked dealing with women's tears.

This was the hardest time Thomas had yet experienced in the army. Food was short, and within a few days, everyone was living on cornpone and molasses. He had never minded it at home, but as a steady diet it lacked variety, and soon became tedious and unpleasant.

A greater worry was Gabriel. At Christmas, Father had told him that Gabriel was with Harry Burwell in Greene's army. They seemed destined to meet again, but under the worst of circumstances.

-----

The scouts told him they would make contact with the rebels within the next day. Tavington was concerned that the men were not in the best condition to engage the enemy. The cold and rain, the rapid advance and the half rations were a sure recipe for a sickly army. Major Cochrane, commanding the Legion infantry, was sallow and dispirited: his men were worse. Perhaps a few hours rest tonight would help.

Tavington struggled against his dismal mood. The leafless trees, dripping cold rain; the dank camp smells of latrines, wet wool, campfires, and unpalatable food: all of it seemed particularly unendurable, and he cast about for diversion.

A visit to Pattie Ferguson might lift his spirits. He made his way to the encampment of the American Volunteers. Pattie's tent was lit, and a girl's sweet voice within sang softly:

"Here I sit on Buttermilk Hill,

Who can blame me crying my fill,

And ev'ry tear would turn a mill.

Johnny has gone for a soldier.

Me, oh my, I loved him so,

Broke my heart to see him go,

Only time can ease my woe.

Johnny has gone for a soldier.

I'll sell my rod, I'll sell my reel,

Likewise I'll sell my spinning wheel,

To buy my love a sword of steel.

Johnny has gone for a soldier.

I'll dye my dress, I'll dye it red,

And through the streets I'll beg my bread,

The lad I love from me has fled.

Johnny has gone for a soldier."

Tavington paused before the tent flap, hearing a murmur of voices, and wondered what state of dress or undress would greet him. "Pattie, are you receiving?"

"Always home to you, laddie! Here, Sally, go bid Colonel Tavington welcome!"

Pretty red-headed Sally parted the flap, smiling, and tugging her bodice up.

"Sit, sit, man," said Pattie, gesturing at a camp stool. "And how about a wee drop on a cold night?"

"I am obliged to you."

Sally served him a glass of brandy, from Pattie's cherished and carefully-packed store. Polly cast him a friendly glance, but was too occupied with braiding Pattie's long hair into a neat queue for much conversation. Tavington accepted the brandy thankfully. Pattie's strange menage was certainly not his own idea of domestic bliss, but his friend seemed to thrive on it. Sally seated herself on the ground by her lover, her bright head resting against his thigh.

Pattie took a sip and remarked, "Finishing up your rounds, I see."

"Just now. The Lord General has pushed the men to their limits. Perhaps he has pushed them beyond them."

"Now that's just Anglo-Saxon gloom. We'll get up in the morning sun, give the men their wee tot o' rum, and they'll fight like heroes. And so will we."

Tavington laughed. "This brandy of yours has me feeling pretty heroic already."

"A man needs his drink and his lasses to fight well," declared Pattie, emphasizing his words with a soft squeeze of Sally's white shoulder. "And then, with a good horse, and a good sword, a gentlemen's education, and a bit of experience in His Majesty's Army—he can conquer the world—with a dollop of luck."

"We'll pray for the all luck we can get." Tavington then spoke gently to Sally. "Was that you I heard singing, Miss Featherstone? You have a sweet voice."

"Thank you kindly, Colonel."

"Aye, that's a thought. Lass, let's have anither, now."

Sally looked back at her sister, who had just finished wrapping the ribbon around Pattie's queue. "Sing with me, Polly."

Ferguson informed his friend, with genial expansiveness. "They sing together, too."

Polly dimpled, "We do everything together." Leaning over, she placed a soft kiss on Pattie's brow.

Sally began, and Polly took up a soft harmony:

"The cruel war is raging, Johnny has to fight,

I want to be with him from morning 'til night.

I want to be with him; it grieves my heart so,

Won't you let me come with you?"

"No, my love, no."

"Tomorrow is Sunday, Monday is the day

That your captain will call you, and you must obey.

Your captain will call you, it grieves my heart so

Won't you let me come with you?

"No, my love, no."

"I'll tie back my hair, men's clothing I'll put on

I'll pass for your comrade as we march along.

I'll pass for your comrade, no one will ever know.

Won't you let me come with you?

"No, my love, no."

"Oh Johnny, oh Johnny, I feel you are unkind.

I love you far better than all of mankind.

I love you far better than words can e'er express,

Won't you let me come with you?

"Yes, my love, yes."

Tavington thought longingly of Elizabeth, and downed the rest of his brandy. He wondered what it would have been like to have his love here in camp, sharing a tent and a snug army cot; holding her fast in the teeth of death and danger. He gave a small sigh, heard only by Polly; for Pattie and Sally were exchanging a decidedly intimate nuzzle.

Pattie must have caught Tavington's expression from the corner of his eye, for he laughed and broke the kiss. "A bonny song, and well sung, " Pattie said, reaching out to take Polly's hand in his. "But dinna sing the last verse. It seems ill-omened to me."

"Very nice indeed, ladies," agreed Tavington briskly, setting down the glass and getting to his feet. "And a pleasant way to end an evening."

Pattie gave him a wicked grin, his pretty mistresses garlanded about him.

Tavington rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes, I daresay your evening will climax even more pleasantly. Not all of us have such charming company on campaign, and a song is all the consolation we can hope for. Ladies," he gave them a nod. "Pattie. Sleep well. Good luck tomorrow."

"Aye, and to you, Tavington. Luck in battle, laddie."

------

The battlefield itself was a good one. Cornwallis had chosen his terrain well. The only annoyance was the interminable wait before action. He took a quick look around at the Dragoons. They were looking well, all things considered. He pulled out his telescope to view at battle beyond.

The rebel militia had collapsed again. Tavington, behind much of the army, and waiting for the command to charge, saw that a great deal of their work was already done for them. The Continentals, as usual, were holding well and were certainly no disgrace to the name of soldier, but the militiamen could not face a volley, and were already fleeing west. He sat perfectly still, hoping the Lord General would unleash him soon.

Thomas, on Piper, was close behind Captain Bordon. He wondered if Gabriel was out there, among the regulars. He longed to see him, but not here, and not now. A courier was galloping at top speed to the Colonel. Surely the Lord General is giving us the order to charge!

The Colonel took a written message from the young dragoon, and said something to Captain Wilkins that Thomas could not quite catch. The next words the Colonel spoke, however, were loud enough for the entire Legion to hear.

"Prepare to charge!"

Thomas checked his helmet strap and adjusted his grip on the reins, as the dragoons set out at a quick trot. Their own artillery had played havoc with the rebels, as the cannonballs knocked men down like nine-pins. He gave thanks that he was in the cavalry and not standing there, enduring grapeshot and bayonet rushes. Piper moved smoothly, now accustomed to the sound of battle, and carrying him fearlessly toward it.

"Charge!" shouted Tavington, and the dragoons spurred their horses forward. The rebels fired a volley in their direction, and troopers toppled from their horses.

Many horses would not charge a bayonet, but the rebel regulars had been softened up by the artillery barrage, and by the musket volleys of the Legion infantry, the 33rd Regiment, and Ferguson's well-trained American Volunteers. The rebel ranks were thinning, as the dead and wounded fell, and the dragoons found plenty of openings to ride through. They hacked at the infantry, as the men tried to parry the sabres with their muskets. Horses were stabbed, rebels cut down. Here and there a dragoon was pulled from his horse and dispatched with bayonets or musket butt.

Thomas was slashing with now professional skill. A twist of the wrist, and the blade flashed down into one of the standard cuts. He had learned to be objective, and not wince in sympathy as his sword laid open a man's face, smashing away some teeth. He stayed alert, watching for careless comrades who would strike out at a fellow dragoons in the heat of battle. The rebels' resistance was wilting, overwhelmed with the force arrayed against it; and the dragoons plowed through the ranks, scything men down like ripe wheat.

Still, some of the Continentals were holding firm, in little pockets of resistance. Captain Bordon had spied one such group, and headed toward them, with Thomas and some other dragoons close behind, sabres at the ready. Thomas could see that there was an officer among them, waving the rebel flag, trying to rally his men. Rebels always targeted British officers, and Thomas decided it was time to return the favour.

The officer saw him coming. He had something in his other hand. There was a sharp crack, and Thomas had hardly a moment to realise that a pistol had been fired, when suddenly Captain Bordon was falling sideways from his horse, nearly falling into Thomas. Thomas swerved to avoid a crash, and saw that his captain was badly wounded. Furious at the rebels, Thomas shouted at the dragoons, "Follow me!"

The rebel officer was only yards away and could never reload in time. Before Thomas realised what the man intended, he was riding into the rebel's flag, held like a lance. There was a tearing jolt. Piper shrilled a wild scream and fell to the ground, thrashing in agony.

Thomas was falling, but it seemed to last forever. Then he hit the ground himself with a stunning impact and saw only black for a second. He came to himself sluggishly, and staggered to his feet, knowing it was death to lie there helpless. Which way was the enemy? Piper was dead now, lying distorted and still, with a rebel flagstaff impaling him. Thomas felt a pang for his faithful friend.

There was the sound of a pistol cocking, and Thomas whirled instinctively. He was only twenty feet from the rebel officer who looked down the barrel at him with narrowed eyes. Thomas, in a flash of imagination, saw himself dead, saw his heart-broken father mourning over his limp body, saw himself laid out at home for burial. Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.

The rebel officer, his wheat-coloured hair loose from its queue, suddenly checked himself with a start. Thomas knew he had seen hair disarranged like that before, but where? Oh, no!

"You damned fool," he screamed at Gabriel, "you've killed Piper! What's the matter with you?"

One moment Thomas was looking Death in the face: the next moment, his brother was gripping a slashed shoulder. Colonel Tavington had come to Thomas' aid, and was turning his horse, to charge back on the enemy and finish him.

Thomas ran, limping, between Gabriel and his commander, trying to stop any further bloodshed.

"No, sir!" he cried, his voice cracking with anguish. "Please, sir, don't kill him! He's my brother!" Gabriel stumbled and fell, sprawling on the bloody grass.

Tavington, in mid slash, paused to look at the enemy. He had not known until this moment that Martin had a brother with the rebels. The blond boy on the ground was dazed, squinting up at him. He still had his pistol, and Tavington was not going to risk his own life needlessly.

Tavington said grimly, "Drop your weapon, sir." The wounded man, stubborn to the last, was trying to aim at him, the pistol wobbling in his unsteady hand. "Drop it or I'll kill you." His own young officer groaned and shook his head.

"Please, Gabriel! Just drop it. The war is over for you."

The pistol dropped from nerveless fingers, and Gabriel fell back on the grass. Thomas knelt beside him and took him in his arms. His brother's eyes fluttered closed, as he fainted from shock and loss of blood.

Tavington looked down from his tall horse. "Your brother."

"Yes, sir."

Tavington sighed, and looked about the battlefield, taking in the situation. "Mr. Martin, I still have an enemy to pursue. You are to take charge of that enemy officer and see that he does not escape." Without another word, Tavington kicked his mount into a gallop, and led the Dragoons away, off on the hunt for the fleeing rebels.

Well, at least he didn't seem angry with me, Thomas thought. And Gabriel is alive.

The field surgeons' wagon was lumbering across the battlefield, collecting the wounded. Thomas shouted, "Mr. Jackson! Over here!"

Rob Jackson called back, "One of the enemy?"

"Yes, but have a look at Captain Bordon, over there, too. I think he must be badly wounded."

Jackson slid from the wagon seat, and picked his way over to the unmoving dragoon captain. He knelt down, and felt for a pulse.

"No, sir," he said heavily. "Not badly wounded. He's dead."

-----

It was a famous victory. Greene's army had been rolled up—smashed—crushingly defeated. The fragmented remnants were scattered: Both Greene and Burwell had been captured.

Cornwallis, O'Hara, and the rest of the commanders were in the highest spirits. The great aim of the Southern campaign was close to realisation. With the rebel army in the southern colonies destroyed, there was nothing stopping an advance into Virginia, the heart of the rebellion. Cornwallis told his officers that Sir Henry Clinton in New York would be sending an expeditionary force under General Phillips into Virginia, to divert rebel resources and undermine their strongholds there. When the two British forces met, they would be unstoppable.

Tavington and Ferguson had held their own celebration a few days after the battle. The victory had been bittersweet for Tavington. He had lost a good friend and useful officer in Hugh Bordon. His death, compassed with dreadful irony by the brother of one of Bordon's own officers, was a blow: and all the port, the brandy, and finally the whisky that Pattie poured into him, could not dispel his conviction that this was a loss that he feel even more poignantly in time to come.

Pattie had lost some officers too: the most notable from Tavington's point of view being a cousin of his wife's. Elizabeth's cousin Frank Montgomery had been eviscerated by grapeshot, and died in agony a day after the battle. Naturally, Ferguson, though he had despised Montgomery as incompetent, had written a letter of condolence to the widow, telling her that her husband had "died immediately, and suffered no pain." Tavington knew Charlotte Montgomery well himself, since she had also refugeed to Camden, and stayed with Elizabeth and her sisters in the house of their mutual great-aunt, Miss Everleigh. He had therefore written his own letter to her, colluding in Pattie's merciful lie.

Pattie poured himself another whisky, already swaying slightly on his feet. "I'm sorry indeed for the widow and her six orphaned bairns, but I canna feel sorry for the loss of Montgomery---the great gowk! I'll put a better man in his place."

Tavington had vainly hoped that drinking spirits would raise his, and the two of them had gotten uncharacteristically drunk that night. The situation had finally gotten so far out of hand that Pattie had smilingly pushed the agreeable Polly his way, and Tavington had been on the point of enjoying his friend's generosity, when he had passed out, dead drunk, on the floor of the tent. The two men had been wretchedly sick the next day; and the two girls amused and abashed at their own wantonness. Tavington vowed abstention from spirits until the end of the war. Ferguson, though not willing to go that far, agreed that "perhaps there might be anither, safer way to purge melancholy." The two rumpled girls had exchanged discreet, knowing glances.

"I'm going to miss him, Pattie," Tavington finally confessed, his head in his hands, sitting miserably on the edge of the cot.

"Of course you will, laddie," Ferguson said, laying a hand on his shoulder. "Friends come and go throughout our lives. It's an ill thing to be mortal, and to love other mortals; but they are all we have. I am sorry for poor Bordon myself: he was a good man. Now he'll live only in our memories. So," he concluded, "let us remember him well."

------

The Colonel told Thomas that Gabriel might go home to Fresh Water, as soon as his brother had given his parole and was well enough to ride south. The army moved on to Charlotte, where it was well-supplied with foodstuffs, and billeted warmly. Thomas visited his brother every day in the hospital, and they talked of home, of Father, and of fishing in the creek; but there was a wall between them. Gabriel found defeat a bitter thing, and the sight of his younger brother, dressed in the enemy's scarlet, irritated his already strained nerves. Thomas, grieving over the death of his admired and kindly captain, and grieved as well (though he was almost ashamed to own it) by the loss of his horse, felt as much resentment as compassion toward his brother.

Conversation lagged, and finally stopped. At last, Thomas thought of diverting his brother by reading to him. He borrowed a copy of Robinson Crusoe, and hearing of the castaway's troubles seemed to ease Gabriel's own. Relenting a little, he produced a packet of letters and gave a few of them to Thomas, to read out loud to him. The penmanship was a little difficult to decipher, but Thomas tried to do justice to Anne Howard's letters of love and hope. At Gabriel's dictation, a letter was written to Father, telling him that he would soon be home, a paroled prisoner of war; and another letter was composed and posted to Anne Howard.

Charlotte, North Carolina

January 31, 1781

My dearest Anne,

Words cannot express the sum of my grief and disappointment. The war is indeed over for me. I was wounded and taken captive at the Battle of the Cowpens on the seventeenth of January. The Continentals fought bravely, but were at last overwhelmed by the ferocity and skill of the enemy, and by the slack pusillanimity of our own militia. They largely fled without firing a shot.

My wound is not dangerous, and I have had the best of care. My brother, Thomas, serves as an officer in Tavington's Green Dragoons, and successfully rescued me from the very sword of Tavington himself. Had he not done so, the Butcher of the Carolinas would have claimed another life. I was forced to give my parole, and if Providence be merciful, I shall be returning home within a fortnight.

The British and their Tory allies have pushed on, and I feel certain that they are poised to strike at the Patriots to the north. Their onslaught will be swift and merciless, and the future of us all hangs in the balance. Would that I could still do my part!

I long to see you, yet I fear you may find you have made a bad bargain in me. I detest the idea of living under a tyranny, and know not where I shall find the free land of which I have dreamed. If South Carolina is indeed fated to bear the British yoke, I must forswear it utterly. I cannot ask you to come with me, but if you can endure separation from all you have known, I shall endeavour to make you a happy woman as my wife.

Your most devoted,

Gabriel

Within another two weeks, Gabriel set off on his journey home, on a horse bought for him by Thomas. The brothers shook hands in a civil enough way, but it was clear that the essential bond between them had been sundered forever. Thomas wondered what Father would say to Gabriel; and quailed at the thought of what he might say to Thomas himself someday. He suspected it would be rather worse than the rebukes he had received in years past, when he had caught Gabriel and Thomas fighting. Or perhaps, he thought, he will be so glad that we both survived, he won't think to scold us.

He watched his brother out of sight, mourning for many things: for the death of Captain Bordon, for the rupture with his brother, for the loss of Piper. His horse had been replaced by an army-issue plug not worthy of Piper's tack. In fact, he had cut some strands from Piper's tail, and braided a thin cord to keep. Maybe it was foolish, but Piper had carried him long and well all the way from home, and Thomas did not mean to forget him.

A little later, Sam Willett came by to invite him for a game of chequers. Thomas accepted gratefully, and the two boys sat quietly over the board, wondering who would replace Captain Bordon and what the new officer would be like.

"Maybe it'll be Lieutenant Monroe," Thomas suggested.

"Don't think so." Sam shook his head. "I don't think he's held his lieutenancy long enough to be promoted. Likely it'll be someone we don't know."

Thomas sat still a minute, and burst out, "I hate Captain Bordon being dead! Do you think the men hold it against me?"

Sam looked up at him in surprise.

"Why?" He remembered. "Oh, because of your brother! I don't see how—it's not your fault, is it?"

"Maybe it is," Thomas mumbled. Gathering his courage, he confided in Sam. "A long time ago, before I joined the Green Dragoons, Gabriel was carrying dispatches, and I saved him from being captured by the British. Now I wish I'd let just him be captured. If I had, everything would have been all right. Gabriel would have been a prisoner, or already home on parole, and Captain Bordon would still be alive."

Sam stared at him, and then said thoughtfully. "You can't blame yourself. Nobody can guess the future. You did what you thought was best. Maybe it was just Captain Bordon's time. We'll never know."

"No," admitted Thomas, sick with remorse. "We never will."

-----

Notes: In my alternate universe, the next big battle after King's Mountain would probably not have taken place near Hannah's Cow Pens, but somewhere further north and east. However, it's my universe, and I like the parallelism of having the battle at a familiar place. Ben Martin, of course, is not there to lend his advice and skill at arms. Cornwallis, contrary to history, is; because my alternate universe here follows the film.

The last verse of The Cruel War, which Pattie did not want to hear, is this:

They marched into battle, she never left his side

"Til a bullet shell struck her and love was denied.

A bullet shell stuck her, tears came to Johnny's eyes.

As he knelt down beside her, she silently died.

Dulce et decorum, etc, is a quote from Horace. It is sweet and honourable to die for one's country.

Gowk--fool

Giving one's parole meant that the prisoner of war gave his word not to take up arms again. An officer who had given his parole was allowed to go home, and not be imprisoned. A great many officers who gave their parole actually kept it. It was, if not a simpler, certainly a more honourable time.

Thank you to my reviewers: pigeonsfromhell, Carolina Girl, Zubeneschamali, angelfish23, nomorebraces, and ladymarytavington. Your kind comments give me what it takes to go on!

And what is the effect of the British victory on the Continental Congress and on British public opinion? Wait for the next chapter!