Disclaimer: No own Patriot.
Our heroes suffer the whims of outrageous fortune. Part the Second
Chapter 10: Destiny's Playthings: Thomas
The City of Richmond did not welcome the British Legion with open arms.
They weren't welcome at all, Thomas acknowledged. Well, too bad, he thought grimly. They were coming through, a show of force to hearten the garrison under Major Urquhart, to keep the northern border of British Virginia quiet, and to deliver some correspondence. Thomas first understood the hostility of the locals when they rode through town, and were met by silent stares. Still, the townspeople seemed to be willing to accept their money. Outright confrontation was rare: on his way to a public house on Broad Street, Sergeant Davies had been spat upon by one furious Colonial dame. He doffed his helmet to the woman, and remarked to his companions, "Looks like we'll be having some rain."
While the senior officers busied themselves with their own affairs, Thomas, as the junior lieutenant of his troop, was left with considerable responsibility. Captain Monroe was giving him every chance to prove his worth. Thomas was frequently called on to arbitrate minor disputes between his troopers and the townspeople. He gave out punishments for lesser infractions, and inspected his men and their mounts daily. He liked having things to do: it was quite different from the boredom of a cornet's life.
Near St. John's Church, he saw a millinery shop with a pretty display of caps and ribbons. He would get a present to take home to Dinah, who was now comfortably established in his quarters in Williamsburg. He had firmly laid down basic rules for their cohabitation: no flirting with other men, and earnest avoidance of anything that might attract the Colonel's unfavourable notice. Happy enough to have a semblance of domestic life, she was only too willing to agree to any and all of his demands.
Decent quarters of his own, and Dinah to share them with: life in the army could not get much better than this, Thomas decided.
"Lieutenant Martin, sir!" He turned at the shout, and saw a dragoon from his own troop, Rory Fraser, striding toward him. He was an enormously tall and remarkably handsome immigrant from the Scottish Highlands. Even the hostile womenfolk in this rebel town eyed his powerful frame with discreet admiration. The man saluted, and relayed his message. "Captain Monroe's looking for ye."
"Did he say why?"
"He didna say, sir. Could be that the Colonel's taking us out on patrol."
"Thank you, Fraser. I'm on my way." Thomas threw a longing look at the milliner's window. There were some cherry-red ribbons that he knew Dinah would adore. He shrugged with resignation. It will all be here when I get back.
-----
Captain Monroe knew the area fairly well. His family home was further on, beyond the Rappahanock, but his family had had friends near Richmond, and he knew a number of their names and properties. Many of those whose sympathies were with the rebels had already fled, leaving their estates to be confiscated at the King's pleasure. Thomas owed his good new horse to one such forfeiture. The intelligence they received was generally reliable, if somewhat limited, through the liberated slaves flocking to the British.
The captain had confided his concerns about this tactic to Thomas. "We've liberated so many slaves from the rebels that the rest of them will be expecting to be freed as well. It's going to make it damned hard on Loyal planters to hold on to their labour, if the slaves can run away with a story about belonging to some rebel in the neighborhood. They're useful now, but the whole policy has set a bad precedent for the future."
Thomas nodded acknowledgement, if not agreement. Without slaves at Fresh Water, he had no real stake in the slave question himself. He knew that many of their neighbors had thought Father odd for hiring workers. Father had had words with some others, who felt that he was making trouble in their community. Thomas had been sheltered from the worst of the acrimony, but he realised now that Father's stubborn independence, and his insistence that his own sons perform physical work and learn self-reliance, were his answer to the local critics.
And Thomas had since read, too, some of the English writers on the slave question. Dr. Johnson himself, in Taxation No Tyranny, had pointed out that "the howls for liberty are loudest from drivers of slaves." Further, one of the biggest grievances of the rebels was the Crown's refusal to allow them to cross the mountains and appropriate land that the King had sworn would belong to the Indians in perpetuity. It seemed that the rebels had great regard for their own rights, and none at all for the rights of the land's first inhabitants.
He cantered down the dusty road along with his troop, full of such thoughts. He wondered if Father had reached New York by now, where the peace conference was being held, and what he would think of it. He had not had a letter from him since May.
The Green Dragoons were patrolling the northern borders of British territory today. They had headed north from Richmond and would move along the banks of the Anna River. Across the river were the rebels, but their numbers and dispositions were unclear.
Captain Monroe was at the front of the column, conferring with Colonel Tavington. When the order to halt came down, they were allowed a brief break, to water their horses and themselves. Thomas was summoned to report to the Colonel, and found him, still in earnest conversation with his captain and studying a map.
"Lieutenant Martin," ordered Tavington, "Take four men. I want you to scout northeast, here." He pointed out a crossroads near the river with a gloved finger. "Hanover."
"There's a good tavern there," remarked Captain Monroe. "A big place. I've stopped there many a time on my way to Richmond."
Tavington shrugged, with a slight smile. "I have no objection to you stopping and speaking to the locals. I'm sending out a number of small patrols to feel the area out for rebel activity." He gave Thomas a moment to fix the map in his mind, and dismissed him.
Thomas felt quite excited at this prospect of independent command, however small. "Sergeant van Wagner, Fraser, Loveland, and Baird! Follow me!"
The dusty road snaking toward Hanover was empty of any travelers save themselves. Thomas ordered the men to keep their eyes open. The British Army might hold Richmond and the towns to the south, but British Virginia was simply too large to patrol thoroughly, when so much of the force must remain close to the Chesapeake. Anything—really anything could be going on in this backcountry.
They rode on for nearly an hour. Van Wagner asked to halt for awhile, concerned that his horse might have picked up a stone. An examination of the hoof showed that his mount had thrown a shoe.
"We must nearly be to the town now," Thomas said. "We'll go on, find the local farrier, and stop at the tavern ourselves while he sees to your horse." He swung back on his own mount, and they set out again at an easy pace.
Within a quarter of an hour, they had turned the last bend and saw a church steeple; and west of it, a large whitewashed building that could only be the inn, and the second building, nearly as large, that was the inn's stable.
It must be market day, thought Thomas, as they approached. There were a number of horse and wagons drawn up before the inn. His senses tingled, and he began looking the place over more carefully. If it's really market day, there should be women and children all over the place.
A small boy ran out the stable, calling out to Thomas. "Look after your horse, sir?" He was a nice little fellow, about ten years old, Thomas guessed, and he reminded Thomas a little of Sam.
Thomas leaned out of his saddle, and asked the boy, "Is the local farrier close by? One of our horses needs shoeing."
The boy paused a moment, and then grinned, "He's up at the stable yonder, sir! Right this way! We'll take real good care of your horses, and you all can get a bite at the inn. Mighty fine cooking there!"
Thomas was reassured by the friendly chatter. The boy ran on ahead, into the barn, shouting, "Dan! Matthew! There's some redcoats out here need Mr. Pike!"
A big man in a leather apron emerged from the stable, hammer in hand. He gave Thomas and his men a level, inscrutable stare. Two other men edged up behind him, eyeing them curiously. He said, in a rumbling bass, "I'm Solomon Pike. We don't see too many of your kind around here."
"This is still Crown territory," Thomas said mildly.
"So they say." The man's gaze shifted to the horses. "Which one has the problem?"
"This one, Mr Pike," said Sergeant Van Wagner, leading his sore-footed mount over. "Threw a shoe a few miles back."
Pike's animosity did not extend to their horses. He bent and unerringly lifted the correct hoof, examining it gently. "I have just the shoe for him. Won't take more than half an hour. That'll be ten shillings." He straightened to his full height and put out his hand. Thomas looked at it a little surprised. The farrier said grimly, "I know about soldiers. Pay me first."
Annoyed, Thomas dug out the coins and handed them to the man (That's ten shillings to set down in the troop ledger, he noted), who nodded.
"All right then. Dan, you take him in the stable, and I'll get right to work. Maybe you all," he said, with his back to the soldiers, "want to lift a pint at the inn while I take care of this."
The other stablehand, Matthew, gave them an ingratiating smile. "I can take the other horses in there too, get 'em out of the sun, and give 'em a good feed."
Thomas' neck tingled again. "No. We'll leave them hitched in front of the inn. You can feed and water them there."
The man was disappointed, but shrugged. The little boy ran off in the direct of the inn. "Pa! Pa! We got us some redcoats!"
They dismounted and, as a precaution against thieves as much as rebels, carried their weapons with them into the inn. Entering the common room from the fierce sun outside, the inn was almost impenetrably dark at first. The coolness was refreshingly welcome and the innkeeper gave them a professional smile, showing them to a long oak table. Thomas knew that many British-bred officers would not dream of sitting down with their men, but he thought that would be a ridiculous affectation in a junior officer. Besides, he decided as his eyes, growing adjusted to the shade, swept the room, it would be unwise to lose sight of one another.
The inn's large room seemed normal enough. Surprisingly empty though, considering the number of horses and wagons he had seen outside. The innkeeper set their drinks before him, and before he could launch his description of the bill of fare, Thomas interrupted him.
"Where is everybody?"
The man was flustered, and with a false smile, assured Thomas, "Some of our gentlefolk like a private parlour for their meals. The ladies don't like mixing with strange men in the common room." It was perfectly plausible, and Thomas would have accepted such a reason if the man's eyes had not flicked away from his own in such guilty confusion.
Now somewhat alarmed, Thomas glanced through the window, and was reassured by the sight of their four horses, placidly drinking from the horse trough outside. Still, something's not right here. Sergeant van Wagner caught his eye, and Thomas saw the unease in the rest of his men. "I don't think we'll be eating here," Thomas told the innkeeper quietly. "We'll pay you for the drinks, and be on our way." He lifted the tankard for a long, cool swallow. Over the rim, he saw two new men enter, peering about, as temporarily blinded as Thomas had been. And then a number of things happened at once.
"Colonel Henry in the back room, Ned?" The shorter of the strangers asked the innkeeper.
That man, frozen with panic, gasped out an involuntary, "You fool!"
Colonel Henry? Thomas wondered, and then immediately realised, Not one of us! He dropped the pewter tankard to the floor with a bright clang, and snatched his pistols up from the table. "To arms!" he hissed to his men. "Get to the horses!" Baird and Loveland stood so quickly that the bench they were sitting on fell back.
The newcomers came forward trying to see Thomas and his men. "What the hell!" the taller man shouted, and the shorter pulled a pistol, screaming, "Colonel Henry, Colonel Henry! The redcoats!" He fired blindly, and the bullet splintered a chair rail behind Thomas. There was a sudden outburst from the back of the inn, and armed men began pouring into the common room.
Good God! We've interrupted a meeting of the local rebel militia! Thomas fired into the midst of the enemy, and tried to shoulder past the shorter rebel. His partner flung out his arms and seized Thomas in a painful bearhug. Shots were fired, and the innkeeper bleated in despair, "No shooting! Please, no shooting! My kegs!"
A window shattered, and Thomas caught a glimpse of Rory Fraser smashing through it to freedom. A rebel aimed a pistol at his broad back, and Thomas lashed out with his foot and tripped the rebel up, spoiling his aim. Enraged, the man turned on Thomas, and cracked him across the face with his pistol. There was a white flash, and then darkness.
-----
A splash of cold water brought him back to consciousness. His hands were tied painfully behind him, grinding into dry dirt and sharp pebbles, so he knew he was outside and on the ground before he opened his eyes.
"Look at me." said a voice above him, and more water was flung in his face. "Redcoat." Thomas looked, but the first thing he saw was Sergeant van Wagner lying next to him, a hole neatly drilled between his eyes. Those eyes stared blankly at Thomas, blue and strangely opaque. Thomas twisted awkwardly to see the militia leader standing over him.
Sharp-featured, angry, and contemptuous, Colonel Patrick Henry, the commander of the Virginia Militia, stared back. It had not been a good war for him. Interlopers had invaded his beloved Virginia, and were claiming territory not ten miles from his own home.
One of his officers was looking at Thomas' helmet, and showed it to his commander, with a snort. "British Legion. Riding with Butcher Tavington." He spat in Thomas' face. "Tory bastards. You're as good as dead."
One of the militiamen squatted next to Thomas, and asked, "Where you from, boy? New Jersey, New York, New England?" He emphasised the word new with a curious distaste. "Coming South to tell us Virginians to kiss the King's dirty shoe?"
Thomas licked his dry lips, and croaked. "I am from South Carolina, and proud of it. And better the King's shoe than George Washington's arse!" He was rewarded with a kick to already aching ribs. Looking past Van Wagner's corpse, he saw Baird, bleeding and unconscious, but obviously alive. Where's Loveland? Did Fraser get away?
Henry was discussing him with his officers. "There must be more of them. They wouldn't send a small patrol out this far." Henry bent over Thomas. "Did you hear me? Where is the rest of the British Legion?" Henry smiled at him coldly. "Tell me, and we'll let you ride away on your fine, stolen horse."
"Where are the rest of my men?"
Another kick. "You're in no position to ask questions, Tory. Your men are dead or dying. Where is Butcher Tavington? Tell me now, or accept the consequences of treachery."
Pain and fear nearly overwhelmed him. Dinah.If he were to see her as he was now, she would be all over him, bathing him, comforting him, pressing a cool cloth on his brow. Thinking of her made him blink back tears of regret. He would not see her again. This man might let him ride away, and then would have him shot before he was ten yards away. And then, men like these would talk. If word ever got back to Colonel Tavington, he didn't want him to think Thomas had died a coward. He shook his head fiercely, unable to form words with his mouth and tongue dry as a desert.
"String him up," one of the militiamen called out, and the suggestion was enthusiastically seconded by the rest of the band. Colonel Henry frowned.
"Not a bad idea, actually. It might give him occasion to think."
The innkeeper's little son rushed at Thomas and jeered with a grin, "My pa's gonna help hang you, redcoat!"
Thomas was hustled to his feet, and shoved across the stableyard toward a huge chestnut tree. Rough hands held him up, and he was able to look around wearily and see that it was late afternoon, the shadows long and slanting. My last afternoon. It was hot and green and full of summer scents.
One of the men had gone for a rope, and was cheered as he triumphantly returned, holding his prize over his head. The big farrier Pike through the rope over a branch, and the other end of it was knotted and forced over Thomas' head.
Colonel Henry told off a handful of men to help with the hanging. Another rebel asked, "You want I should tie his legs? Sometimes they kick something fierce."
One of the men laughed. "I like to see them kick."
"Do not tie his legs," Colonel Henry ordered calmly. "Now, pull!"
The shock was unbelievable. Thomas was hoisted by his neck, choking and struggling. His legs flailed with his frantic attempts to find purchase, and the rebels roared at the entertainment. No air! No air! He twisted and fought, seeing red spots before his eyes. Father, come find me! The braying voices below were growing fainter. He was on the edge of blackness, when he hit the ground hard, painfully bruising a knee. The noose was loosened, and Thomas drew in huge, grateful gasps of blessed air.
Colonel Henry was standing in front of him, still calm. "Will you tell me now, or shall we try this again?"
Thomas stared at him as at nightmare come to life. No one was coming to save him. This rebel was going to torture him to death, and that monstrous little boy would laugh, as he was laughing now.
Thomas shook his head, and Colonel Henry misunderstood. "He can't talk. Someone give him some water. You." One of the militiamen grabbed Thomas by the head and pushed the mouth of a canteen between his lips. At least I'll have had a drink of water. Too soon, the water was withdrawn, and Colonel Henry asked again.
"Will you speak?"
Thomas breathed a faint, bitter laugh. "Would you?"
Colonel Henry stood back. "Pull!"
Please, no! The rope tore at his neck, his spine was stretched painfully, and he kicked helplessly, futilely, while he swung on the rope. Now glimpsing the sky, now swinging up to look at the ground and the spectators below, now pierced with the sun's pitiless stare full in his eyes, he swung forever; choking, trying to free his hands. His head jerked from side to side, and it seemed he was no longer in command of his useless body, but was already far away, somewhere far from the war and the pain. His eyes bulged, staring; he could fight no more, and then—he hit the ground again.
He gasped again sucking in all the air he could possibly hold. A man was behind him, but Colonel Henry said, "No water this time. He can nod or shake his head." He looked impassively down at Thomas. "Well, which is it?"
Thomas was already so far gone that he was beyond desperation. I just want this to be over. Resigned to his destiny, he shook his head, and forced himself to look his tormentor in the eye.
Unimpressed, Colonel Henry turned away. "Finish him," he ordered.
Once again, Thomas was dragged up toward the leafy branches of the chestnut. Kicking again, but more feebly now, he tried to catch a last breath, a last moment. I didn't get Dinah her ribbons. What a shame. She'd look so pretty, with those cherry-red ribbons in her hair…..
The ground came up to meet him with a shock that jarred all his bones. He couldn't get up, but someone had grabbed him and was pulling him along the ground. Were they going to torture him some more? He faded out of consciousness again, and woke only when he heard a familiar voice calling him.
"Lieutenant Martin! Sir!" Rory Fraser was holding him up, looking him over to see how badly he was hurt. The noose was pulled back over his head, scraping his neck sharply, and Thomas moaned without sound. Thomas heard him talking to someone beyond his vision. "He's bad, Captain." There were rumbles and crashes that Thomas began to hear, as his senses started functioning again.
Captain Monroe! Thomas squeezed his smarting, swollen eyes open and saw that it was indeed his captain, full of concern. The noise of battle was all around him, and it was well into twilight.
"Look after him Fraser." Monroe was gone, back to his horse. Thomas rolled his head to one side, and saw the dragoons firing into the inn. Beyond it, there was shouting from the direction of the stable, and horses' shrill screams.
Another well-known voice, British and cool, was asking, "Will he be all right?" Thomas tried to turn his head, to see his Colonel, to reassure himself that he was really there.
Fraser answered, "Aye, sir, he'll be fine." Thomas rolled his eyes up, and Fraser grinned down at him. The big man was covered with small, oozing cuts. That's right, he jumped through a window.
Thomas whispered, "I thought you were dead."
Fraser smiled complacently, "I thought I was, too. It's a fine thing to be wrong, now and then!"
"What's happening?"
"I got back to the Colonel, riding cross country. Told him about our wee hornet's nest, here at the tavern. We got here to find yon stramash, and you hanging at the end of a rebel's rope. The Colonel was fair wild at the sight, and led us down on the gomerals like a wolf on the fold." He looked around, and Thomas saw he had a pair of pistols at hand. "Would ye care for a wee drink?"
Thomas nodded thankfully, and Fraser held a flask to his cracked lips. It was not water, but powerful spirits, and Thomas winced as the liquor burned him.
There was a great light casting shadows now. "We've fired the stable and the inn," Fraser told him. "Got the gowks trapped, we have."
Oh, speak English, Thomas thought wearily. He forced himself up on a sore elbow and saw the stable in flames.
"The horses!"
"Dinna fash yerself. We got the horses out, and some fine ones they are too." Thomas saw that the north side of the inn was blazing, and the fire had spread along the roof. He could hear faint screams inside the house. He supposed he should pity the men inside, but he felt very little.
Women's voices, shrill and frantic, came from the inn's doorway. "Don't shoot! Don't shoot! We're coming out!"
"Come out, then," Tavington shouted back. "But by God, you had better be unarmed!" He called out to his men, "Spare the women, and spare any man you are certain has surrendered."
Three women stumbled out of the burning building, sobbing and coughing. As they reached the wagons the dragoons had used for improvised fortifications, they were seized and searched for weapons. One of them shrieked when a dragoon's examination became too personal. The soldier laughed, and pushed her away. Now and then a few shots came from the dark lower windows of the inn.
The wind was picking up, and sparks from the stable and inn flew about in the night air like angry fireflies. Some landed on the outbuildings around the inn, and within a few minutes, those buildings were burning, too. A few frightened townspeople approached the dragoons anxiously, and one brave soul asked Tavington if they could be allowed to fight the fire.
Tavington whirled on the man, his face a mask of rage. "Help us fight the bloody rebels first, you fool! If they'll throw down their arms and surrender, you may do as you please."
Just then, there was a great cry of horror from the locals. Sparks from the fire had traveled to the church roof, and the wooden shingles were already smoking. The man who had been negotiating with Tavington took to his heels, and he and the rest of the populace ran up the lane to the church to save it.
Just what I need, Tavington thought furiously. A pack of rebel sympathizers accusing me of deliberately burning a church!
A little boy slipped through the broken front window, and ran from the inn. He rushed directly into the arms of Sergeant Davies, who asked his commander, "I've got a rebel here, Colonel! What should I do with him?"
"Spank him!"
Shots came from the back of the inn, where Kinlock was waiting with his men. The last of the rebels had made a last rush, to cut their way out or die trying. A few were captured; more were killed. Kinlock sent a trooper around to report the outcome.
Tavington watched the buildings burn, full of anger and grim satisfaction. They had uncovered a nest of traitors in British Virginia. Evidently unsatisfied with the prospect of peace negotiations, and not accepting the continuation of royal power anywhere in their colony, these troublemakers had been building up their strength, and had not cared to observe the armistice. And we found them because of a kiss in Williamsburg. How odd Fate is.
He had been alarmed by Fraser's sudden, bloody appearance and grim account. He had been sickened at the sight of young Martin hanging from a tree branch like a common felon. He had supposed him dead, at first, and his first impulse had been to avenge him upon Hanover.
The church roof was burning steadily now. The townsfolk had formed a bucket brigade, but were unable to get the water up to the roof, where it was needed. The church was obviously doomed, and the congregation should busy themselves with saving the contents.
James Wilkins, face grimy with gunsmoke and soot, asked him, "Do you think we should help them?"
Tender hearted, thought Tavington with annoyance. The man is just as soft as a woman sometimes.
"I won't order that," he finally replied, "but if any man is not otherwise engaged, he can help fight the fire if he wishes to do so." He shrugged and walked away, clearly indicating that he himself would much rather not. Wilkins called his officers over and they went among the men, finally gathering a number of them to help the locals. Tavington was still annoyed, and called out, "They'd do better to wet down their own roofs, though. Idiots," he muttered.
Young Martin was lying under the big chestnut tree, guarded by Trooper Fraser. He would have to recognise the soldier's courage publicly. Fraser drank too much, and dallied with the camp followers too much, but he had done well this time. There were two other wounded men: Loveland and Baird, he gathered. Sergeant van Wagner was dead. A filthy shame, after losing his family to this war. The rebels finally killed him too.
He sat on the dry grass beside Martin. The boy was awake, his eyes open and staring at the flames. Tavington pushed the boy's jacket aside, and took a look at the contusions. "You'll be all right," Tavington said gruffly.
The boy looked at him, and whispered hoarsely. Tavington hoped his voice had not been permanently damaged by choking. "They didn't hang me just once, you know. They wanted to know where the Legion was, so they hauled me up few times, before they decided to kill me. I never told them, though. I never told them anything."
Fraser sniffled, and Tavington glared at him, "Is there whisky in that flask?"
"Aye, sir!…er… I mean nay, sir, no whisky, none at all….."
"Give it here." Fraser passed the flask, and Tavington took a long swallow. He offered it to Martin, who shook his head.
"I'd really rather have some water, sir."
Tavington gave Fraser a look, and the man went off for a canteen. Tavington sat next to his lieutenant in silence. Beyond the flames and sparks, the stars were coming out. Some of his men were tying up the prisoners, and putting them under guard. Others were engaged in the useless struggle to save the burning church. It was quite pleasant to be a colonel, and to be doing neither of those things at the moment.
Fraser came back with the water and helped Martin drink. The boy wiped his mouth, and said, his voice clearer now, "I never expected to be rescued."
Tavington smirked. "Oh, ye of little faith."
Fraser gave Tavington a hangdog look, and shuffled a little. Tavington laughed outright, and took another swig from Fraser's flask, before returning it. "Trooper Fraser!"
The man pulled himself to attention instinctively. "Sir!"
"Fraser, if you can stay sober on duty, I'll make you a sergeant."
The handsome Scots face broke into a glow of joy. "You'll ne'er see the sign o' liquor on me, sir."
-----
They rode together, an easy canter alternating with a slow trot. As soon as Thomas was able to ride, the Colonel had told him that he was to have a fortnight's furlough.
"Go back to Williamsburg, and have that girl of yours coddle you for awhile." He gave Thomas a little wintry smile, pleased that the boy now knew that he could keep no secrets from Tavington. Fraser was ordered to accompany him, and to stay reasonably sober, as befitting his new elevation in rank. Baird and Loveland were too badly wounded to travel far, and were being looked after by the garrison surgeon in Richmond.
Thomas had found his way back to the nice little millinery shop; and he and Fraser had somewhat frightened the ladylike shopkeeper with their rakishly mangled visages. She made up the cherry-red ribbons, and the fine muslin cap with a narrow lace trim, and the embroidered cambric handkerchiefs, into a neat feminine package, which seemed a little incongruous when carried by a fearsome Green Dragoon. They were perfectly polite to the timid young woman, however, and once they were safely out of her shop, she was free to reflect on their retreating backs: to admire their good looks and martial air; and to deplore their regrettable political views.
-----
Notes: I stand by my PG-13 rating, based on the Lord of the Rings defense. If thousands of Orcs, Men, and Elves can be slain in bloody combat; if Frodo can be stung by a giant spider and have a finger bitten off; if he and Sam can be nearly strangled to death by Gollum--- one young lieutenant can be nearly executed with the same rating.
Patrick Henry was the commander of the Virginia militia. Yes, the "Give me Liberty, etc." guy. In our timeline he had moved from the estate at Scotchtown to a new one on the North Carolina border by this date, but in my alternate timeline, because of the successful British advance, he had not.
The original Hanover tavern is no longer standing. A later structure, dating from 1836, is now on the site.
I had to say something about the Native Americans. Those of you who have seen stills from The Patriot, may have seen a few pictures of Bordon conferring with Cherokees scouts. These scenes were either not completed or were deleted for obvious reasons. Since the film makers decided to renounce all subtlety and any respect for opposing viewpoints, it would not do to admit that nearly all the Native American tribes sided with the British, who had pledged to respect their tribal lands. The subsequent history of the United States' dealings with its aboriginal population speaks for itself.
Slavery throughout the British Empire was abolished in 1833. Again, nothing needs to be added.
Gomeral—fool
Stramash—uproar
Fash---worry
Thank you to my Loyal reviewers: Zubeneschamali, LCWA, SlytherinDragoon, pigeonsfromhell, Carolina Girl, and Angelfish23. I'm so glad someone is reading this. I always welcome your input.
Next chapter: Destiny's Playthings—Ben Martin More outrageous fortune.