Disclaimer: Yes, I'm writing fanfiction because I own the rights to the Patriot. As if.

Our heroes suffer the whims of outrageous fortune. Part the Third

Chapter 11: Destiny's Playthings—Ben Martin

"Tom, honey, here's a letter for you."

Thomas rolled over in bed, and peered out from under the pillow he had been shading his eyes with. Dinah had run out to the shops early this morning, and was now back, glowing with pleasure, cherry-red ribbons dancing in her golden-brown hair. Thomas thought she looked very nice—quite respectable, and still feminine and alluring. His furlough was half over now, and had been a continual delight.

She had cried when she had seen the yellowing bruises along his neck from the rope. She had seen enough hangings in her life to know what the marks meant, and would not be satisfied until Thomas had told her the whole of the horrible story. She was frightened, angry, outraged, and protective, and had all but smothered him with her affectionate attentions.

They walked, they visited the shops, they made love; they explored the nearby countryside, they ate well and heartily, they made love some more. Saturday night, Thomas had taken Dinah to a ball at headquarters. She was dressed very prettily, in the first silk dress she had ever owned: a dove-grey gown with pale pink petticoat and stomacher. The music and fine clothes of the dancers made the rather small and ordinary ballroom seem a fairyland to her. She was quick-witted enough to pick up the genteel ways of the people who now surrounded her. She used the best grammar she knew, and was prudently silent when she had nothing to say. The coarse tan on her arms and face, the mark of a common labourer, had faded over the months, leaving her as creamy-skinned as the most refined lady. All in all, she behaved very well, thought Thomas, and nothing unpleasant was said to them. Most of his fellow officers and their ladies did not know her: those who did preserved a well-bred silence.

"After all," Thomas had said to Dinah, when persuading her to go to the ball with him, "I know for a fact Colonel Ferguson will be there with his women, and so why not you?"

Dinah had not been easily convinced. "Tom," she admonished him, wide-eyed. "Miss Polly and Miss Sally are almost ladies. They both write with a fine hand, and anyone can see they were brought up as gentlewomen."

She herself had not been, and could not settle down to the idle life of a kept woman. She had always worked, and worked hard: Thomas' uniform was always in immaculate condition when Dinah was there to care for it. She busied herself with a great deal of sewing—making Thomas' shirts, making her own gowns; creating and embroidering her own caps, linen, and handkerchiefs. She knitted socks, and crocheted baby blankets for poor mothers. Lately, having collected enough scraps, she had begun an elaborate honeycomb-pattern quilt. These efforts satisfied her: she freely confessed that she did not miss boiling down hogs at slaughtering time, or soap-making, or working in the harsh sun of a tobacco field.

Her short marriage to Robert Poole had not been prosperous. They had been desperately poor from the beginning, and had lost their little cabin and small farm in North Carolina to the rebels. He had joined the British Legion, and the army had provided them with a kind of home, and the barest necessities; but they had refugeed with only the clothes on their backs. Now she had a gentleman to look after her; and she was enchanted with their comfortable bedchamber, with its elegant furniture, its feather bed, its real glass windows, and even its painted china chamberpot.

To Thomas' amusement, she had actually looked under the bed, and gone on about it.

"But Tom, look! It has pink roses on it, painted so fine you can almost smell them."

Thomas started laughing. "Dinah, I don't think it's roses you're smelling."

"Oh, you!"

She was always happy. Now she sat down on the bed beside him, handing him the letter; and then spread out her skirts, admiring the dainty sprigged muslin.

Thomas knew the handwriting at once. "It's from my Aunt Charlotte in Charlestown."

Dinah pointed out the exquisite penmanship, "That's what I mean by a fine hand. You can always tell a lady by her writing."

Charlestown

June 10, 1782

My dear Thomas,

I pray you are well. Your brothers and sisters also pray nightly for your safety and comfort. They all find Charlestown a busy and interesting place, with no end of new people and things to see. The children are all very well, and recently enjoyed a children's party at Mr and Mrs Leslie's. There were games, and then there was dancing, and charming festive treats. Margaret and Susan very much enjoy their music lessons, and the new friendships they have made through them. Nathan worries about Fresh Water, left to the management of hired men, and all the children miss their good Abigail and the summertime pleasures of the country, but Charlestown has its solaces. That is well, for the children may be with me some time.

My dear nephew, I must tell you that we have had grave news of your father. As you know, he was among those representing South Carolina who left for the conference in New York. He, Mr Simms and my friend Judge deLancey sailed together on the Theodosia two weeks ago. They did not sail alone: there were two other ships sailing with them for mutual protection.

One of the ships, the Manatee, returned to Charlestown two days ago. Their little convoy was indeed attacked by the French, and one of the ships was sunk. The Theodosia appeared to be in danger of capture, when the Manatee made its escape.

We have heard no further word. I dined Wednesday with Mrs DeLancey and her daughter, who are as concerned as I about the fate of the ship. We drew together for comfort, but our fears seemed to feed upon each other. I took Margaret with me, as she is old enough to dine with ladies, and she is also acquainted with Mrs DeLancey's guest, Miss Wilde. The girls are only a few years apart in age, study with the same music master, and were deep in conversation after the meal. Your father told me that you had met the young lady. She is very pretty, and shared our fears for our missing friends: apparently, she has the highest opinion of the judge.

I hope and trust all shall be well. While it is clear the French wish to disrupt any peace overtures, they would have little to gain by harming the commissioners. And then, too, we do not know that your father is a prisoner. He is a resourceful man, and may soon send a letter or himself return to Charlestown with an amusing account of his ship's escape.

Your affectionate aunt,

Charlotte Selton

"Oh, Aunt Charlotte, you're living in a fool's paradise!"

"What's wrong, Tom?"

He sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. Dinah put a comforting arm around him, while he scanned the letter again.

"My father's ship may have been captured by the French."

"Oh, Tom!"

He got up, and walked around the room, glancing at the letter again. "Of course the French have everything to gain by harming the commissioners! What better way to break up the peace talks? She must think I'm still a child!"

"Maybe she doesn't want you to worry. At least she's not like some women, who make everything out to be as bad as they can, and get everyone stirred up and more scared than they should be!"

He flopped down again beside her. "You're right. It doesn't do any good to dwell on things I can't do anything about. Anyway, Father knows how to take care of himself!"

-----

They had been locked in the brig for over a week. Simms was suffering the worst: he was the oldest, and unused to hardship of any kind. The stink was overpowering, the water suspiciously foul, and the food insufficient.

Ben Martin had decided long ago to stand apart from this conflict, but events constantly conspired against him. First Gabriel had joined the Continentals, then Thomas had joined the British, and now he himself, with no passionate attachment to either side's politics, found himself a prisoner of the French. The claustrophobic little brig was his whole world now; the endless rocking of the ship and the gurgling of water against the hull beat a rhythm that was driving him mad.

Captain Coleridge and Lieutenant Harding had been killed when the ship was taken. Lieutenant Pankhurst had died of wounds three days ago. The crew were chained up in the bilge. The only officer left was little Midshipman Fairfax, a boy younger than Nathan, held with the commissioners as a concession to his status as a gentleman.

The French prize crew spoke little English. Only the ship's surgeon, Valancourt, could converse easily with them. He was a kind young man, thin, dark and serious, and he had done what he could for the ill and injured. He was also, unpleasantly enough for him, charged with translating the prize captain's outrageous ransom demands.

They would be set free, but at a price: the prize captain, Lieutenant Fleury, had looked them over carefully, assessing their clothes, their linen; looking through their belongings before setting a figure for which they could be released in a ship's boat near a British-held port. Not surprisingly, the amounts were staggering, and in Martin's own case, ruinous.

He supposed he could raise the ten thousand pounds Fleury required. If an agent sold Fresh Water and everything in it, he might get as much as seven thousand. His friends would provide the rest. That would leave Martin and his children homeless and penniless, and with no income, no prospects, and a three thousand pound debt to crush all hope out of them. He had tried to explain this to Fleury, with the aid of Valancourt, but got nothing for his pains but a contemptuous laugh and a wink, and the evident attitude that Martin was lying. Fleury was adamant: surely an important gentleman like Monsieur Martin must be wealthy indeed, to be given the position of commissioner for South Carolina. Monsieur Martin should thank Fleury for his moderation, for were not M. le juge DeLancey, and M. Simms being asked for much, much more?

Martin had tried to be a peaceable man since returning home from the last war. He had packed away his warrior days along with his uniform; and had, in a manner of speaking, beaten his sword into a plowshare. He had brought no weapons with him on the voyage. He had begun to regret it. The more he thought of the greedy Fleury, deaf to everything but his own avarice, the more he thought about how the ransom would ruin his children's lives, the more he thought of how they would grieve and miss him if he refused to pay and never returned, the angrier he grew.

Yes, he knew Charlotte would provide a home for them as long as they needed one, but that was an outrageous burden on a young woman, who had a right to live her own life, and not be forced to be mother and father to his children. His children had a right to a home of their own, and a right to have their father with them. Martin sat in the filthy little cage, smouldering.

He was aroused from his bitter thoughts by Simms. The older man was groaning and rubbing his left arm.

DeLancey, sitting by him, was immediately concerned. "Charles? Are you in pain?"

Simms' face was red with effort. He gasped, and tore at his cravat. "I can't breathe!" He convulsed, clutched at his chest and screamed. The guard rushed to the door, and gaped at them through the small opening.

"Qu'avez-vous?"

DeLancey tried to recall his French in the stress of the moment. "Allez chercher Monsieur Valancourt, je vous en prie!"

The Frenchman stared at Simms, groaning on the floor. DeLancy shouted again, "Monsieur Valancourt! Mon ami est malade!"

The guard vanished with the sound of feet scurrying up the ladder to the deck above. Martin filled their common cup with water and helped Simms drink. After a few feeble sips, the man's eyes closed, and he sagged, unconscious.

"His heart," said DeLancey, his face ashen. "What will I say to Dorothy if he dies?"

"He's not dead yet," Martin answered sharply. He turned to the little midshipman, hunched in a corner cushioned with some rags, "Here, Mr Fairfax. Give me that sack, and we can lay Mr Simms down, and put the sack under his head."

Moving awkwardly in the crowded space, the three of them managed to arrange Simms in a moderately comfortable-looking position.

Valancourt appeared, looking anxiously through the door of the brig. Lieutenant Fleury was with him, along with the guard. Valancourt gestured to the sailor to open the door so he could enter and help Simms. Fleury spoke sharply, and the man stepped back.

DeLancey was outraged at what he could understand of the exchange. Martin looked at his questioningly.

Valancourt spoke to them, softly and apologetically. "I am very sorry. Lieutenant Fleury will not permit the door to be unlocked. He says if Mr Simms had agreed to pay his ransom, he would already be safe and free, and would have no need of a doctor."

DeLancey burst out, "Tell that fool that Mr Simms is worthless to him dead!" Simms' breaths were uneven now, harsh and rattling.

Valancourt seemed ashamed, and spoke quickly with the officer. Fleury shook his head, answering Valancourt with a few short words.

Valancourt cleared his throat, and said, "Lieutenant Fleury thinks that even if the old man dies, his body will be ransomed by his widow, yes? And then you gentleman will be more eager to pay, seeing what has happened to your companion."

Ben Martin could hardly speak for the anger in him, but he managed to tell Valancourt. "Surely Monsieur Fleury is not such a fool as to lose a valuable asset like Mr. Simms. His widow will not pay a fifth for him dead that she would alive. The assistance of a doctor is no more than any decent human being would provide. Monsieur Fleury should do as much for his investments."

Valancourt turned and appealed to Fleury. The lieutenant laughed, and waved at the sailor to unlock the door. Once open, Valancourt slipped inside and immediately knelt beside Simms, opening his shirt, and listening to his heart. DeLancey knelt next to him, eager to assist in any way. Martin stood back, fury gathering. It was obvious that Simms was dying, and there was no longer anything he could do to help.

Valancourt sat back on his heels with a sigh. "I am very sorry." He turned to his captain, "Trop tard. Il est mort."

Fleury shrugged, and smirked, about to utter something he thought witty, when Martin reached out, grabbed the lieutenant by the arm, and slammed him against the wall of their prison. With his other hand, he pulled Fleury's sword and ran it through the unfortunate guard. The man had only a brief moment of surprise, before he fell face down, keys jangling. Valancourt, shocked, tried to get up, but was knocked off balance, as Fleury stumbled back from the wall.

"Stop!" shouted Martin. "DeLancey! Tell him to stay where he is or I'll kill him!"

DeLancey, overwhelmed, stammered a moment, and then cried out, "Arretez!" Unable to say anything else, he seized the doctor, pulling him out of harm's way. Midshipman Fairfax, with far greater presence of mind, scrambled out of his corner on all fours, and appropriated the dead guard's sword and pistol.

Fleury had been surprised, but he was big, brave, and experienced. He aimed a kick at Martin, which partially connected with his opponent's knee. Martin gasped with pain, and switched the sword to his right hand. It was an absurdly small cockpit of a place for a fight, even had there been only the two of them. Crowded with a dead man, DeLancey forcibly restraining the struggling Valancourt, and the little midshipman underfoot waving a pistol, it was a nightmare. There was no room to wield a sword properly. Martin drove his weapon's hilt into Fleury's face, and weighed his options. A pistol shot now would spell disaster. If someone could unchain their own sailors, they might be able to overcome the small prize crew and retake the ship. He shouted at young Fairfax, "See if you can get to the men and free them!"

He could not see if the boy had obeyed. Fleury had doubled over, as if in pain, and only at the last moment did Martin see the silver flash that warned of the knife in the boot. He twisted away, and the knife flew past his head, slicing a shallow cut into the top of his arm. He flung himself onto Fleury, knee pressing into the man's chest. Bigger than Martin, Fleury threw him off and grabbed at Martin's throat. They rolled back and forth, kicking at Simms' poor lifeless body, and inadvertently slashing at the helpless Valancourt.

Martin choked, and flailed up with his left hand to get a grip on the other end of the sword. He pulled the blade down, sawing recklessly at the back of Fleury's neck. The Frenchman shrieked in terror and pain. Martin, rapt in combat, only knew that there was a weapon in his hand and it seemed good to him. With two more savage slashes, the man on top of him was a dead and bloody weight.

Martin drew a breath and heaved his departed enemy off of him. He stood up, and saw DeLancey and Valancourt staring at him, terrified.

"No one wants to harm you, doctor," Martin growled. "You'll stay here, but don't try anything foolish or I will kill you." Valancourt nodded, speechless.

Martin kicked over the mangled body of his opponent. The man lay as quietly as Simms now, the two of them side by side, macabre companions in death. Martin took one of Fleury's pistols for himself and handed the other to DeLancey. "Here. Point it at anyone who doesn't speak English."

DeLancey cleared his throat, and croaked, "I suppose I should take the sword, too."

"If you want to improve your chances of living—yes, that would be a sound idea."

They locked Valancourt in the brig. DeLancey muttered a diffident "Sorry."

Dark and sad, and imprisoned with dead men, Valancourt quietly replied "C'est la guerre."

DeLancey followed Martin out into the passage way leading to the aft hatch. Soft footsteps rustled inside the belly of the ship. Martin saw Fairfax appear in the shadows, taller figures bulking behind him. Silently, the Theodosia's crew assembled, readying themselves for the coming battle. Most were armed.

Midshipman Fairfax whispered to Martin. "I left two men guarding the powder magazine. We found some weapons along the way. I don't think any enemy are alive below now."

Martin grunted approvingly. DeLancey was behind him, astonished at the tough little boy, whose uniform was streaked with blood obviously not his own. Martin looked at his fellow commissioner, and DeLancey said defensively, "I've never been a fighting man."

"Very soon," Martin told him grimly, "you will be." Midshipman Fairfax smiled a little with anticipation.

They erupted onto the deck without warning. The small prize crew had no hope after the first terrible minutes, as Martin harvested them like wheat. The Theodosia's crew were angry and vengeful, and not all those who tried to surrender were allowed to. DeLancey, sensibly, stuck close by Martin, as they rushed the quarterdeck. A French sailor leaped down at him from the rigging, cutlass in hand. Instinctively, DeLancey shot him, and the man collapsed, his feet tangled in the ropes, swinging upside down. The officer on deck, a brave man, put up a gallant fight, but was no match for a Benjamin Martin in a state of bloodlust. He was on the deck, bleeding and about to be finished off, when DeLancey caught Martin's upraised hand.

Martin turned on him, enraged; but DeLancey, determined despite his fear, said, "It's over."

The deck was a bloody mess. Midshipman Fairfax began organising the men: ordering the bodies cleared away, and the British flag run up.

DeLancey said, "I'll get the doctor up here to tend the wounded." It had been the strangest and most frightful day of his life, and he paused and straightened his shoulders as he descended the ladder, knowing he would never be the same.

Martin took a moment to find powder and ball, and prudently reloaded his pistol. I will never travel unarmed again as long as I live, he vowed. He thought a little longer, and decided he was at peace with that resolve. The wind had freshened, and he looked out over the grey Atlantic, feeling very far from home.

DeLancey was back in moments with Valancourt, who hastened to the quarterdeck. The officer was evidently Valancourt's friend, and the two men talked quietly while Valancourt worked. The doctor spoke up, "Lieutenant Beaumont wishes to know what you intend. Your officers are dead, and you are not seamen. He will take you safely to Port-au-Prince, or any other French port, but nowhere else."

Midshipman Fairfax piped up. "I can navigate. Captain Coleridge taught me. I can get this ship to New York." Martin spared at glance at Mr Midshipman Fairfax. The boy was earnest and determined. "Just let me get to the instruments, and I can take a position."

Valancourt translated for Beaumont and the two men seemed alarmed. Valancourt protested. "Little boy, these gentlemen do not want to trust their lives to a child, I think! This is not a game, and when you lose the ship in the Sargasso, no one will find it amusing."

"Shut up," Martin said, gesturing meaningfully with the pistol. "Just shut up." He beckoned the boy over and whispered. "Are you serious? Can you really navigate, or do you mean you can navigate if you have an adult to help you?"

The boy was offended. "Sir, I have served in the Royal Navy for three years! I had lessons every day with Captain Coleridge and Lieutenant Hardy. I know how to sail a ship, how to steer her, and how to navigate by day or night. I will get us to New York, no matter what the damn Froggie says!" Martin felt an impulse to ruffle the boy's hair, but stifled it, knowing that Fairfax might be young, but he was an officer in front of his men, and he had his pride.

The crew grinned. Martin and DeLancey looked at each other wondering if they should ask one of them what they thought of the boy. It was unnecessary.

The boatswain spoke for all of them. "Mr Fairfax is Captain now, gents. He's a good officer, and we'll follow him. You just keep your eyes on the Frenchies, and we'll take care of the ship!"

Valancourt was locked in his quarters, along with the wounded Beaumont. The other survivors of the prize crew were chained in the bilge their turn. Martin slammed down the hatch with a certain satisfaction. Other than reasonable care when giving them food and water, they were safely out of the way.

Within three days, they were sailing into New York harbour.

Mr Midshipman Frederick Mandeville Fairfax was the toast of New York. The story of the Theodosia's capture, its revolt from its French prize crew, and its subsequent voyage to New York under the command of a boy of twelve was the talk of the city. The tale grew in the telling. Martin and DeLancey were the heroes of the hour as well, though DeLancey modestly disclaimed any credit. "I simply held a pistol when I was told to do so. Mr Martin overpowered the French officer, and Captain Fairfax got the ship to safety. I was fortunate to be in the company of such brave men."

Ben Martin found that he would never have to pay for a drink the entire time he was in New York. Even the rebel commissioners were captivated by the story, and took a certain pride in an American outwitting and outfighting a foreigner. As he settled down to the serious business of peace-making, he was constantly asked to recount his adventures. He saw the newspapers, imagined them on their way to South Carolina, and sighed for his children. At least when they read the story, they will know what I was prepared to do to see them again.

----

Notes: Fine penmanship, along with fancy sewing and other handwork, music, drawing, French, dancing, and (in the 18th century, not so much the 19th) dessert cookery, were the accomplishments that marked a lady. Not all ladies possessed all these accomplishments. Readers of Pride and Prejudice will remember that Mr. Darcy (and Miss Bingley) expected more. If Dinah watches her speech, and finds someone to teach her a lady's hand, she could very likely make the grade in the colonies, since she can do any kind of sewing, knows the recipes for four kinds of cakes by heart, and dances very well.

A prize crew were the body of sailors put aboard a captured ship. The prize crew were given a share of the value of the captured ship when it was sailed home; so being part of a prize crew was a very desirable task. And whatever his technical rank-- Fleury a lieutenant, and Fairfax a midshipman--the officer in command of a ship was properly addressed as Captain.

On his return home from the war, Banastre Tarleton (the inspiration for Tavington) was captured and forced to pay ransom to the French. It did happen, and not infrequently.

Thank you to my Loyal reviewers: ladymarytavington, LCWA, Zubeneschamali, nomorebraces, pigeonsfromhell, and Carolina Girl.

Next chapter: Web of Destiny—Polly and Sally learn the extent of their inheritance; Tavington, Thomas, and Ferguson all face major decisions.