Chapter Three

Disclaimer: I own nothing 'cept for what I own.

A/N: I really don't have anything to say, but it doesn't look right if I don't have an AN...

Tavington watched as the windows were booted in, as were the doors. Rebels swarmed in, coming from all sides. He saw O'Hara run in to defend Lark, who was kicking a rebel in the crotch for attacking her.

He sprang to attention. He needed to do something, or it might as well be the last time he see his wife. Grabbing her and ducking behind the stone alter, his breathing ragged, he took her head in his hands. She saw the fear in his eyes, and was worried.

"William..." she breathed, terrified for his life. He stared down at her. Pulling her close, he kissed the top of her forehead.

"I love you," he muttered.

Standing up, the colonel pulled the pistol out of his pocket and loaded it. "You stay here," he whispered, "I'll be back, I swear."

He ran off.

More gunshots rang out, and countless numbers of people, British and rebels, fell. O'Hara was putting an end to as many of the Americans as he could, before screaming, "Women and children, into the coatroom!" Since a church was not an apt place to have a battle in, they needed to find a place where they knew neither side would try to harm.

Patricia, still hiding behind the alter, felt helpless. She was unarmed, and wanted to kick herself for forgetting to ask William for anything he had. If he had a pistol, he had a knife, that was what she learned when being around him.

The sound of gunshots, screams, glass cracking and shattering, and O'Hara and Tavington yelling orders.

Suddenly, a rebel grabbed her. Throwing her to the floor, he kneeled next to her and wrapped his fingers around her neck. She made a gack, and tried to catch any air she could, but she couldn't. Trying to pry his fingers off of her, she was wasting more time. Circles danced before her eyes, and she knew her minutes were limited.

Getting a sudden idea, she pulled off her veil and wrapped it around his neck. Instantly, his hands were lifted, and he was trying to rip the cloth away. She took big gulps of much-needed air and pulled tighter. His face was turning purple, and she laughed and said, "Tell Satan you were defeated by a woman for me, okay?"

Finally, he went limp. She put a finger to his wrist to check his pulse. Dead.

A gunshot zooming over her head sent her ducking. She searched the rebel's pockets for something, anything, she could use to help fight. Ah hah! She found a pistol!

Having some mild experience with using a weapon, she loaded and aimed.

She peeked over the stone alter. Tavington was hacking a path through the rebels, only shooting the ones that aimed at him from a distance. As he fought with one rebel, she saw one come up behind him with an axe.. But he didn't! She fired, praying to god she had hit him.

She had.

Meanwhile, Tavington had spun around to see a man with a tomahawk behind him fall down, a bullet in his head. He saw Patricia running from her spot, dodging bullets in the dress she had cut down to size, having ripped off a large portion of it so she could move. He saw her run to O'Hara and Lark, fighting off a hoard of the rebels, hacking, slicing and shooting, and, in Lark's case, punching and beating down.

A dark-haired rebel with a sabre charged at him. He held out his pistol, pulled back the trigger, and fired.

But all that was heard was a 'click.'

He stared.

He was out of bullets.

The man tried to bring the sword down on him, but he shielded himself from it with the gun. "Shit!" he muttered. He needed to get over to Patricia and O'Hara, where he could stop fighting to reload his gun, without worrying about getting shot.

He didn't see the foot fly out in his path. He only saw the world spin, and heard a CRACK as his body landed on and slid down the cold stone floor. A fresh bout of pain shot through his arm, which he had landed on.

The sword-wielding rebel towered over him. He chuckled. "So you're that son of a bitch who they call the butcher, are you?" he asked, mockingly, "Then that means I'll be the butcher's butcher, eh? My name will go down in-"

Bam.

Blood spouted from a bullet wound in his chest.

"Hell," finished Patricia, standing behind him. Tavington smiled at her, and she smiled back, before —

WHACK.

She fell to the floor, knocked out from a rebel standing behind her, where he had beat her in the back of her head.