Chapter Seven
Disclaimer: I don't own Tavington or O'Hara, or The Patriot, for that matter.
A/N: Hey, guess what, everyone! Some girl made a fanfiction about Tavington and The Patriot, and it was so good it became a published book! And guess what! I bought it! The only screwy thing about it is the fact that The Patriot is owned by someone else, so she had to change the names to 'Jason William Tarrington." Ah, well. I still suggest you read it. IM me for details.
Sitting around the campfire, the bunch all chattered and ate.
Lark had cooked up some stew from Tavington and O'Hara's hunt. She had created a broth from rose hips and onion grass, and had fresh stag meat boiling in there.
Patricia now spent her time eating and sewing reeds and grasses together. Her idea was to create some sort of... tarp... over the clearing. None of them went farther than the creek, because the rebels weren't able to find their bodies in the church, and were now on the hunt for them.
Sure, the rebs had entered the forest. But they had only gone about twenty feet in, and were far from causing them any trouble.
The only thing that threatened to blow their cover was the fire pit. Although they were close, Tavington wasn't worried.
"Lark picked out a spot with a good forty-minute walk ," he'd always say, "And anyway, if we feel they're coming any closer, we'll move in deeper."
But everyone, even Tavington, became nerve-racked at any sound. They all became a little more paranoid, because Tavington was still out of bullets, and a knife wasn't going to stop a militia.
O'Hara had lost his weapon when fighting in the church, and Lark couldn't kill someone by kicking them. But they had all sworn to protect Patricia first and foremost, because she was more like two people than one. Often, at night, as they lay, she would take William's hand and place it on her stomach. He'd feel the tiny baby kick and punch and rustle around, and they'd both have a good laugh about it.
Anyway...
As they sat around the fire, the topic of Patricia's child came up.
"So," said Lark, "What do you want to name it?"
A pause, Tavington replied, "If it's a girl, than either Morgan or Blanche, or maybe Cheyenne. If it's a boy, Christopher, Jacob" he smirked, "Or William."
Patricia smiled. "There were a lot of choices."
A pause, and then O'Hara asked, "Do you plan on telling him about your past?" It was directed at Tavington.
"My what?"
"You know... the warfare..."
Silence.
Tavington shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "That is for my wife to decide."
Patricia looked down quietly. "We'll discuss it later," she said to him.
"Do you really want to give birth to him here?" asked Lark. She swiped at a black fly that had been buzzing around her head, trying to bite her.
"Give birth to him where? In Ohio?"
"No, I mean... this little campsite."
Patricia looked at her quizzically. "I suppose I'll have to," she said, thinking, "If the rebs don't disperse quickly, I have no choice. Although, I'd rather be in a bed with a doctor by my side, but we can't always get what we want..."
Tavington looked at her. 'I'll make sure you do, Patricia Tavington.'
That night, when the girls had gone to bed, Tavington sat with O'Hara, finishing off the last of the beer they had stolen. The fire was growing dim, for only ambers gave them light.
"I'll go tomorrow," said the colonel, randomly.
O'Hara looked at him. "Go where?"
"Into the village."
O'Hara laughed. "Whatever you say, colonel..."
Tavington looked him in the eye. "I'm serious, Charles. Patricia can't stay in this place, especially with my child coming. She needs better care, and as soon as she can get it. I say, what will you do when fall and winter comes? Be eaten alive by black flies and then freeze to death?"
The general stared. "I can't believe you would do something so foolish as that," he said.
"Foolish?" asked William, "Or does it mean foolishness when a man goes against a rebel militia by himself?"
"So, you're calling yourself a fool."
Tavington smiled. "No, I am not."
O'Hara thought for a moment, before realizing what he meant. "You're not going alone? Who's helping you?"
Another smile.
"No, I'm not," said Charles, "You remember how overprotective you were of your wife when she was your fiancee. It's the same for me now."
Tavington shrugged. "Fine then," he said, "My wife will die because she won't have a doctor by her side, Lark will freeze to death, I'll be on a cart to the dumping grounds with a bullet through my chest, and you," he said, "You'll be alone."
There was another silence, and Tavington finished his beer.
"The worst that can happen is that we'll both die. I'll leave instructions for Lark and Patricia to come out the other side of the woods if anything... arises. There, they will be safe in another village."
There was a suspenseful silence.
"Alright."
"Good. We leave in the morning."
"The morn– We can't! We have to at least tell them where we are off to. Can you imagine their worry when they wake up to discover we're gone!"
"Then we'll leave a note."
"That simply isn't right, Colonel Tavington. To leave a woman is one thing, to leave a woman without her knowing is another."
Tavington looked at him, a glance saying they were done arguing. "You'll be alone, O'Hara. Remember that."
O'Hara hated being blackmailed, but what was a man to do?
"..."
"As I said before," Tavington continued, wistfully, "We leave in the morning."