Chapter 20: Hobkirk's Hill

A parcel arrived from Mary Laurens at the beginning of March. It did not contain everything Jane had asked for, and contained instead a number of things she had not requested at all. A decorative bottle of lavender oil was hardly an essential item. Jane enjoyed it nevertheless, dabbing a little on her wrists and under the front of her bodice. Rubbing it into her hands relieved the dryness from so much unaccustomed labor. The gardening seeds Jane had requested were not sent. Cousin Mary plainly could not believe that Jane would be staying in the backcountry long enough to plant a garden.

Mary's interpretation of her shopping list was not entirely frivolous. She had secured twenty pounds of cornmeal, ten pounds of rice, ten pounds of fine wheat flour, two loaves of sugar, a bottle of laudanum, three bottles of Madeira wine, and a vital bag of salt. The parcel appeared to have been tampered with. The wrappings smelled of ham, but there was no ham in evidence. Jane silently cursed the soldiers who had undoubtedly devoured it en route, but could understand it. The army was starving.

Supplies were slow in coming, and the forces too dispersed for everyone to receive a fair share. The men were living off the bony wild cattle roaming loose in the fields, with no bread or vegetables to supplement their diet. Every morning, Biddy was up, and with either Jane or Letty in tow, scouring the woods for the first tender dandelion leaves to eat as a salad, or to boil as greens. She had located a rhubarb plant in the deserted garden of their little house, and when it had put out new leaves, she harvested some of the stalks, cooking them down to a mouth-twisting, sour "spring tonic" that she forced the entire household to swallow.

"You'll feel a sight worse if your gums swell up, Miss Jane," she declared, unmoved by Jane's protests that the horrid stuff could harm the baby. "And if you don't get what you need, the baby won't get it neither."

Even Tavington, now up and about their little parlor-bedchamber, dared not cross her, but drank his share of Biddy's tonic down with manful determination, then flashed Jane a wicked, superior grin as she choked down her own cupful of the tea.

Jane supposed that something so unpleasant must be medicinal, for it did seemed to do them all good. Not before time, for there were others in Camden who also were hoping for her husband's recovery.

Lord Rawdon, after his first, courteous visit to Jane, had left them somewhat to their own devices, save for the gift of the occasional delicacy to improve their comfort. With March, he began visiting more frequently: a brief weekly call at first, which gradually evolved into lengthy visits every few days, as he shared more detailed intelligence with one he treated as a valuable officer. Jane had hoped that Tavington could be persuaded to return to Charlestown to convalesce, but it seemed less and less likely with each of Lord Rawdon's visits.

Bordon, clearly, was not going to fall in with her plans. He was much improved in health, and Rawdon had taken him onto his own staff, at Tavington's recommendation. The tactful, courteous Bordon was a new man with this appointment, and his own visits were spent in deep consultation with his colonel, discussing ways to make their thin little force more effective.

Tavington himself felt new hope and strength with each spring day. His body was once more his to command. He could rise and dress, with Jane's help. He could sit at the table for meals. Most encouraging was the wonderful morning he had awakened to find his flesh once again responding appropriately to the presence of a woman in his bed. He wasted no time in alerting Jane to the fact, and a delightful encounter ensued.

"But you are too—" She blushed and protested. "You might open your wounds!"

He kissed her and guided her soft little hands. She was solicitous for his comfort: happy to discover that there were a variety of ways to look after him. She blushed more deeply two days hence, when he felt equal to teaching her to assume a superior—most superior—position. Smiling up at her, he assured her that she was not hurting him—quite the contrary—and forbore to laugh at her serious, intent face as she rode him as carefully as a girl on her first pony. In her condition, too, her belly full of his child, her caution was prudent, and, he admitted to himself, very charming.

He felt like a man once more, and gradually began to take the reins as the head of his household. He granted that the arrival of his womenfolk had undoubtedly save his life, but he could not allow Jane or Biddy to make an invalid of him. As soon as he had clothes to wear and could manage to pull on his boots, he escaped the sick room, walking a little unsteadily, but determined all the same. The kitchen beyond was an undiscovered country to him, one that he examined with wonder. Ahead of him was the door to the world outside, and he breathed the fresh, clean air with deep reverence. He had been cocooned too long.

"I want to walk out by myself, Jane. Stay here, and don't look so pained. If I'm not back in an hour or two, you may send out a search party. Until then, allow me the use of my limbs!"

To understand his new circumstances, he walked around the house, found the tumbledown stable, and met Silas and Seth. He had a little money is his purse to reward their faithful service, and enjoyed talking out-of-doors with fellow men, servants or not. He noted Silas' old fowling piece, and praised him for the success he had had in such unpromising hunting grounds. The faint sounds of a fiddle he had heard from time to time he learned had issued from his coachman's own instrument, and his value increased considerably in Tavington's eyes. Amongst them, they agreed to go fishing together on the morrow.

Surely Jane cannot object to such mild exercise, Tavington decided. And even if she does, I care not. I feel better already for the fresh air. He liked the menservants, and soon had the whole story of the journey from Charlestown, told in their own words. They showed him the horses: well-cared for and reasonably well nourished considering their situation, and the big carriage that had brought them all here. He thought it a rather shabby equipage, but it had held together all the way to Camden, and so was admirably well-built. And it was his. He had never before owned a vehicle of his own. This was not one that the London ton would have admired, but it had served its purpose.

And might serve it again. He considered what to do with Jane. He could hardly quarrel with her for coming to his rescue, but all his earlier concerns about her were as valid as ever. The war was closing in around them. Jane was not safe here, but she would not be safe alone on the roads either, obviously. Now that she was here, here she must remain until Tavington himself could escort her home.

He could not spare the time for that. Frank Rawdon depended on him for advice. If Tavington were only a little stronger, he could return to duty in some fashion. It would be folly to try to ride alone to rejoin the Green Dragoons, but Rawdon could surely find suitable duties for him here. No matter what crack-brained ideas Cornwallis had, the war was far from over in South Carolina.

Within twenty minutes, he admitted to himself that he was tired. He would not admit it to anyone else. Taking his time, he strolled back to the house, chatting with the servants. Silas was a decent old man, and Seth a likely young fellow, amusing and undaunted by hardship. Briefly, he considered training him as a valet. Seth was clever enough, certainly, but might not take to such tasks. He was too energetic and vital to be trapped indoors, brushing coats and arranging hair. Had he not been a slave, Tavington would have thought him just the sort to go for a soldier, and do well in the ranks. Better to leave him as groom and footman for now.

Perhaps he was not quite up to the effort today, but soon he would pay a visit to the quartermaster himself. He needed a horse if he was to get about and make the kind of assessments Rawdon seemed to want of him. He would get a mount for Bordon as well. The rebels would soon regret that Tavington was back in the game.

-----

William had a very good appetite that night. It pleased Jane to see him sitting at the table with her, wolfing down the stringy squirrel stew and cornbread as if it were good. It really was not, but it was hot and it was food. Jane chewed diligently on the shreds of gamy meat, but had to quietly discard some inedible bits to the side of her plate. Her husband frowned when he noticed it.

"You need to eat everything before you."

"You're as bad as Biddy."

"I'm a great deal worse than Biddy, as you'll find, my dear, if this goes on." He managed a wry laugh. "I'll wager that you never scorn a fine dinner in Charlestown again!"

She gave a grudging nod, and applied herself to her stew. She had helped make it, and it pleased her that William was being nourished by her own cooking.

Tavington, on the other hand, while he was grateful for his wife's efforts, was hoping that his mother never heard about his wife's essays into domestic cookery. It was acceptable for a lady to amuse herself with puddings and cakes and various sweets, but Mamma had not allowed his sisters to pursue even that degree of housewifery. Serious kitchen work was not genteel, and not the proper provenance of his wife. It might be necessary in their current circumstances, and Jane was admirable in her courage and adaptability, but Mamma would never understand it. No one could, who had not lived through this war. He would choose a good moment, when they were back in a civilized place, and warn Jane against indiscreet disclosures. It was not what she deserved, but the world was the way it was, and people who knew only the safety and comfort of London would have reason enough to snipe at Jane. There was no need for her to give them more ammunition.

Perhaps if she had been the daughter of an earl, like Mamma, she might have been able to carry it off--as a caprice, an amusing adventure, even. Jane's social position, as the daughter of a colonial planter and the wife of the younger son of a libertine and bankrupt, would be far more precarioius. She had neither the looks nor the native charm to conquer society. She would need to be extremely careful, and do nothing to draw attention to her origins. If only she can do something about that accent…

-----

General Greene and his Continentals had returned to South Carolina. Tavington had predicted this, but Cornwallis had been too entranced with his plan of attacking the Virginians to heed the consequences of his departure. Rawdon had agreed with Tavington, but nothing he had said had changed the Lord General's mind. Greene was back, and on the march. The tiny force left behind to hold South Carolina for the King would be fighting alone.

Bordon had a few of their loyal Cherokee scouts following the enemies' movements. Their strategy was clear: to dismantle the British defenses fort by fort. Fort Watson to the south was already threatened. If that fell, Camden would be isolated.

Tavington was becoming fairly alarmed for Jane and the servants. The house was within the outer fortifications, but in a pitched battle it would be an artillery target. If worst came to the worst, the best choice would be to send her to the tall white house that had been headquarters first for Cornwallis, and then for Rawdon. It was somewhat better defended, but was still in harm's way. He said little about it, for there was no point in unnecessarily frightening the women.

The signs were clear, though. A stream of Loyal people trickled steadily into Camden, just ahead of the rebel advance. Their stories were all the same: Sumter was heading west against Fort Ninety-Six; Harry Lee had been brought in to support Benjamin Martin in the move against Fort Watson. The bulk of Greene's forces had crossed the border just after the beginning of April, and were headed straight to Camden.

Tavington walked over to headquarters, as he now did every day. Rawdon saw him through a window, and leaned out to call to him.

"Good day to you, Tavington! You're not before time. Come in and have a chat with me."

Once in the parlor, he was shown to a seat, and watched Rawdon pace restlessly. Francis, Lord Rawdon was a lanky young man, nearly ten years Tavington's junior. Aristocrats in command meant a wide range of ability, sometimes with disastrous results. Rawdon, however, had some real military talent, and one especial virtue: he was not given to self-deception or wishful thinking. Their position was dire, and he knew it, and he was working hard to salvage the situation.

"Have a brandy. How are you feeling?"

There was a new, anxious edge to the question. Tavington sensed an opportunity, and was determined to make what he could of it.

"I'm very much better, my lord."

"That wife of yours brought you back from the dead, the surgeon says. You're a lucky man."

"I well know it." He watched Rawdon pace, perfectly still himself.

"Look here, Tavington. Can you really sit a horse now? If you can, I'm prepared to make you my cavalry commander. It's not much of a force, but it's something, and I need all the help I can get at the moment."

"I would be honored, my lord."

"Paugh! It's not a ceremonial post. I need you out and about. You've more experience than anyone else patrolling this part of the colony. I can give you a few men recovered enough for duty from your Greens and from Tarleton's Legion. You'll have the 17th Light, and two of our Indian scouts as well. I need eyes out there. Don't concern yourself with raiding or retribution. Just get out there and let me know what going on---here." He pointed to the map of South Carolina, and drew a circle around Camden. "Within a ten mile radius, preferably, though I'll settle for five. Don't go haring after will-o-the-wisps, though. And if you run into any large forces, don't engage them, but make a dash for us. I can't afford to lose you."

Tavington studied the map. "I understand."

"From what I hear, the rebels outnumber us two to one. Between ourselves, the Lord General has put the whole campaign in peril with his 'grand strategy.' Whoever heard of advancing without securing one's lines of supply and communication? I haven't received a dispatch from him in over a month, except second-hand by way of the ships from Wilmington to Charlestown. If we lose Fort Watson, we won't even get that."

"Have you considered letting me go to relieve Watson?"

"I have, and I can't spare you. Oh, the rebels damn well have us now, Tavington. We're spread too thin, and that's the truth."

"I'll need a horse. Two would be better."

"You'll have them. Right now we've lost so many men that there are some spares, for a change. No Derby winners among them, mind you, but we'll have to take what we can get."

"I'll want Bordon, too."

"By all means. He's a useful fellow, that captain of yours. The Cherokees trust him, Wish I knew how he managed that."

Tavington smiled faintly. "It's a long story, my lord." It was: a very long story involving a botched attempt at trade, a close shave with Death, a hour or two of intense suffering, and Bordon's excellent impersonation of a man of the cloth.

"Then I'll want to hear it someday from his own lips, but not today. Something to look forward to, as it were. We all need that."

-----

Tavington found himself at the head of a rag-tag excuse for a cavalry troop. Nettles had only thirty-five effectives left. Eleven Green Dragoons were recovered enough from their wounds to join them. In addition, he had seven dragoons from the British Legion, and twelve men from the Legion infantry who could ride. With Tavington himself and Bordon, altogether His Majesty's cavalry in South Carolina totaled the mighty number of sixty-eight men. Nettles was detailed to watch the southern half of their protective circle, and Tavington led his patchwork force to sweep along the north, looking for Greene's army, the greatest danger to them at the moment.

"I can't believe you're going!" Jane cried, when she heard the news. Her husband gave her a look that clearly expressed his dislike of a scene, so she bit off the rest of her remarks until they could be alone. He was gone for most of a day, and then, to her resentment, sent word that he would be dining with his men. She could hardly forgive him. It might be their last dinner together—ever--and he was spending it elsewhere. She was still sulking when he arrived that night at the little house, anxious to get some rest before setting out.

"You should make someone else do this," she complained, as he undressed for bed. "You're not well enough yet."

"Jane, I don't want to hear another word about it. Lord Rawdon has entrusted me with this mission, and I'm the best man for it. Are you pouting? It does not become you. I must spend time with the men. Many have never served under me before, and I must teach them quickly to trust me."

She sat straight up, scowling, and then impulsively threw a pillow at him. "I don't want you to go. You'll get hurt again, and all our work will have been for nothing!"

Tavington caught the pillow, grimaced, and headed to the bed with a determined stride. "Aren't you full of fight this evening?"

She peered at him, a little nervous. He was perfectly naked, unashamed of his scars, and was looking at her—oh, that way! "What are you going to do?"

"Bid you a long and fond farewell, my dear. I may not see you for days." Within a second he was pulling the quilt and sheet aside, and was down beside her in bed, catching her up in his arms. He smiled at her alarmed, wide eyes, and then pulled her close for a kiss.

"Off," he ordered, with a nod at her nightdress. Trembling with excitement, she pulled it over her head, turning it inside out in her haste. Tavington snatched it from her and tossed it across the room, and then pushed her back onto the bed.

He lay beside her, stroking her round and pregnant belly with a gentle hand. "I think your figure much improved by your condition." His hand found a breast and fondled it, tracing the arc from the underside, up to the nipple with a light pinch, and then trailing his fingertip to the other. "Much improved. Motherhood becomes you, Jane." He leaned over her and gave the pink tip a light nip. "Unlike pouting."

"I'm very afraid for you," she whispered, hoping he did not stop this pleasant play.

He did not, letting his hand stray lower, stroking her expertly. "Fear profits a man nothing." He caught her hand in his, showing her where he wanted her to touch him. "Yes, very nice, my dear. Much better than pouting."

-----

Jane, though he would not admit it to her, was right: he was not fully recovered. One full day in the saddle made it achingly plain that neither his shoulder wound, nor the torn flesh of his side were perfectly sound. Tavington gritted his teeth, and tried to ignore the discomfort. He could manage his horse and wield a sword and that was what he must do now. Greene was closer by the day, and Nettles had passed on the intelligence that Fort Watson to the south was besieged.

Tavington stood up in the stirrups looking south toward Camden. Rawdon's fortifications gave him a certain reassurance, but no stout log walls would protect the Camden garrison from starvation. His little patrols circled Camden protectively, alert for a sign of the approaching Rebel army.

Finally, on April twentieth, a pair of troopers rode at a full-out gallop down the Great Road, waving at Tavington.

"It's the Continentals for sure, Colonel. The 2nd Virginia, I think, and maybe the Maryland regiments. It's no militia band."

Tavington blew out a breath, resigned to whatever might come. "All right. Tell me everything you saw," he said, pulling paper and pencil from his waistcoat pocket, ignoring the twinge in his side. "Lord Rawdon needs to know about this. I want you to report to him personally." When this was done, he called Bordon to him. "Throw out a shallow cavalry screen between here and Camden, and we'll try to catch any Rebel scouts creeping up on us."

He kept a wary eye on the troop movements throughout the day. Greene, he gradually understood, was establishing a base on Hobkirk's Hill, a low sandy ridge a mile and a half north of Camden. Tavington had patrolled the area for weeks and now knew it intimately.

Woods and low marshy terrain flanked the hill on both sides. To the east, Pine Tree Creek flowed through an impassable swamp. Between the ride and Camden lay forest and thick underbrush. Tavington felt something could be made of this: the Rebels might outnumber them, but the terrain would make it impossible for them to deploy a wide front and utilize all their troops at once.

Rawdon rode out himself to reconnoitre. Tavington had sent out their Indian scouts to gather what information they could. It would be a miracle if they could survive this.

"We cannot wait here for Greene to attack, my lord," Tavington remarked. "Once he comes down from the hill and penetrates the woods, he'll be able to surround us."

Calmly, Francis Lord Rawdon contemplated his options. "I have no intention of waiting for him."

"You mean, take the battle to them?"

"What choice do we have?"

But they must have more men. Rawdon's next order was a grim one, Tavington accepted without argument, knowing it must be so. Besides, he needed to see Jane.

He passed through the gates of the fort and was greeted by a party of women. Some were resigned, others frightened, voices high and shrill as startled sparrows. Nan Haskins was there, her pretty face anxious. He had not seen her in months, and had nearly forgotten the pleasure of her company. With a rush of guilt, he felt for her danger, but he could not protect her. He would be lucky if he could protect his own wife.

Moll Royston was her usual cheerful self. She raised her old musket by way of salute. "I reckon things are heating up a mite, Colonel?"

"So it would seem. Moll, I want all you women inside the inner works. There's some shelter in the outbuildings at headquarters. Stay there until you're told differently."

"Well, I don't know about that, Colonel," Moll objected. "Seems to me I could do more good up on the walls with my gun. Leastways, I could do some reloading for the boys if it came down to it."

Tavington considered her offer quite seriously for an instant, and then had an idea that pleased him better.

"No, I want you at headquarters, Moll. Mrs. Tavington will be joining you. You must stay by her side at all hazards. Do you hear me?"

"Yes, sir! I won't let you down!" Grinning, she herded the rest of the women before her, headed toward the tall white Kershaw House.

Tavington felt curiously relieved. He could not spare a man to guard Jane, but Moll was bigger, tougher, and more reliable than many men in camp. He had done the best he could. He turned his mount's head toward the little house to the south.

Jane saw him coming their way at a canter. Running out of the house to greet him, her smile died when she saw the look on his face.

"You are moving to headquarters," he declared without preamble.

"The rebels are coming?" She tried to sound brave, but her voice sounded thin in her own ears.

"The rebels are here. I want you in the safest place. Moll Royston will meet you there. Stay close to her. Don't bother to pack up everything: if the rebels get through it won't matter. Just get a few clothes and all the food. Silas!" He shouted.

Seth came running out of the stable, wide-eyed. His old father was slower. Both men looked prepared for the worst. Tavington said, in his crispest way, "You are all moving to headquarters, within the inner works. Load the coach and harness the horses. They're more valuable than anything else, and we won't be able to replace them if they're killed or stolen."

Jane looked very small and alone. He must say something else. He dismounted quickly, and strode over to her. Taking the thin shoulders in his hands, he bent and gave her a quick kiss.

"Be brave, my dear. One way or another, it will soon be over."

He still had Rawdon's desperate order to undertake. He rode to the field hospital, and rounded up every man who could walk. Willing or unwilling, these men prepared themselves to hobble out to battle. Rawdon planned to use them as a mobile reserve, attached to his own beloved Loyalist regiment, the Volunteers of Ireland.

Quietly, the British forces advanced out of the fort in a very narrow formation. If they moved through the woods, they might be able to surprise the rebels. It was a slim hope, but it was their only one.

Rawdon did not permit the men any fires. They were to stay quiet and invisible until the time came. Tavington was too restless to sleep: he envied Bordon, who lay in serene slumber under an oak, wrapped in his horseman's cloak. Instead, he paced along the line, inspecting the sentries. It would mean disaster, if Greene surprised them instead.

There was a rustle and a muffled shout.

"Get him!"

"Don't shoot! I'm on your side!"

"Shut him up! You, come along quiet or I'll slit your gullet!"

Tavington waited, while a squad of his men dragged a stranger behind them through the underbrush. It was nearly pitch dark: he could see almost nothing. The noise put him on edge, and he went forward, with a few muttered words to his men. The stranger, a shapeless bulk in a uniform of some sort, was flung down before him.

"Who are you," Tavington snarled, "and what are you doing creeping about in the dark?"

"Name's McPherson, sir. Used to be British Legion, but I was captured at the Cowpens, and it was march with the Continentals or prison. I've been trying to get away ever since."

"So you say," Tavington hissed softly. "What news do you bring us to prove your story?"

A glint of white betrayed the man's grin. "About the best news in the world, sir. Greene's withdrawn his artillery. He's split his forces along the east and west sides of the ridge and supplies are low. You all got anything to eat?"

"You'll eat when we know you're telling the truth." He growled to the waiting men. "Tie him up at the back of the lines and one of you keep an eye on him. If he's lying, I'll kill him later." He leaned over the informant, and breathed softly. "I am Colonel William Tavington of the Green Dragoons. Just so you realize that I'm not a man to make idle threats."

"Not worried, Colonel. You'll see I'm right."

Tavington notified Rawdon about the intelligence, and the commander interviewed the man himself, gleaning every detail of the enemy's deployments. After some thought, he said to Tavington. "That's it, then. We'll attack before dawn. They'll never be weaker, and we'll never have a better chance."

Their little army had a pair of six-pounders. Wheels muffled with rags, they were dragged into position as Rawdon arrayed his troops. Softly, softly, they felt their way through the woods. Tavington thought briefly of Macbeth, and Malcolm's army disguised by branches. "'Til Birnham Wood come to Dunsinane…" He had ordered the horse's hooves muffled like the cannons' wheels, and when the first skirmishers opened fire on the rebels, he was sure they had achieved a complete surprise. The spring sun rose on a battle in full fury.

Tavington was with the dragoons on Rawdon's left, along with a mass of Loyalist militia sharpshooters armed with rifles. Within half an hour, he could see clearly that Greene was trying to extend his front to envelop them from either side. He ordered the dragoons to dismount and open fire on the advancing flank. A trooper was sent to tell Rawdon what was happening.

The response was immediate. Their own forces were extended to the limits of hedge and swamp, preventing the rebel's attempt to turn their flanks. Tavington reloaded his pistol again and again. It would be a hard slog up Hobkirk's Hill, and the stubbornest side would win.

There was a shout, and a great push from the center of their lines. Something had happened: the rebels were suddenly in retreat. A courier gave a shout and wave.

"Colonel Tavington! His Lordship says to mount up and head to the rear. Washington's Dragoons have slipped around behind us!"

"To horse!" Tavington bellowed. He left the sharpshooters to deal with the remains of the rebel flank and threw himself into his saddle, looking for George Washington's equally vexing cousin.

With their infantry in collapse, the rebel dragoons did not linger long. At the sight of the Tavington's cavalry bearing down on them, they spurred away, in haste to protect their own retreat. Hardly a sword crossed, before Tavington was calling the men back in. A few grumbled, their blood up for the chase, but in the end they loped back like well-trained hunting dogs.

Rawdon sent some scouts after the retreating enemy, but it appeared that they had withdrawn several miles, mauled by Rawdon's unexpectedly aggressive resistance.

"But we have wounds to lick as well," Rawdon remarked, wiping the sweat from his face with a tattered, lace-trimmed handkerchief. "A host of wounded, and more injuries for some still convalescing. Not many killed though."

"A victory is always worth celebrating, my lord," said Tavington with a smile.

"A victory," Rawdon replied, considering. "Yes, well, we certainly won the day, but I wonder in the future, when the history of this rebellion is written, if it won't be said that the British Army won the battles while losing the war."

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Next—Chapter 21: A Weary Road Home