Jane had not quite understood why Biddy wanted the oilcloth, too, in the coach, along with her other mysterious equipment. By now she understood. Having a baby was a messy, bloody business.
Biddy took another look at her, and said, "All right, honey. Next time the pain comes, you push."
"At last," Jane grumbled. "I don't see why I had to wait so long."
Patiently, Biddy explained again. "It's no good to push if you're not open enough for the baby to get out. Early babies have soft little heads. You don't want to hurt him, pushing against something that won't move!"
Humbly, Jane submitted. "Oh, no! I'm sorry I'm so cross, Biddy. I just want this to be over."
"It'll be over soon enough, honey."
Jane trembled, wracked with another spasm. Letty's hands in hers held her steady.
Biddy saw her face tighten, and urged her, "That's right, baby! Now you push!"
"Aaaah!" A cry of pain and fright escaped her. Something was moving inside her, breaking loose. Jane tried not to fight the sensation.
"That's the head, honey. Baby looks all right. One more good push and we'll get the little shoulders out!"
A shuddering pause, and then Jane convulsed in another labor pain.
"Push!""Aaaah! Oh, Biddy! It hurts! Am I going to die?"
"You're doing mighty fine, honey. Here comes the rest of—him! Oh, my, honey, you've got yourself a little boy!"
Letty squeezed Jane's hands in excitement. "Is he all right, Mama?"
Biddy was glowing with happiness, smiling down at Jane with love and reassurance. "He's a fine baby. Small, maybe, but strong. Here, Letty you hand me that string and the knife. Jane, honey, you lie quiet. After I cut the cord we'll wipe him off and you can see. His color's good, and he's wiggling like a trout on the line."
"I still hurt. Ow! Am I going to have twins?"
Biddy smiled swiftly, intent on her work. Yes, the little boy was tiny, but he looked healthy. She turned him over and rubbed the small back. A soft cough, and the child wriggled again, stretching out his limbs. Breathing and moving and all the parts where they ought to be. It might be all right, after all.
"No, honey, that's just the afterbirth. Letty, you take care of our new little boy, and I'll rub Miss Jane's belly to help her get rid of it."
"What's afterbirth?"
"Oh, honey, you don't listen! It's just something in your body that's like a nest for the baby when he's growing. You don't need it anymore, but it has to come out the same way as baby did." She hummed quietly, an old, half-remembered charm her mother had taught her, massaging Jane's sore stomach.
"Is it blood?"
"Some of it's blood, but it's old blood, like your monthlies, not bright blood. It ain't nothing for you to worry about," Biddy declared, hoping it was true. This was a dangerous time. If something had torn inside Jane when she was laboring, she could hemorrhage and bleed to death. If she failed to expel all the afterbirth, she could die of childbed fever. Biddy continued her firm, gentle rubbing, trying everything she knew to keep her other little girl from harm.
Letty handled the tiny creature with trepidation. He was the smallest baby she had ever seen. He looked pink and healthy enough, but so, so little. The baby grimaced and opened his rosebud mouth in a faint mew. She wiped the birth fluids from the eyes and nose with a corner of the soft towel, and then held him close for Jane to see.
"Oh, Miss Jane, he's just the sweetest thing!" Letty felt her heart yearn over the child, wishing for one of her own someday, knowing it might never happen. She was a slave, not able to legally marry, and she did not want to bear another bastard into bondage, but oh! To have a little one of her own! Lucky, lucky Jane!
"Oh!" Jane cried. With sickening, plopping sounds, thick clots of bloody matter surged out. "Oh!" she cried again, feeling rather disgusted. "There is certainly no dignity in childbirth!"
"Babies don't care none for dignity," Biddy muttered scornfully, carefully examining the placenta. She sighed with relief. It looked to be all there. She gathered up the piece of oilcloth, with the afterbirth inside, and moved it to a corner of the carriage. "We'll want to bury that."
"Really?" Jane wondered. "Why not just throw it away?"
"You don't just throw the afterbirth away, honey. It's not right. My own Mama said it's powerful stuff and you bury it proper and out of sight."
Jane was horribly tired and sore. She considered asking Biddy to find the laudanum in the medicine chest, but then decided it was too much trouble to speak. She shut her eyes, lulled by Biddy's and Letty's cooing over her baby, and dozed. A man's cry of alarm roused her abruptly, her heart pounding like a deer chased by the hunter.
-----
Pevney did not see the tomahawk that whirled out of the underbrush and buried itself in his forehead. He felt only a hard blow, an unspeakable pain, and then a loosening of his limbs as the ground rose to meet him.
Royce gaped at the axe suddenly blossoming from his friend's head. He managed a hoarse shout, before shapes blurred with speed rushed out and smashed him to the earth with their rifle butts. One had a knife and was grabbing at his queue to pull his head back, but Royce kneed him hard. There was the blast of a musket, and one of his attackers slumped lifelessly.
The militiamen had ignored Silas, thinking the old man not worth considering, as he sat smoking a pipe up on his coachman's box. That he might have a firearm had not occurred to them.
"You old bastard!" bellowed one of Martin's men, clambering up a wheel to stab at Silas. But Silas had clubbed his musket and knocked the blade aside. The younger man dropped the sword, cursing, and tried to drag his opponent off his perch.
Martin had counted on speed and silence, taking only five men with him. The gunshot had spoiled his hopes of capturing Mrs. Tavington before the British could be alerted. Wild screams issued from the women in the coach. Briefly, he saw the pale, terrified face of a pretty young girl peering out of a window and heard another woman crying, "Get down, honey!"
Now he had only speed to accomplish his goal. The surviving dragoon lashed out with a booted foot, trying to trip him up. He was distracted by it.
Another of his men, hotheaded Jenkins, shouted, wrenching at the coach door, "You women come on out!"
A grey-haired slavewoman leaned out of a window called back, angry and frightened. "You ought to be ashamed of yourselves, you ruffians! This poor lady's just had a baby. You go away and leave us alone!"
"Shut up, nigger!" Jenkins fired his pistol, point-blank, into the coach. Another shot sounded, from Jenkins' brother, always taking the elder's lead.
-----
The worst had happened. Hearing the first gunshot and the shouts, the women huddled together. Letty was still clutching the baby, unable to stop screaming, and the baby, catching her terror, wailed with a newborn's disappointment at an unfriendly world. Biddy took him from her daughter and put him in Jane's arms. Jane herself was gasping for breath from fright. Crawling swiftly to each door, Biddy latched them against the intruders. She was praying under her breath to any power that might be listening. Not like this, Lord, not like this. Did we come so far from home to die together?
Letty peered out, and nearly vomited at the sight of a man's head half-split with an axe. Her mother tugged at her skirt, "Get down, honey!" she cried. "Looking don't do no good."
"Oh, Mama! What's going to happen? What's going to happen?" Anything, she thought wildly, anything can happen. Those men might drag us out and force themselves on me, on poor Miss Jane. They might just shoot us. They might shoot the baby in front of us.
Boots stamped on the side of the coach, climbing up the wheel. They could hear Silas grunting, fighting for his life.
Jane wondered if this was the end. My poor baby. Oh, God, why did we stop? William will be so angry, but it won't matter because we'll all be dead.
Biddy was hugging Letty close, trying to calm her. And then the men were at the door, heads bobbing as they tried to see what was inside. Rough hands scrabbled at the door handles.
"You women come out!"
Jane realized she was holding the baby too tightly, but she was frozen with fear. Only Biddy seemed capable of action. She got to her feet and leaned out of the window.
"You ought to be ashamed of yourselves, you ruffians. This poor lady's just had a baby. You go away and leave us alone!"
"Shut up, nigger!" A gunshot cracked, and another, splintering the coach door on the far side. Biddy spun around, mouth open with shock, clutching at her chest, which bloomed with the rich red of hothouse roses.
Jane and Letty stared with disbelief and shrieked with one voice. Biddy collapsed to her knees, moaning, and then fell face-first over Jane's legs.
She tried to push herself up. I wish I could—
Her arm gave way, and she collapsed again, staring at the worn wood flooring. With a last effort, she raised her head a little and saw the bundle in Jane's arms.
"Baby…" she whispered, eyes already glazing.
"Mama!" Letty scrambled over to her, pressing her face close, hearing a last rasping breath, and then nothing more. "Oh, she's dead! She's dead!"
Jane screamed in utter despair and pain. The baby echoed her thinly. The door was rattled again, and the sounds of fighting and cursing went on and on. Boots thumped overhead. Someone else was trying to climb up the coach. There was thud and a cry, and a body fell to the ground. Then another, distant gunshot popped, and Jane heard the sound of another body falling, and all around her, and from within her, cries of agony and confusion.
-----
When Moll heard the first gunshot, she considered running back to the column for help. Only for a moment, though. Gripping her musket, she trotted down the road toward the shouts and screams. As she rounded a turn, Moll was enraged at the sight of men firing into Mrs. Tavington's coach. The two dragoon guards were on the ground. One was moving feebly. The other, his head a red ruin, would never move again. Another man, surely a rebel, lay nearby, the back of his rifleman's frock sodden with blood.
"Dirty cowards" she snarled. A big man in a fancy blue uniform was climbing up the side of coach behind Silas. French for sure. Moll was a sergeant's widow, and she knew her uniforms. In a flash he had clubbed the old man over the head. Silas tumbled limply from the coachman's box, and lay motionless.
Her musket was lifted and aimed and spat fire. The blue-clad Frenchman tumbled in his turn. Moll heard one of the villains shout, "Jean!" and run to the man.
"Dead, or I'm a rebel," Moll grunted. The attackers were looking her way, confused, but Moll had ducked into the underbrush and set to quickly reloading her musket. Distantly, she heard women's screams from the coach, and her blood boiled.
"Think you're mighty brave, attacking helpless females!" Powder, ball, patch, and ramrod. With sure hands, the weapon was reloaded, and Moll aimed it carefully at the brute who had been trying to force his way into the coach. A crack, and he fell with a squawk.
A man in a brown coat was running in her direction, tomahawk in hand. The other two surviving rebels left the coach and followed him. Moll faded behind a tree, trying not to betray her position. She crouched low, and set about reloading. From behind the big pine, she could see the road and looked twice, at the horseman galloping their way. She nearly whooped with triumph. It was the Colonel, and he looked like the Angel of Death.
Behind him were his dragoons, at full gallop. Seth was riding behind one of them, and leaped from the horse, landing with hardly a stumble as he ran to his father.
The rebels must have heard the thunder of hooves too, for the man in front stopped short, and put out his hand to the foremost of his followers. Looking about them, they began running back to the swamp. Probably where they stowed their horses. Oh no, boys, you ain't getting away so easy! Moll popped up again, and fired at their retreating backs. The shortest of the men stumbled and clutched at his arm. The brown-clad leader saw him falter, and wrapped an arm around him, helping him run.
"Missed! Thunder!" Moll would have liked to have finished him off, but she had to help Mrs. Tavington. The Colonel was nearly on her, and Moll stepped from the bushes, snatching her cap from her head and waving it at him. He pulled up, looking about.
"Rebels!" Moll shouted and pointed. "They attacked the coach. There's three on foot, headed for the swamp. One of them's the leader. Don't let him get away, Colonel!"
Tavington stared at the dreadful scene, appalled. "Moll, see to Mrs. Tavington! Bordon, with me!" He could see the bandits slipping away. A red mist floated before his eyes. Spurring his horse, he charged after the enemy. I ought to go to Jane, he thought wildly. I ought to go to Jane, but I dare not! What if she is dead?
If she were dead, there was nothing he could do but avenge her. These devils would pay. He saw the figures making for horses tied near a ravine. They think they can lose us in the swamp. They'll never get that far. One of the figures was in brown and seemed familiar. Tavington gave his head a shake. No, by God! He was familiar!
"Martin! You bastard! I'm going to kill you!" he screamed into the wind.
It was Martin, supporting another of his gang. No rebel flag in sight, Tavington gloated, his sword flashing before him, an extension of himself.
Bordon pulled to the side, after the last of the trio, who looked back at them, face white and scared. Tavington left him to it, and pursued his own prey. Within ten yards of the rebel horses, he slashed down at the wounded man, nearly severing his head. Martin loosed his grip on his follower, and turned to fight.
He glowered at his old enemy, who was back, it seemed, from the dead, "I thought we settled it the last time we met that you are not the better man."
Tavington hefted his sword, approaching with a hot gleam of bloodlust in his eye. "Today I am."
Martin had not drawn his pistol. Already discharged, then. Tavington realized, trying not to imagine how it had been discharged. He would not think about the coach, about what horrors might be waiting there. He must deal with this man first.
A half dozen of his dragoons closed in around them. Tavington rapped out, "Leave him to me!" He would not waste time and risk this man escaping.
His enemy was facing him, knife in one hand and tomahawk in another: undaunted, unashamed, unrepentant, and ready to kill him, if he could. Tavington considered his options, and then decided to spare his horse. He leaped down, sword in hand, striding to meet Martin and finish everything that lay between them. He drew a knife with his left hand, and moved in.
He feinted; and Martin twisted to parry the blow that never came. Instead, Tavington spun in with the knife, and raked Martin along his side. It would have been a disabling blow against a slower man. Tavington had never imagined this would be easy. The blood dripping from his knife as he sprang away was some comfort.
Martin was swinging from the side, quick as a serpent. Their blades met; and struck fire from each other, and slipped aside. The two circled each other, alert as fighting cocks in the pit, fighting not for country or honor or wealth, but because neither would give way to the other. Tavington watched Martin's eyes: for the eyes told everything. A sudden change and the man was leaping at him, axe raised. Tavington met him and their blades locked together as the two men glared face to face. Martin attempted to smash his head against his, but Tavington remembered that trick and dodged to the side, lashing out at Martin in his turn. The man stumbled; just enough. Tavington pulled down with his sword, breaking away from the other man's guard, and slashed low, cutting Martin along the back of his knee. The man screamed hoarsely, and stumbled, sliding down the edge of the road into the ravine.
Tavington plunged after him, tripping on a cypress root. He crashed into Martin's back and the two men rolled down the rugged hill, each stabbing at the air as they tried to catch a momentary advantage. Below them was the swamp.
Fetid green water surged over the two of them, splashing into Tavington's nose, into his eyes. Martin's leg wound burned, spilling red into the green, as his boot slid under a submerged branch and was trapped in the mire. Tavington was on his back, helpless. Martin swung back with the tomahawk, and then hacked at his mortal enemy. He missed by inches, grunting in frustration, and tried again.
My boot-- Martin frantically tried to free his leg. Tavington was struggling to his feet, covered with mud, shaking himself like a dog. With a mad growl, he threw himself on Martin. He caught at his enemy's arm, spinning him around to face him, sword tip against his breast.
And thus, in what seemed like an eternity for Tavington and Martin, but which was only a fraction of a second, a man's life hung in the balance. Martin had just enough time to think with love and regret of his family: of Charlotte, so recently his, and who now would alone once more; of his children, living and dead—and then Tavington lunged with all his weight and strength behind the blow, and ran him through the heart. The sword's point nailed Benjamin Martin to the bottom of the swamp that had been his refuge. In a moment more, he was dead.
Tavington studied this death more intently than most, searching the man's eyes for any hint of consciousness. It was over, and Tavington felt cheated. Rage exploded, thinking of what this man had tried to do; might have done…
"Bastard!" he shouted again, jerking his sword from the corpse. He grabbed at the body, as it subsided into the stinking ooze. "I'll kill you!" He brought the blade down in a hissing chop, and hacked at the dead body, again, and again. A spray of green water fountained at every blow. "I'll kill you! I'll kill you!"
A hand was reaching for his shoulder, and Tavington whirled on this new enemy.
"Colonel," Bordon was saying soothingly. "He's dead. There's nothing more you can do here. Mrs. Tavington has need of you. Come with me now."
Jane! He did not want to think about her. He had failed her and did not want to face her. But he was a man and her husband, and he must.
He swallowed, and shut his eyes. "Is she alive?"
"Yes. She's alive, and so is your son--"
"My son…" Tavington found the idea too difficult at the moment. He had a son…
Bordon was still speaking to him in the same quiet, persuasive voice, "--but she is in great distress and you must come to her." Bordon's hand was on his back, propelling him along. They splashed through the swamp water and then struggled up the muddy rise to the road. Tavington glanced at his friend and saw that he was clutching his blood-drenched left hand to his chest.
"You are wounded?"
"A slash across the forearm. Come, now."
"What happened to Jane?"
"The brutes fired into the coach. Her nurse was killed."
Oh, no. "They killed Biddy?"
"I fear so. From what I can gather, she attempted to protect your wife and was shot for her pains. Moll and some of the men are trying to extricate the body. She fell inside, her body sheltering Mrs. Tavington, and her foot was lodged in such a way that pulling her out is difficult."
Biddy had saved his life, and he had given her his word to reward her. She was dead now, and his word was worthless. Tavington walked to the coach, sick at heart. Martin lay forgotten behind him.
-----
Letty stood trembling with grief and shock as Seth wrapped her mother's lifeless body in a sheet. A ragged wail escaped her, trailing off into emptiness. Not all the weeping and crying in the world could reach Mama where she had gone.
Jane was still conscious, listening to Letty's heartbroken keening. Painful sobs wracked her, stealing the breath from her body.
"Moll, in my little trunk under the seat—there is my best handkerchief. Please take it out to cover Biddy's face."
Stepping over Jane carefully, Moll rummaged through the trunk and found some of the finest linen she had ever seen. "I remember this! Mighty pretty lace trimming. You sure, ma'am?"
'Oh—yes!" She was trembling herself, feeling very cold and lost. "Take it out directly," she babbled, "and cover Biddy's face. I cannot bear that dirt should fall in her eyes." She moaned, her hands waving futilely.
Moll pressed a big hand on her shoulder. "Now you lie still, ma'am. I'll see to it." She jumped from the coach, and Jane heard her consoling Letty.
"Look at this, honey. Ain't this pretty? Mrs. Tavington sent it for your Ma's face. Let's help the boy here get her all fixed up."
Letty fell to her knees beside her mother, kissing the dead eyes, cheeks, lips. Moll patted her back, and kept on with tucking in the makeshift shroud.
"I know, honey. I know it's hard where they go on and leave you. I thought I'd just about die myself when I lost my own Ma. It's terrible hard to bear. We'll fix her up real nice and the Colonel'll see the words said over her proper-like. Can't do better than that for her. You give her a last kiss and we'll put this nice kerchief over her. Now we'll finish with the winding sheet and tie it off. There. Not many get sent off so fine."
Jane could not keep her eyes open. She was so cold, so tired and wretched. Someone was coming into the coach, but she was too weak to object.
"Jane." Her husband whispered her name, as he knelt beside her.
She felt dazed and helpless. "Did they put my handkerchief on Biddy? Did they? I told Moll to put my best handkerchief on her, and if she doesn't I don't know what I'll—"
"Hush—hush, my dear. Moll is seeing to everything—"
"I don't want to bury her here where it happened. I want to take her far away, and bury her with a proper service. I'm so afraid those men will throw her in the swamp. Please don't let them throw her in the swamp—"
Tavington had never imagined trying to comfort grief like this. His triumph over Martin seemed a trumpery thing, bought too dearly. He had not reckoned on his enemy's persistent malice. All in all, he had made a hash of protecting Jane from harm. Now her beloved nurse was dead, and he wondered if Jane would ever forgive him. The coach floor was slick with blood. Anxiously, he examined his small, too-early son, lying so quietly on the quilt beside Jane. Yes, he was breathing: tiny, tiny breaths, yet the most precious in the world to Tavington. Awkwardly, he stroked the infant's face with a fingertip. He was useless here. Where was that woman? Jane had fallen into a restless stupor, exhausted by her hysterics.
He gave her a quick kiss and left the coach, his soaked boots and stockings making a wet, squelching sound as he walked. There was no time to do anything about that, even if he had had the energy. He would change his linen at camp, and have a trooper clean and oil his boots thoroughly. They must last until Charlestown, at least. He could not imagine what he must look like, muddy and bloody as he was.
Better than Martin does, at least, he acknowledged
A pair of his dragoons were retrieving the dead rebel's captured horses. The men detailed to the dead were dragging them out of the way, tumbling the bodies down the ravine into the swamp. Tavington was not equal to even the faintest smile as he saw a flash of French blue, followed by the rest of Martin's henchmen. Faint, dull splashes announced their make-shift burials.
No, I'm certainly not going to serve good, faithful Biddy likewise.
Seth was hovering anxiously over his old father, who was dazed and bleeding from the head. A crushing blow might have fractured his skull, Tavington guessed, from long experience with combat injuries. His own men had suffered, too.
Pevney's lifeless body was slung over his horse. Royce managed to mount his own. Bordon was leaning back against a tree. All these men must be seen to.
"Moll, help Letty back into the coach." The girl was in an appalling state, big eyes wide and staring. She was in shock, and would need careful treatment. "My dear Letty," he murmured. "you need to sit quietly. Do not fear for your mother. We shall take her with us to the encampment and give her decent Christian burial. There is nothing more you can do now. Come along, my dear."
He gave her his arm, soaked with blood and swamp water as it was. Without a word, she clutched at it, stumbling like a blind woman. Moll bustled ahead, clambering back into the coach. Tavington helped the half-fainting Letty up, and Moll hauled her inside.
"You there!" Tavington waved over a half dozen dragoons. "Find some rope and tie the poor woman's body to the top of the coach. We will bury her in camp."
No one dared object, and with Seth's sturdy help the task was soon done and the macabre bundle secured. Seth eased Silas up beside him in the driver's seat, the old man's head lolling alarmingly. There was nothing else to be done. Putting Silas on horseback would probably be worse for him.
With equal concern, he turned to have a look at Bordon's wound. His captain saw him coming, and managed a long-suffering grimace of a smile.
"I think," he declared, sounding strangely light-headed, "that I have endured all the wounds in His Majesty's Service that I care for. One does not mind a scar or two—that simply gives one that special martial air—but between the stab in January and this—" he winced, examining the torn flesh, "I have reached my limit, I think. Anymore would simply be de trop."
Tavington pulled off his cravat and looped it over Bordon's head, making a crude sling for the damaged arm.
"Can you ride?"
Bordon was dangerously close to shock himself. Tavington studied him anxiously.
"Yes," his friend finally determined. "I can ride, if someone can help me mount. That, I fear, is beyond me at the moment."
Tavington's glare propelled his men into action. One dragoon found a fallen log that would do for a mounting block. Another held the captain's horse. With Tavington's helping hand, Bordon was settled in his saddle, and the reins placed in his good hand.
He swayed precariously, but did not seem likely to swoon. Instead, he peered over the edge of the ravine. Tavington looked down, as well. The dead rebels were sprawled below in the shallow swamp water. The Frenchman had fallen over Martin, but Tavington could not fail to see his enemy. Martin's arms were flung wide, his mouth half-open and filling with muck.
Bordon looked at him, saying the one thing that his colonel might take comfort in. "And so, the Ghost will haunt us no more."
"I think not. May he rot in hell."
'How fares your lady?"
"Not well. The boy came a month early, but seems to be holding his own. It's in God's hands, I suppose."
"Dear me," sighed Bordon. "As bad as that?"
-----
Moll settled Letty down next to Jane on the floor of the jolting carriage. The big woman took the baby up in her arms, cuddling him with surprising tenderness. "You're a good boy, little Master Tavington. You let the girls get some sleep." Letty shuddered, and Moll's voice gentled into a low maternal rumble. "Yes, you sleep now, honey. It's best when you've had a bad shock. Shut your eyes and we'll catch up with the rest of the army before you know it."
Jane was conscious on and off, a dull misery hammering at her whenever she remembered that Biddy was dead. She reached for Letty's hand and clutched it in her own. Letty did not draw away, but turned toward her and pressed her face against Jane's shoulder, gasping out a few tired sobs. After awhile she was silent and motionless, exhausted into sleep. Jane shut her own eyes, trying to escape into unconsciousness.
She had no idea how long they had traveled, but awakened again when Seth reined in the team, and the carriage slowed to a stop. She could hear her husband issuing orders, but had no desire to face the world. Booted feet were scrambling on top of the coach, untying the shrouded remains of Biddy, and lowering her to the ground.
"—Gently!" Her husband sounded tired, too. She could hear him approaching, his tread crunching the pebbles underfoot. The light through her closed eyelids brightened as the coach door opened.
"Madam, we are arrived," he said quietly. "A stretcher is being brought to convey you to our tent. I sent a rider ahead to make ready for you and the child."
Unwillingly she opened her eyes, but could find nothing to say. He twitched a ghost of a smile at her, and added, "They have found a laundry basket for a kind of cradle, and all will be as comfortable for you as possible." He eased carefully onto a seat and leaned over Letty, who was awake, too: but silent and listless.
"Letty, dear girl, we shall see to your poor mother directly. The chaplain of the Volunteers is standing ready, and the grave is dug—a good, deep one in the churchyard of this little village where we are stopped. Come now, and I shall take you there."
Moll moved as if to get up, but Tavington shook his head. "No, Moll. Stay with Mrs. Tavington and the child. You have done good service today and I shall not forget it." Seeing Jane's faint frown, he asked, "Is that acceptable to you, Madam? Or would you prefer I saw you to the tent?"
"No—oh, no! Please take care of Letty and see that Biddy has a proper burial. I only wish I could come, too." She touched Letty's forearm as the girl got up. "I want to bid her goodbye. Perhaps—"
Tavington caught Moll's eye, and the woman shook her head.
"I am very sorry, but it cannot be. You must take great care of yourself and settle down to rest as quickly as possible. Letty can tell you about the service when we return."
He helped Letty down and put her hand on his arm. "Come now."
Jane blew out a weary breath, envying them both. Tears started up again, but Moll broke into her unhappy thoughts, determined to rally Jane's courage.
"Now you stop, ma'am. Of course you're sorry for her, but you've got to think about your baby. Here-- you look-- what a little sweetheart! You can't go making yourself sick with grief and spoiling your milk. Biddy'd want you to take good care of this little mite."
Her own son. So small, so helpless. Jane watched in wonder as the little pink mouth pouted and grimaced. "He's so tiny."
"He'll be all right, so long as you keep him fed and warm. I seen early babies before, and they catch up just fine, mostly." If they live. Moll had seen her share of babies laid in the cold earth, but now was no time to frighten Mrs. Tavington. Babies lived or died, and that was just the way it was. What mattered was that she had fought for this little fellow, and killed men for him, and she felt a strong interest in seeing that he had the best chance possible.
The stretcher was brought, and Moll stooped to pick up the young lady, and get her situated. The poor thing needed rest and quiet, and something warm in her belly. Colonel Tavington had given Moll a word of praise, and her heart swelled with pride. It was too early to tell, but maybe, just maybe, he would allow her to stay with his wife, and show them both how useful she could be.
-----
The sun was low in the sky, leaving the day behind in streaks of rose and gold, when Biddy was finally laid to rest. Letty was cried out, and listened to the rolling, beautiful words like an empty vessel aching to be filled.
Afterwards, Tavington helped her cast a little dust into the grave, supporting her when she seemed about to faint. Her mother lay below, wrapped in white, already one of the shapeless, anonymous dead. Letty stood, leaning on the strong arm, while the officers came by, Lord Rawdon first among them, murmuring words of sympathy. The funeral party broke up, and Tavington turned to escort the girl back to the tent she would share with Jane.
"I am sorry," Tavington told her, with a little diffidence, "that there is no time to mark her grave properly. They will put up a cross, of course, but nothing more."
"It doesn't matter," Letty said, her voice raw with too much grief. "God knows where she is."
-----
Notes: Yes, I know that in the film, Martin and his men are shown at Yorktown. That's completely wrong historically, and this time I've decided to ditch it. There were no units of South Carolina militia in Virginia. I have disposed of Benjamin Martin as my story warrants.
Over two hundred reviews! Thank you all so much! Your interest and your ideas mean a lot to me!
Next—Chapter 23: The Pleasures of Charlestown