Chapter 45: "It's Over! It's All Over!"

Rain was coming down in a soft, cold drizzle. Nonetheless, the 3rd Dragoon Guards were drilling in St. James Park. Horses were not otherwise allowed in the park, and generally the passersbys paused to gawk and admire. Today, however, was not a day for strolling in the park, and the few people on foot were hurrying past.

Tavington studied his men, searching for flaws. It was impossible to judge their courage, but by God, their sword drill would be perfect. St. Leger had drawn his attention to some minor slovenliness on the part of a trooper, and the man was nervous, knowing he had his colonel's eye on him.

The dragoons had heard gossip about William Tavington, and he was viewed by them with considerable wariness. On one hand, the papers said he had murdered women and children and enemy wounded in America. On the other, they had also heard that he was an officer who led from the front, and who stood by his own men. That he was an outstanding horseman and swordsman was evident to everyone. He had not shown any signs of being a martinet who ordered floggings for the least infraction. All in all, the dragoons were willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

"'Tis all politics anyway, I reckon--the rubbish in the newspapers," one sergeant declared. For the benefit of tender young recruits, he spread a little soldier's gossip. " I heard he was wounded in America. Damned near cut in two with a bayonet. Got a scar all the way from belly to brisket," he recounted with relish. "His horse was killed under him, and he never so much as dropped his sabre. A proper soldier, ain't he?"

Tavington was not quite insensible to the currents of opinion in his own regiment, but he did not allow them to trouble him. The regiment looked good, the men did not show up drunk for duty, the sergeants knew their business, and St. Leger, sitting his horse beside him, was a conscientious young officer. Too young, perhaps. Tavington liked him well enough, and they were cousins, after all; but he doubted that they would ever be close in the way Tavington had felt close to Bordon.

It's different, I suppose, when we simply go home to good dinners—or feast in the officers' mess—at the end of the day. Guard duty is largely a sham. We don't set pickets, knowing that failure to keep watch could cost us our lives. You never know, though. We might be posted to Ireland, I suppose, and have somewhat more serious responsibilities. He wondered what Jane would think of Ireland…

A trooper came galloping up with a message. "General Tazewell's compliments, Colonel; and if it please you, he wishes to see you and Colonel St. Leger in his office as soon as possible!"

Tavington raised a brow. St. Leger had no explanation for the sudden summons. "My compliments to the general, trooper. Tell him we shall be there directly." He shrugged. "St. Leger, dismiss the men. I wonder what Tazewell wants."

Before long they were making the short ride to Horse Guards. The two officers dismounted at the wide door, leaving their horses with a groom. There was a stir about the place. Little groups of officers were muttering. It was all very strange, and Tavington strode quickly through the halls. St. Leger, catching some his superior's uneasiness, followed after him. Cries and exclamations echoed down from the floors above. Tazewell's door was open, and the general gestured them in, past the whispering clerks.

"Tavington!" cried Tazewell, alarmed and pale. "Have you heard the news?"

"What news?" Tavington smiled, wondering what the General was so exercised about so early in the morning.

Tazewell's expression was grave and compassionate. "It's very bad. Come in. Come in, both of you, and shut the door."

Tavington was fairly mystified. "What is it, General? Are you quite well?"

"Yes, perfectly well--that is... Well, here, sit down."

Tavington exchanged another puzzled glance with St. Leger, and they took the offered chairs. Tazewell took a breath, and then said heavily, "Cornwallis and all his army are taken. He surrendered to the French and the rebels on October 19th."

St. Leger was struck dumb with shock. Tavington stared at the general, unable to comprehend immediately. "His entire army?" he faltered. It was inconceivable.

"So it seems. He was besieged in some place—Yorktown—a little village on the Chesapeake in Virginia. The army was trapped, and there was no escape."

"All of them?" Tavington repeated stupidly. All of them? What of Tarleton and his dragoons? He could not imagine the wild and careless Tarleton caged within siege lines. Surely he, at least, had escaped, and was riding free, visiting retribution on the enemy. The remnants of his own men were with Cornwallis' army. Were they taken, too?

Tazewell looked at him in compassion. "All. I can see you are shocked. We all are." He lowered his voice. "The news came early this morning. Lord North flung up his arms, crying, 'It's over! It's all over!' It has completely unmanned him."

"The King?"

"The King has been informed. I'm told he is speechless. No doubt he never dreamed of such an outcome. The repercussions—"

"Good God," whispered Tavington. "Where was Sir Henry Clinton? Where was the Navy?"

"In New York. They finally arrived, only to find that Cornwallis had surrendered the day before. They returned immediately to New York with the news."

"Surely—"

"Look, Tavington, I know you rather like Sir Henry, but I have no doubt he will bear a great share of the blame for this. The reports suggest—well, that he was as afraid that Cornwallis would succeed, as that he would fail. No one will want to shift the blame to Lord Cornwallis, who is even now suffering in enemy hands. I daresay Sir Henry will be the scapegoat for all."

"All of them!" Tavington repeated again, in shock. "That means—we will never be able to field such a force afresh—the officers will have given their parole…"

"Yes," Tazewell agreed. "Cornwallis and his army are finished, and with them, I fear, our chance of winning the war. They might as well come home, once they are released from imprisonment."

Tavington shook his head, thinking of all that must follow in the train of this disaster. "You don't understand. So many of our soldiers are Colonials. Where will they go? Their property has already been seized, or will be. My men—they will be homeless and penniless. What will become of them?" He stared through the window, unseeing, across St. James Park. "What a catastrophe!"

St. Leger muttered helplessly, "A black day indeed."

Tazewell leaned back in his chair. "Everyone feels deeply for Cornwallis—even some of the Whigs. The worst of them, of course, are already gloating."

Tavington snarled. "Treacherous bastards!"

"Easy, Tavington," Tazewell reproved. "They have a right to express themselves. We have a right to entirely disagree."

St. Leger laughed harshly. "And the Colonel here has a right to call them treacherous bastards, sir. The Whigs gazettes will make hay of this. What will be said on the floor of the Commons—?"

Tavington blew out a breath. It was too much to take in at once. The government, even with the support of the King, would no doubt collapse at some point. The Whigs would be swept in, triumphant. Tavington wanted to spit at the thought. He must get word to John, to tell him he must be present in the House today. He clung to ordinary matters, like a man clutching a spar in the midst of a shipwreck.

"I cannot bear to talk about this longer right now. I am to dine in the mess today." He rose, unsteadily, "I thank you, Tazewell, for telling me this privately. Come, St.. Leger, we will inform our own officers. Better that they know the worst at once."

He walked back down the hall toward the grey light of the entry, hardly seeing the way in front of him. St. Leger watched him with concern.

"Will you be all right, Tavington?" he whispered anxiously.

"The worst..." Tavington muttered to himself. Catching St. Leger's eye he barked a laugh. "The worst is over, and has been for a month. Yes. I'll be all right, but they won't be—the loyal people in America. I suspect that the worst is not over for them!"

-----

Wargrave Hall was a delightful home indeed, especially with a companion like Miss Gilpin. Jane felt very comfortable, having such an old friend at hand. Miss Gilpin's presence had subtly transferred some of Jane's familiar past to her new environment, making it somehow familiar in its turn. They took long walks, and came to know the house and its gardens intimately. They worked on overseeing the repairs together, and every day saw new projects and plans undertaken.

In the morning, just after she had completed her correspondence, Jane worked with Miss Gilpin and Pullen—and sometimes Moll-- to sew quilts for the maidservants. Once Mrs. Carter's concerns about Jane working beside the young girls from the village were related to her, Jane compromised by sewing the quilts with Miss Gilpin and her two upper servants. Moll joined them from time to time, but Moll was too busy with the baby or with shooting game to regularly sit at a quilting frame.

Instead, they gradually began to include Rose Atwood when Moll could not spare the hours. Rose was a nice girl, and very quiet, and could do plain sewing well enough that she learned the art of quilting quickly.

There was plenty of material in the stores, and they began simply, with the first two quilts being whole cloth, without piecing. Jane had found some bolts of lovely Indian chintz in the attic, which had been ruined along their folds by damp. They could cut the chintz into strips, however, and the next two quilts were strip quilts, alternating the patterns. They were well-made, but made quickly.

Jane wanted to teach Rose the honeycomb pattern for Rose's own new quilt. It would take longer: Miss Gilpin could not stay long enough to see it completed, but Jane felt that Rose would have a sound understanding of the process by the time they finished it. It gave her a great deal of pleasure to feel that she was teaching a young girl a skill that would always be of use to her.

Over their quilting they talked of pleasant, inconsequential things. Jane saved her secrets for more private moments. The hours passed pleasantly, and when she was tired of sewing, there were the accounts to be worked on, the baby to play with, or music or books to entertain her.

With so much to do, she had less time to agonize over past wrongs. She trusted Miss Gilpin, but she did not confide every unfortunate circumstance of her married life to her. She did not mention William's conduct with Lady Sattersby, knowing that it would permanently prejudice the older woman against her husband. Besides, Jane was too proud to admit that her chosen husband would behave so. His conduct had improved markedly since she had come to Wargrave, and perhaps it was for the best to let the past go.

She had previously mentioned Lady Cecily's treatment of her, and now let Miss Gilpin know that it might have been due to her mother-in-law's failing mental faculties. Without revealing all the ugly details, Jane was able to tell enough of the truth that Miss Gilpin was properly sympathetic with Jane, as the target of an unbalanced person. She also, however, spared a great deal of compassion for Lady Cecily, who in her eyes could be forgiven much.

"How I would hate to become senile and be a burden on my family! What a horrible fate," Miss Gilpin said, shuddering. "You say her children are treating her kindly?"

"Oh, yes, indeed. She has her rooms—her bedchamber and boudoir, and her maid. There is a nurse who looks after her and is very civil, and her daughters, at least, sit with her regularly. The doctor says there is nothing to be done for her, except to keep her comfortable. I believe he has prescribed laudanum, for the times when she becomes unduly excited. I still cannot say I wish to have anything to do with her, but I can pity her."

"I am glad to hear it, Jane. We must always forgive those who trespass against us." She changed the subject to something more pleasant. "You heard from Miss Penelope today, I am told. Did she send you the rice?"

"Oh, yes! I sent it down to Mrs. Jeffreys, with instructions as to how I want it cooked. She probably knows all about it, but I am so anxious that everything be just right for William Francis' first essay in solid food."

For Moll had declared that she thought the baby ready to try something beyond his mother's milk. He was sitting up well now, and growing into a strong little boy. Jane remembered all about Little Ash's upbringing, especially Biddy's opinion that rice porridge was the best, safest first food for an infant.

"Corn mush is hard on a little baby's belly, honey; and even wheat don't always go down well. Rice is best."

Moll had used corn mush herself with her own baby son. "But that was because that's what I had, ma'am. Didn't have the money to buy rice. Let's try it good old Biddy's way."

An old infant's chair had been brought down from the upstairs nursery, and scrubbed and polished to a mellow shine. Just after noon, at the proper hour for a child's dinner, William Francis was placed in it and his monogrammed silver porringer filled with thin rice gruel, carefully prepared by Maggie Jeffreys, and brought up from the kitchen by Rose. His silver spoon was taken from its box, and the little boy was the focus of four pairs of anxious, doting eyes.

Jane, as his mother, claimed the right to make the first attempt. William Francis was glad to be surrounded by his favorite people. Perched in his chair, he grinned at them all equably, until the strange metal object was placed in his mouth and a strange thick paste deposited on his tongue. Sensibly, he opened his mouth and allowed it to run down his chin. The disgusted expression on his little face would have made his father laugh out loud. The women surrounding him, however, knew that this was a serious rite of passage, and were not about to let a baby think that spitting out good food was amusing behavior.

"Oh, dear!" was all that Jane said. Moll quickly gave the baby's face a wipe, and Jane tried another tiny quarter-spoonful, and this time put a finger lightly under the baby's chin. He complained, he fussed, he pushed at the offending spoon, but gradually a small amount of gruel was inside him. He did not understand why the women around him were petting and praising him, but accepted it as his due.

"Not so bad, for a first time," beamed Moll. "That's always the hardest!"

The tale of William Francis' first dinner made a large part of Jane's next letter to Tavington. She was enjoying her life in the country more than ever, and was getting to know the people who inhabited this corner of the world. When Miss Gilpin left, she would not feel utterly alone.

And, alas, the days of Miss Gilpin's visit were over too soon. There were embraces, there were admonitions, there were last minute thoughts. Jane was sorry to see her friend depart, but buoyed by the realization that Miss Gilpin could still be part of her life. They would correspond, and her old governess had promised to make a regular yearly visit to her.

The hired coach that was to take her to catch the mail coach in Chelmsford arrived, and left, and Jane remained at the front door, her thoughts turning pleasantly to presents that had arrived from Letty. She had sent Jane a book on astronomy, Moll a fine green round gown, and the baby the dearest little blue coat. Nor had Pullen been forgotten. For her, Letty sent a cap and an apron of the finest muslin. It showed a generous heart. Perhaps Letty was still Letty, and their next meeting would be a happy one…

----

The following afternoon, the house was thrown in turmoil by the arrival of an express rider. Jane was alerted to the approach of a strange man on horseback, galloping up to the door. She met the man, and a letter was abruptly thrust at her. Once she gathered what was happening, she opened the letter instantly.

November 25, 1781

My dear Jane,

I send this by express because I wanted you to have this news before it comes to you in a newspaper or by some ignorant countryman. First of all, do not be alarmed for anyone in the family. No one at Number Twelve is dead or injured. I am writing because we have received news that Lord Cornwallis has been taken prisoner in Virginia, along with his entire army.

The news is entirely true. The source is all too credible. His army is lost, and with it, I fear, the war. Tazewell broke the news to me early this morning. John attended the Commons today and heard more of the dreadful details. He is under pressure to help his party by his regular presence for votes, for the political storm that is brewing will no doubt upset the applecart. He admits himself that his days of dilatory attendance are over.

I am glad for that, at least. He can do the cause of my soldiers and their dependents much good, if he will rouse himself from the ranks of the backbenchers. The Whigs are sharpening their knives, but even they will not attack the loyal Americans openly. I pray not, anyway.

Jane, I am all at sea. All my convictions, everything of which I felt certain—I am at a loss. How could a modern British army could fall prey to a pack of rabble? Surely there has been some gross incompetence. Sir Henry failed to go to Lord Cornwallis' aid in time. The Navy was strangely slothful. It is all a mare's nest of folly and corruption and selfish pride!

Yes, the rebels won one or two battles. I have not forgotten King's Mountain or Cowpens. But those were one two amongst all the brilliant British victories! All of those victories were in vain. I knew Cornwallis had stretched his supply lines too far! I knew this strategy was faulty!. And now, all those brave men are captives, and the Americans among them are doomed to penury and exile, and possibly worse!

The thought of those soldiers being forced to give up their arms by grinning rebel louts makes me feel so very low. I wonder constantly if I could not have prevented it all in some way, had I been there. How guilty I feel. If I had not been so reckless at Cowpens—if I had not got myself so horribly wounded—if I had killed Martin earlier when I had the chance—If! If! If! I can hardly sleep thinking about what might have been. It is weak of me, but I have never felt so utterly downhearted.

I have heard that the King, too, is grieving. There are whispers that he is speaking of abdication. I pray not. England is still strong, and does not need thirteen rebellious colonies to prop it up. I would say good riddance, if it were not for all the loyal and decent people who must suffer because the radicalism of a few.

And, of course, I simply cannot write my memoir as I first intended. I cannot cast stones at Cornwallis. I have come to realize that I do not always show much regard for the feelings of others, but even I can see how offensive and arrogant and useless it would be attack the man now. I hate having been right about his march to Virginia. I wish with all my heart I had been wrong, and that he had succeeded. Tarleton, I am told, was taken too, and the rebels hated him as much as they hated me. I pray that he be treated with the honor and decorum he merits.

And this is not all my bad news. Along with the rest, it was revealed what had become of our good friend Lord Rawdon, of whom we have heard nothing since we came to England, though he left South Carolina over a week before we embarked.

Rawdon's ship was taken by the French. He has been a prisoner for the past few months. The word now is that he will be set free, but after paying a heavy ransom. He is very fortunate, for his release had been delayed by bickering between the French and the rebels, who wished to have him turned over to them for execution! The French, having some decency, refused such a vile demand with the scorn it deserved.

I think what makes me angriest is the hypocrisy of it all. Our own brave and honorable John André was hanged as a spy, and the rebels thought that all very fine and proper—even denying him a soldier's death by firing squad. Then we have the rebel Hayne, who was not only a spy, but also a parole-breaker who tried to secretly undermine our defenses. He was tried and hanged, and oh, the outrage! The unspeakableness of it all! And now they want to hang Rawdon? If they had any decency they would be yapping at George Washington's heels, the man who sent André to his death!

I know that you have never been terribly interested in the strategies and politics of the war, but you must see that they do matter—even to you as a woman. Indeed, I write to you because of all my family, you alone know what it was like. Even my fellow officers here in England do not fully understand my frustration.

I don't know what to do at this point. I drill my pretty 3rd Dragoons like good little toy soldiers, and meanwhile the men who have bled for King and Country are prisoners!

You must tell Moll what has happened. She, I know, will feel for her old comrades. It was harsh of Cornwallis to leave all the women in South Carolina, but now I am glad he did. At least they are safe.

This is a dreadfully stupid letter. I am completely unable to write all the proper things about the family. Expect to see me in a day or two. I will get away when I can. I cannot bear to be in London. That loathsome Charles James Fox and his idiot followers are gloating, and I think if I witness any more of it I shall do something quite unforgivable. I need to see you and talk about it all with you.

Yours in haste,

William

Jane had opened the express letter with great alarm, wondering if her mother-in-law had died, or if William had been injured. At first she read the military news with mild concern. Another reading disclosed to her that this was the most important letter that William had ever sent her.

If she had longed to know that she mattered to him, she now had the proof positive of it. Not a florid love note written in poetical language, with her many virtues detailed and embellished upon; but a straightforward letter from the heart, speaking to her as the one friend to whom he could confide his current misery, the one to whom he could share his thoughts and feelings. She considered the letter, its unhappiness, its passionate language. Looked at rationally, it was a profoundly flattering letter.

And of course, she was sorry for the King's Men too—and more so for their dependents, the women and children who would suffer the most. Yes, she would tell Moll. Moll understood the situation. Never had Jane been so happy that she had asked Moll to accompany them to England. Moll had been a treasure—a pillar of strength. And now, Jane could feel that she had done Moll Royston a service as well. Her good servant was saved from all the sufferings that the loyal people must endure.

I wonder if some restitution will be offered them. It would be only just. I wonder what Papa thinks of all this? She rarely thought of her father, but no doubt he had played both sides for his own profit, and was now sneering at those whose principles had demanded that they make their loyalty manifest. He probably thinks they were fools.

She felt a deep unease, thinking of her relatives in Charlestown. Their loyalties were as varied as the colors of the rainbow, but they were all her kin. In one way or another, they had all borne much, whatever their views. If the British truly lost, the army would leave Charlestown at some point, and then what would happen? Jane could not predict the future, but she was certain that life in South Carolina would never be the same.

She sat down in the library, where she had been sorting through the books that needed rebinding. Here she was, in a charming if rather run-down country house in quiet Essex, far from war's alarms. For the first time since she came to England, she genuinely felt that her new situation was an improvement. She had been often unhappy with William. He had disappointed her in many ways—but in truth she was safe and content. Now her erring husband was begging her for comfort.

He wants a friend who understands him. I can be that to him. I may not be a "Queen of Fashion," or "Beautiful as an Angel," but I can be my husband's valued friend. Perhaps, after all, that is more what a marriage should be than to be placed on a pedestal like some different species of creature.

She organized the different piles of books carefully, and then went upstairs to speak to Moll.

-----

Tavington arrived two days later, cold and weary, a little past noon. It was apparent to Jane that he must have left very early indeed. Not since he was lying wounded in Camden had she seen him so pale and listless. She put some thought into what could be done for him. He was helped out of his greatcoat by Young, and then Jane took him by the hand and made him sit with her by the fire in the library and rest. Within a few minutes, a tray was brought in with sandwiches and a steaming cup of tea. Jane talked quietly about William Francis and his latest accomplishments, while her husband wolfed down the food.

Afterwards, his eyes were less dull when he said, "Let's go see the boy now."

He did not seem to notice Jane knocking before she entered the nursery. Moll greeted him with hearty fellow feeling, "Good day to you, Colonel! You sit down and watch this little fellow eat his porridge. That'll make you smile."

Tavington did smile, when he saw the baby sitting up in his high chair and looking about, very aware of his audience. The child had become more resigned to the strange ritual of rice porridge for one o'clock dinner, and was eating from the spoon very solemnly. Even more solemnly than usual today, since he saw his father watching, and wanted to show off his new trick for him. When he decided he had had enough, he turned his head away and shut his mouth. Tavington came over and picked up his son, running a hand over his back.

"He looks well. Considerably more intelligent than he did a month or so ago." Very gently, he used a finger to examine the two tiny white lower teeth. "He's growing up. Time marches on."

"Good thing, too," Moll grunted, folding linen.

Tavington played with his son for some time, admiring the boy's grip around his finger, noting how intently the bright, round eyes watched him. Holding the warm little bundle was somehow comforting. Comforting too was Jane's affectionate, proud look at how well he got on with his son. He thought both women were showing admirable restraint, saying nothing about the war news until he spoke first. It had to be faced, sometime, and somehow it was easier here.

"It appears that a peace is being negotiated with the rebel colonies—one that will give them complete independence. It will take a long time, obviously. Meanwhile, there will be a general cessation of hostilities."

"Is there any word about the prisoners?" Jane asked.

"None. We should hear from the rebels soon, when they make their demands. I daresay that with luck the officers at least will be released on parole."

"Bit hard on the men," Moll muttered to herself.

Tavington sighed. "You're right. They will no doubt be imprisoned until the final peace. I will be using any influential connection I have to guarantee that they receive pay for their period of imprisonment. I also have hopes that some of the provincial regiments—like our own Dragoons, Moll," he said with a faint smile to the tall woman, "are taken into the regular establishment, with pay to match. It would be some reward for their trouble. There is not much more to say until we receive further news."

"Well, all I can say is that I'm glad I ain't with the garrison in Charlestown now," Moll declared. "Must be a right downhearted place, with none of the women knowing when they'll see their men again. And I don't reckon that some fellow in New York saying that nobody should fight while they're making peace is going to matter much to those militias out there in the backcountry."

"I suppose not," he agreed.

Probably any loyal people left out there were lying low, or were on their way to safe havens like Charlestown or Savannah—or were fleeing the conflict altogether, crossing into Canada or taking ship to safer shores. Jane leaned over to give William Francis his soldier doll, and the boy waved it happily.

"I cannot expect a reply to my letter to Cousin Mary for some time, but I am sure she will have much to say. In the meantime," she said firmly, "there is nothing we can do about the situation. Worrying may be unavoidable, but it is useless."

"True. Let us worry about things closer at hand. I want to think of something else. How are the carpenters faring with the schoolroom?"

"It is almost complete! Come, let me show you." Jane took William Francis from him, placed a soft kiss on the baby's fluffy dark hair, and gave the child to Moll to put down for his nap. Than she took her husband by the hand. Her hand was warm and soft in his. Tavington was almost ashamed to find comfort in so small a thing, but comforting is was.

Jane led him about the house, showing him how well everything was progressing, except for some plastering in the second floor ceiling, which had not been finished to her satisfaction, and must be done again.

"They have almost completed the new panels for the Great Chamber. Mrs. Carter showed me some stored tapestries. Some of them are in fairly good condition, and Pullen has shown herself quite clever at mending them. They are too fragile to have the dust beaten out of them, but we are trying other methods of cleaning them more gently. Some of them are very old."

"Yes. Some of them came from the old castle. I'm surprised the moths haven't eaten them entirely."

"They were carefully stored. If we display them, it must be in a place where no direct sunlight will fall upon them. Now come and see the nursery. I have had the walls painted above the wainscot, and had the floor and the furniture scrubbed. It is beginning to look quite cheerful."

She drew him into the high-ceilinged room. The walls above the wainscot had been a dirty white in his childhood. The new pale yellow was like eternal sunshine. The worn floors and furniture glowed with polish, and windows shone clear and clean. The toy cabinet drew his eye. He wondered if his little bow and arrows were there. One summer he and John and the girls had had a rage for archery and had played Robin Hood every day for months. He reached out and touched his old bedstead.

"It's very nice. You've done wonders."

He felt of pull of nostalgia at the sight of his old haunts. The room echoed with the ghostly laughter of generations of children. His mood darkened, thinking of the world outside, and all its stupidities. The boy who had lived here could never have imagined the present disaster—

Abruptly, he said, "I can't do this right now. I must go for a walk. Forgive me. I must not let my low spirits depress yours—"

Jane was concerned at his wild expression. "Are you all right, William?"

"Yes—quite all right. I need to be outside. I shall be back for dinner, of course."

"Would you like me to go with you?" Jane asked, glancing with misgiving at the steel-gray sky. It was cold outside, but loyally she made the offer.

Tavington could see that what his wife thought of the weather. "No. I'll go alone. I'll take a gun and shoot something if I'm lucky." He muttered darkly, "I'd feel better if I did shoot something."

Jane watched him stride away, anxious for him. No doubt he would be dirtier than ever by the time he was back. Perhaps a bath might comfort him a little. She went downstairs herself, to give orders for a great deal of hot water…

Tavington ran down the stairs, and slammed the library door open, looking for the gun chest. Nemesis saw him coming and jumped out of his way. A young footman, thinking from the all the noise that he was wanted, approached and then quickly backed off, seeing the look on his master's face.

Tavington smiled grimly. A sorry thing, when I'm reduced to shooting rabbits instead of rebels! He loaded John's good fowling piece, threw his greatcoat back on, and stalked out of the house, turning his face up to the cutting wind. It was good to face the merciless elements. God only knew what his friends were suffering. He had gotten soft, accustomed to a life of ease. He hardly deserved to be called a soldier anymore.

He cut through the brambles of the deserted rose garden, heading for the Three Farthing Wood. Bare branches raised their arms over the lane, closing him in. He turned off the little road, and plunged into the undergrowth, crushing dead leaves carelessly underfoot. He was searching for something, but he hardly knew what.

The ground sloped downward, leading to Barrow Brook and the Long Pond. A gray crust of ice was forming at the edges of the streambed. The water was dark and sluggish. A stray thought crossed his mind, and he remembered Martin. I wonder if he's still in the swamp. Imagining Martin's body deliquescing into the muck of South Carolina only fed his anger.

"Bastard," he growled. "I should have killed you long before."

May was too late: there had been Cowpens the January before. Tavington, however, had sent out scouts and found out the rebels' plans. They had waited up on the ridge, and waited, and waited, until the scurvy militia had broken and fled in fear, and then, and only then, Tavington had charged down on them and cut them to pieces. Martin was running, looking over his shoulder; running, but not fast enough. Tavington was coming in fast, very fast, his arm was scything across. Martin's head flew away from his body in a fountain of crimson gore. It bounced a few yards away. Tavington did not stop to look at it, because the Continentals were still waiting beyond the rise--

No, that was not good enough. He tried again to make the past conform to his desires.

Their plan was a success. Tavington had tracked the militia to their lair in the swamp. He led his dragoons through the shallow water, hearing up ahead the startled cries as the rebels became aware they were discovered. Martin looked up in alarm, and was shot down before he could get to his horse. The rebels were falling, yes: but some of his men were falling too. It was hard to manage the horses in the swamps. Too many of his men were falling—

No, not good enough either. He walked faster. The sere and brittle twigs caught at his coat, holding him back. Snarling, he pushed them aside, snapping them off ruthlessly.

Tavington was sitting on his horse in front of a white farmhouse. There were wounded there: the rebels' and their own. A middle-aged farmer, his shirt stiff with blood, was coming out to talk with him. Behind him stood his children. The eldest son had been found carrying rebel dispatches. Tavington had to make a quick decision--

Tavington stopped dead, at the edge of the Long Pond. He was perfectly balanced between two possible paths, and could not decide which one to take. Either would be different from his choice of May, 1780, but which one was best? He had just married Jane. He knew now that his future was assured. He needed neither Cornwallis' patronage, nor a quick success. What then should he do?

Tavington was sitting on his horse in front of a white farmhouse. The young spy was taken into custody as a prisoner of war. The grieving family watched the departure of the blonde boy—what was his name? Jane knew him and did not care for him. She did not like the Martins much at all, but what would she think if her husband hanged Martin's son out of hand? Would he have cared what Jane thought in those days? Clearly, he had not. More fool he.

He tried to follow the ghostly trail of such a choice. Young Martin was taken as a prisoner, and gave his parole. They all did, always. After a few months at home, he would break his parole and join the rebels again, by going north to find the Continentals--yes, that was it. Young Martin was with Gates at Camden. He was there, shooting at the Dragoons as they charged. A stray bullet struck Tavington—

A low hiss of rage escaped him. His hands clenched the gunstock, knuckling white. Treacherous little bastard! He should have killed him when he had the chance. Ah, yes, there was the other choice—

Tavington was sitting on his horse in front of a white farmhouse. The young spy was taken, and Tavington commanded him hanged on the spot. That stupid, pale-faced boy lunged at him, and Tavington shot him. The children were screaming, and the blonde boy was crying out wildly as the soldiers dragged him to the nearest tree. A rope was thrown over a branch and the father, mad with grief, put up a respectable fight before he was killed. The house and outbuildings were put to the torch. The terrified orphans were rounded up, and given in charge to a sergeant, who would leave them with a neighbor.

It was very tidy, and true to his nature, and saved Tavington a world of pain and difficulty. And yet— And yet—behind all the violent images was a disturbing reflection. Tavington looked at the father and for a moment saw himself. The boy being dragged away was taller and had dark hair. Tavington gave a great, horrified gasp. No one should dare to lay hands on his son!

"I'll kill you!" His cry was echoed by the blast of the fowling piece. In his distraction, he had squeezed the trigger. The shot ripped through the treetops, scattering withered leaves down onto the still pond. Crows swooped away, cackling their derision of his marksmanship. His nose was dripping. Roughly he wiped at it, hating that dreadful vision. The thought of anyone harming that child up in the nursery, the warm little person whom Tavington loved with all his heart—

Of course Martin had killed the escort. Killing them single-handed was impressive, but Tavington thought he could have done it himself. I wouldn't have left any survivors to talk, either. Ambush, surprise, enough weapons. If any group of men were stupid enough to try to take his son to his death, they would die themselves in short order. Martin was right: nothing is so precious as a child. Hang the King and all his idiot ministers and all their blunderings! A child must always come first, or life is not worth living. He turned back to the house, and tripped over a snaking tree root. Flailing at the air, he fell face-forward into a puddle of dead leaves and dirty water. The gun was still gripped tightly, and he hit his nose against the barrel. The pain of it stunned him briefly. He lay on the wet ground, shaking, and then pushed himself up, hard, He wiped his nose again, surprising himself with the bloody smear on his hand. It was very cold. Dimly, he thought it would be a very good idea to find Jane now.

Tavington was sitting on his horse in front of a white farmhouse. He turned his horse's head away, and cantered south, back to Charlestown.

Thank you to those who did like the prior chapter. I appreciate you taking the time to review.

Next—Chapter 46: …And Life Goes On