Tavington found it strange waking the next morning without Vivienne's warmth beside him, but he ignored this and left his tent to address the men.
Even before he had spoken to anyone, Tavington knew something was wrong. The camp was not bustling with its inhabitants as it should have been. Instead, about 15 of the 50 or so men who had come to Jefferson town were rousing themselves.
Tavington felt his anger rising. Damn. Leave it to Bordon to misinterpret orders and condemn his Colonel to a humiliating defeat by the militia! Wanting to confirm his suspicions Tavington walked up to Elijah Simmons, one of the other captains.
"How many men are there in this camp?" Tavington barked, startling the man.
"14, counting you, sir." Simmons replied.
"Why are there so many with Bordon?" Tavington said through gritted teeth.
"They all had business in Savannah, sir. Mostly family business."
Tavington sighed, rubbing a finger thoughtfully over his unshaven cheek.
"Prepare the men. We shall be leaving in fifteen minutes," he ordered, watching Simmons march off to do his job, feeling important. Tavington packed up his things in a matter of minutes and felt he had a moment or two to shave before the men departed. After all, looking like a savage in front of the Lord General was never a good idea.
The Colonel knelt by the stream with his razor, dragging the blade across his cheek. Within a few minutes, he was shaving absentmindedly, thinking of Vivienne and the baby. Though Cornwallis would probably be hoping Tavington wouldn't return, at least Vivienne would be pleased to see him.
Tavington broke away from his thoughts as a faint shout reached his ears. He glanced up abruptly to see a group of men on horseback come riding over the hill. Tavington stood quickly, wiping his cheek and going for his saddlebag, where his pistol was. Judging from their clothing, these men were militia. Benjamin Martin wasn't with them, but the blond youth furiously leading the pack so looked awfully familiar . . .
The militia was at the bottom of the hill now, already dismounting to battle with the British soldiers coming out of the trees with weapons raised. Tavington gripped his pistol.
The blond youth was glancing about as if searching for something. Tavington was not the least bit surprised when the youth's gaze came to rest on him. Tavington loaded his pistol slowly, watching the boy begin to make his way down the hill toward his target. Ah, he's not as agile as he looks, the Colonel thought snidely.
His own men were not faring well in this battle. It was time to even the score a bit.
Tavington reached for his rapier, drawing it just in time to slice through a militiaman coming toward him. The Colonel looked up to see the blond youth coming closer, his lips set in a hard angry grimace, his movements fast and hard. Tavington stood his ground, continuing to shoot down his enemies, or whip his rapier through them if they got too close.
Tavington smacked a man in the nose hard with the hilt of his sword, and shot the man as he went down. A flash of red caught Tavington's eye. Simmons was battling the young blond man only feet away, and was losing.
The battle continued on around Tavington and Gabriel as they moved closer and closer to each other. Tavington's gaze locked with that of an older man who seemed to be a priest. The priest reloaded his gun, not appearing particularly holy at the moment. Tavington quickly reloaded his own pistol, biting off the end of his gunpowder cartridge.
Both aimed at the same time, but Tavington's reflexes were quicker. He fired, watching the priest crumple to the ground, his loaded gun still in his hands.
In this time, Gabriel had killed Simmons and watched the priest go down with hard, dark eyes. The youth swept up the priest's discarded, but loaded, rifle and aimed at Tavington, who had only just finished reloading. The Colonel aimed his pistol at Gabriel's heart and a shot cracked through the air.
This time, it was Gabriel's reflexes that had triumphed.
Tavington clasped his hands to the hole in his side as he went down, the clockworks of his mind still going, inventing a plan despite his wound. Tavington hit the ground deliberately on his stomach, forcing himself to remain completely still.
He listened to the boy walk up to his prostrate form, hoping he would be right in his assumption of the boy's naïveté. No rifle was cocked, and the feet of the familiar youth were now at Tavington's side. He listened carefully as a rabbit, waiting. Finally, a small grunt escaped the boy and Tavington whirled up, driving his rapier under the boy's rib cage at the perfect time.
Shock registered in those dark, young eyes as the boy gasped for breath. His face was so close to the Colonel's that Tavington could see each individual freckle on that suntanned nose.
Tavington found with surprise he did not take any pleasure in this fight as he usually did. It was all about survival. If the boy was any kind of soldier, he would understand that.
The youth fell backwards onto the grass, still gasping, and Tavington pulled his bloody rapier out of the boy.
All at once, the adrenaline left the Colonel and he hunched over in pain. A red flower was blooming several inches above his left hip. Tavington pressed his hand to the wound and mounted his horse, realizing, as he rode away, he was the only survivor of the battle.