Much thanks to the lovely readers for peeking in on my little yarn! Feel free to drop a review in for your writer! I love me some feedback.
MsNarcissaBlack – Thank you for the review, ma'am! I look forward to hearing from you again.
SlytherinDragoon – I'm a bit of a fanatic when it comes to following the period's costume, so I do hope my aim strikes right on all the clothing described forthwith! As to the skip, it will be explained in later chapters, but it was purely intentional. My bad if I've thrown anyone off with confusion! I certainly look forward to hearing from you, as I've read your work and loved every bit of Innocence Lost.
As always, The Patriot and all characters in it belong to Columbia Pictures and any other respective holder of said intellectual property. I am not profiting from writing this material based off of their property.
Italics indicate thought or writing.
* Indicates a footnote at the end of the chapter for historical goodies or an author note on the subject.
Chapter 3 – Pox of this Nonsense!
January 18th, 1781
Colonel William "The Butcher" Tavington was not a man to be trifled with in any condition. Wilkins and a few hapless British Regulars learned this lesson quickly after insisting on a man to sit at Tavington's bedside for the night. Said man lasted a grand total of half an hour before bowing out of the race, bets now in place around many a campfire that the ornery and vicious colonel would not make it through the night at the rate he was refusing care. The generous soldier who offered the aid couldn't be blamed for deserting. Heavy objects thrown by a snarling patient weren't working conditions worth the amount of shillings the dragoons were offering for his troubles.
After Tavington had dispatched the latest ninny who thought to play nursemaid with him, he collapsed back onto his cot in a heap of trembling limbs and stale sweat. The fever ached right to his bones with the chill. Even the worn travel cloak and tiny brazier set as safely close as possible to his sickbed did nothing to alleviate the shaking cold.
White knuckled and tense, the colonel stared holes into the sloped roof of his cramped tent. He had at least had the foresight to straighten out his affairs before leaving all those years ago for this campaign. Whatever meager sum left in his accounts in London would be bequeathed to Augusta as a trustee for her young sons until they came of age to inherit.
He wondered silently about his far flung family in his delirium. Dear old Gussie and her husband were expecting another by the time he embarked for the colonies.
Florence and Frances were safely absconded in sound marriages in Southampton to a pair of brothers partnered in some sort of booming business venture involving sulfur water.
Matilda was due to make her debut in society this season under Aunt Louisa, he realized as another pain griped at his guts. Tiny Tilly, all grown up in just a few short years.
Tempus fugit, he thought sardonically. Time did fly.
"You're looking worse for wear, sir. Muttering about a sweetheart and flying clocks, are we?" A voice trilled by his ear, startling him out of his fever dreams. It was the strange woman again, draped heavily in winter shawls.
"Forgive me. I didn't think I'd have such marked pleasant company at this hour." He drew up the cloak over his naked shoulder, more for warmth than modesty.
"You sound thrilled! I've heard word on the wind that you've been a bit resistant to a caring hand, sir. You'll never make it out of this swamp with that attitude."
This Vivian Manners, as she was presumably called if Wilkins could be relied on for correct information, sat herself down on the medicine chest she had lugged in with her for lack of a better seat. A no nonsense look was shot at him before a sneaky yank had his cloak in a puddle around his waist. One look at his bound stomach had her hissing in sympathy, him shifting in the uncomfortably vulnerable position the woman had him in. He was a mess from the waist down; swirling tones of puce, puss yellow, and a strange shade of sickly green had all surged out into his skin from under the bindings. Manners reached for one of the myriad of large drawers in the chest, reverently placing what he guessed was some sort of fabric swaddled lump near the brazier after rummaging around.
"The heat will get them moving in a minute," she said offhandedly, pointing towards what he now saw clearly as an earthenware jar with a thin swatch of silk serving as the top, bound tightly to the jar with twine. Tavington shot the woman a look, eyes narrowing in suspicion.
"It seems your wounds have brought on a little congestion of blood under the skin, which the hirudo medicinalis is more than happy to help alleviate," she offered as an answer, smiling blithely at his flabbergasted appearance.
"You're not bleeding me with those wretched things, woman. Go peddle your archaic medicine on some other fool," he hissed, a surge of anger bringing him to a sitting position on the cot.
"Leeches are the painless alternative, unless you prefer me taking one of those horrible contraptions to you for pricking and slicing. It's your funeral." The strange woman fixed him with a studious look, seemingly more fascinated with his objections than frustrated. Silenced, he fell limply back on the mess of bedclothes in grudging submission. A careful slash with her penknife had the strips binding his stomach in shreds, the affected area bare to bleed at her bloody leisure.
Vivian fished out two of the languidly twisting blobs from her pot, setting them down on the discoloured stretch of his abdomen. Careful of his patches, she gently coaxed the leeches to take hold with a thumb to what he presumed were the heads.
"Tell me about Tilly, then. Is this your wife?" Tavington chuckled weakly at her attempt at distracting conversation, his eyes glazed over with fever. He'd humour her.
"Tilly is my youngest sibling. A striking resemblance to our mother. She's unbearably kind tempered, though. Very vulnerable," Tavington muttered to Vivian. The woman quirked a genuine smile before plopping a few more of the disgusting creatures onto his mottled stomach. A few quick pinches and that was all he felt, the leeches settling right down to the task at hand.
The task at…mouth, rather.
"I can't even feel them," he admitted, raking a few sweat soaked strands of dirty hair back into the half undone queue.
"Amazing, no? It's in their saliva. Some form of numbing agent and anticoagulant that keeps the blood from clotting before they take their fill. They fall right off after they've swollen up with the blood. I'm surprised they survived the crossing, to be honest." Manners reached with a long, slender finger to prod at the first few leaches dining on the pooling treat of wasted plasma, the area already noticeably less bloated and tender after the fattened bloodsuckers popped off of him.
Tavington didn't quite share her enthusiasm for the eyesores, but he did feel considerably less pained than when he did before.
Like a mothering hen, she set about re-bandaging and cleansing his wounds with more of the burning solution before sticking the patches edged with honey.
"I'll pray that a passing bear doesn't take notice of what you're covering a bloody wound with. I'll come out alive after Cowpens only to be a glazed sweetmeat for some furry abomination in this damnable backwater," he groused to himself aloud.
This only sent the tart into a round of trilling laughter, well naturedly shoving a serviceable tin cup into his hands after she had composed herself once more. He had noticed her wielding it in her first few minutes in his home away from home before she set it aside on the grille of the brazier. The smell wafting up in lazy whorls of steam had his attention in a heartbeat.
"Spiked with laudanum, so I suggest you take the opportunity to rest. The drugs and tea leaves are getting harder to come by with the supply lines cutting off. Be thankful."
Before he could object to her violating more personal boundaries, the strong boned fingers were making short work of unraveling his queue. His eyes were drawn up the delicate curve of a wrist to the comely lines of her long neck as he politely enjoyed his rare treat of tea instead of gritting out a word of thanks. Tavington had never truly noticed in their few encounters how fine of features the lady was, or the warm darkness of her eyes as they were intent upon a task.
Without a doubt, it's the fever. I'll be raving mad by noon.
After she had worked his lank, foul smelling hair from its confines, she stepped out for a brief minute to fetch back a basin of boiling water from some vast cauldron out in the camp.
"I hope you don't mind lye, Tavington. I'll throw in a bit of cloves to see if that can get the eau de dead swine smell out of the soap."
The woman values her life. No foppish scents in my hair, by God.