Author's note: Wow! What a response! So many of you reading this-thanks! Here is your update. In this chapter, the action progresses by one year in the two sections of it. I edited/proofread it very quickly so I apologize for any mistakes I didn't catch. I will try to proofread it again before I go to bed this evening and do corrections. Right now, I am knocking off of the writing to spend some time with the family the rest of the evening. Take care and thanks!

JScorpio

Eight months later…..

Chapter 2 Innocence Shattered

South Carolina …January 1777…

Betsy Burwell sat quietly in her parent's bedroom upon the bed that Katy and Harry once shared. And even with her brother Steven there and a property full of servants and slaves, the girl felt awfully alone. She gazed at the miniature portrait of her mother then closed her eyes, remembering.

She recalled her 14th birthday last July, and how happy she was that day. Her mother was due to give birth in days and her father was still there on his military assignment to the area. Betsy was glad to have had him there most of the summer.

The girl looked down at the pillows, then rubbed her hand across the quilt on the bed. Tears filled her eyes as she recollected seeing her mother in the bed just months ago. She brushed them away with her hand, cursing herself, wondering just how long she would hurt over her mother's death, and how many more times she would cry about it.

Katy had gone into labor a couple of days after her daughter's birthday, and the labor was difficult. The baby was breech and the midwife, and then a doctor, could not get the baby turned for delivery, and Mrs. Burwell grew weaker and lost more blood as they struggled.

She must have known she was dying for she called Steven and Betsy to her side, where she took their hands. "Please, both of you, try to be brave and mature for your father. He has his hands full with this war and commanding his men and doesn't need to be worrying about you." Betsy blinked tears back again at the thought. Even in her last words, her selfless mama was thinking about her husband and children.

The girl held the portrait of her mother against her chest, trying not to bawl again as the memories came flooding back. She could see her papa holding her mother in his arms as she died, telling her that he loved her. And a moment after Katy Burwell passed from the world, the doctor slit her belly open, attempting to deliver the child. Betsy remembered more blood from her mother and how it covered the baby, which was a girl. But the infant was dead already, having been stuck too long in a bad position within the mother. The umbilical cord had also wrapped around her neck.

Mrs. Burwell was buried in the family's cemetery to the side of the house. She was placed by her two sons that had died in childhood, and the baby girl was with her in the coffin, laid on her chest.

Afterwards, Harry sat down with Betsy and told her that she was now expected to be the mistress of the plantation, being a gracious and demure hostess when they entertained. And she was to help her brother oversee the day to day operations of the farm, although since he was a young man now and in charge, he would always have the final say.

And after a couple of days more of mourning his wife and tying up loose ends at the plantation, Harry left. He was needed in the time of war, and his men needed their commander. Taking any more time with his two children or grieving for Katy was a luxury that he could not afford. He bid farewell to his grieving children, whom he knew were strong and would get through it, and hurried back to his command.

Seventeen year old Steven proved to be a good, young plantation master, managing things much the same way as Harry did. That did not leave much for Betsy to do or worry about, of which she was glad. Now if the war would end, which the rebels did indeed seem to be losing, then their father could return home to them and they could resume being a family.

Betsy looked over at her mother's jewelry box on the bureau. She rose from the bed and padded across the room to the dresser. There, she opened the chest and found Katy's favorite necklace, made of shells and pearls from the Caribean. Harry had purchased it for her.

The young girl held the necklace in her hands and ran her fingertips over the delicate gems, the soft, satiny pearls, and the nubby edges of the small, smooth shells. Betsy recalled how this very piece of jewelry had put her father in trouble with the British years before. And how the pretty little bangle had landed Harry Burwell in jail for a few days.

Young Miss Burwell smiled looking at the string of pearls and shells, recalling how much her mother loved it and how beautiful she looked when she wore the thing. And now it and the rest of the pieces in the box were Betsy's, and she would love them as much as Katy did, just because they were her mother's.

Betsy lifted the necklace and put it to her neck, holding it there, staring at how the beads looked against her skin. She tilted her head and studied it from another angle, pleased at how it felt against her neck. As she let it dangle loosely a little, shouts and commotion from downstairs got her attention.

"Are you insane, Steven?" she heard Mr. Waldron, the farm manager, yelling. "Your father forbids it! And what of your sister?"

Betsy lifted her skirt and ran down the stairs and out the front door onto the lawn. There before her was Steven, tying his bedroll and packs onto his horse and stuffing more things into the saddlebags. Then a distant neigh of another horse got her attention. And near the end of the lane to the road, she saw Ethan Drandly from town on his horse apparently waiting on Steven.

His sister's jaw dropped open and her eyes widened as she remembered her brother mentioning that his friend Ethan from the village had signed up. Then she felt sick and panicked, realizing that her brother was leaving.

Betsy reached out, putting her hand on Steven's arm as he secured his pack. "No, Steven, you're not enlisting, are you?"

"Yes," he answered resolutely. "I have sat idly by for too long while other men, including papa, are out there fighting and dying for this family and others. It's time for me to go."

Most of the servants including, and even some of the slaves were circled around watching their young plantation master, whom they thought had done an excellent job in his father's stead, loading up to leave. The main servants, Mrs. Leyanova, who ran the household, Mr. Hantz the farm hand, and Mr. Waldron, the overseer, had spoken up to the young man, trying to get him to stay, reminding him of how his father needed him here. It fell on deaf ears.

"No! You can't!" his sister cried.

"I have to," Steven defended. "They are short handed as it—"

"But this farm! You promised father that you would stay!" Betsy was getting desperate. He was really going to leave.

Steven Burwell whirled around to face his sister. And although he wasn't upset with her, he glared her direction , objecting at the last remark as it was not the way he saw this "agreement" between he and the Colonel.

"No! I never promised father I'd stay," he argued in a stinging voice. "HE forbade ME from going."

Betsy cowered back a bit, the harsh tone of her brother's voice alarming her. She took a step backward, not wanting to upset him any further, knowing that would only serve to push him away quicker.

"Whether father disinherits me or not doesn't matter," Steven proclaimed, "I can't stay here in good conscience any longer while others do my bidding."

Mr. Waldron stepped, talking in a calm voice. "Steven, not everyone was meant to fight. There are some whose duties and responsibilities may keep them out of the fighting. It doesn't mean that just because you are here, that you can't still help the cause in other ways."

Miss Burwell shot him a look of relief, and thankfulness that the trusted farm manager had spoken up. She knew that of anyone, her brother would at least we listen to the servant whom he held in highest regard and trusted most of all.

Steven's face softened and he looked as if he seemed to calm down a bit at the overseer's words. Young Burwell took a breath, then let it out. "Look, Mr. Waldron, I understand that. And this farm is doing a great bit of good in this war by providing some food and livestock to our troops, thanks to father. And since the farm can provide all that, what more can I do? I can give my body and strength to this fight."

Mr. Waldron sighed himself, feeling inside that the young plantation master had already made his decision, and there was nothing more he, or anyone, could do to stop him. He decided to stay silent.

"I know father will be angry with me at first," conceded the boy, "but I think in the end, he will agree that I did the right thing."

"But you manage all of this," Betsy pointed out. "It is because of you that we provide for the cause and that the farm survives from day to day."

"The farm practically runs itself under the guidance of Mr. Waldron and Mr. Hantz," Steven asserted.

Betsy found herself choking back tears as she argued with her brother. Steven's strong resolve to leave was breaking her down to the point of blurting out anything if it would stop him. "But you are to protect—"

"I'll do better at protecting this family and farm if I am out there defending it, ensuring the future." Steven reached downward under his mount and tugged on the strap, checking that the saddle was secured. As he turned back to his sister, she threw her arms around him, as if her embrace could hold him to the place.

"If you care about me and our home, you'll stay," she murmured.

The young man pushed her back from him gently and took hold of her shoulders. "Can't you see? It is because I love and care about our family and the farm that I must leave. So that we don't have to live under the tyranny of an absentee King; so the we don't lose the fortune that Grandpa and father worked so hard for in taxes; so that we don't have to worry about being suspected and searched; and so that we don't have to worry about father being jailed for some innocent little gift he purchased."

Steven pulled her to him again, hugging her for a moment. Betsy held on loosely to him, feeling defeated. He kissed her forehead then slipped gently from her embrace. The boy then turned to Mr. Waldron and the servants, telling them farewell and shaking their hands.

Then the young man looked past the small crowd and gazed at the house for a moment, hating to leave the home he loved but knowing he had to. He turned to face his sister, who had tears in her eyes, and he mouthed the word "Good bye" then he swung himself up onto his horse.

Betsy was helpless, unable to do nothing to stop him. The shock of situation left her frozen to her spot, unable to spot and her saucer eyes full of tears.

From his horse Steven announced, "My sister, as the only Burwell left here now, is your new plantation mistress. I know you will all be fine. I'll see you when I return."

"Godspeed," Mr. Waldron said with a wave of his hand.

With that, Steven turned his horse to face his friend awaiting him and cried "Ya!" He left the crowd of servants and his sister behind. They watched as his steed raced at a fast gallop to the end of the lane, where he joined Ethan Drandly, and the two rounded the corner and disappeared from view.

What am I to do, Betsy wondered. The girl had had absolutely no warning or no clue that her brother would even do this. She had thought that he would never defy their father, a stern and serious man, unhurried to show any emotion, and not to be trifled with.

Miss Burwell said nothing. Instead she turned around, feeling numb inside, and walked through a space in the circle of gathered people toward the side of the house, not knowing where to go.

The girl stopped only when she felt a hand touch her shoulder. She turned about to see Mr. Waldron standing there with an apologetic look on his face.

"We'll speak later, Miss Betsy," he simply said. They would have to discuss the situation and the affairs of the farm soon.

She nodded her head mutely, tears streaming silently down her cheeks. The girl turned back again and continued her numb walk.

The circle of servants, most who had known the girl since she was an infant in arms, watched her walking away, knowing she was stunned by what her brother had done and the suddenness of it. They felt badly for her having just had the responsibility of the plantation thrust upon her girlish shoulders at such a young age.

Betsy kept walking, still feeling empty inside. As she rounded the side yard of the house, the family cemetery came into view. The young lady lifted her skirts and ran toward it, stopping only at her mother's grave.

She sank down to her knees, folded her arms and rested them on the winter cooled granite of her mother's headstone. Betsy buried her face in her arms, weeping pitifully.

"Mama," she sobbed, "Steven is gone! What do I do without him and papa? What am I to do?"

/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/

6 months later…..

South Carolina…..July 1777…..

Betsy Burwell sat in the open breezeway between the main house and the farm office, a room essentially attached to the house via the covered walkway where she now rested. The Carolina heat was cooling as the sun began to set. The girl had been depressed most of the day because when she tended to the books this morning, she noticed on the calendar that she was now one month away from her 15th birthday.

The young woman, who had been forced to grow up fast in these last six months, was dreading her birthday. She knew it would remind her of how wonderful her 14th birthday was last summer, with her family around her. Her father and brother were both there and her mother was going to give her a new sibling in days. It was a happy time.

Betsy would have no one to celebrate her birthday this year. Her Father was away commanding, her brother had joined the local militia, and her mother and baby sister had died in childbirth.

In fact, she wouldn't celebrate it at all. It will be just another day, she thought, filled with the business of running this plantation. Some days it seemed like there was so much work and so much to manage that she couldn't fathom how her father did it—even with loyal help, servants and slaves.

What Betsy didn't know of the business, she was taught. She had learned about the planting and the harvesting. The girl was educated about the livestock. She had also been taught the accounts and bookkeeping of the farm. Mr. Waldron and Mr. Hantz dealt with customers, most of them male, knowing that a 14 year old girl in charge of a farm would not be taken seriously, and most would have refused to deal with her anyway since she was a woman.

Today, Betsy had helped with the fruit, spending her morning picking strawberries and the afternoon pulling cherries from the tree. The shade of the trees in the orchard made it the cooler place to be of the two tasks. The girl didn't have to help with the manual labor, but did most days as she was bored with no family there to talk to and be with.

She had eaten a light dinner this evening and now relished just being alone in the quiet on the breezeway, watching the sunset. Betsy looked down at her hands, marveling at how she had managed to clean away the red stains from the strawberries and cherries with some intense scrubbing.

The young lady pulled Steven's latest letter from her skirt pocket and read it again. In the six months he had been gone, she had received a mere handful of letters from him, not imparting much, usually asking for her to send supplies which the militia didn't receive regularly from the colonial congress. She would occasionally hear something about where the militia was when she visited the local village, Devington, from the Drandly family or others that she might run into there. The local shopkeeper, Mr. Atterson, was involved in a clandestine ring of messengers who could be counted on to quickly relay news and messages between different villages, the militia, and the colonial regulars, so she could always depend on him knowing something about her father or brother.

She tried to concentrate on Steven's last letter but was unable to. It only served to remind her that tomorrow morning she needed to box up a few supplies, run them into town, and leave them with Mr. Atterson to send through his network of couriers.

Betsy rubbed her tired eyes and sighed as she pulled another letter from her pocket. She opened the letter from her father, an old one from months ago, then layed it face down in her lap as she closed her eyes, hesitating before reading it.

She recalled back to the very day that her brother had left. The girl remembered writing a frantic letter to her father, telling her of the situation, and begging him to come home to her. She had written yet another one pleading to join him in his camp, swearing to help with nursing the wounded, laundry, sewing, cooking, anything just to be there. Her third letter appealed to him to have her removed from the plantation and taken to a safehouse. His response was a stern letter scolding her for being childish and telling her that he could not very well leave his command to come home to her nor could he spare any of his men to escort her to his camp or a safehouse.

"We are often thrust into situations during a time of war that are unusual and require our utmost strength. Your mother made countless sacrifices, enduring long absences while I was away on duty. I sacrifice being home and seeing my family every day for the good of this cause. And now you must sacrifice, too. You are being called upon to steward the Burwell household and land. So you must sacrifice a bit of youth to grow up and take on the responsibility, and I expect nothing less of you. You are a Burwell and have that same courage that runs in the blood of our family," the colonel had written.

The girl couldn't decide if she wanted to read this letter, the same one she had read dozens of times since receiving it in February, or not. She knew what it contained; knew it now by heart. Yet it pulled such heaving and contradictory emotions out of her. At first reading it, and still sometimes, it would make her cry, and she would wonder if he didn't love the command more than his own daughter. Other times it would fill her with a short lived strength, enough to help her to carry on through another day.

Betsy decided not to read it, folding it and shoving it back into her pocket. Instead, she went up to her room on the second floor of the white, three story plantation house. Once up there, she shed her dress, letting it fall to the floor of her room. The girl splashed a bit of cold water on her torso and face, cooling her skin a bit, the airy room soon drying her. She slipped her nightdress on, the light, delicate material of it sliding gently down her soft skin then let her hair down from having been up all day.

The young woman pulled a thin nightcoat on and called for a glass of cold cider. She went out onto the second story balcony, which provided the shade for the grand covered first floor veranda below it. Betsy sank down into a chair, savoring the darkness and the night air. Nellie, one of the housemaids had soon appeared with her drink.

Miss Burwell dismissed the girl with the message that the rest of the staff were dismissed as well for the evening. Glad to be left alone in the quiet, hearing only the crickets chirping in the nearby fields and woods, she sipped the cool drink. The girl ran her fingers through her long, sandy brown hair, realizing she'd forgotten to brush through it after letting it down moments ago, but not caring much. She was too fatigued from the chores of the day to care. The tired waves of her brunette tresses fell about her shoulders in disarray.

After a couple of slow sips of her apple cider, she let out a breath and sank down a little more in the chair. Then she closed her eyes, glad to finally feel cool after a hot day.

A few moments of this bliss passed before she was startled by a young boy's voice shouting frantically. A small shed had been erected at the front edge of the property at the end of the lane, near the main road, much like a guard house to a palace. The male servants or indentureds each took a turn staying out there nightly, watching for signs of the enemy or word from town that they were nearby.

"Mr. Waldron! Miss Burwell! Mr. Hantz!"

It was Wendell, one of the stable boys, an orphan serving indentured servitude. "They're nearby! "They're in town!"

Betsy jumped from her chair and leaned over the balcony railing. "Up here, Wendell! What is it?"

The other servants ran to the front porch and the yard as well, having heard the boy's shouts. "What's the trouble?" some voices queried.

"They're in the village right now!"

Miss Burwell shuddered, having a suspicion just who it was, but asked anyway. "Who?" she asked, calling down from the balcony.

"Redcoats!"

"Oh no," Betsy sighed under her breath as she turned from the railing. She quickly made her way into the house and could hear the servants already rushing about. She moved down the stairs as quickly as she could and out the front door.

Mr. Waldron was already questioning the boy on the front porch when Betsy arrived, still tying her robe closed. "They stopped at the pub," the boy said, trying to catch his breath. "They were asking questions. Wally Bradford ran out to tell everyone."

The servants and Betsy immediately knew that some British soldiers were at Bradford's pub. Bradford the barman, part of the shopkeeper's Atterson's message network, always had standing instructions for his son, at age 9 a very swift runner already, to slip out of their pub and sneak to one of the homes on the edge of town. The pubkeeper's son was then to notify the homeowner there, also part of the network, and that person would send signals to the townspeople to beware. The home backed up to an area of the woods which had hidden game trail, known only to the locals, and as the homeowner spread the word through town, little Wally ran the deer trail, spreading the word to the farms in the countryside nearby. So far, there had only been a couple of times that this system had failed to work.

Betsy looked at Mr. Waldron with fear in her eyes, but he returned her gaze with a look of calm. He was disguising it, though. He knew as well as everyone there knew that they were a prime target for raids by the British. The redcoats might raid them because they were a wealthy plantation. Or they might have learned that the farm was in the hands of a young woman, making it easy to take over. But they may also be searched for another reason they feared more: the plantation's owner. They all had hoped that enemy intelligence had not learned the location of Colonel Burwell's home. Rumor had run rampant that the redcoats were seizing farms and burning homes of rebel officers.

"Alright! You all know what to do!" Mr. Waldron yelled to all the servants still in the room. They all had been assigned tasks to take care of such as hiding the silver, securing the weapons that were hidden in the house in case of defense, and various other things.

"I'll hide the books," Betsy called, already trotting toward the office to the side of the house.

The Burwell plantation had two sets of accounting books: one fake and one genuine. The genuine book kept account of all the true transactions, some legitimate to local accounts, and the others showed what was sold, or even sometimes given, to the colonial regulars. They would be imprisoned if found to be providing livestock and foodstuffs to the enemy, so they kept a book of fake transactions that looked legitimate. They had a very secure hiding place for the genuine book, a place they were sure that the British wouldn't find. They would also "hide" the fake book, sloppily, so that it might easily be found by someone to inspect, hopefully being satisfied that they had seen the farm's accounts, keeping them off the trail of anything suspect going on there.

Betsy quickly grabbed up the account book and the two satchels containing the bills to congress for reimbursement and the receipts of monies to be paid back in the future by them, and she stuffed them into a hidden compartment in the desk, which was covered by ornate wooden carvings looking like a façade finish on the piece. She then placed the "fake" account book into a wall safe that was behind a portrait of her Grandfather Burwell. The girl left the portrait slightly crooked, just enough to let someone know that the painting had been moved.

By the time Betsy made it back to the large parlor of the house, the servants were assembled, all trying to act calm and look innocent and ignorant. Mr. Waldron had instructed all of them to stay quiet, and let him and Miss Burwell do the talking. He warned them that they were probably going to have to lie if interrogated.

The girl walked to the window and stood next to Mr. Waldron, who was gazing out the window intently into the dark. After an intense moment of silence, they heard thundering hooves slice through the quiet Carolina night. She put a hand on his forearm and felt the older man shiver ever so slightly.

"It's cavalry," the overseer declared with a foreboding in his voice.

When they were a bit closer coming up the lane to the house, he could see the group better in the moonlight and the faint illumination of a few torches. It was just enough light to see the color of their uniforms. There was no mistaking the short red jackets, a rider's cut, with the dark breeches and the dark, fur topped helmets.

"I think it's dragoons," Waldron spoke in a quiet voice.

Betsy had heard about a couple of regiments of these types who had reputations for brutality and little tolerance for non fighting colonials, and none whatsoever for the fighting rebels. It was known that these mounted legions were here in the colonies, and had recruited local loyalists. But she had no idea that they were this far South already.

"My God," she whispered, trying not to tremble.