Chapter 5 An Ordinary Day Disrupted
Betsy Burwell stood by quietly as the semi circle of village girls around her best friend Hannah Lansing seemed to close in tightly. The group was admiring Miss Lansing's engagement ring. They were going on about how it was just weeks until Hannah's wedding. Another girl was showing off her engagement ring as well, and yet another had just become betrothed. All the talk turned into a hum as Betsy became lost in her own thoughts.
All the chatter of rings and betrothals and weddings made Betsy think of Major George Rogers Clark. She had last seen him over a year ago in Charles Towne. She closed her eyes as a twinge of pain engulfed her heart as only it could a young girl smitten by a handsome young officer.
The girl remembered the time they had spent together during the ball at the Middleton's home. She recalled the young man coming to call at her parent's home for dinner, and how her father seemed so fond of him. Betsy knew he had gone back to the Northwest Territory for duty.
She received no letters from him and it was pointless to write to him as well. The major had mentioned that there were no organized posts for mail on the frontier, so he seldom wrote to family or friends having no way to get the mail to them. He and his men were lucky to get official messages to and from the governors and generals unless their group or a messenger just happened upon one another in the wilderness.
Miss Burwell wondered where the officer was on the frontier and what he was doing. She heard of him upon occasion in the newspapers . His brave and daring exploits had made him well known to the public now, making him a hero.
Betsy snapped out of her thoughts as she felt a gentle tug on her arm. It was Hannah, moving her away a few feet from the throng of gaggling girls, seeing that Miss Burwell's mind was occupied elsewhere.
"Happy birthday, early," she told Betsy with a smile. "In case we don't get to visit next week."
"Thank you," Miss Burwell replied. An uneasy silence hung over them for an instant due to the newfound awkwardness that often perpetuates between a young bride to be and her vestal maiden friend with no prospective suitors at that moment.
Betsy took Hannah's hand and looked closely at the ring on her finger. She sighed, forcing a smile to her lips. "It's a beautiful ring." Her voice was low, not really disguising her own longing and envy.
"You'll find a man and be married soon," Hannah assured with a grin.
"A man?" asked Betsy, rolling her eyes. "They're all away, busy fighting right now."
"Including a certain tall, red haired officer?"
Betsy Burwell blushed, dipping her head to where her chin touched her neck, hiding her embarrassment. "Yes! Especially Major Clark! His hands are completely full defending the frontier."
"And he's making quite a name for himself," exclaimed Hannah. "Father reads of him in the gazettes."
Betsy chuckled. "Yes! He has become a hero. He's their hero—the people out there." Miss Burwell didn't even try to act as if she didn't know just how important the young officer from Virginia had become to the settlers on the frontier.
"And nonetheless a man of value and hero to the generals back here," Hannah pointed out.
Betsy nodded silently, blushing a bit. She wanted to be able to say that he was her hero, as well, as if she somehow possessed him. But how could he be, she wondered. The young woman, infatuated with this fierce war God, had only spent a few hours with the copper haired major.
"Has he written you?"
"He's too busy fighting."
"Have you written him?" Hannah queried, recalling her friend speaking to her excitedly of meeting the officer in Charles Towne a year ago.
"There's no regular post out there to send it to and he's never at a settlement long enough to receive anything I'd send," she informed.
"Don't you want to court him?"
"Yes," Betsy answered, "but my father won't allow a courtship by letter, I'm sure. His practicality would only let us woo in person under his eyes or some other trusted chaperone."
Miss Burwell let out a forlorn breath. "Father knows that George Clark would not have time to write nor anywhere to receive my notes."
"Perhaps this mess will end soon," Hannah commented, "and all the men will come home. Then your Major can woo you properly."
Betsy corrected. "He's not my major—"
"Yet," her friend added. "He will be. He would be a fool to resist you….. and your family's standing."
"I will court him if father allows it," Betsy resolved. The girls embraced and bid farewell after their exchange.
As Miss Burwell left, she walked a few steps, but turned back to watch Miss Lansing strolling back over to join the throng of giggling girls. As the group laughed girlishly and carried on about courtships and betrothals, Betsy desperately wanted to be a part of them. Jealousy and envy tore at her heart. She wanted to be in the midst of them, showing off an engagement ring, passing around a miniature portrait in a locket of some handsome officer, speaking of the wedding plans, giggling in hushed tones about the wedding night.
But how could she get married, she wondered. Father made it her task to run the plantation. Just how and when would she have time for a proper courtship or wedding?
The girl soon forced herself to turn back around and walk. And it helped her to dismiss the silly, girlish thoughts as soon as she caught sight of her buckboard, parked outside the Atterson's General Store, being loaded with crates and bags. She hurried along, knowing that Mr. Waldron was probably finishing up inside the store purchasing the items they had come to town for.
As she neared the store, her pace slowed a bit when she saw nothing of her farm overseer, thinking him probably still occupied with Mr. Atterson. The young girl looked down at the bag in her hands, full of Jesuit's Bark she had purchased from the apothecary. Mrs. Leyanova requested the stuff to put with her medicinal herbs to help with Malarial fevers. Betsy opened the bag enough to get a whiff of the pungent stuff. Her nose crinkled with the bitter scent and she quickly drew the drawstring tight again, closing it up. She bristled slightly at the memory of its bitter taste, which one could still taste in wine or whatever strong drink it was mixed with.
It was only a moment later when Betsy found herself nearing the mercantile. The wagon stood in front of it, the mules still hitched to the post. The vehicle was loaded with bags and crates, but the plantation's overseer was still not in sight. The girl stepped up onto the porch and greeted Mrs. Atterson, who was sweeping.
"Have you seen Mr. Waldron?"
"He's out back with Henry," the older woman answered as she swept the refuse off the wood.
As Mrs. Atterson finished and placed the broom against the wall, both women heard distant thunder. The two ladies exchanged quizzical looks. After another moment of listening, they determined the noise to be horsemen—many—approaching. The two women quickly ducked into the store, not knowing if the band nearing the town was friend or foe. Better safe than sorry to stay out of sight until they knew for sure.
Miss Burwell and Mrs. Atterson craned their heads to look out the front window toward the noise. Suddenly, out of a cloud of the red Carolina dust, a group of uniformed cavalry riders appeared, bearing down quickly on the village. The shopkeeper's wife's mouth drew tightly into a scowl.
"Redcoats!," she swore in irritation. "They were just here a few days ago. What do they want now?"
Betsy recognized the red jackets trimmed with dark green from her memory, even after only seeing them once. But the fur helmets, tall and foreboding, made her shiver. Inside, she hoped this was not the same group of cavalry that had accosted them at home a few nights ago.
The young lady said nothing as she moved to the back door of the store. Looking outside, she saw Mr. Waldron and Mr. Atterson peering around the corner of the house at the riders, now arriving on the main street of the village. Waldron looked back at the door and saw Miss Burwell standing there, looking alarmed.
"They look familiar," she said, uncertainty lacing her voice, despite the suspicion inside her that made her worry.
"They're the ones that raided us the other night," answered the farm's manager. Waldron, suspicious of the riders, reached up and took hold of Betsy's wrist, firmly guiding her out of the store to join him in the yard.
"Stay back here with me and be quiet," he instructed in a hushed voice.
The young girl obeyed, not knowing what to think. Mr. Waldron had been so quick to dismiss their visit to the plantation just days ago. And now he seemed fearful.
Mr. Atterson, Waldron, and Betsy all stood hidden by the house in the backyard of the store. They stayed quiet, watching around the corner as the dragoons, still on their horses, gathered in a circle about their commander, obviously getting some kind of instructions from him.
Jake Waldron's worst fears were confirmed. This was Tavington's legion, the same group that raided the farm last week. He remembered the leader, the colonel, and how he carried himself. He also recalled the second in command, a seemingly educated man named Captain Bordon. The farm manager recollected both men having tall, strong builds, making them even more intimidating.
As the overseer continued to peer cautiously from his hiding place, he saw another officer near the two he had recognized. Waldron could tell that the diminutive soldier with red hair was a leader of sort, for he stayed near the dragoon commanders and wore the uniform of a cavalry officer. This officer had not been with the unit that raided their farm the other night, so Jake had no idea who he was. But that was no matter. He was just another officer in this feared group of soldiers, and Waldron assumed that he could cause just as much heartache and trouble as the rest of them could.
The farm manager and the others with him strained to listen but couldn't hear as the leader spoke to his men in a low voice. After a moment, they watched as half the men dismounted and began to walk away from the group while the other half stayed on their horses, some riding up the street, and some staying put, forming a cordon. Waldron could tell that this regiment had something important to attend to. The band of cavalry obviously meant business as it was clear that they were not going to let anyone out of town while they were here.
The trio behind the store soon heard boots and the jingling of spurs on wood. It was so close. They knew that one of them had just entered the store. They moved closer to hear what went on within, worried about Mrs. Atterson.
"I'm looking for Miss Betsy Burwell," a deep voice inquired of the store's mistress.
"I haven't seen her," Mrs. Atterson lied.
"That's the Burwell's wagon in front of your store, is it not," inquired the dragoon with the rich voice, "loaded with goods from your store here?"
"Why….yes," she stammered, "but I…I…don't know where they are. Perhaps they are visiting elsewhere in the village?"
Hearing the inquiry from outside, Mr. Waldron knew that trouble was brewing. He pulled Betsy close enough to him to whisper in her ear. "Go! Hide! Make your way to the woods if you can!"
The girl nodded and slinked away, around the edge of the smokehouse. The young lady looked toward the woods a few yards away, trying to pick out a spot to flee to. She looked back for an instant, seeing the two men still out back of the store, listening to what unfolded inside.
"I don't know where they are," Mrs. Atterson was heard to say, an alarm rising in her voice. "They dealt with my husband."
"And where is he?"
"I don't know," she fibbed. "He must have stepped away for a moment."
Miss Burwell knew she had to move cautiously, yet quickly, careful not to run and draw attention to herself. She moved nonchalantly as possible through a nearby flower garden, where she stood behind a lilac bush, peering through the foliage, trying to watch what transpired near the mercantile. The young lady heard a voice shout insistently.
"Keep looking for her," Colonel Tavington, the commander, shouted. "She's in this village somewhere!"
Miss Burwell looked to her left and saw the blacksmith's shop. She took in a deep breath to summon her courage, the darted quickly across the open path between the garden and the next property. The girl stood against the back of the blacksmith's shop, hearing the tradesman being questioned by a dragoon. To her right stood the barn, which Betsy eyed carefully, wondering if she should risk hiding within it. Then she remember that Mr. Waldron had urged her to flee the village and lose herself in the woods.
The young woman sighed in frustration as she looked around. It seemed that all she could see was buildings and gardens, and that from where she was in the town, the woods seemed a thousand miles away. Behind the barn was another small shed belonging to the blacksmith. Betsy told herself that if she could clear that, it would take her close to a field that was nearby.
She paused another moment, hearing the dragoons moving back and forth between buildings and paths and streets looking for the girl. When the footsteps and voices seemed far away again, she trotted across the opening between the buildings and soon found herself behind the blacksmith's shed. Miss Burwell heard noises in the shed. She was sure it was a woman crying.
Betsy inched to her side and looked in through the window. She glimpsed a sight that stunned her. On the dirt floor was the blacksmith's daughter, a girl she didn't know that well. A dragoon with red hair was on top of the girl, her skirt pushed up with his body between her open legs. The young woman was whimpering, her mouth covered by the gloved hand of the redcoat, as she struggled beneath him. Miss Burwell saw that his other hand held her thins wrists, pinned down to the dirt above her head where she lay.
Betsy immediately pulled back from the window, clamping her hand over her own mouth, desperately preventing a gasp. And although Miss Burwell knew very little of congress between a man and a woman, she knew enough to tell that this cavalryman had forced himself upon the blacksmith's daughter. Betsy wanted to help her, but knew she had to help herself escape, as well. So with tears welling in her eyes and a sick feeling in her stomach, she knew she'd have to leave the soldier to complete his dastardly deed lest she be caught….and maybe even suffer this fate next!
Miss Burwell again heard the horses trotting and boots running on the ground, aware of house close they seemed. What could they possibly want with me, she asked herself. She recalled the horrid rumors she'd heard about the dragoons, even though they had acted with calm discretion at the farm nights ago. Betsy recollected how fearful Mr. Waldron was moments ago, knowing now that he'd acted on a hunch. The girl instantly decided that she didn't want stay around to find out what His Majesty's soldiers wanted with her.
With the redcoats canvassing the town aggressively for her, she knew she had to get away from the village as fast as possible. The girl looked ahead and saw a thin copse of trees. She ran across the small lawn and was soon within the trees, still hidden from view. And though Miss Burwell was inching away from the main avenue in the village, she could see the cavalrymen now moving between the buildings, as well as the street.
Betsy looked around, planning her next move. She saw the Dawson's field, and just beyond it the woods outside the town. The girl took a deep breath, trying to summon courage. She would have to cross the lane beside the copse of trees where she now hid then make her way through the large cornfield to get to the forest.
Miss Burwell watched for a moment as one of the riders brought his horse around a nearby building. She held her breath, watching the soldier until he and his steed disappeared again around another structure. Instantly the girl darted across the lane to a small hedge near the edge of the field.
She was getting ready to make her run through the corn crops when she heard more shouting. The words made her freeze in her spot. Betsy then craned her head up from over the hedgerow, frantically looking in the direction of the voices, needing to see what was happening.
"I've got the overseer!" a deep, booming voice yelled. It was Bordon, the dragoons second in command. He had his gun trained on Mr. Waldron, who was standing, trapped with his back against the wall of a woodshed.
"He's over here!"
With that, Colonel Tavington, mounted still on his steed, moved the beast in the direction of Bordon's voice with half a dozen of his men following him. They soon found the aide de camp and the Burwell's farm hand. The soldiers pulled their swords and pointed them toward the helpless man, who was eyeing the redcoats with hate and contempt.
"Where is she?" Tavington asked.
"Well away from here by now," Waldron answered snidely.
Tavington scowled down at the man, his eyes narrowed in silent warning. "Apprehend him."
Two of the soldiers jumped at the command, quickly binding the overseer all the while that Bordon kept his pistol pointed at the man.
They began to march Mr. Waldron out to the main road in front of the mercantile. Once there, the man saw a dragoon holding the bridle of one of the mules that pulled their buckboard, and thought then that they were going to seize the supplies they had just purchased for the farm.
"Stand there," Captain Bordon ordered. Waldron stopped on his spot, looking down at the ground and hoping that Miss Burwell had made it to the forest and was hidden well.
"You're under arrest," Tavington said as he sneered in contempt down at the overseer.
"By what authority?" asked Jake Waldron.
"His Majesty's," Bordon answered sternly.
"Why?" the Burwell's faithful servant asked. He thought he could buy Betsy a few more minutes of time to get away if he queried a bit.
"Aiding and abetting rebel traitors," the colonel answered.
"We do not," Mr. Waldron said proudly, lifting his head up. "You can't prove it!"
"Oh yes we can," Bordon answered in an assured and resolute voice.
Still crouching in the hedgerow, Betsy worried for Mr. Waldron, not wanting to leave him behind with the British. She had only heard as much as him being found and was too far away to hear anything else. The poor girl was near tears now that they had him. She didn't know whether to stay and try to help him, or to heed his advice and run away.
After a tense moment, she remembered how Waldron feared for her, pulling her from the store to protect her behind the building. She recalled how resolute and firm his directions were to her: to run and hide in the woods. The girl had known him her whole life to be a wise man and trusted by her family. Finally, she decided to follow his request and run away, feeling that he would somehow be alright for he was smart in mind and strong in body; she assumed he could take care of himself.
Hesitating again, Betsy quickly studied the cornfield before her, convincing herself that she would have to run as fast as possible without being seen to get to the woods. After inhaling a breath of courage, she let it out, and RAN!
Miss Burwell found herself bolting through the crops and across the neatly plowed dirt as fast as her legs would carry her. She didn't look back, fixing her gaze on the woods ahead. And soon, the girl smiled though her legs burned, as she neared the halfway point of her run.
"There she is!"
Betsy heard the voices shouting that she was spotted. Then she heard guns firing and hoof beats. Still the girl didn't look back. She kept her eyes on the forest and concentrated on running into it and finding a hiding place soon!
As she sprinted in the dirt, her mouth dropped open as she saw a lone dragoon on horse, racing from the perimeter of the field right toward her. It was as if he had appeared out of nowhere, but in reality, the rider had skirted the meadow, spotting her and wheeling his horse back around to cut her off. The young woman hadn't seen him in her resolution to get to the woods. His sword was in hand and held high above his head, ready to bring it down in a killing slice. Betsy stopped in her tracks, her momentum throwing her forward face first into the dirt.
Miss Burwell scrambled to her feet as fast as possible. She instantly ran from the horseman, back toward the town. As she did, she could see commotion between the buildings. Red and green uniforms were blocking the lane she had crossed moments ago, with some starting to move into the field toward her.
Good Lord, they're going to run me down, she thought, her mind screaming in fright. With the enemy chasing her, coming towards her, and blocking her way, she caught sight of a thicket to her left and dashed toward it as no redcoats seemed to be near it. Betsy's lungs were burning now as well as her leg muscles from running as hard as she could.
After what seemed an eternity, Miss Burwell finally made it to the thicket, which was so dense and overgrown with shrubs and stickers that a rider would not be able to make it in on horseback. As she worked her way into it, she felt thorns tearing at her skirt, hanging her up, making her unable to move further. She crouched a bit and hoped that the redcoats would decide against attempting to follow her in. As she did, she gave her skirt a tug, freeing it from the branches which had caught it. The shrubs' thorns exacted the price of a tear in the material in exchange for the garment's freedom.
Betsy could see that they had given up their chase though the rider circled the thicket, obviously looking it over for a way to get in. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the man ride away. The girl felt even better when the men on foot left quickly as well, ordered back to Devington's main avenue.
While catching a badly needed breath, Betsy looked around and panicked when she realized that this patch of dense shrubs that now harbored her was closer to the town then she had originally judged. She could once again see the outbuildings behind the homes on the main road. The girl wasn't sure now what she should do.
Frightened townspeople watched the action, aghast and in disbelief. Some were staring out from their windows in the safety of their homes. Yet some villagers had been brave enough to venture into the street to peruse the action. All of them kept a safe distance between themselves and the raiding cavalry.
Colonel Tavington, irritated that the Burwell girl had put up a chase and made the apprehension difficult and time consuming, knew he had to get the situation back under control and end this immediately. He jumped down from his horse and looked at the thicket where the girl hid, then over at his adjutant, still holding a bound Mr. Waldron.
"Bring that man to me!" he barked. He watched as Captain Bordon took hold of Waldron's upper arm and marched him before his superior.
Tavington then made a long, drawn out show of reloading his pistol in front of the prisoner and the stunned villagers. Betsy watched this from the bushes, her mind running crazily with disbelief at what was transpiring.
"Jake Waldron," Tavington began in a sinister tone, "you are under arrest for aiding rebels. That makes you a traitor and an enemy of His Majesty. And I have been charged to act in the King's behalf in his absence. As an agent of the Crown, I have the authority to pass judgment and carry out punishment for crimes against it."
Mr. Waldron's mouth dropped open as his eyes rounded in wonder at this commander. The man was so startled that he couldn't even find the voice to protest.
Betsy, too, stared in amazement at the spectacle before her. The girl could not believe all this was happening, and so fast. Still, she was afraid, and stayed firmly in the bushes.
Tavington continued on in his ominous tone. "Kneel!" he ordered of the overseer.
Jake Waldron drew a breath, turned his back to Colonel Tavington, and knelt before him. The man closed his eyes and prayed silently.
"Waldron, you are a traitor," he said to the overseer. Then he looked about at the crowd of townspeople that had ventured a bit closer, many of them wide eyed and mute with disbelief and terror.
"This man is a traitor!" Tavington yelled at the crowd assembled, wanting all to hear the charge, and making sure they did. William's steel blues eyes were cold as he cast hard edged looks at them, wanting to drive his point home.
The dragoon commander once again turned his eyes back to Waldron, kneeling helplessly before him. "In the name of King George, you are to be executed!"
Betsy gasped audibly, clapping her hand over her mouth in horror. How did this get out of hand so fast, she wondered inwardly. Her eyes brimmed with tears at the thought of her family's faithful servant, a good man, giving his life for this. She held her breath as she continued to watch the events unfold.
Tavington took a couple of steps closer to where Waldron knelt. He then cocked his pistol, which everyone could hear through the stunned silence that had enveloped all who watched. The colonel then slowly raised his arm, and pointed the gun at the back of the overseer's head.
Miss Burwell closed her eyes, waiting for a gunshot that she didn't want to hear. After a silence which seemed an eternity, Betsy could take the tension no longer and broke, beginning to weep.
"No! No Don't!" she cried from where she hid. The girl then emerged slowly from the thicket.
"Don't! Please, don't!" she exclaimed, her voice broken in tears. Five dragoons, nearby still seated on their mounts, quickly steered their horses toward her. They gathered the huge beasts around her in a circle, pinning her in.
Tavington uncocked the pistol and quickly holstered it. He suppressed a smile, as inside he was laughing in joy and triumph. His little bluff had worked, drawing Miss Burwell out. He had correctly assumed that a teenage girl would not be able to bear the responsibility of—nor want to watch—the execution of a trusted family friend.
"Seize her!" Tavington ordered. Two dragoons moved in quickly on her, one holding her while the other bound her hands in front of her tightly. She saw through teary eyes the ginger haired captain take hold of Mr. Waldron's bicep and help him back to his feet. This gave her some relief in the midst of her own fright.
The girl looked down at her bound wrists, then up at the sea of red jackets staring menacingly at her. Her dress was soiled from her fall in the dirt and torn from the thorn bush. Betsy Burwell sniffled as tears blurred her vision, the girl so scared she couldn't think straight.
Here she stood, a sheep amongst the wolves, worried and with no clue of what was to become of her person.
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Jesuit's Bark: bark from a South American tree containing large amounts of Quinine (pronounced Kwy-nine), used in combatting Malaria. A European Jesuit Priest discovered it, hence its name. He observed that the Indians there used it to battle Malaria. The priest brought it home to the Old World and it found its way into trade with South America. It was sought after fiercely for the New World in trade as Malaria and other mosquito borne illnesses ran rampant there. While alot of medicinal herbs could be grown in colonial home gardens, this particular tree could not be grown in the colonies so the Jesuit's Bark had to be purchased from an apothecary. Small amounts of Quinine can be extracted from grapefruit and was a poor substitute used back then if the Jesuit's Bark could not be purchased. Quinine was, in Colonial America, the most effective way to battle Malaria and its recurrent fevers.