Author's note: Please let me take this opportunity to apologizefor not updating sooner. Real life, job stress, illness, etc, have gotten in the way of the fun of writing. The other stuff takes precedence over the writing. Thanks for your understanding and your patience! As always, thanks for reading the story!

Chapter 6 Condemned

Betsy stood there, benumbed. She was warned to run as far away from these men as she could. Instead, she gave herself up to them; these redcoats whom she'd heard so many rumors of. The girl did it to stop the very brutality that she'd heard so much about, and was about to see before her. She couldn't bear to have Mr. Waldron's blood on her hands.

Within the numbness, she suddenly found herself being hustled toward the wagon. Miss Burwell was helped into the vehicle and seated in the thing amongst the crates and bags. She looked up to see Mr. Waldron being pushed into the small empty spot next to her where the cargo had been nudged aside to make a space.

The two detainees, bound and seated in the buckboard, were silent for a moment as they watched the buzz of activity around them. They stayed quiet, studying the cavalrymen, all but the two guarding them at gunpoint gathered about the colonel and his second in command obviously receiving their orders.

After a minute, Betsy turned her head and found her overseer glaring at her. A startled look crossed her face, her eyes rounding in question.

"I told you to run," he murmured through gritted teeth, his anger with her showing.

"I did!" she whispered back.

"Well, you obviously didn't run fast enough or you wouldn't be here," he proclaimed in sarcasm.

"I ran as fast as I could toward the woods," she answered back, annoyed at the man whose life she had just saved at the price of her own freedom.

"Yeah. And what happened?" Waldron's annoyance was clear. He had felt he owed it to Colonel Burwell to help protect Betsy while the officer was away. The farm hand knew what these soldiers were all about.

"A dragoon on horseback cut me off," she replied with a sigh. "He forced me back across the field."

"Why did you surrender?"

Betsy's face registered shock, wondering why the man would even ask her such a thing. "I couldn't allow your execution."

"It was a bluff," Waldron guessed with assuredness.

"How would you know that?"

"I just figured it, that's all," the overseer answered.

Betsy recalled the image of Mr. Waldron's shock at being asked to kneel before the colonel, the closing of his eyes, and how his lips moved ever so slightly, muttering some prayer of deliverance. Her own exasperation with her father's employee showing, she now asked, "And your reaction to your near execution, was that a bluff on your part?"

Waldron looked down at the wood of the wagon, like a guilty man caught in a lie. "No, I was scared as Hell."

He looked up at Miss Burwell, her eyes showing regret. Indeed the girl felt badly that she had become upset with the man and had made that last sarcastic remark.

Mr. Waldron spoke again, his voice painted with honesty. "There was a strange sort of peace, though, in hoping that you'd escaped them."

The girl was touched. This man, whom had been an employee of her family since the say she was born, had tried to protect her. I suppose he would do nothing less than that for my father, she thought. Betsy said nothing, shaking her head and looking down.

Waldron heaved a sigh, looked up and the sky and spoke again. "It must be my destiny to die soon. I was spared from death at Tavington's hand, but I fear I won't be so lucky when your father finds out that you fell into redcoat hands on my watch. He will have my head."

Betsy looked at the overseer and grimaced. She opened her mouth to speak, wanting to comfort the man but was quickly cut off by one of their dragoon guards.

"Quiet both of you!" he warned, wanting to put a firm end to anything conspiratorial.

After a moment of quiet, Mr. Waldron and Betsy turned their heads to catch sight of the dragoons falling out of their circle around their commanders. They watched anxiously as the red and green uniformed men mounted their horses. Then the two looked at each other, exchanging looks of alarm.

In an instant they were off, the wagon jolting hard forward. Both silently wondered Tavington's legion had planned for them. Maybe they wanted the supplies? Perhaps they were interested in the vehicle. They had both heard that even though the British had money and were known to pay local loyalists, and even accommodating rebels for commandeered objects and foodstuffs, they were also known to make examples of rebels by outright stealing. Mr. Waldron tried to think positively, hoping that the cavalry might just take the wagon and supplies within and cut the two of them loose somewhere along the way. Sure, it would be money lost for the plantation, but a drop in the bucket of proceeds already lost during this war, and a small price to pay for their lives.

Betsy sat still, petrified, as she watched the familiar scenery of the village fade into the surrounding countryside. Waldron, knowing she was afraid, discreetly reached his bound hands over close to her and took one of her hands. She held it firmly, nearly squeezing it in her fright.

The wagon was escorted by the dragoons, a few in front and a few in back. One of the men drove the wagon, his horse tethered to the back of the vehicle, trotting along behind it. Miss Burwell, her back to the front, felt the wagon curve onto another road. She soon recognized it as the York Road.

After another fifteen minutes, she felt the wagon slow to a stop. Waldron turned his head slightly, enough to look to the front just over his shoulder. They were at the fork in the road. He glimpsed Captain Bordon and Colonel Tavington conferring quietly, then saw the second in command nod to the right. Soon the wagon veered the same direction, moving down this road.

The same event had not been lost on Miss Burwell, looking about at the scenery along this road—scenery that she'd seen a hundred times before. The girl knew exactly where they were. And with this move onto the right hand fork, it would be the same route as if they were heading back to their farm.

Betsy's heart soared. Maybe they were headed home, she wondered. My God, they can have whatever they want from home so long as they go away forever and leave us in peace, the girl thought.

The young lady looked at Mr. Waldron , daring to show a bit of a smile. She mouthed the word "home". The man returned her look with one of caution, knowing that they weren't out of trouble yet.

The group soon turned down yet another road, this one the lane that the Burwell plantation was on. And when they made the final turn onto the plantation, Betsy could hardly contain herself, feeling a safety that she only felt here on the farm. As they came up the driveway to the main house, she turned her head to look over her shoulder at the house, and the elation she'd felt only a moment ago dropped hard into dread.

She saw a small group of horses—dragoon horses—tied up outside the house. Betsy then spotted the slaves and indentured servants lined up and seated on the lawn in front of the house, armed cavalrymen hovering over them, their muskets trained on them. A few yards behind, two redcoats stood sentry on the porch, their weapons out and ready to use, as well.

Tavington and company had gone to the Burwell plantation first, a couple of hours before, looking for Betsy. When they found she wasn't there, a small detachment stayed behind to guard the inhabitants, while the others rode into the village to seek her out.

Soon the mounted escort moved away from the wagon as it neared the house. Miss Burwell watched the riders move their horses to different positions about the lawn and near the house, as if taking up battle defenses. And in the next minute, the buckboard came to a stop in front of her home and in front of the slaves and servants lined up and sitting on the grass.

It was an abrupt halt, jarring the two captives within the vehicle. And though Betsy saw the distressed looks on the faces of her people seated on the lawn, she exhaled a sigh of relief at being home, a place where she felt safe—even with invaders afoot.

She and Mr. Waldron were helped out of the wagon. Their wrists still bound, they were led up the steps of the porch and into the house. Once inside, the two swallowed hard, both feeling dread rising inside them at the sight.

Before them, the parlor had been ransacked. And seeing what they could of the hallway beyond, they could see two books flopped open on the floor. And amidst all this mess in the main room sat the house servants. They were all quiet, looking frightened and unsure. Two dragoons stood guard in the room with them, one stationed at the front door, one at the entry into the hallway. Both brandished their guns, discouraging any foolhardiness.

Betsy heard boots on the stairway outside. As she turned her head toward the sound, she caught a glimpse of the lawn outside, the slaves still seated under guard, some redcoats on horseback, most milling about, looking cautious all about the place. The commander soon entered the house with his second in command, Bordon, and another adjutant, Lieutenant Wentworth on his heels.

The officer, Wentworth, stayed only a moment. After he looked about the room at everyone, then glanced at his superiors, he then turned and trotted back out of the house. Betsy could see out of the front window that he had taken up station on the veranda, overlooking the ease of activity on the green before him.

The girl shivered as the two officers seemed a menacing presence, strong, and towering over everyone. A breath caught in Betsy's throat as she watched the dragoon leaders taking their riding gloves off and stuffing them at their waistlines between their saber belts which crisscrossed their bodies.

"Miss Burwell," Tavington began in an authoritative tone, "we were quite disappointed when we arrived here earlier and your father and brother weren't here to greet us."

Still looking at the man, her lips parted a bit as she sucked in a small breath. She had to think fast to answer him. The girl tried, but her voice was trapped in her throat. When she didn't speak right away, Mr. Hantz, seated with the others, spoke.

"We received word from the master," he began in his German accent, standing as he did, "that he has been detained. He is still helping his sister with the settling of his brother-in-laws affairs."

"Hmm," Tavington said, raising his eyebrows. Betsy glanced at him, wondering if the officer believed it. She hoped he did.

"And your brother, Miss Burwell. Where is he?"

She had hoped she wouldn't have to talk to the man. The young lady calmed herself inside as best as she could. "He is two farms over, at the Brayton's house," she answered as relaxed and assuredly as she could. "Mr. Brayton has taken to bed with illness. Steven is helping them."

"Is he, now?" the cavalry commander questioned.

Betsy shook her head mutely. She watched as the colonel and his cinnamon haired adjutant exchanged sly glances. The girl felt fear beginning to swirl in the pit of her stomach.

"Then perhaps you should explain this," Tavington said. "Captain."

The colonel's aide de camp stepped forward, pulling a letter from inside of his coat. He handed it to Betsy.

She looked at the letter, seal broken, but folded back into delivery form. It was addressed to Governor Patrick Henry, Williamsburg, Virginia. Betsy didn't recognize the writing.

"What's this?" she asked, looking at the officer with a befuddled look on her face.

"A letter from your father," Bordon answered tersely. "We intercepted it."

Miss Burwell looked down at the letter, turning it over in her hands a couple of times, studying it. "That's ridiculous," she proclaimed. "That's not his handwriting."

"Read it," Tavington ordered.

"Read it? Why should I read correspondence that has obviously been forged?" she protested questioningly. She held her arm out straight, trying to give the letter back to Bordon.

"Read it!" the colonel barked, taking a menacing step toward the girl, eyes narrowed at her. His serious countenance made the girl shrink back a step, pulling her arm back toward her body, letter still in hand.

She opened the letter then stopped abruptly. She found another letter tucked inside this one. The seal was broken on it, as well. Betsy was startled to find it addressed to Major George Rogers Clark, Harrodstown, Kentucky Territory. The girl stared at it, dumbfounded.

Hugh Bordon took note of how Miss Burwell seemed surprised at finding a letter to Major Clark. Her surprised expression confirmed the intelligence obtained from his spies and sources. He was good at that: gauging people's reactions and expressions. It was finely honed from so much time spent in interrogations. He was good now at surmising who was telling the truth and who was lying.

"Yes. That one," the red haired second in command ordered. "Read it aloud."

Betsy could not understand why they were making her read a fake letter out loud. The girl opened the inner letter and laid it atop the letter to Governor Henry.

She swallowed hard and began speaking the words of the note aloud.

"Major Clark,

I am in hope that you are well and successful in the wilderness campaign. This letter is a matter of urgency and I am desperate for you to receive it. I have taken the liberty of writing to Governor Henry in hopes that he will release you on an emergency furlough.

This is in regards to our gentlemen's agreement made over a year back when last we met in Charles Towne. By my choice, my daughter is still bound to you."

Betsy stopped reading in confusion. 'Bound to you?' What does he mean, she questioned in her mind. This was the first she was hearing of this. Both her mother and father had never mentioned anything to her of this intention. But this isn't father's writing. Yet the letter can't be a fraud. Whoever wrote it spoke like her father and seemed to know intimate information. She was puzzled.

Captain Bordon suppressed a smile of satisfaction. He could already tell what she was thinking: that the letter wasn't fake. "Go on, Miss Burwell."

Then he and Colonel Tavington exchanged sly, knowing looks. Both were delighted that she was playing right into their hands.

She closed her eyes, keeping her head down, not wanting to have to look into either of the dragoon commanders' suspicious eyes. Betsy opened her eyes again and read aloud again.

"I must tell you that Steven ran away and joined the militia against my wishes, leaving Betsy there alone in charge of the farm. And while she has been doing the job of running the plantation, I am worried for her safety. The war here in the east is shifting more and more into the Carolinas by the week. Just days ago a unit a Redcoats—cavalry—namely that butcher Colonel Tavington and his dragoons, raided the farm. They are apparently now encamped in the area and are scaring the Hell out of the locals. I realize that it is no longer safe to leave Betsy there. Both our positions as leaders of rebels, me as her father and you as her intended betrothed, make her a target.

Due to the urgency of this situation, I am waiving a formal courtship and plighting your troth to her immediately. I beg you to leave as soon as you can for home and make Betsy your wife, then take her under your protection away from here, maybe to your parents' estate in Virginia where she shall be safe."

Betsy's voice broke as she spoke the last words, her hand covering her mouth. The girl's eyes rounded, then misted over. She was stunned. Betrothed? Married? No courtship? While she found George Clark handsome and liked him and enjoyed the time they'd spent together in Charles Towne, she had only just met him. She remembered thinking that she would like to be courted by him. But her father wanting her to marry Clark already, without spending more time with him? She wanted to get to know a husband before she married.

Miss Burwell took a deep breath, trying to steady herself to finish the letter. After a moment, she continued on reading out loud.

"I will give you a handsome dowry for her as quick as this war is over. Until Betsy is safely married and with you, I have arranged safe lodgings for her and am currently endeavoring to have her removed to sanctuary.

Please, I implore you, as soon as you can get a leave, to make your way to me. The generals will know where my forces are encamped.

Hope to see you again soon. Your future father-in-law,

I remain,

Colonel Harry Burwell."

Indeed the letter—both letters rather—were not fakes written by the Redcoats or some other interested party. They were notes from Betsy's father, dictated by him and written in the hand of his aide de camp, Major Zeller. The girl wasn't familiar with the adjutant's handwriting as her father's letters to home were always written by him alone.

She stood there, stunned and silent, still in disbelief that her father had her practically married off to an officer she hardly knew. Betsy longed for her mother, knowing that she could explain things, make this all better. The poor girl was confused and scared. While she wanted to be married, just as all of her young friends were becoming wives, she wanted—and needed— the proper courtship beforehand. But also to her now, she wondered if her father loved and cared for her—this war seemed his only concern. She had begged him to protect her in some way after Steven had left, and after being told months ago that this was her sacrifice, and being left there with servants to 'fend for herself', this was his alternative. To give her to another man in a quick marriage so that she would become her husband's responsibility, then her father would be absolutely free to pursue leadership and winning this war.

Captain Bordon reached forward and took the letters from Miss Burwell's hand. She let them go freely, still too shocked by the contents and her own emotions over it to offer any kind of fight.

The second in command folded the correspondence and tucked them back into his jacket. He exchanged a glance with his superior, both men smiling in nearly a sinister manner. They now knew by her dumbfounded expression that they'd obviously hit a nerve. The two dragoon leaders were quite satisfied. The intercepted letters did the trick—revealing new information and confirming old intelligence.

Colonel Tavington licked his lips as he looked down at the floor. He brought his head up slowly and tilted his head to the side, staring straight into the girl's eyes with his cold, blue eyes.

"Miss Burwell, do cease with your cock and bull story," the dragoon commander scoffed, bringing the conversation back to the lies she told of her father's and brother's whereabouts.

Her eyes widened, totally forgetting herself, that she needed to keep a calm and believable persona, even though she'd let that all slip just a moment ago as she read aloud her father's damning letter. She stammered. "I….um…I—"

"Do you take His Majesty's soldiers for fools, girl?" Tavington interrupted, harassing the young lady.

"No….I...," her voice choked off her words with fright.

"Captain," he deferred, turning his head to look at his second in command.

"You will turn over your plantation ledgers immediately," Bordon ordered.

Betsy was mute for a moment, unsure of what to say, her mind a blank. Then she remembered the fake accounting book. Yes—she could give them that one and hopefully, it would get them on their way, leaving the farm in piece.

"Yes, of course," she complied, her voice audibly trembling. The girl turned and walked down the hall toward her father's office with Colonel Tavington two steps behind. The privates guarding the servants, along with Captain Bordon, were left behind in the parlor, keeping the atmosphere thick with fear and tension.

In just a minute Miss Burwell and the dragoon commander reached the farm's office. From the door she could see that the chamber had already been ransacked. Did they not think to look behind the picture in the wall safe, she thought? The fraud ledgers were put in such an obvious place to be found easily by intruders if the situation arose.

Tavington entered the office behind her, closing the door. He made his way to the desk. Betsy stood near the door, not wanting to be near the man.

A puzzled look spread across her face as she looked at the desk. The fake ledger book, she could tell by the brown cover on it, lay open on the desk.

"Your men must have found the book," she said. "That's it on the desk."

Tavington looked at her with those cold blue eyes, making her uncomfortable and wanting to run. "No, Miss Burwell. The real books."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean—"

"Miss Burwell," he interrupted with a growl. "Do not take me for a fool. I know you have two sets of books."

Betsy started to get scared, having hoped that the redcoats would accept the fake books and be satisfied. "No. Those are—"

"We know your father hasn't sold at market in months," the officer stated. The fake ledgers had dozens of entries of selling at area markets. In reality, they had only sold enough to sustain the farm. "You've been providing stores and animals for the rebels."

"No, we…uh…" the young lady stammered.

"Enough of this! Where are the books?" Tavington snarled, his voice at a loud level as his fist slammed onto the desktop. Miss Burwell stepped backwards in fear. Her back was pushed against the bookshelf and frankly, she wished she could dissolve into the wall at the moment.

Suddenly there was a thump—a familiar one of wood hitting the floor. Betsy's heart caught in her throat, knowing that Tavington's fist jarring the desk tripped the hidden compartment open. She closed her eyes and cringed as she heard the rustle of paper falling onto the floor beneath the desk.

Colonel Tavington heard it, too. Betsy felt a sick feeling seize her stomach as she saw the commander's tall frame bend downwards. "Ah, what's this?," he asked as he reached for the black leather book and folder scattered on the floor beneath the desk.

Seeing him busy gathering the papers from off the floor, Betsy reached discreetly behind her back, her hand probing the bookshelf. She found the stack of books arranged at the end of a row of books acting as a bookend to them. The girl stretched her hand and her fingers soon felt the cold metal of the object she was looking before. Miss Burwell ceased her movements quickly when she saw the colonel stand back up with the real ledgers which had been hidden, now in his hands.

She kept an eye on him as he flipped through the pages of the ledger. The girl watched as he grinned in satisfaction, oohing and ahhing at page after page of entries in the book detailing the farm's activities aiding rebels. Her fingers moved again, edging a loaded pistol—the one they kept hidden in the office if occasion warranted—carefully out from behind the stack of books. Her hand had also touched the bag of powder placed next to it, ready for a reload if necessary.

The dragoon leader continued on, now comparing dates from the fake book to the entries in the real ledger, finding the discrepancies, in line with what Bordon had informed him as found in the area intelligence. Next he opened the folder to find statements to the rebel government and receipts for payment from them as soon as funds could be issued.

Busy with the receipts, Betsy pulled the gun free of the books, careful not to upset them, and held it behind her back. She took a deep breath to find the courage, then slowly brought the gun out in front of her, aiming it in the Colonel's direction.

The officer looked up to find the young girl standing there with a weapon pointed at him. His moment of jubilation over finding the damning evidence in the ledgers was spoiled by this rebel. He was infuriated. Saying nothing, he looked straight at Burwell's daughter, trying to anticipate what she would do next. She had surprised him as he honestly thought she didn't have the guts to have made a move like this.

"Now, Colonel," she said, steadying her voice as much as she could, "Leave the books there, then take your men and get out!"

Tavington arched an eyebrow at the girl, teasing her. He moved away from the desk and toward the window. An intense silence passed between the two as both stood their ground.

The quiet was broken when Betsy cocked the pistol. She raised her arm straight and aimed right at the dragoon.

William didn't think she had it in her to pull the trigger. He would either have to lunge for the gun and overpower her, which he was sure he could do, or have to talk her out of shooting. If he wrestled for the weapon, already cocked, it could go off. But he decided that reasoning with her would do no good given her boldness at coming this far already in pulling the damned pistol on him.

He looked at her hand and arm and noticed that they were trembling. The man watched as she put her other hand up to steady the shaking. Tavington could tell that she was unsure of herself, and that was all he needed to know. Instead of physicality or reasoning, he decided to go another route.

"Go ahead," he began. "Shoot me."

Betsy said nothing, but steadied her arm again with her free hand. She tried with all her might to hold the damned thing steady.

He knew he could make her nervous, thus confounding her already shaky aim even more. "I'll wager that you couldn't hit the broadside of a barn," he taunted. He was banking on the notorious inaccuracy of the pistol, and the young girl's uncertainty as to whether or not she could shoot another human being.

Her eyes narrowed at him. "Don't make me do this," she proclaimed boldly. "Just take your men and leave in peace."

"That's not in my plans," he chuckled in an evil tone. "If you want me to go, you will have to shoot me."

"Don't make me!" she screamed.

"Go ahead. I dare you."

Betsy closed her eyes and squeezed the trigger. The bang was so loud it made her ears ring. The kick of the weapon thrust her arms into the air and pushed her body back into the shelf. The window of the office broke, the bullet speeding through it making the cracking glass sound nearly as loud as the boom of the gunshot.

Next she heard banging on the closed door, then the deep voice of Captain Bordon. "What happened?"

"Gun discharged," Tavington answered through the door as he moved from where he stood. "We're fine in here."

That is when Betsy realized that she hadn't hit Tavington. Her hands were shaking so much that her aim was off. The shot went just to the side of him, going through the window instead.

The girl saw the officer moving toward her with fury in his eyes. She dropped the pistol and turned for the door as she saw the colonel lunging toward her.

Indeed the man was full of rage at the girl. He couldn't believe she had the gall to pull a weapon on him. And any control over himself that he had went out the window with the flying bullet at the fact that she had been audacious enough to call his bluff and shoot.

The man grabbed her and pulled her away from the door. "No!" she shouted as she struggled to get free of his grip. He turned the girl to where she faced him and he shoved her back into the bookshelf.

The girl groaned in pain, feeling a little dazed as pain shot through her back. Soon she found the colonel, his back to her, pushing his body weight back on her, effectively holding her there against the wall unit. He was wedged so powerfully against her that she felt she might suffocate.

"Miss Burwell, you have ruined your chance for any mercy, you insolent little Yankee!"

His hands moved behind him, feeling for her arms. She swatted at them as best as she could, trying desperately to fight him off. "I….do not….take….orders….from….rebels!" he snarled, accenting each word.

The colonel finally caught her left arm and pulled it around his body to where her hand was in front of him. He held her wrist tightly, squeezing it to keep her from making a fist.

Betsy struggled behind him, still trying to get free. "No! Please! Let me go!"

"So, what is to be your punishment for lying, hiding evidence, and attempted murder, hmm?"

"Please! I'll do anything!," she pleaded, now knowing he meant to harm her.

"It's a little late, my dear," he said, pushing back against her, fighting to hold her in place. "You had your chance to cooperate and chose not to."

He fought to hold her arm still, which she was trying to pull back through his arm. William's free right hand reached into his belt and found his holstered knife. "Maybe I'll incapacitate your hands so that you can't fake a ledger or point a weapon," he grunted as she still struggled against him.

Finally able to free his knife from its scabbard, he held it up as his left hand squeezed Miss Burwell's left wrist even harder.

"No! Please don't!" she begged tearfully.

With that, the man turned the knife and quickly pulled the blade across her left palm, slicing it open. The large gash bled profusely almost immediately.

The girl let out a howl in pain as she felt a searing in her palm. Next she saw flashes of light before her eyes and felt dizzy. Betsy sobbed hard in the agony of the wound, and though it was a superficial, it was deep in the top layer of tissue, and the young woman felt sure the officer had filleted her hand.

In the parlor, the group of servants and dragoons guarding them both heard a blood curdling scream come from the office. That coupled with the gunshot heard an a couple of moments before, Waldron and the other farmhand, Mr. Hantz, felt compelled to run from the room to their young mistress' rescue. They were sure Tavington was killing her.

As they both jumped to their feet, the privates moved toward them with muskets up, in a stance ready to shoot. "Stay where you are!" Captain Bordon warned. Both men quickly sat back down, both shaking with anger that they were unable to do anything for Miss Burwell.

In the office, Betsy was incapacitated with the pain in her hand, so Tavington no longer felt the need to hold the girl steady against the wall. As soon as his weight shifted, she had pulled her hand back to her body and was now holding it with her right hand and weeping as waves of pain shot up her arm.

The girl, distracted with the wound, didn't even see Tavington moving the blood stained knife to his other hand. He quickly grabbed her right hand, then pushed his body back against hers in the same position as before, his back against her front, pinning her to the bookshelf. The officer's right hand this time held her right arm through his and around his body. His hand squeezed the wrist hard, splaying the hand open before him.

"Oh God NO! Please No!", Betsy cried. She knew he wasn't through with her.

Just then, he dragged the blade across her right palm, slicing it open as well. The girl yelped again as he did, seeing wavy columns of light before her eyes. Her hand burned as the pain travelled up her arm in an instant.

The officer moved away from her, taking his weight off her body. She slumped to the floor, both her arms instinctively pulled in against her body, blood pouring from the wounds. Betsy felt nauseous as she saw the blood oozing onto the floor in front of her, and saw it staining her dress.

She laid there curled up, exhausted from the struggle, her strength and will no longer there as the pain of both hands consumed her being.

Colonel Tavington spotted a rag on the desk used to wipe ink from the hands and used it to clean the blood from his knife. He put the dagger away and scooped up the legitimate ledgers, tucking them under his left arm snugly against his body. With his right hand, he reached down and pulled Miss Burwell up off the floor as if she was a rag doll, for she gave no resistance.

He opened the office door and practically dragged the girl down the hall back toward the parlor. Once there, he heard an audible gasp from the group gathered in the room as they saw Miss Burwell and the pathetic condition that she was in. He dropped her on the floor near the door.

Seeing the blood stains on her dress and the blood on her hands, Mrs. Leyanova bolted from where she was sitting and flew to the girl's side. Betsy was curled into a fetal position, trying to keep conscious. Another wave of nausea hit the girl, and then she vomited onto the parlor floor.

The matronly servant stayed next to her, holding her body as the girl continued to retch.

Mr. Waldron and Mr. Hantz could stand no more of the barbarity and both jumped up from their seats in protest.

"You fiend!" Waldron shouted. "What have you done to her?"

"She is just a girl. Why did you have to hurt her?" Hantz asked in his German accent.

"She pulled a gun on me," Tavington replied coolly. "I merely rendered her hands useless for awhile so that she can cause no more trouble."

Lieutenant Wentworth had been watching from the door while out on the porch. He called for the medic. Soon the private came through the door without his field medical kit, having left it on his saddlebag.

"Bind her wounds, Gilbertson," Tavington ordered the private who was the medic for the dragoons.

The young orderly dropped to his knees before the girl, then realized he didn't have his kit with him. He pulled his knife from his belt. The man raised the girl's skirts slightly and quickly cut two strips from her petticoat, amidst gasps at his boldness from the servants watching in horror.

He quickly bandaged both her hands, but thought to himself that if wouldn't be long before the blood would leak through the dressings.

As he rose when his task was completed, Mrs. Leyanova pulled girl's limp body into her arms. Mr. Waldron spoke up boldly.

"You have what you want," he challenged, not making any attempt to contain his disgust, "and you've made your point. Leave her and go."

"Yes, we intend to go," Tavington said curtly with a devilish smile. "Men."

The men began to step back slowly, their muskets still trained on the group. Tavington reached down and pulled Betsy up from the floor. She let out a horrid whimper as he did, his grip and the strain of the pulling on her body just adding to the searing pain in her hands. Once on her feet, Tavington held her steady as Captain Bordon wrapped a black blindfold around her eyes.

With this, Betsy revived a bit from the agony in her hands and began to panic. "No! No!," she cried. "Please! Don't!" She weakly fought in the colonel's grip, knowing that being blindfolded was not a good thing.

Soon Tavington was leading her toward the door. Blinded as she was, she dug her heels into the floor as best as she could, trying to resist being led away from the safety of her servants and home. She sobbed as she was being taken.

Waldron went after them, reaching for Betsy. He was quickly stopped and restrained by the medic and another private, who quickly put a knife to the man's throat to subdue him. The overseer protested even with the blade held against his neck, ready to slice him at any moment.

"She's just a young girl!" he shouted after the officers as he stood restrained. "She's frightened!"

Tavington handed the girl off to the captain to lead down the steps of the porch. He addressed Mr. Waldron audaciously. "Yes! She is awfully young….and innocent. Perhaps she will become a woman at our hands." William loved to taunt rebels, and a sinister shadow moved over his face as he did.

"You wouldn't dare," Waldron confronted. He knew these men had been known to take advantage of women.

Tavington chuckled, then raised his eyebrows. His expression turned serious as he looked the Burwell's overseer directly in the eyes.

"Try me," warned William flatly.

With that, the dragoons moved from the house. The servants quickly followed them out onto the lawn, where they saw their mistress being put on Captain Bordon's horse on the saddle in front of him. The same two privates that held them under guard in the house now stood on the green preventing them from aiding their mistress. They could do nothing but watch helplessly.

Tavington, now mounted on his horse, rode over to in front of the servants from the house, who had joined the slaves where they were on the lawn. He looked down at all of them in disdain.

"Don't try to follow us," he warned. "We will kill you."

The two privates guarding the group were the last to mount. Even from their horses, they kept their eyes on the Burwell's servants.

Betsy could tell that she was on Captain Bordon's horse, riding with him. His deep voice gave him away. She soon heard Tavington give the order to leave and felt the second in command give a yank on the reins, and felt the horse move forward. She was afraid she would fall from the horse even though the officer's arms held her tightly.

The Burwell plantation servants and slaves watched as the dragoons rode down the driveway with the young girl. Many had tears in their eyes as they watched, unsure if they would ever see the girl again.

Betsy, too, cried tears that soon dampened her blindfold. Her hands ached and throbbed in pain, and her heart hurt equally with sorrow, not knowing what was to become of her, and sorry that she could not even look upon her beloved home as she was being taken away from it.