Author's note: Let me begin with my usual and customary apology for not updating sooner. Real life is just so busy with a 6 1/2 year old first grader with homework, house, husband, working full time, etc... All that is priority and just doesn't leave alot of time for writing. Anyway, thanks for your sustained patience and for reading this story. I will try to update sooner, but I know you all understand that real life creeps in there and sucks up the time. Don't get worried if you don't see an update-I haven't abandoned the story but am merely held hostage by the "lack-of-free-time troll."
Thanks again for your patience...I appreciate it!
JScorpio
Chapter 7 In British Custody
The blindfold wrapped about Miss Burwell's head was effective for the first half of the ride away from her plantation. The thing proved useless the last miles of the trip as the girl fainted from pain and blood loss. As Betsy lay unconscious in Captain Bordon's arms atop his horse, the blood had saturated the crude dressings on her hands, leaked onto her dress and now seeped onto the officer's uniform.
After hours of riding, Tavington's legion were glad to ride through their line of vedettes positioned just off the road, then see the white of their tents ahead through the green trees. They passed the sentries on foot then rode into the glade where they made their temporary home. The small group ordered to stay behind at the camp were equally as glad to have their numbers swelled again, always on edge in case of a surprise attack on the sparsely occupied canvas village.
It was nearly evening now and the men were ready to rest in the cooling temperatures after the hot Carolina afternoon. Hugh Bordon was happy to turn the limp body of Miss Burwell over to one of the privates, after having held her, repositioning her unconscious body frequently just to keep her on his horse, and give his body some air. He was sweltering having had to hold another human against him in the heat of the day on the long ride and the wool of his uniform was soaked with sweat and now stained with the girl's blood. The officer sighed as he dismounted then led his horse into the corral. He looked over his shoulder to see private Emory disappearing into the large medical tent, second in size only to the mess and conference tent, with the Burwell girl in his arms.
Hugh decided he would deal with interrogating the young woman later. After all, there wasn't much he could with her until she revived on her own. No use trying Hartshorn and salts; they might rouse her and bring her about, but her answers wouldn't be much use to him while she was groggy. So the captain didn't say much to anyone except a few one word greetings to some of the men as he ducked into his tent. Once there the officer shimmied out of his uniform down to his breeches and kicked off his boots. Bare chested now, he picked up the soiled jacket along with a clean pair of drawers and breeches, and in his blood stained black trousers, made his way down to the nearby creek.
At the stream, he peeled off his pants and left the stained uniform on the bank as he walked into the water. It wasn't very wide nor was it deep, maybe six inches at the deepest in this vicinity. But he didn't care. It was cold and clear and that was all he needed.
Clad only in his drawers, he sat down in the creek, then laid back in it, the smooth rocks on the bottom poking only a few spots into his skin. He laid there a moment and let out an audible sigh of relief as the cold, shallow water rushed around his body. After another minute, Bordon sat up, cupped his hands in the water gathering up some, and poured it on his face. The next bit of the liquid he poured over his head. The officer unwound his russet blond hair from its tight braid and shook it loose, drops of water flying all about as he did.
With his hands as he sat there, he splashed the water up onto his torso, the water then running in rivulets off his muscular shoulders and down over his well defined chest. The man imagined he could see the steam rising off his hot skin as the ice cold water, spring fed, hit his body.
The captain slowly rose to his feet, letting the water run off his body a moment. He reluctantly left the cool brook and stepped onto the grassy bank. The officer looked down at the soiled clothes, catching sight of his genitals perfectly outlined and showing through the thin linen of his saturated drawers. He pushed the wet material down his legs and stepped out of them. It only took a few seconds for the warm breeze to dry his skin. He then pulled on the clean pair of drawers and tied the drawstring just below his navel, then slid his trousers on over them.
Bordon knelt at the water's edge and rinsed his sweat and blood soaked pants and jacket in the creek. He watched as the crimson fluid was released from the fabric as he swirled the articles about in the water. The blood, like pale red ribbons, twisted and turned about in the ripples, eventually disappearing into the stream. Hugh wrung the water from the garments then strolled up the bank toward the encampment.
The officer stopped just outside his tent and hung the damp clothing up on the line to dry, then ducked into his tent. He dawned a clean shirt, not bothering to tuck it in then quickly ran his hands through his damp hair, leaving it long and wavy. The captain grabbed a pencil and notebook and left his abode again. He tromped across the glade to the medical tent and went inside.
Once there, he looked past the operating table in the middle of the tent and two empty cots into the back part of the tent, divided by canvas curtain making a separate room. With the divider tied back, he saw that two sheets had been rigged from the tent ceiling in the shape of an "L", meeting the same shape formed by two corners meeting in the tent. The makeshift curtained area would afford the new female prisoner some privacy.
Captain Bordon walked back into the rear of the tent to find an orderly putting a poultice of buttermilk, linseed oil, and indigo root on her lacerated hands. Cleans strips of cloth bandages lay on a small tray on the foot of the cot.
"Has she come to yet?" Hugh asked.
"No," the medic answered as he reached for one of the bandages.
Bordon looked at the dragoon legion's surgeon, standing on the other side of the bed, watching as the orderly began to wrap the dressing around Miss Burwell's right hand to hold the poultice securely in place against her lacerated palm. The doctor, looking concerned, heaved a sigh and spoke.
"We'll put a plaster on the wounds tomorrow," he mentioned without fanfare. "Stitches would never hold; they'd break open with even a small movement of her fingers."
The captain nodded, trusting the physician's judgment.
Worry clouded the surgeon's face. Stanver, the doctor, was always concerned over battle injuries the men sustained or their camp illnesses—he was used to seeing it. But the man was always uneasy when an injured civilian—especially a prisoner, was brought to him. He always felt it was his primary duty to spend time, medicines, dressings, and precious Laudanum on the soldiers first and he would tend to have to use the supplies more sparingly on the captives. This would make him apprehensive then, as well, as he sometimes had no idea whether or not to strive to keep the civilian alive if he couldn't get a straight answer from an officer. He said a silent prayer of thanks that this young girl wasn't in grave danger at the time.
"How did she get the injuries?" the doctor asked. He needed to know what caused the lacerations to aid him her treatment. Yet, he surmised that he already knew the answer, and it was something he dreaded. Stanver had the feeling that their commander's ire had broken its bonds, but that wasn't a monumental task these days; Tavington seemed to have an anger fuse that grew shorter by the day.
"Punishment," Bordon answered.
While this seemed a bit severe to the doctor, he was growing used to seeing various wounds caused by some kind of consequences at the colonel's hand. Stanver shook his head.
"For what?"
"She pulled a pistol on the colonel and shot at him," replied the dragoon's second in command.
"Her aim must be bad," the doctor commented. "She obviously didn't hit Colonel Tavington as he hasn't been in her to see me yet." The man chuckled.
"Yes. The ball missed him and went through the window," Bordon informed, raising his eyebrows as he did. "I'm sure she was frightened, which hindered the shot."
"She's just a young girl," the surgeon protested.
"Yes, and a foolish one at that," Hugh agreed.
"Due to her immaturity of age," the surgeon added.
"Yes. And she has been left alone by her male relatives on her family's plantation," Bordon announced. "She's been running the thing with only servants for months. That has made her territorial and protective. Couple that with her immaturity and foolishness and you get a foolhardy boldness."
"Usually slashes on the palms indicate a defensive wound," the surgeon pointed out, still not sure what had transpired. "Did he…..um….attack her?"
"No," Bordon assured. "It was punishment for her actions. He decided to incapacitate her hands for awhile to keep her from causing more trouble. The whole thing was twofold: the colonel was angry that she shot at him, and he obviously thought her absurd enough to perpetrate more audacity."
The surgeon Stanver had seen the dragoon commander's cruelty on more than one occasion. He kept it to himself that he thought Tavington's actions toward the girl as bordering on barbaric. She was just a young girl.
"How old is she?" asked the physician.
Bordon hesitated for a moment, trying to remember his intelligence notes. "Uh…..14….nearly 15, I believe," he stammered.
"Oh, that young?" asked Stanver in disbelief. "Well, for her age, she's already a beauty."
Even in the girl's unconscious state, her skin a bit pale from blood loss and loose tendrils of her sandy brown hair curling wildly about her forehead, cheeks and shoulders, the men were noticing the beautiful young woman.
"That she is," Hugh agreed with a slight smile. "She's among the prettiest of these plantation wenches that I've seen here."
With that, the three men chuckled, Bordon patting the doctor on his back as they jested. The captain turned to leave and as he stepped away, the medic called to him.
"Do you want me to rouse her?" he asked, as he finished wrapping her hand.
Hugh stopped in his place and turned back toward the bed. "No. When she revives, fetch me then."
"Yes sir."
Captain Bordon turned his body back toward the front of the tent and moved swiftly out of it. Once back in his own tent, he settled in at his table and looked over his notes and maps, ready to write a report for the Generals.
/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/
"She's revived, Captain."
"Thank you," Hugh Bordon replied to the private, "I'll be there straight away."
The officer quickly ran his fingers through his unruly cinnamon locks, still wild over his shoulders, then dawned his uniform jacket. He hurried from his tent, buttoning the upper buttons on his waistcoat as he did. The dragoon's second in command crossed the open ground of the camp quickly, soon reaching the medical tent. He entered, looking half like an officer in uniform, and half a man of leisure with his jacket hanging open, hair down, and shirt open at the neck with no stock.
Reaching the cot where Colonel Burwell's daughter lay, she let out a gasp as she looked up at the officer. The girl immediately tried to scoot backwards away from the redcoat leader.
"Oh," she whimpered at the pain in her hands as she tried to use them. Tears welled up in her eyes. She had recognized the man with the broad shoulders towering over her immediately as one of the commanders of the cavalry. Though looking casual, Captain Bordon was in enough of his uniform to startle to girl.
He immediately raised his hands in a halting gesture. "Easy," he said in a low voice. "I'm not here to hurt you."
Betsy looked up at him, distrust on her face and fear in her eyes. Hugh looked at her hands, noticing that one of the bandages had come loose, a tail of the gauzy material fluttering freely.
The young girl watched in silent unease as the dragoon officer seated himself on a stool next to the bed, where the orderly has just been sitting. She kept a suspicious eye on him as he reached for the nearby tray, retrieving a fresh bandage roll off of it.
Hugh put the rolled bandage down on the bed between him and the prisoner. "Here," he requested as he reached for the girl's right wrist. "Let me have a look at that."
It was only then that she noticed that her dressing had come undone. She let the officer take her right wrist, and was unnerved by how gently he held it. The girl recalled the Captain putting the blindfold on her, gripping her arm tightly, then herding her out of her own house. She also remembered how firm he'd held her on the ride away from the farm, how she was sure at times that his arms might crush her ribs while around her thin middle. And now, he held her wrist with such regard and care as he surveyed the dressings.
Bordon, indeed was careful not to hurt the girl as he ministered to her wounds. The old dressing, now soiled with a mixture of blood from the injury and wetness from the moist poultice, was discarded to the side. He lifted the poultice and took a quick glimpse of the prisoner's wound, then replace it carefully. The captain then took the clean dressing and began to wrap it around Miss Burwell's right hand.
Betsy, confused by the dragoon adjutant's contradictory actions, spoke. "Why is an officer doing the duty of an orderly?"
"All of his Majesty's fighting soldiers learn rudimentary field medicine," Bordon answered, not making eye contact with the girl, busy surveying his wrapping of her hand. "One never knows when medics and surgeons may die, and can't depend upon when replacements will arrive."
A moment of silence between captor and captive as all the attention was focused on attending to her wound dressings. Just as Bordon finished, Betsy broke the quiet between them.
"I want to go home," she said in a small, scared voice.
Hugh knew it was natural for a young girl her age to feel that. He wanted to assuage her fears so that she would be cooperative, yet he needed to tell her the truth to begin establishing some sort of trust between them. The aide de camp knew he could get more compliance and intelligence from the youth if he could win her trust.
He spoke as he checked the condition of the dressing on her other hand. Again, not making eye contact and concentrating on the matter at hand, he answered. "I'm afraid you're going to have to settle into camp life for awhile."
"How long?"
"You will remain in our custody for as long as we deem necessary," the captain replied.
She sighed. She just had to have some more specific answers—if he would tell her. "What's to be done with me?"
"That's up to the generals and Colonel Tavington to decide." Bordon, satisfied that the other dressing was secure on the opposite hand, moved the tray with fresh rolled bandages and supplies to another stool at the foot of the bed.
"Decide?" Her question was an echo to his words.
"He has his plans," Bordon answered, his deep voice implying no nonsense.
Miss Burwell knew that the captain was referring to the colonel's plans. She was curious if Tavington had discussed them with Bordon, or if the second in command had no clue what they were. She pressed on with her query.
"And what after that?" Her eyes were deep with the need to know.
Bordon, starting to grow a bit irritated with her questions, wanted nothing more than to stem them query for now. He looked into her eyes, hoping that his own would warn her that she was treading on thin ice with her sort of interrogation.
"You will be kept for as long as you are useful to us." His tone alone silenced the girl for a moment. Betsy watched her captor intently as he turned his body slightly to leaf through a medical book left sitting on a stand at her bedside.
After a minute, the captain looked back to find the rebel colonel's daughter holding her bandaged hands before her face, studying them. As she stared at them, she spoke absently, unaware that the officer had turned his attention back toward her. "I was afraid," she sniffled, fighting tears back, "I was trying to defend my home. I just wanted all of you to leave us be."
"Miss Burwell," he began in a frank and serious voice, "You're quite lucky that your shot missed the colonel. You're even luckier that he didn't have charges brought against you for attempted murder. You would be hanged."
Betsy's eyes rounded as her jaw dropped open. Her immaturity would only let her see her own point of view: that she was defending her homestead and the shot therefore justified. While experiencing his anger at her for her actions, she couldn't see where they would be deemed "attempted murder." After all, she thought, he is a regimental commander; he is probably shot at every day.
Captain Bordon went on, trying to set the girl straight. "The fact that Colonel Tavington has plans for you… has saved your miserable, traitor hide."
The officer took a breath, then sat up straight, his brawny frame rigid, the posture giving him an air of vast superiority. He looked sternly down at the girl, making her want to squirm.
"Colonel Tavington is a hard man," Hugh informed in a tone that sounded more like scolding than imparting. "You have seen and felt one measure of his harshness. Believe me when I say that I've seen him do more severe things and the prisoners fare far worse than you."
Betsy kept quiet, looking up at the dragoon adjutant, dread holding her in its vice grip. Her hands seemed to throb harder with pain at just the mention of Tavington's name.
"Do not antagonize the commander," the captain advised. "You would do well to cooperate with him…with us. I'd hate to see you get hurt again….and in a worse way."
Betsy's face contorted in alarm. "He wouldn't—"
"Do not press him," warned Bordon somberly.
An awkward silence passed between the young lady and the officer. Her mind was a raging torrent. She had only just come to moments ago and already she was trying to assess her own situation. That coupled with her physical pain and need to get away from the dragoons. And while she was wondering what they were going to do to her and knowing she needed to formulate some way to escape, she was being told to be a good girl or she would be spanked.
The swirling waters in her head then turned to confusion as she studied the redcoat officer before her. He had been nearly as cold and rough as Colonel Tavington had been at her farm, ordering her about and herding her off blindfolded. Then he had been calculating, forcing her to read a letter containing sensitive family details aloud, humiliating and shocking the girl.
And now the man was attending to her wounds, careful not to cause her further pain. And advising her, though in a forthright way, how to better deal with the unyielding colonel in the future. The rebel leader's daughter didn't know what to make of Captain Hugh Bordon.
"Why are you being so kind to me?" she asked, breaking the heavy air of quiet between them.
"Unlike my commander, I prefer to keep our prisoners in one piece," he answered. "There are…other methods….to getting one's business done with captives. I have more patience than my superior, who tends to act rashly."
"And when your business with me is done," Betsy asked, trying to be brave, "when I'm no longer of any use to you, what then? Will you free me, or will you ki—"
"I'm sure you will serve our purposes for awhile," Bordon answered dryly. He knew the girl was scared and wanted answers, but he could reveal nothing to her. The captain couldn't tell her of their tentative plans. Truth be told, he wasn't sure where the girl would end up or what might happen to her when they had achieved their goals. Hugh secretly hoped that in the end, the colonel would spare the life of this frightened teenager. The officer had seen that killing rebels in helpless situations only seemed to escalate the ire and resolve of these backwoods colonials.
The girl could tell by the tone of his voice that she would get nothing more from him but vague answers. Yet she had another question left to ask. Since she was ridden away from the plantation blindfolded, she had no idea what, if anything, had happened to her servants or even if her farm was still standing. Miss Burwell had to ask anyway, even if he refused to answer her. She had to make her concern known.
"Captain, what of my farm and servants?"
Part of the dragoons' second in commands' tactics with prisoners was to win their trust. Captives, he found, became more willing to give up information and even help, when trust was built. And once that trust was there, they tended to let their guard down, as well, which was just as useful. Hugh knew that he had to give up a little information here to Miss Burwell to gain her confidence.
"I can assure you that they are fine and reside still at your home," Bordon replied. "The land and crops are intact, the animals unharmed, and the buildings still stand."
The girl looked at him with doubt filled eyes. He had to assuage her.
"While we had to examine the premises thoroughly," he informed, "the plantation and your servants was not what we were interested in."
Betsy now viewed him with query on her face. She wanted to believe him, but he was the enemy. If they weren't interested in the farm, then why had they bothered to make two visits on the place instead of taking her on their first raid, she wondered.
"I know you have heard that we burn buildings in some circumstances," Hugh elaborated. "But it wasn't warranted in this case."
Miss Burwell let out a sigh of relief. Now she had hope of having a home to return to. The young woman watched from her bed as Bordon excused himself and left through the curtains drawn about her. He reappeared seconds later with a cup of steaming liquid.
"Here," he said, carefully placing the teacup in her bandaged hands. He helped her hold it for a moment until he felt confident that she had it steady. "Drink this."
Betsy brought the cup to her face, then stopped, noting an odd smell wafting up in the steam. She looked suspiciously at the officer. "Is it poisoned?"
Bordon rolled his eyes and let out an exasperated breath. We attended to your wounds just to come about and murder you with poison, he queried in thought. Probably her immaturity of age, he assumed. Or maybe it was just plain fear.
"Of course not," he snapped. "It is tea with some Valerian root mixed into it. The doctor thought you might have trouble sleeping tonight."
He watched as the girl sipped carefully from the cup. "Get some sleep. You and I will speak more tomorrow."
With that, he bowed his head respectfully to her, turned quickly, and left, leaving the canvas curtains swaying back and forth around her bed.
Betsy was glad to be left alone; happy for a bit of peace and quiet. She knew that the officers would probably interrogate her tomorrow as they hadn't asked much of her this evening.
The girl was surprised at how fast the Valerian took hold of her system. She felt warm and tired, the pain in her sliced up hands not as prevalent. And as she lay there looking up at the canvas ceiling above her, her drowsy mind wandered.
She remembered a time four years ago, before the war when tensions were escalating. Redcoats came to her house one day, another routine raid. They noticed the pearl and shell necklace that Katy Burwell wore, the favorite one, given to her by Harry. One bloodyback observed that it looked of the Indies islands.
Betsy's father, a former major in the King's army years past, as asked about the necklace. He explained that he'd purchased it in Charles Towne from a market vendor. The British soldiers demanded a receipt. When Harry could not produce one, the redcoat patrol immediately accused him of dealing with pirates. After all, the bauble looked awfully tropical, and the pirates marauded all over the Caribbean, then came up the coast of the colonies, off loading their illegal and stolen goods all over the seaboard. Much of that same contraband ended up on the streets of Charles Towne.
The ailing girl recollected her dear mother Katy bravely trying to hold back tears, comforting her own crying daughter as the soldiers dragged Harry from them house. Her brother Stephen, nearly 14 and young and strong, had to be held back by both Mr. Waldron and Mr. Hantz as the boy was raging to charge the redcoats and free his father.
Harry Burwell disappeared, being jailed for three days. He was never pardoned, but instead let go as the magistrate decided that one former British officer with a suspicious necklace and no known dealings with pirates previously with other large problems brewing wasn't worth the time. Betsy's father returned home with even more of a reason to join with his friends and band against England. His family and servants had a fervor as passionate as his due to raids on their friends and neighbors, and this latest action drove the feelings deeper.
The episode put a fear of these British soldiers into Miss Burwell. She could never forget the image of her father clapped in irons and hauled away to jail. And now she was in their custody, her well meaning defense of her home punished by the commander. The redcoat surgeon had mended her wounds, and the redcoat cavalry's second in command had tried to mend her soul with some kindness.
Betsy drifted off to sleep thinking that she could never trust the redcoats.
/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/
The next morning, Betsy Burwell winced and groaned as the poultices were removed from her hands, then did her best to fight back tears as the doctor put the plaster on her palms, bringing the edges of her wounds nearly closed. She sat in her bed studying the ugly wounds, wondering about the scars the injury would leave. At least the remnants of the lacerations wouldn't be too noticeable.
However, the longer she stared at the wounds, the more her anger rose. She clinched her jaw hard, thinking for once that her father was right in fighting these men. The British had done this to her, as well as caused trouble for her family and friends and neighbors. The more she thought about things, the more irate she became. The girl soon worked herself into a frenzy, determined that she wouldn't cooperate with them, no matter what the price. She hated them.
The young woman was so absorbed in her thoughts of loathing and contempt of her captors that she didn't notice one of them now sitting before her. When she heard the captain clear his throat, she looked up at him with daggers in her eyes. She pulled her arms in close to her body then put her head down, not wanting to look at the man.
"Good morning, Miss Burwell," Hugh Bordon said as he seated himself in the chair by her bed. "I trust you slept well."
"Yes," she answered in a short voice.
He sighed inwardly at her terse reply. With his interrogations of prisoners, he had become a good judge of voice inflections and body language. Bordon wondered what, if anything, had happened in the hours since he'd last visited her. She had calmed and become accepting at that time, and now she was closed off and defensive. The officer hoped that she wouldn't give him any trouble this morning during his questioning, but he could sense her stubbornness.
"Did you have breakfast?" Hugh asked, keeping the conversation light in hopes of coaxing her out of her defenses.
"I wasn't hungry," the girl replied, again in a quiet but barbed tone.
He could see that the polite conversation would get him nowhere this morning, so the officer decided to get right to the point. Bordon took a deep breath and let it out, keeping his composure even, as usual.
"Very well, then," the captain commented flatly. "I must ask you some questions, Miss Burwell."
First with a surprised expression, then with a hard stare, the girl locked eyes with her captor. She let out a frustrated sigh, clearly indicating her unhappiness with his request. Betsy was upset; it wasn't enough that they'd raided her homestead, hurt her physically, and kidnapped her. Now she supposed that they wanted her to give up every bit of rebel info she possessed, then accuse all she knew of treachery against the King.
For the moment, she made up her mind that she would not cooperate. "Good, Lord," she swore, "Am I to have not a moment's peace?"
He raised his chin and looked down at her sternly, doing his best to hold back the indignant tone that wanted to take over his voice and demeanor. "Miss Burwell, you were given a whole night's reprieve."
"How could I rest soundly as a captive?"
"How you rest is not our concern," he bit back.
An awkward space of silence passed between them, in which he held an intimidating gaze on her. The girl didn't want to answer any interrogations, afraid of incriminating all whom she loved.
"And if I don't answer your questions….," she asked quietly, leaving her own question hanging open.
Bordon was tired of her childish stubbornness and decided to shut the game she was playing down immediately, determined that she would not get away with this foolishness one minute more. "Then I will have to tell Colonel Tavington that you have a case of lockjaw," he countered, "in which case the commander will come in here and strike you across the face to loosen your tongue."
Betsy's eyes rounded as her jaw dropped in astonishment. "He wouldn't dare!"
"Of course he would. I've seen him do worse. And you've experienced it," Hugh retorted. "He is a man of little patience."
Miss Burwell looked down at her hands, the plaster barely dry on them now. She knew she had no choice, and her face clearly showed the fear.
Captain Bordon could tell by her sudden distress that he had her. She was trapped and he would obtain some intelligence, he was sure.
"Captain," she began in earnest, "all I was doing was running the farm for father, a responsibility I was saddled with by no choice of mine. That leaves me no time to be any kind of operative for the colonials. I'm sure I don't have any information that you need."
"I will be the judge of that," he answered.
The girl stalled again. "What if I don't know all the answers," she pleaded, "What if I don't answer the way you want me to?"
"I don't want you to say what you think I want to hear," he countered. "I just want you to answer truthfully."
She shook her head silently, gesturing loosely that she still didn't want to answer, even as scared as she was.
"Miss Burwell, please don't make me have to tell the colonel that you won't cooperate," he requested, in a tone implying that he was reluctant to get her into trouble, as if seeking her confidence. That was another one of his tactics: lure the captive in and make them think that it would be painful or a disgrace for him to have to reveal to his commander that he'd failed in his duty. Nearly every time the prisoner took the bait, feeling sorry for the second in command, obligated to help keep the officer that had extended kindness out of trouble.
The young woman sighed in defeat. "I'll answer," she relented.
"Wise choice," the officer nodded in approval. Hugh reached into the breast pocket inside his jacket and pulled out a small notepad and pencil. He flipped it open and quickly wrote something in it.
"Tell me about your servants," Captain Bordon requested. He looked up at the girl, ready to study her eyes and face for truth or lies when she spoke. Hugh sat quietly, watching her as she hesitated to answer.
After a moment, she finally answered, but not in a fashion conducive to beginning this investigation. "Why would you need to know about them?"
The dragoon second in command let an inaudible sigh out as he rolled his eyes. Then he narrowed them at the girl in warning. "I am the intelligence officer here and thus will ask the questions," he scolded. "I have my reasons for asking what I do; that should be sufficient enough for you to know. Just answer and do not challenge. Understood?"
"Yes sir," she answered timidly.
Hugh could not expose the fact that he needed to assess the closeness of the Burwell servants and slaves to her. He needed to know if any of them could be turned, or how they could be used to advance the British cause. Miss Burwell would either figure this out on her own as he questioned her, or she wouldn't.
"Let's begin with Mrs. Leyanova. She's Russian judging by her name and accent, is she not?"
"She is," Betsy answered. "She hasn't told me much of her time in Russia. Her grandfather was executed by Czar Peter, and her own father was killed as well, by a later czar. She married there."
Betsy stopped abruptly, making Bordon wonder if she was hiding something about the Russian housekeeper. The girl wasn't. Indeed she was feeling guilt at speaking of her servants' personal lives to this officer—this stranger; the enemy.
"Go on," coaxed the cavalry officer.
"The Leyanovas fled Russia with a group and ended up in London," the rebel colonel's daughter replied. "They weren't able to have any children. And he died there. After that, she indentured herself and came to this country. Mr. Hantz was in that same group."
Betsy went on. "Her indenture was owned by my mother's parents and given in turn to my own parents on their wedding day to help with the household and take care of us..the future children. She worked her term and was kept on by my family. She is a paid servant now."
"How long have you known her?" the captain queried.
"She and Mr. Hantz both have been here 20 years."
"You've known them your whole life," he said, confirming her answer.
"Yes. Mr. Hantz is from Germany and was indentured. Papa now pays him as a farmhand."
"I see," Hugh nodded. He was most interested in knowing about Jake Waldron, who was overly protective of the girl, enough so that it nearly cost him his life. "Tell me about Mr. Waldron."
Betsy looked down, hesitating again. She didn't want to answer anything about her father's most trusted friend and servant. The girl sighed then continued. "Mr. Waldron's father was a good friend of Grandpa Burwell. He left our area and moved to Charlotte, where he was an accountant."
"When Mr. Waldron's mother died and his father became ill," she went on, "he left the city and came back to the farm to take care of it and his father. He was in need of an income while doing that, so papa offered him the job as overseer. When his father died, he stayed on with us instead of going back to the city."
Betsy felt badly, telling all she knew of these three most trusted employees. She knew that if she didn't , she would be hurt again. The girl also had the feeling that this Captain Bordon was a good enough officer to find out the information elsewhere if she wouldn't reveal it. At least she had some control, or at least the feeling of it, with her being the one to tell it to him and to choose how and what she said.
Bordon scrawled quick notes as the girl continued on providing information about the rest of her servants and slaves. He realized that the young woman didn't know as much as he had hoped she would of them, and he'd have to get back to her plantation eventually to interrogate them all as well. That might fill in the holes that would hopefully allow him to assess the alliances later.
"The large house south of yours on your property," asked the officer.
"Grandma and Grandpa Burwell built it and lived there," she stated. "Father was raised there. Grandpa gave papa some land when he married mama. They then built the house we live in now."
There was silence again as Captain Bordon made some more notes. Betsy watched him as he did. It was a worrisome quiet, leaving her wondering again: wondering what they wanted of her.
When she could take the heavy silence in the tent no longer, she spoke urgently. "If it's ransom you want, my family will pay it!" she blurted out.
The second in command of the dragoons calmly flipped to the next blank page of his notebook, then looked at the girl again. "Yes, Miss Burwell. Your family's wealth and position are well known." He said this dismissively, almost as if that fact wasn't important to him or the British.
Of course not, Betsy reminded herself inwardly. The King's army was rich. They'd have no need of ransom money for her.
"I heard you and the colonel talking earlier in the tent," she divulged, "and how you congratulated yourselves on snaring two officers instead of one for me."
The girl was sharp, Bordon thought to himself. He'd had no idea she'd heard anything of what he and his commander had joked of in passing in this very tent just an hour ago. They had kept their voices low. He made a mental note to make sure she was securely out of earshot the next time he and his superior should speak of her.
"George Rogers Clark will not give himself up for a girl he hardly knows," she informed.
"Ah yes….your fiancé…the elusive major—"
"He's not my fiancé!" she snapped.
"That's not what your father's letter indicated," he challenged.
"Yes," she acquiesced. "I was stunned."
He overlooked her remark and went on with his interrogation. "How long have you been engaged to him?"
"I'm not!" Betsy shot back, frustrated that he didn't believe her.
"You're lying," he said flatly.
"No I'm not," she answered emphatically, feeling it important to keep Major Clark out of her troubling situation. "Papa's letter is the first I've heard of it."
"Do you really expect me to believe that," Hugh asked.
"I only met him last summer, a few times in Charles Towne," she cried. "I don't know him that well. I wouldn't marry a man I haven't courted, and especially one I didn't know well or love."
"I believe it is up to your father who you marry," the officer pointed out, taking a little satisfaction in trumping her, as if a girl that young from a society family could choose freely her own future spouse.
"He has obviously promised you to Clark," the dragoon observed, "and I don't believe for one moment that you had no knowledge of your own betrothal."
Betsy sat, quietly astonished, in her own defeat. She did not bother to make a rebuttal, for she knew he was steadfast and she could not sway him to believe her.
The young woman watched the officer closely again as he looked over his notes, then flipped the book closed. She hoped he was done questioning her. Still, she couldn't help but wonder why he hadn't asked her of her father and brother. She dismissed it quickly though, glad she didn't have to chance saying anything to incriminate them. Betsy assumed that since they were both military men, that Bordon had probably learned what information he needed to know of them from his own spies within the rebel ranks.
Hugh Bordon rose from his seat and gave a slight nod of thanks to the girl for her cooperation. He bid a quick farewell and turned to go.
Curiosity had gotten the best of the girl though, and she could stand it no longer. Before the man had taken even two steps from her, she spoke up.
"My father won't trade himself for me."
The captain spun on his heel and looked back curiously at the ailing girl, now reclining comfortably on the hospital cot. Her quiet comment had captured his attention, making him interested in hearing a bit more.
"You're his child," he said with an air of both feigned innocence and ignorance, baiting the girl up to tell him more. Surely she wouldn't recognize this quick game he was engaging her in.
"That doesn't matter," she said forlornly, looking down and disappointed. "Surely you have spies in his camp that have told you of his ways and his feelings."
"Of course," Bordon bluffed. He had heard things from his contacts, but not on such an intimate level. Most of it was just military business. The captain knew he could glean something of the colonel in hearing insight into his character.
"Then you must have heard how papa speaks of sacrifices that everyone must make for the cause," Betsy said, not realizing that she was probably exposing too much. She innocently felt that she was dissuading the redcoats from even bothering wasting their time with her father.
"My mother made them," she scoffed, rolling her eyes, which were getting misty. "And now... I'm just another one of his sacrifices."
Well, it's not much, he thought to himself, hoping she would have revealed more, but it is a start. "Miss Burwell," he began, "please make yourself comfortable in camp for the time being and don't try anything foolish. We decide your fate and will use you accordingly."
The chilling comment from Captain Bordon, an officer that had been showing some compassion, left the girl cold and distrusting again. She watched him disappear from the medical tent, leaving her there alone to ponder her immediate destiny at the hand of the lobsters.
#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#
Lobster: slang rebel term for Redcoats
Vedettes: mounted lookouts stationed in advance of a line of pickets (look out or guard line on foot).
Drawers: Some men did wear a rudimentary version of "underwear" at this time in history. They were made of thin linen and pulled up onto the body, or "drawn up and on", thus the nickname "drawers", and held in place with a tied drawstring. They went downward covering the thigh and ended just above or below the knee, fitting loosely, worn under the breeches.
Plaster: A waxy, sticky, or gummy substance put on wounds at that time. It took the place of stitches, when they could not or were not chosen to be used, to hold the wound together. It acted as an adhesive. Sometimes the physician used it in lieu of stitches if the wound need to be partially left open to drain, which it wouldn't as well if it were closed with sutures.
Hartshorn: from 1685, the use of hart's horns as the chief source of ammonia, a component of smelling salts to revive those who faint.