Author's note: Hello fair readers! Hope you all have been well! Thanks again for your patience, I appreciate it. Let me apologize again (now becoming a regular thing) for not updating sooner. As usual, real life is full and hectic. Maybe I can reward your patience with a long chapter tonight...it is very long! I'll try to update sooner but alas, the holidays draw near so I can't promise anything. UGH.
Thanks again for reading the story and hope you enjoy this update!
Chapter 8 Rejection
Benjamin Martin, having just given the last bit of instructions and reminders to his small detachment of militia, tightened the saddle on his horse as his men mounted their steeds. He pulled away from the beast slightly then lifted his foot toward the stirrup. Before he could hoist himself up, he noticed Harry Burwell's aide de camp, Major Zeller, striding purposefully toward him. The adjutant seemed to close the distance across the opening in the rebel camp in a flash and was upon the group of waiting rebels in an instant.
"Your men can disperse, Colonel," Major Zeller advised tersely. "Your mission is aborted per Colonel Burwell's orders."
A puzzled look crossed Ben's face. "What?"
"The assignment is cancelled," Zeller clarified then quickly moved back toward the command tents.
"Colonel?" Dan Scott questioned, looking down at Martin after having heard the short exchange.
"You men can stand down," Benjamin offered. "Relax here for a few minutes while I see what the Hell is going on."
The handful of militia men dismounted as they watched their commander stalk toward Colonel Burwell's tent. Martin was irritated and it showed. The man had conspired with his friend Harry to gather Betsy Burwell from the colonel's plantation with the help of a militia detachment. Ben had made urgent arrangements via runners and messengers with his brother to give the girl safe haven for the remainder of the war.
Ben's older brother, Zimry Martin, and his family had agreed to protect Miss Burwell. The elder brother agreed that his cabin and farm were well hidden and out of the hotbed of war activity. His homestead, on the edge of the frontier, was nestled in the mountains of North Carolina just mere feet from the Tennessee border. She would be safe and out of sight there.
Now Benjamin, who had gone to the trouble of arranging the safe house and assembling the best of his men to help spirit the girl away in the middle of a countryside seemingly more infested with Redcoats by the day, had to order his men to ease after readying them. His breathing became heavier with his anger and confusion over the surprising order as he stomped across the camp. He wasn't ready to give the mission up, feeling confident from the beginning that they would succeed in getting the young woman to safety.
Martin's ire had crested as he arrived at Burwell's tent. He stopped just outside of it and took a deep breath, calming himself. Ben didn't want to lash out at Harry. After all, the man had kept his promise made to Martin over a year ago in Charles Towne, making Gabriel Martin a messenger to keep him off the battle lines. And since, he'd transferred the young man to Benjamin's militia, allowing the father and son to serve duty together.
The militia leader stepped into the tent. He was met by the sight of Harry's back to him, palms flat on a table, his body hunched over it. Martin walked lightly around to the side and observed for a moment Burwell's head, hung down, a glum look in the colonial commander's face. The colonel seemed not to notice that he was no longer alone.
"Harry, why did you cancel the mission?" he asked. "We were ready. My men are adequate for this and more than capable. This is no time to get cold feet."
His query was met with silence, Burwell still lost in thought.
Ben couldn't fathom why, after all their planning, that Harry had backed out of the scheme to get Betsy Burwell to safety. Maybe he changed his mind, Martin wondered silently, deciding to send her to the family home in Charles Towne. It was a bustling city where she could get lost in plain sight in throngs of people. Or maybe he'd decided to leave her on the farm?
Whatever the case, he obviously was no longer confident with the plans. Ben took this personally, nearly as an insult, jumping to the conclusion that it was a reflection in Burwell's eyes of a perceived inability to carry out the task.
Martin went on coaxing his commander and friend. "She will be more than safe at my brother's farm," he assured. "It's at the edge of the frontier. The lobsters will never find her."
Harry continued staring down blankly at the table top beneath his hands. His non reaction to Benjamin's questions left the militia colonel grabbing at straws, finding himself saying whatever came to mind to sway his friend back into the original plans.
"Hell, Major Clark can call on her, if you permit, on his treks back and forth between here and the Northwest Territory."
Colonel Martin stepped back, regretting what he'd just said, thinking it sounded forward. Why should he make any presumptions about his commander's daughter's marriage, feeling now that the awkward silence made it even less appropriate.
"I'm sorry, Harry," he apologized. "I know with this war that a marriage must be the last thing on your mind."
There was still no answer from Burwell, who could do nothing but heave a forlorn sigh. Ben narrowed his eyes at his brooding friend, frustrated now and anxious for an explanation for the cancelled mission.
Martin spoke again, this time direct and to the point. "Look," he began, "if you don't trust my men, just tell me. I'll go after her alone if it would make you feel better. You did say that you cannot leave her at the farm, and I agree with you that it isn't safe for her there."
"Harry?" Ben said, as he watched Colonel Burwell step back from the table and turn away from him.
"They've got her."
"Sorry?" Ben was lost. "What?"
"It's too late," Harry informed woefully. "The British already have her."
Benjamin sighed, the answer now apparent as to why the mission was aborted. He felt a tinge of sickness in the pit of his stomach, sorry that they hadn't moved more quickly to recover the young woman.
"Christ, they didn't waste any time," Martin remarked in a surprised voice. "How did you find out?"
"A messenger from the network out of Devington," Burwell answered. "Two days ago. Jake and Betsy went into town to pick up supplies. Tavington's legion arrested them there. They took them home where they released Waldron, but took my daughter with them."
"They kidnapped her?" Martin asked.
"I'm sure they would term it as an arrest," Harry said disdainfully. Both men knew that the Redcoats would never admit to a blatant crime such as kidnapping, but rather find an excuse to arrest someone, or take them into custody.
"And they found the farm's true ledger's as well," the colonial commander added.
"There goes one of our supply lines," Benjamin sighed.
"Yes, and implicates me in treason," Burwell lamented.
"Not any more than your wearing that uniform or leading the rebels does," joked Ben, trying to lighten the grim situation.
"Yes," Harry agreed. "I'm a traitor all around. Aiding and abetting the rebels."
"Half the citizens of these colonies are traitors," Ben spat. "Do the British honestly think they can hang us all?"
Harry looked distant again. He shook his head and sighed. "I never should have let her stay." The colonel, still looking lost, hung his head and traipsed out of the tent, leaving Ben Martin behind inside it.
Colonel Martin stood alone in the tent another moment, thinking about the kidnapped girl and her worried father. Then his mind shifted to the regret that he knew Harry was feeling, and what he could do to possibly lift some of the guilt Burwell felt about failing to have acted more quickly.
Ben walked out of the tent and looked around the camp. He soon spotted Colonel Burwell near the wood line, staring blankly out into the weeds and brush.
"Did they seize your farm?" asked Ben.
"No," the colonial commander answered. Harry shifted his weight to his other foot and sighed again. "I should have made my family stay in Charles Towne. They'd have been safer in the city."
"There's unrest there, as well," Benjamin Martin pointed out.
Martin's well meaning point didn't seem to derail Burwell's guilt at all. The colonel went on deriding himself, as if he could find some kind of relief in it. "I should have let George Clark marry her right then. When I told him that I thought Betsy was too young, he informed me that his own mother was engaged at thirteen and married at fourteen, which made me think that he wasn't averse to marrying her right away."
"Thirteen is awfully young—"
"She would have been protected as his wife," Harry interrupted Ben's thoughtful challenge. "Hell, if he'd have taken her into the frontier with him, she'd be safer."
"Now you don't know that," Martin strongly objected. "He wouldn't have been able to move as freely and as fast with a young wife in tow. Even if he'd have left her in one of the settlements there, the Indians and British are brashly attacking them. Governor Hamilton pays well for each white, rebel scalp he gets."
Burwell answered with a mute nod of agreement, still seemingly lost in his own guilt. He looked upwards as a bird flew out of a nearby tree, noticing the vivid blue sky.
"Any direct word from the British," Martin asked, breaking the silence. "Do you know where they are keeping her?"
"No," answered Harry. "I fully expect them to contact me soon, though, most likely wanting to make some kind of deal."
"Yes. Do you think they want ransom?" Benjamin crossed his arms in front of his chest, trying to ascertain if his friend might have a plan already formulated in his mind that he was keeping to himself. He knew Harry as sometimes keeping key elements of plans under wraps until the last moment possible, which was part of his sometimes quiet and brooding nature.
"No. The British have money and resources at their disposal."
"Not necessarily," Ben disagreed.
"Asking for ransom is below them," Harry argued. "We do that. They would not want to lower themselves to the level of rebels."
"You're right," the militia commander agreed. Martin looked down at his boots, dusty with the red Carolina dirt. "They probably want to exchange her for one of their officers."
"Yes. Or information," Burwell added.
"We could manufacture some believable intelligence to give them," Ben pointed out, a look of wanting to help Harry out in his eyes. "I'll have one of my men draw up some fake maps and plans."
"Thank you," Harry answered with a nod. He put his hand on Benjamin's shoulder and spoke. "Utmost secret. You never know if the lobsters have an agent planted here."
Colonel Martin nodded, hoping that there wasn't a British spy nearby, but knowing there had to be one somewhere in the vicinity. Ben started to turn to walk back to the tents, but noticed Harry still standing there, that lost look over him again.
"I shouldn't have left her there," he lamented.
"Harry, your intentions were good. You made arrangements to move her to a safe house—"
"Not quick enough."
"You can't beat yourself up over this," Ben reasoned. "Plans like this take time to be arranged. The British simply got the jump on us."
"If anything happens to her, I'll never forgive myself." Harry shook his head sorrowfully. "My wife is dead. I've only two children left, and she's my only daughter."
Colonel Burwell's eyes were moist, and Martin could tell the man was trying hard to fight back the tears. Ben wanted to alleviate his friend's sorrow, regret, and fears.
"We will get her back," Benjamin assured. "Look, I'll go after her if you want me to. I'll go alone if I have to. You know I could rescue her. I got Gabriel back, didn't I?"
Harry smiled a bit and chuckled. "And you were far outnumbered."
"Some of my best work, I've done alone," Martin reminded. "I've no doubt I could bring her back to you."
Colonel Burwell nodded shakily at the militia leader. The two walked back together in silence, each contemplating the situation at hand.
/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/
Hugh Bordon lay on his cot in his tent, trying to keep from moaning aloud, forcing his groans of rising pleasure to stay low in his throat. The captain's eyes were closed tight as his head sank back into the pillow. His hand, closed tightly around his hardened manhood, had worked slowly on it at first as he fantasized about a whore he'd been with recently in a nearby town. A moment ago, he'd felt the familiar warmth of an imminent orgasm rising in his pelvis and loins, and now as his fist slid quickly up and down his cock, the feeling was moving rapidly through his body.
"Oh….oh….," he gasped and grunted low as he came, the slick fluid of his pleasure shooting out onto his hand and his belly.
The officer opened his eyes as he caught his breath. He was glad to relieve his manly urge, though he cursed Colonel Tavington for having them in this lonely camp in the middle of nowhere, with no followers or doxies around to take care of any of the soldiers' needs. And such was the life of military duty, the men sometimes finding masturbation as the only immediate way to satisfy the lust and lack of women.
After a minute, the captain propped himself up on his elbows and listened for noise outside the tent, hoping that none of his neighbors, or the picket on duty, had heard him satisfying himself.
He lay there completely naked on top of the covers, listening for movement outside the canvas around him. The officer often slept naked when fortunate enough to have a tent to himself; it was the only comfortable way to sleep in the oppressive Carolina heat and humidity.
Hearing only the quiet of the camp and muted snores of men coming from nearby tents, he reluctantly pulled his body up off his cot. As he stood up, he spied his breeches and gun nearby, always in arm's length of his bed. He took a few steps across the tent to the other side, where the porcelain basin rested on the edge of the small table that the officer used as a makeshift desk.
Captain Bordon poured some cold water from the pitcher into the bowl and dipped a linen into it. He wiped the semen off his hand, belly, and then the tip of his softened penis. The officer swirled the soiled rag in the water, rinsing his manly fluid from it and into the bowl. Hugh then poured a bit of fresh water from the pitcher onto the cloth and ran it over his body, cooling his skin and cleaning the sweat from it.
The dragoon second in command stood quiet and naked for a moment after washing himself. The man closed his eyes and relished the temporary cool he felt as the water quickly evaporated from his body and into the hot night air.
Soon the still silence of the night was broken by a rustling outside of his tent. Bordon opened his eyes and cocked his head, listening to the sound, trying to determine what it was. As he did, he reached for his breeches, quickly and quietly pulling them on, then pulled a white linen shirt over his head.
Hugh found his pistol and padded quietly to the front flap of his tent. Once there, he listened again to the noises outside in the woods. It didn't take him long to discern that it was a person in the weeds. His well trained ears could tell the difference between a human's organized and ordered footsteps and the random, yet cautious ramblings of a fox or deer. He tried to remember who was on picket this evening, and where the soldier was. The officer assumed that the private was walking the guard line on the other side of the camp. He knew it was his duty to investigate.
The captain cocked his pistol as he stepped out of his tent. His mind ran quickly through scenarios of whom could be in the woods, trying to prepare himself for any situation. He immediately dismissed the thought that it was a spy trying to get into camp as the noise was loud enough to attract his attention. Bordon soon settled that it was probably young boys out hunting, possibly lost in the dark from their village. Still, innocent as they may be, they would need to be held so that they couldn't tell the rebels of coming across the dragoon camp.
Captain Bordon crept quietly into the woods in the direction of the noise, as if an animal stalking its prey. His gun held in front of him, he looked about the trees in the dark, letting his eyes become accustomed to the darkness. His head whipped to the right as he heard a snapping twig. In the moonlight, he soon caught sight of a silhouette: a female figure.
The second in command leapt into action, striding silently through the brush. He reached the woman and quickly clapped his hand over her mouth as she struggled. The officer shushed her as he put his gun against her body.
It was Miss Burwell, and she wiggled against the man, fighting to get out of his grasp. She soon became frightened and settled, becoming still as she felt the point of a gun firmly against her ribs.
"Now Miss Burwell," he whispered in an angry voice, "I'm going to let you go, but remember that my pistol is pointed at you. I swear to God above that I will shoot if you run. And if I do, it will wake the other men, and you'll soon have a group of sleepy and angry soldiers surrounding you. Do you understand?"
The girl nodded her head mutely, Bordon's hand still over her mouth. As soon as she felt the captain's grip ease, she jerked away from him. The moonlight gleamed off the metal of the officer's gun aimed at her, sending a shiver through her body. Betsy stood stock still, looking cautiously at her captor, sorry that she'd been caught trying to flee.
"And just what are you doing out here, Miss Burwell?" He knew damned well that she was attempting to escape, but had to ask anyway just to see how she might answer.
"I needed to relieve myself," Betsy answered, obviously embarrassed, looking down at the ground.
"There is a perfectly good chamber pot next to your cot in the infirmary," Bordon snapped sarcastically.
"Miss Burwell, do not insult my intelligence," the captain hissed in a low voice of warning. He continued. "Although I must admit I am a bit puzzled as to how you would find your way home after having been blindfolded half the trip here and unconscious the other half."
"I've lived in South Carolina all my life," she boldly shot back. "I could find my way home."
"You are so sure that we are still in South Carolina?" he asked, trying to confuse the girl. "The area is swarming with British—we control it."
"I think I'd eventually find a rebel," she said quietly, clasping her hands behind her back and tucking her chin down, just as a child caught being naughty would do.
Hugh Bordon did not want this audacious behavior of Colonel Burwell's daughter to become a habit. He didn't want to have to waste time chasing after some silly girl trying to make her behave. After all, there was a war on and he had more important things to have to deal with.
So he decided to toy with her a bit—just enough to scare her into submission.
"I warned you of the colonel's temper," Captain Bordon began in a sly manner. "He will be furious when he is informed of your attempted escape. I don't know if I'll be able to contain his anger and keep him from harming you. As his adjutant, there is only so much I can do." Hugh turned away and began to stroll in the direction of the tents, listening for what the girl would do: run away, or follow him.
The officer smiled to himself when there was no noise. He could tell that the young woman was standing there, probably contemplating what he had just said. Pleased and amused, he smiled as he walked away, glad that he'd lured her into the trap.
Indeed, Betsy Burwell was stunned at his words, thinking hard about them. Her hands throbbed at the memory of Colonel Tavingtons slicing her palms open a couple of days ago. She panicked, thinking that the dragoon commander was going to the Colonel's tent to wake him and turn her in. The young woman put aside her present desire for freedom, wanting not to get hurt again. Maybe staying in one piece for now should be the goal; she could come up with a better plan to run later. And besides that, he knew where she lived, and if she ran to her farm, he could come back there and harm her again. The girl ran after Bordon and grabbed his arm, stopping him.
"Please don't tell Colonel Tavington," she beg, clearly worried.
"I don't know," Bordon commented, feigning an unsure voice. "Your defiance has caused us trouble."
"I beg you, Captain," the girl pleaded plaintively.
Bordon sighed in faked frustration, wanting to drive the point home to the girl that she was pushing the limits.
"Very well, but you're going to have to buy my silence," he advised.
"How? With what?"
"You're resourceful," the captain commented. "I'm sure you'll think of something."
Miss Burwell stood there, mute and panicked. The look of question on her face told Hugh that she was so surprised that he'd relented not to expose her to the colonel that she couldn't speak or even think straight.
"What is saving your miserable Yankee hide worth to you?"
Betsy was quiet another moment as she ruminated over what to do. The first thing that came to her was the memory of risqué talk amongst servants and town girls that a woman could get into a man's bed to obtain favors. But I can't let him take me, she thought. I'm a virgin and would like to remain that way for my husband, which figures to be George Clark. Would Major Clark still want me as a wife if he couldn't deflower me?
Suppose I was to get into Captain Bordon's bed, she asked herself. I don't even know what to do once in his bed. I'll have to think of something else to entice him. But what?
The girl thought for another minute, looking at her captor as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, crossing his arms in front of him. At least he was waiting patiently.
Then, another option hit Betsy suddenly. She remembered amidst all the panic, that the Captain was also an intelligence officer for the British. He would probably like some piece of information that she could give him. But if she did, how many rebels or even innocent colonists would it end up hurting? She would betray her own people.
Yet, if I don't say or do something, the colonel will hurt me again, she argued with herself. Probably worse this time, the girl supposed. Either way, someone is going to get hurt. Betsy's hands throbbed again, making her look down at the bandages on them. She took this as her answer: that it was better for her not to get hurt at this time; better for her to make it to her father.
Miss Burwell didn't know much of the local intelligence, and practically none of her father's troops' information since he didn't discuss military business if front of her. Her mind ran in circles for an instant, trying to remember what little tidbits she knew. She closed her eyes as she tried to decide what bit to share—what would do the least amount of damage.
Finally, Betsy spoke up. "I saw something one time," she offered in a low, timid voice, the tone already giving away that she was sorry to have to use information to save her own hide.
Hugh, still standing before her, out of uniform in only his white shirt and breeches and hastily pulled on boots, cocked his head and raised his eyebrows. His arms were still crossed in front of his chest, secretly pleased that she was unwittingly playing his game.
"I'm listening," said the captain.
Betsy began, slowly and nervously. "Um…once when in the wagon, we stopped along the road outside of Abbingdale. The servants in my wago halted to greet some other servants they knew that were working outside this home. It was a large cabin with a red roof, back off the road a bit."
She paused an instant, swallowed, then went on, offering what she saw, stammering as she did. "I looked about while they conversed. I saw a group of men unloading guns from a wagon and putting them in the woodshed behind the house. I noticed that they were coming out of the shed empty handed, so I assume they were hiding weapons."
The girl stayed quiet when she finished, anxious inside. She failed to divulge to Captain Bordon the whole story. She purposely left some parts out because it was 'old' information, probably no good anymore. The incident had taken place as she and her family and servants had traveled back from Charles Towne last summer to the farm. Betsy decided that this was the least volatile piece of information she could remember, and hopefully would endanger no one. But she hoped it would placate the redcoat commander enough to keep his mouth shut.
Hugh Bordon stayed quiet for a moment, letting the young woman believe that he was processing the information she'd given him. He didn't let on that he already knew this, and that it was indeed 'old' intelligence. The captain knew the cabin she was talking about. The British had already checked it out weeks ago and found the woodshed holding only wood. They assumed that the local militia, out of fear of the newly arrived redcoats in that area, had quit using that particular hiding place before the lobsters could check it out.
But this disclosure by the girl wasn't the main thought on Bordon's mind. He was more interested in the unspoken revelation of her weakness: that she was easily willing to trade intelligence to keep from getting physically hurt, with nothing more than a mere believable threat to coax her into it.
He was also glad to know that she did know a bit of local intelligence, although she'd told the British that she didn't. He assumed that due to her youth, that she couldn't know too much of the area information, but she had revealed enough of her character to give him something more to work with to his advantage.
Hugh uncrossed his arms and brought them down to his sides, his stance relaxing a bit, putting Betsy at ease, as he could see. "Alright, I will hold my tongue just this once. But if you try this again, I won't have any other choice but to alert Colonel Tavington."
"Thank you," Betsy cried, clearly relieved.
"I suppose I could give you some incentive to be a model prisoner," Hugh cajoled, ensnaring Miss Burwell securely within his trap.
She look at him, puzzled. Yet she was curious to know.
"There's a good chance that you will be released soon," he fibbed. Bordon now knew of Tavington's plan for the girl, which had been approved by the generals, and her release could be part of it, but it wasn't a certain aspect. To the redcoats, she was a pawn in their game with the rebels.
A smile crossed Betsy's face as her heart soared. Release was all she could think of. She was so dizzily ecstatic with the thought of returning home that she could think of nothing else for the moment. And in her immaturity, she didn't stop to reason that an intelligence officer would probably never divulge something like that to a prisoner. But to her, she was only thinking that she must have served their purpose already, or the British captured someone more important than her and no longer found her useful. Of course, she was just a dead weight to them now, slowing them down, so they had to release her.
She didn't think to question these new details provided by an officer that had been so kind to her of late, showing her mercy. Miss Burwell didn't think he would lie to her about something as important as this.
As Betsy dutifully followed Captain Bordon back to the camp, she spoke. "I give you my word that I won't try to run again." She hoped the officer would be satisfied with her pledge.
"Good girl," the officer commended simply.
/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/
Betsy Burwell's back ached and she could no longer feel her legs. She had been riding for hours on Captain Bordon's horse behind him. The girl was blindfolded, yet could feel the bright sun of the Carolina summer on her face. And now. her wrists were throbbing from being bound, making her bandaged hands, the sliced palms from days ago healing nicely, hurt again.
It had been three days since the night that Captain Bordon had caught Betsy trying to escape. She had been a captive of the dragoons for almost a week. After being in their camp for days, she was abruptly told this morning that she would be traveling with a small group of cavalrymen and told to clean up as best as she could. The girl was given only a few moments to wash up and try to fix her hair when she was blindfolded and escorted to a horse.
The small detachment of dragoons that rode today hadn't said much. Betsy had the feeling they had been instructed not to engage in conversation lest she hear something she shouldn't. The girl straightened in the saddle when words were finally exchanged by the redcoats around her.
"That must be it ahead," she heard Colonel Tavington query.
"Yes it is, sir," Captain Bordon answered.
Miss Burwell assumed they had either come to the end of their journey, or at least a stopping point to where she could get down from Bordon's steed and take a break. She was happy at anticipating a stop, yet full of trepidation for what it might bring. Betsy marveled at how the cavalrymen around her could ride for hours in the saddle and hardly be affected like she was now. Seemed the worst she had heard any of them complain of in her days in the dragoon camp were sore muscles.
The small effort that Betsy had this morning to make herself presentable and clean up amounted to nothing, for her face was dirty with the Carolina red dust of the road kicked up by the horses. She still wore the same dress she had on when kidnapped days earlier, torn now in various places, and still bearing the blood stains on the skirt from her sliced palms. She looked a mess.
Soon a halt was called and Betsy was grateful. Her bound wrists were encircling Captain Bordon's body as she rode behind him on the saddle—not only for her to have a way to hold on, but more for Hugh so that he could assure that she wouldn't jump from the horse and attempt to run again. The girl felt him push her arms up and over his head, and she was glad to bring them back close to her, for they were aching after holding tight to the officer as she was jostled up and down and to and fro on the back of his horse.
Captain Bordon turned back to address the blindfolded captive. Before he could speak, Betsy spoke instead.
"I can't feel my legs," she informed in a tired voice.
"That's to be expected from an inexperienced person riding a horse for so many hours," he assured.
"Miss Burwell, I'm going dismount first," he advised, "then I'll help you down. Once down on the ground, stay still and lean against me for a few moments until you are able to stand on your own."
The young woman nodded and sat quietly as she felt the captain climb down from the horse. In a moment she felt his hands clasp her securely and help her down to the ground, which she could barely feel.
And as Betsy stood leaning on Captain Bordon, waiting to regain her balance, the girl was still blindfolded and curious. She listened hard to what was going on around her, trying to discern what she could.
First, she heard a gate open, hearing the loud creaking of it. Then she heard voices from a distance that sounded like they could have been rebels. But she was most interested in the anxious voices of the officers around her.
"Is that them?" Tavington asked.
"I assume it is," Bordon replied.
"Kidwell," Tavington called, "Go talk to them."
"Yes sir!" Kidwell answered. Betsy heard his booted feet running away from them through the grass.
After a minute, Miss Burwell was ready to move after having the feeling return to her legs. And she was anxious to have the blindfold removed. As she tried to control her restless feeling, she heard boots running back toward them.
"They said they want to see—"
The girl's interest was piqued as the Lieutenant abruptly cut his words off. Then she heard him whispering to the senior officers, but she couldn't discern what he was saying.
Bordon noticed that Miss Burwell was no longer leaning on him, now standing on her own. He instructed Private Brevard, who stood nearby, to unbind the prisoner's wrists, which he set to doing immediately. When he was nearly done, Hugh took the blindfold from her eyes.
"Thank you," Betsy said weakly, glad to be free of her constraints for a moment. She squinted in the bright afternoon sunlight, her eyes adjusting to it. As they did, she looked around her and noticed that as she surmised, she was with a very small detachment of dragoons. The girl looked up to see Private Carey still seated on his brown horse. He held a white flag, which immediately grabbed her attention.
The girl looked the other way and noticed a fort some yards away, and the rebel flags flying above it. The she saw a small group of armed uniformed rebel soldiers standing back near the bastion gate. And a little father out, three officers in fresh and unblemished colonial uniforms standing yards away from the gate. She watched as the one in the middle removed his hat and handed it to the man next to him.
Then for an instant, Betsy thought her knees would give out. And then she screamed.
"Father!" The girl bolted away from the soldiers, but was quickly caught by the extended arm of Private Brevard, keeping her firmly in place.
"No! NO! Let go of me! I want to see my father!", she shouted, trying her best to pull out of the private's grasp.
"Let her go," Bordon commanded. With that, Brevard turned loose of the girl, her forward momentum to get away from him so strong that she fell to the ground.
Miss Burwell immediately picked herself up off the grass more quickly than when she'd fallen. The ecstatic girl continued her dash toward Colonel Burwell.
"Betsy!" Harry shouted when he saw his teenage daughter coming toward him. In an instant he was flooded with emotion. He remembered the despair he felt days ago when he'd heard of her capture and his remorse at not getting her away to safety. Then two days after that, he recollected the joy he felt to receive a formal letter from the British saying that she was alive and well. But that quickly turned to trepidation when he'd read on to find that they were offering her back to him at a deal to be discussed in person. And now, the colonial commander's eyes moistened at the happiness of a reunion with her.
Instantly, the girl was before him, throwing her arms about him, both sobbing as they held each other tightly. "Betsy," he whispered in her ear as he kissed her hair, "forgive me. I'm so happy to have you back!"
"Papa! Don't let go of me," she cried onto his shoulder.
"I won't," he answered. After a moment, he pushed the girl back to look at her, and frowned at her amidst his own gladness to see her. He didn't like what he saw. Her eyes were tired and her face and skin dirty with the dust of the road. Her hair was a mess, probably from the blindfold. But what alarmed him most was the condition of her dress. He loathed seeing the skirt torn, and his eyes widened at the sight of blood stains on it. Then he saw her bandaged hands.
"Did they hurt you?" he asked, still regarding her at arm's length.
Betsy forced a smile through her tears. "I'm healing," she said. She preferred not to go into the ugliness that had transpired between herself and Colonel Tavington is the farm's office; she could tell him later tonight where she could broach the subject in private. The girl wasn't sure how her father would receive what she did. Her mother had worked hard for years instilling manners and gentility into her, and her actions against the Colonel were not exactly those of a cultured, young society girl. Indeed, she thought, they were the actions of a desperate girl. Certainly Papa will understand when I explain it all to him.
"Have you heard from Stephen?" she asked her father as he held her.
"Yes, I got a letter from him recently," he answered. "He's only fought in one battle. Says he spends the days guarding towns and roads and carrying supplies in between."
Betsy smiled as she laid her head on her father's shoulder. Colonel Burwell once again fought back tears as he kissed his daughter's head. "I never should have left you there after Stephen went away. I had arranged to have you moved to a safe house. I'm so sorry."
"I know, Papa," she sobbed now, burying her eyes in his shoulder.
Missing from the meeting today was Benjamin and Gabriel Martin, Harry's trusted militiamen. When Colonel Burwell had received the letter with an offer of a deal from the British a few days ago, the colonial leader decided against asking the two men to accompany him. He knew that the two Martin men had so much hatred for Tavington and his legion, and that the wounds of Thomas' murder and the destruction of the Martin farm by the cavalry, though no longer fresh, were nonetheless still deep and raw. Burwell wanted a peaceful exchange—not trouble stirred up by revenge.
As Harry looked at his daughter, his hands went to her dirty face, where he wiped away the tears with his thumbs. The girl embraced him again, holding tightly to him. She felt her father's body stiffen, and as she looked up, she saw him looking across the green. Betsy then turned her head to look over her own shoulder. She swallowed hard when she saw the trio of redcoat officers coming their direction.
Miss Burwell let go of her father and stood behind him, holding his hand tightly. Burwell could sense that these men scared her, and from the rumors about the countryside, he could only suppose that Colonel Tavington, 'the butcher', was the one that had hurt his daughter.
The dragoon officers were soon standing before the colonial soldiers. No one was smiling, and the lobsters were a little too close for comfort, Betsy thought, looking just as intimidating as they really were.
Suddenly, Tavington reached out boldly, took hold of Miss Burwell's arm and pulled her out from behind her father, speaking as he did. "No, she's not yours yet. Not until after a deal has been reached."
"Papa," she murmured as she was pulled away from him, her eyes beseeching her father to do something quickly.
"Bordon," Tavington said as he handed the girl over to him. The captain held her elbow firmly, yet careful not to squeeze too tightly and bruise her arm.
"Colonel William Tavington, Green Dragoons, " the tall redcoat officer introduced himself to the trio of colonial officers.
"This is my second in command," William said, gesturing to his right, "Captain Hugh Bordon."
"This is my aide de camp and third officer, Lieutenant Joe Wentworth." The young officer bowed his head slightly as he was introduced.
"Colonel Burwell," Harry replied in response, in a tone of voice implying reluctance. "This is my adjutant, Major Zeller, and to my left here is General Elson Keene." The three colonials didn't seem as easy and confidant as the redcoats were, and their caution showed in their demeanor.
Burwell and General Keene's friendship went back to the war with the French and Indians, in which Harry fought as a young man. Keene had been one of his commanding officers, a man who he trusted implicitly. The colonel was glad to have him there by his side to aid him in negotiations.
"I trust that you are ready to make a deal, colonel," Tavington said, sneering a bit as he knew he held the trump card.
Burwell nodded silently.
"Well then," the dragoon commander began, "since we have the advantage, here is the offer. Surrender yourself to us now, and your daughter will be freed."
It was a hard offer and a difficult decision to make for Harry, but he'd anticipated that they might want this. Burwell had not come unprepared.
"I have an offer you may prefer over that," Colonel Burwell countered cautiously.
Tavington and Bordon had both made up their minds, along with some of the redcoat Generals, that they wanted as many colonial officers in their prisons as possible. Both of the men were not keen on listening to the counter offer, but did so because they were British gentlemen from good society families.
"That is?" Tavington cocked his head to the side, one eye brow arched up as he listened.
"We can give you a ransom," Burwell answered stiffly.
Betsy, still in Bordon's grip, could do nothing but stand by helplessly as the men parlayed. She wanted it to be over with as soon as possible and to go home.
William Tavington's face clouded over, obviously disappointed with the counter, set in his mind that nothing could top having Colonel Burwell in their custody.
He scoffed, his lips drawn tightly together. "The last thing we need is dirty rebel money," he snorted derisively. "Bordon and I both come from elite British families. We grew up in privilege and maintain our wealth today. As well, His Majesty's army is the richest on Earth. It's not in need of your ransom, either."
"I can't just leave my men," Harry argued.
"Perhaps you'd consider giving your plantation," offered William, trying to keep his temper in check. "You could deed it over to the British."
"Never," Burwell answered. He needed it and its bounty for his own troops.
"We have the authority to seize it," Captain Bordon spoke up.
"Well then that makes King George a thief as well as a tyrant," Harry spat.
Even though the group had only been in each other's presence a matter of mere minutes, Tavington's patience had run its course. He learned that other than himself, that Burwell had nothing of value to give for his daughter. The dragoon leader looked back at Private Brevard and Private Higgins, motioning to them to join the group. The two young soldiers hurried to their leader.
"Very well. You had your chance," Colonel Tavington proclaimed in a clipped voice. "Seize her." With that, Higgins and Brevard roughly grabbed Betsy from Bordon, making her whimper.
The girl fought the two privates immediately, crazily twisting her body, trying to get away from them.
"Gentlemen," Tavington said, looking at Bordon, then Wentworth. The trio of redcoat officers then turned their backs on the colonials and walked back toward their horses. Betsy was being led that direction as well. Her head kept turning back, trying to contort her body to go back the other direction, as the girl screamed and cried for her father.
Betsy slipped and fell to the ground, pulling the two dragoons down a bit with her. When she felt their grips slack a bit as they moved to pull her back to her feet, she was able to break away. The girl ran as fast as she could back to her father with the two privates in hot pursuit. The commotion made Tavington, Bordon, and Wentworth stop in their tracks and turn back to watch the scene.
The girl flew back into Harry's awaiting arms, and she held onto her father with the tightest grip he could ever remember feeling from one of his children.
"Father, no!" she cried in his ear. "Please don't make me go back to them! They will hurt me! I'm afraid, papa!"
"Betsy, they are not going to accept anything from us short of myself," he murmured in her ear, apologetically. "I can't leave my men. The colonials need their officers."
"Please father," she sobbed. "I beg you! I want to be with you!"
"Darling, we all have to make sacrifices," he whispered as he could see the British closing in on their little group again.
"Papa PLEASE!," she wept. "Give them one of their officers back! Give them some information! Anything! Just please don't make me stay with them. Please!"
Harry's heart was breaking inside. He could not leave his duty. And he did not have the authority to make a deal to exchange a captive British officer. The man had to say something to comfort his daughter.
"Look, they won't hurt you," he soothed in her ear. "You are the only key they have to me. If anything happens to you, they will have no leverage with me. They'll keep you alive to get to me."
"Father!"
"Be brave, Betsy," he coaxed.
Soon the redcoat privates had Betsy again, pulling her roughly away from her father.
"Papa!" she screamed as they dragged her back. "No! PAPA! No! Let me go!" The girl fought the two strong dragoons as hard as she could.
Higgins and Brevard stayed near the officers, holding her there as their commander looked as though he wasn't finished after all.
Indeed the dragoon commander wasn't finished. Tavington, upset that they'd made this trip for nothing, decided that he would do what he could for some kind of deal. He would goad the colonial leader into an offer.
"You should say your farewell to your daughter now," he taunted. "This will be the last time you will see her."
Burwell, feeling confident that they needed her as a bargaining chip knew this was not the case. They wouldn't dare kill her. But before he could speak, Tavington went on with his threats.
"Maybe….. if you are lucky enough to meet her again, she won't be the same as she is now," he commented. "She just might come home to you a woman of experience. Her virtue is quite a prize. Perhaps I'll let each of my officers have a turn with her. She will probably get her bellyful and come home with a dragoon bastard. She will have been had by so many redcoats that she won't be able to name a father—"
Burwell was seething now and it was noticeable. "You wouldn't dare!" Burwell challenged.
"Don't underestimate my resolve, Colonel," Tavington taunted. William walked up to Harry, a bit taller than colonial leader. He looked down at the man and spoke in a low voice, a smirk on his face as he did.
"Doing one's duty is such an ugly business," the dragoon said, then turned his head and slowly, lewdly, looked lustfully at Betsy, exuding a noticeable carnality as he did. "But just occasionally, it can be a real pleasure."
With that, Burwell charged at Tavington, but was held back by his quick thinking officers, Zeller and Keene.
"DON'T YOU TOUCH HER!" Colonel Burwell screamed in fury.
"Don't Harry," urged Zeller and Keene. "They came in under a white flag. You can't!" The two officers struggled to keep the enraged father in their grips.
"Oh let him go," Tavington cajoled. "I welcome the fight."
"Don't you hurt her!" Burwell screamed.
"To horse, men," Tavington ordered with a sinister laugh.
He looked back to see the trio of colonials herding Burwell back toward the fort. Harry called to his daughter over his shoulder. "Be brave, Betsy! I love you!"
"Father! Help me! ," she shouted tearfully, the privates still holding her in their iron grasps. "Please don't leave me! Come back, Papa!"
When Betsy saw that her father continued to walk away, her knees gave out and she collapsed onto the ground in a heap of tears.
"Father! No! Please!" she called after him tearfully. The girl was sobbing so hard that she had not realized that the two cavalry privates had let go of her. But they stood over her, guarding her as she sobbed uncontrollably.
And yards away, Colonel Harry Burwell, with his back to his daughter, after being told not to look back, was overcome with his own breaking heart. The usually hardened and quiet officer wept openly now, doubting his decision to leave her with the British, hoping his gamble would lead to them being reunited again someday. He knew that she didn't understand why he had to do what he did; that he couldn't jeopardize the rebel mission even at the expense of a family member. And when he was finally ushered through the fort's gate, he collapsed against the thing after it closed, sobbing into his folded arms as he leaned against the wall, not caring who saw him.
Bordon, also upset, feeling that this whole trip and time was wasted, looked at the distraught figure of Miss Burwell on the ground as she cried pitifully. He sighed and closed his eyes, wondering how things had gone so wrong in just a matter of moments. And though he was a hardened officer, he always felt for the younger prisoners—the children that they had to use as bait and lure, and how they were indeed just innocent victims caught in the middle. He frowned, feeling pity for Miss Burwell, knowing that the young girl just wanted to be safe. The dragoon second in command could only assume that she wept, too, because she was thinking that her father no longer loved her.
"Help her up," he instructed Higgins and Brevard. "Get her to the horse. Gently now."
/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/
The dragoons arrived back in their main camp late that same evening. Betsy, who hadn't spoken a word and had tried hard to muffle her sobs on the trip home, refused dinner and went straight to her tent.
Despite being on opposite sides, Hugh Bordon felt for the girl, seeing how hurt she was when her father had refused to deal with the dragoons. He knew she wouldn't be able to sleep this evening and frankly, didn't feel like chasing her back to camp if her restlessness made her decide to attempt something foolish again. So before he retired to his quarters, he stopped in the infirmary to check on the girl.
The girl was lost in thought, sitting on her cot as he entered. She stared blankly ahead, not acknowledging his presence. He broke the silence.
"I brought you some cider," the captain said, offering her a beat up pewter coffee mug.
She reached out to take it as she looked up at him with a glare. Couldn't get my father to take me today, so they are poisoning me tonight to get rid of me, she thought.
Bordon sighed and rolled his eyes, knowing that she was wondering if the cider was drugged.
"It has some Valerian root in it," informed Hugh. "I thought you would have some trouble sleeping tonight."
"Thank you," she said weakly, taking the cup from him. She sipped it slowly as he stood there still.
"Miss Burwell, I know this incident has been upsetting for you."
She said nothing as she sipped the fruited drink.
"I know you are thinking—"
"How would you know what I am thinking," she interrupted him, forcing tears back as she looked up at him accusingly.
"It was obvious to all who surrounded you today."
Betsy kept quiet. She closed her eyes and wished he would go away.
"You think that your father doesn't love you by his actions today," Bordon surmised aloud. "Fathers do love their children, as your father loves you, which was obvious. But this is war time, and things are different. People become different and act differently, sometimes even strangely. He had his reasons for doing what he did. All of us have difficult decisions to make during this war."
The girl stayed silent, as Bordon watched her, gauging her actions, wondering about her thoughts. As he did, a question nagged inside him, something that he was curious of.
"Miss, days ago, you told me yourself that your father would not trade himself for you," he began, "that he always speaks of sacrifice. You knew this, and still you were distraught. Your sorrow was more than disappointment over not being given your freedom."
"I had hoped," she said, looking at the captain with moist eyes. "I hoped that this time it might be different. That he wouldn't think about the war. I was the sacrifice."
"I understand," Hugh replied simply. "Well then, I'll take my leave of you so that you may get some sleep. Good night, Miss." The brawny officer turned to leave. But before he could take three steps, the young lady spoke.
"You lied to me," she accused.
The accusation, hitting the tired and frustrated man wrong, spun him around on his heel. He glowered at Betsy.
"And just how did I lie to you?" He was not going to let her statement pass without comment.
"The other night," she answered. "You told me I would be freed."
"No," he replied firmly. "I said that you could be granted your freedom. That was conditional on the decision your father made. If you need to blame someone, then blame him. He chose poorly."
Angry, sad, and disappointed over the whole thing, Betsy fought to keep her composure, not wanting to go into another crying jag before the day ended. She cried enough tears already.
The poor girl wanted to scream inside. She blamed the rebels for revolting against the King and causing war. The girl faulted the redcoats for enforcing England's rule. She was angry with her brother for leaving her alone at the farm. Betsy faulted the dragoons for taking her from her home. And now she had to add her father to the list of blame. She was disappointed at him for not giving in to the British, at her expense.
Miss Burwell longed for the way things were, they way they used to be before the war. She missed her idyllic existence and couldn't make peace with the fact that things would never be the same again. All this broke the young lady's heart.
"What happens to me now?" she asked in a dejected, far away voice. Today, she'd found that the purpose she was to serve for the dragoons, was as an object of trade. With that spoilt, she worried now that she was excess baggage to the fast moving cavalry, instead of something of value to them. She feared that the British now needed to dispose of her quickly, and she was frightened.
"At this point, I don't know," Captain Bordon answered. Hugh turned and left the girl alone in the medical tent, hurrying to his own. The officer was anxious to put this fruitless day behind him and get some sleep.