Author's note: Hi all. I am so sorry for not updating sooner. Since I last updated, I did the George Rogers Clark march. Its a recreation of Clark's forces march into Vincennes (Indiana) to take Fort Sackville from the British on Feb. 25, 1779. There was about 30 of us and it was a mild winter day. Some of us dressed in regular clothing, the other half and the Park Rangers in 18th Century clothing. Lots of reenactors there. There was a descendant of one of the french soldiers that was in Clark's force. He came from Kaskaskia, where Clark's force started out from to march along southern Illinois and make their way into Indiana after crossing the Wabash. It was a monumental feat. The Clark Memorial National Park in Vincennes, which stands where the fort stood, sponsors the walk every year. They take you out 5 miles south of Vincennes by bus and drop you off, then the group follows the rangers back to Vincennes taking the route, alot of it now marked by a road, nearest the Wabash that Clark and his army was thought to have taken. Along the way, we stopped and heard history of the area, what Clark was doing at that point, and compared how the area looked at that time versus how it looks now. It was a great day! I wore my Notre Dame University "Rudy" (from the movie Rudy) jacket, and with my red hair, the reenactors knew I had some Irish blood in me! They also asked if I was a descendant of the Rogers Clark family (not that I know of) because George, William, and three other of the Clark siblings all had copper red hair (and it is reported that George had the fiery temper to go with his red hair). The red hair apparently came from their mother and the Rogers side of the family.

Real life as always, comes first before writing, so am sorry for the delay in updating. Have also done some revising of the outline for future parts of this story, so still trying to organize that and get my mind around it! And, let me promise the Tavington fans...that while there isn't much of him in the story now, his part of this story is more prominent in the last half. So, do stay tuned for Tavvy!

Enjoy and thanks for the interest and reading the story!

JScorpio

Chapter 14: Dismal News Arrives

Private Dunn stood by surveying the situation as his superior had not yet released him. His eyes floated from Miss Burwell, who was still sobbing, her face buried in her hands, to his commander, Captain Bordon, who read the message intently. The young cavalryman felt awkward just standing there with the girl crying and his leader reading a piece of private correspondence, yet he dared not leave until properly dismissed.

Hugh stayed quiet as he studied the urgent message that Betsy had been given by a servant:

1 August 1777

Dear Miss Burwell,

I regret to inform you that Stephen has departed this life. We were involved in a skirmish when we came accidentally upon a group of redcoats. Your brother fought bravely as he always did.

He was injured grievously. We were detached and not near camp, so no doctor was available. A kindly farmer and his wife, within whose field we fought, took pity and tried to help us. Stephen died an hour after the fight ended. I was with him when he passed.

We are within 15 miles of home, but I write in haste as we are ready to move again. I have entrusted Stephen to the care of this good man. He assures me that he will deliver your brother to you in the next day or two. We are so close to home that I do not see the use of burying him here. It is only fitting that your brother should, and I am assured will, rest at home with your mother and family.

I shall miss your brother greatly. He was my best friend.

Please take care of yourself. These are hard times.

Lord, help us!

Truly,

Private Ethan Drandly

Hugh folded the letter as he sighed. He looked up at the young woman, who was weeping terribly at the loss of her brother. The officer was quiet, not sure what words to say that could bring any comfort. He felt for the girl, knowing she had lost her mother a year ago, and other young siblings in previous years, and now her older brother was gone. Her father was so many miles away fighting, and she was here bearing this dismal news alone.

The captain turned to the soldier beside him. "Uh, Private, would you please see Miss Burwell to the house?" he requested.

Then he addressed Betsy. "Would you like me to speak with your servants of this?"

The girl raised her head from her hands, sniffling all the while. She turned back to Captain Bordon, her head and eyes still downcast.

"Yes. Thank you," she said, lost. She was consumed in the initial stages of grief, not thinking in her right mind to let someone else—not one of her redcoat captors—address her household staff of this tragedy. Yet in reality, something inside told her to let him do it, for she knew that she would not be strong enough to hold the tears back for even a moment while trying to inform them; that she'd probably do nothing more than hand the note to one of them to read as she wandered away from them in a daze, with Private Dunn not far behind her.

The captain folded the letter back up and sighed. The officer looked down at the folded message in his hand. "Damn," he swore quietly at it, partly because it yielded no functional intelligence for him to use, and partially that it bore bad news that upset the plantation's mistress. And though they were enemies, and she their prisoner, he still felt compassion for the girl. He thought her too young to have all this misery in such a short time. And worse, she had no family near to see her through it.

Hugh looked up, his eyes scanning the people moving about the farm. After a moment, he finally spotted the farm's overseer. The dragoon adjutant moved purposely toward the man, who was at the edge of the western field, just by the barn, talking to two slaves.

Jake Waldron looked up as he saw the redcoat officer approaching. Cautiously, he stopped his conversation with the slaves.

"Mr. Waldron, a word alone, please," Bordon said in an official sounding voice.

The slaves moved away as Waldron went with the officer a few steps away. They moved back into the field, anxious to get away from the British commander. These redcoats weren't as kindly to them as the Burwell family and others on this farm had been.

"You should gather all the staff and servants," Bordon advised, "I am entrusting you to relay a message to them in Miss Burwell's stead."

Jake eyed the redcoat leader with suspicion, always on guard around their new British tenants. "And what is that?" he asked with an edge in his voice.

"Young master Stephen Burwell is dead," informed the dragoon leader. "Killed in battle."

The farmhand gave the officer a look of cautious doubt. Inside, Jake immediately questioned to himself if the news was true. He suspected that the British were trying to trick him. Waldron wasn't sure what they were trying to draw out of him with such a horrid lie. Are they trying to startle me, he asked himself. Good God, haven't they done that to all of us enough already? How much more are we expected to take?

His doubt quickly changed to annoyance at what he thought was a test of his emotion. The overseer spoke up, never afraid to do so. "Why should I trust that this information is true?" asked Waldron.

Hugh Bordon stayed calm . He knew the man would challenge him. The officer was used to this from the rebels. They all questioned the validity of anything he disclosed to them, whether true news or the necessary lies he had to spin to coax intelligence from them.

"Miss Burwell received a message," answered the captain. "She gave it to me to inspect."

The redcoat handed the letter to Mr. Waldron. He shot the dragoon adjutant a suspicious look, thinking that Bordon had probably made the poor girl hand it over to him.

"I assure you that she gave it to me of her own accord," Hugh assuaged.

Captain Bordon watched the farm hand as he opened the note. He genuinely felt badly for Waldron as the man heaved a forlorn sigh, his muscular farm honed body visibly seeming to deflate.

"I advised against his leaving," Jake spoke out in anguish, his voice low. He continued, talking to himself, as if he'd forgotten that the enemy stood within two feet of him. "My God, she begged him not to go," he lamented as he folded the note back.

The farmhand turned back to the captain. He was visibly emotional as he spoke. "Where's Miss Betsy?"

"She retired to the house."

Waldron, looking lost, began to walk toward the main house. "I need to send someone up to talk to her," he murmured as if alone, again.

Bordon started after him. "Uh….if you'd like," he said hesitantly, trying to show compassion as he offered, "I can order a burial detail of my men."

"Thank you kindly, but no," answered Jake in a tired tone. "He died at the hand of your brethren. He wouldn't want them to be the ones to inter him. We will bury him."

"Very well," Bordon replied.

"I'll inform the staff," Mr. Waldron said in a lost voice as he walked away.

Hugh bowed his head and walked toward the main house as well, seeking Colonel Tavington. He stayed well behind the overseer, leaving the man to his solace.

Soon, the second in command found himself in the house on the first floor, standing outside of the library. Tavington had made the modest sized room into his office. Bordon looked in to see his commander, busily writing a report. He rapped on the door frame.

"Colonel?"

William looked up at the door. "Ah, Bordon, come in."

"Might I have a word sir," he requested as he stepped in. The officer closed the door behind him as Tavington motioned him to.

"Certainly."

Hugh took the chair in front of his commander's desk and looked on patiently as William signed something, then placed the quill back in the well. "How goes it, captain?"

"There's news," he began. Tavington leaned forward, folding his hands on his desk.

"Miss Burwell's brother was killed in a skirmish yesterday," Bordon announced. "The friend from town that he ran away with to the militia sent a note."

"Well, that's one less rebel to worry about," Tavington said wryly. "Their militia is in bad need of formal training."

"A farmer is delivering his corpse for burial here," the captain informed. "The skirmish was not too far….the letter mentioned fifteen miles away."

"Let's send a detachment after the rebels," the colonel requested.

"I would have already ordered it, but the letter didn't disclose exactly where they were," answered the subaltern. "We could have tracked them through the farm where the fight took place, but the note didn't mention the farmer's name, either."

"Damn," Colonel Tavington swore. "Well, no use depleting our force here by sending the men in four different directions over the bloody countryside."

There was a calm silence between the two officers, each contemplating how close Stephen Burwell's militia had been; each man wishing the letter had given more details. Both dragoon leaders thought Private Drandly careful, even in the midst of grief, that he remembered himself and kept the information vague.

Hugh Bordon broke the quiet. "Sir, I have something else I'd like to discuss with you."

"Go ahead," Tavington permitted, leaning back in his chair, relaxing.

"Well, colonel, we've been here a few days and have settled in well," began Hugh, tentatively.

"I agree," Tavington commented.

"I know that it is my duty to see to the prisoners," the captain stated, "and I've kept a close watch on Colonel Burwell's daughter since she's been in our custody. However, I'd like to be relieved of that now."

He was met with only silence and a stony stare from his commander. The look on Tavington's face seemed to scold Bordon for not being able to read the colonel's mind.

"Go on," William said, finally after an uneasy silence.

"I am not a nanny," Bordon answered, "and I feel I could better serve our needs if I could concentrate on my duties without distraction."

The colonel looked down at his desk and sighed. "Captain, I know you are not a nursemaid. But she still needs to be…..uh….protected….for our interests."

He knew that his leader was talking about guarding her. Actually, more like preventing her escape or a rescue attempt. She was, after all, a bargaining chip for them.

"With respect, sir," Bordon disagreed, "I don't think she would try to escape. She is too afraid. And I believe her youth would lead her to some kind of blunder to foul any attempt to run. And I don't think she could be rescued. The locals have surely already heard of our line of vedettes and pickets at the plantation perimeter."

"It's not only that, Bordon," Tavington spoke up. He leaned forward in his chair again. "Intelligence tells us that a lot of these villages around here sympathize with the rebels and even aid them. And there are covert networks—"

"She's too young and naïve to spy or even have a part in those channels," Hugh argued.

"Her father is a colonel," reminded William Tavington. "Perhaps they use her knowingly—or unwittingly by her part—to carry messages to him or from him. Maybe they speak or write things in code that she unknowingly relays to him in letters."

"I don't think so," Bordon disagreed.

"You still should stay close to her," he advised. "She may reveal a clue."

Hugh disagreed. He thought the girl too simple and wide eyed of the world to be involved in some spy plot. The officer assumed that she probably had knowledge of aid channels within the countryside, but that she was not involved in them. The young woman was simply too busy running the farm from day to day.

"Sir, one of the junior officers could watch her," Bordon suggested. "Perhaps Lieutenant Wentworth—"

"You are the best at interpreting information," Tavington interrupted with a compliment.

"Thank you, sir," the captain answered, "but it's just that I've hardly time for all my duties." Bordon's tasks as second in command had him busy handling not only the intelligence, but recruiting, training, and most administrative duties. He counted himself lucky that Wentworth served as paymaster and quartermaster, relieving the second in command of those tasks.

Tavington was growing wary of Bordon's excuses, though viable ones, to be released from tending to the youthfully reckless and mouthy Miss Burwell. Her youthful foolishness, audacity, and quick, unthinking words and actions had tried the patience of both dragoon commanders. However, William still needed a trustworthy and discreet officer to stay close to her, dissecting her little world for the good of the cause.

"Bordon, I needn't remind you that we are at war," the cavalry leader scolded as he stood up. "We all have full plates right now. I am confident that you will find a way to work it all in."

Bordon stood up, bowing his head to his commander. He knew the conversation was over; no use arguing further.

"Very well, sir," Hugh acknowledged.

/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/

That same day somewhere deep in North Carolina, a young boy of twelve walked along a dusty road outside of Raleigh. He seemed carefree, carrying a stringer full of fish that he'd caught.

Soon, the child heard hooves pounding the road nearby causing him to look around for the source of the noise. He discerned that the riders were coming up behind him so he moved over to let the men through. As he peered back over his shoulder, the boy saw bright red coats.

He shuddered at the sight of the enemy and wanted to hide but it was too late, realizing that the group had already seen him.

It was a small detachment of British; an escort obviously for a couple of fancy uniformed officers. The boy took a deep breath when he heard the horses slow behind him as he tried not to act—or be—afraid.

"You there, boy," one of the men called.

"Yes?" His innocent face was still cherubic with its baby fat making it round and his cheeks full.

"What is your name?"

"Jonathon Bernard."

The boy noticed one of the privates dismounting and immediately became scared. He nervously ran his hand down the front of his shabby pants, patches at different places on it covering the holes. Young Bernard looked up at one of the officers, thinking he was probably a general. The officer leaned forward in his saddle, looking the young man over.

"Where are you from?" he asked of the lad.

"Winston, sir."

"Where are you headed?"

"Home with dinner," he answered, proudly displaying the stringer full of small, but edible fish.

The private walked over to the young boy and took his pack, inspecting it for contraband. When he found none, he then seized the fish the lad had caught and took them back to the officers, now intending it to be an easy dinner for them.

"Sir, my mama will wear me out with a switch iffin' I don't bring them home," Jonathon protested.

"Boy, there must be a stream or pond between here and your home surely," the general dismissed. "If you hurry, you can wet your line again and still be home with dinner before dark. Now off with you, lad."

Young Bernard quickly ran away into the woods. He heard the redcoats chuckling at him as he did. But in the forest, he hid behind a bush, staying low, watching the men until they had ridden out of sight. Once gone, he ran back down to the road. The boy walked along a little farther anxiously looking for a tree marked with a symbol that would lead him to a hidden, overgrown path.

After another mile, he finally found the tree with the word "king" carved on it. From there, he entered the forgotten path, pushing through the brush which threatened to overtake it. When he arrived in a clearing after a hundred feet or so, he made the sound of a blue jay.

The boy waited five minutes then did his bird call again. He was soon answered with the melodic whistle of a cardinal. Jonathon was greeted then by a blue uniformed private, who blindfolded the boy and led him down another path. The child could hear voices and rustling and knew he had been led into the rebel camp he sought.

His blindfold was removed and the boy smiled. "I have a message for Colonel Burwell."

The boy was taken into Harry's tent. The rebel leader sat at his desk, rubbing his temples, trying to stave off the headache that threatened.

Captain Zeller, Burwell's young adjutant, ushered the lad in. "Sir, a message from Devington."

"I was stopped by the lobsters," the boy said. "They took my fish."

Burwell and Zeller laughed. "You're lucky that is the only thing they took, lad," Harry chuckled.

"Mama hid the message well because she thought I might be stopped," said Jonathon. With that, the boy pulled a patch off the thigh on the front of his pants. His clever mother had hidden the note between the boys pants and a patch she'd sewn on to his trousers. Since most of the countryside rebels had fallen on hard times, the redcoats had grown accustomed to seeing the residents in shabby clothes. The lobsters had thought nothing of the boy's patched up clothing.

"Go get some food, Jonathon," Burwell dismissed. "Zeller, give him enough to take back to his mother, as well."

"Very well, sir," the captain replied as he accompanied the boy from the leader's tent.

Harry read the brief note from Jake Waldron, his plantation's overseer, sent through the covert information network connecting the villages and countryside. It was already a few days old. The rebel leader rubbed his eyes then read the message again, this time more slowly.

The colonel focused on the note, studying it hard, as if he was hoping that he was reading it wrong, or that the words on it would somehow magically twist into good news. After another moment, the man flattened the letter on his desk under his palm and sighed. He cradled his forehead, now pounding with a headache, in his hands. And after another minute passed, Burwell folded his arms on his desk and rested his head on them, letting out a groan as he did.

A knock on the tent pole at the door roused Harry out of his stupor. He looked up to see Benjamin Martin standing at the entrance of his canvas abode.

Ben could tell that something was wrong as soon as he could see into the tent, before he knocked. He knew something wasn't right; something was out of place. His commander had probably received bad news, as there wasn't much good news going around these days.

"Come in," Harry called from his desk.

The militia leader took a deep breath as he entered, preparing himself to hear the worst. "Something isn't right," commented Martin. "What's the trouble?"

"Betsy is at home again," Colonel Burwell answered.

That should make him relieved and happy, Martin thought to himself. Yet the militia colonel knew that there was more to it—he'd been fighting the redcoats too long and knew their tactics. They didn't just release the girl, he thought. It is never that simple with the British. He had witnessed the measure of their resolve many times over.

"What aren't you telling me?" Ben pressed.

"She's still in their custody," Harry replied as he stood up from his desk. "They've billeted themselves on my farm….indefinitely." He handed the short message to the militia leader to peruse.

"Betsy's a prisoner now in her own home," Burwell said dejectedly as Martin quickly looked over the message.

"By God, where does this end?" Martin asked aloud in an exasperated tone.

Martin and Burwell were both equally sure that the British would not stop until they possessed fully all the colonies, and every treasure and business and good fortune amassed by the rebellious colonists. "They've seized our properties and assets," Harry lamented, "confiscated our supplies, burnt our homes and fields, raped our women and taken our children. The price of this gets harder to bear by the day."

Benjamin could see his commander starting to waiver. Of course, any man would eventually bend and break under all the strain of this war, Martin thought. But the men in the ranks shouldn't see that. They needed to see a leader that remained committed.

"Stay the course, Harry," Martin cajoled. "For freedom."

"If we lose, they will hang us all as traitors," Burwell said. "If we win, we will all be paupers!"

"Maybe so," Ben conceded, "but we will no longer be under the taxes and tyranny."

"Free but destitute," Harry added. "Then we will have to beg forgiveness from His Majesty just to borrow enough money to get on our feet again."

"We will never beg for anything from the King again," Martin informed. "Hopefully the French King will send us troops and money."

Colonel Burwell nodded, saying nothing. He turned away from Colonel Martin and looked out the door of his tent. "I shouldn't have left her there," Burwell chastised himself under his breath.

Martin heard him. "Don't be so hard on yourself, Harry. You have had some extraordinary decisions to make. Who is to judge what is right and wrong?"

Silence passed between the two, each man contemplating what they'd given up or had lost in the war, and the prices they were paying.

Benjamin broke the quiet. "What do you want to do?"

"I want to get her away from them."

"I will help you anyway I can," Benjamin said. "If you think she will be alright there for awhile—"

"She should be," answered Harry. "I know that Jake and Mr. Hantz will protect her as best they can."

"Then let's stay calm and mull this over for a few days," Colonel Martin advised, "and come up with an airtight plan to get her back."

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

That evening at dinner and afterwards when Hugh Bordon strolled the grounds, the mood was somber; the servants were all quiet. Obviously, Mr. Waldron had informed the farm's staff of Stephen Burwell's death, leaving them all saddened. Everyone spoke in subdued voices and attended mindlessly to their chores.

The dragoon's second in command gave some last orders to Lieutenant Wentworth at the stables, who was readying a small detachment for night patrol. The captain looked at his pocket watch quickly then snapped it shut as the last of the mounted privates passed by him with a salute. He watched the group trot up the lane as he walked toward the house.

Bordon, though tired, wished he was in the saddle tonight. Instead, a pile of paperwork, which he was now behind on, awaited him on the desk in his room. He knew he'd have to fight to keep his eyes open while working on it. The officer owed a report to the colonel, which he had run down to the deadline. Hugh knew that was the first thing to start on tonight.

The weary redcoat walked up the steps into the back of the house. He heard low voices in the preparation kitchen. The officer looked in to see Mrs. Leyanova and the house servant Myriam, speaking with Jarvis, one of the field slaves. The trio clammed up when they saw the dragoon commander peering into room.

"Ginseng, please," he requested, knowing he'd need a stimulant to keep him awake a couple of more hours.

"I'll send up a tea," Mrs. Leyanova answered in a short, irritated voice.

Myriam, the pretty young quadroon maid, curtseyed to the handsome captain. "Would you like honey and ginger in it….for the taste?" the servant asked nervously.

"Yes, thank you," Hugh answered. He made his way slowly toward the stairway then called back over his shoulder to the women in the kitchen as he walked.

"And if I suspect that you've poisoned it," he warned, "I'll make Miss Burwell drink it!"

"No sir," Myriam replied in a shout.

As Bordon laid his hand on the banister, he heard Mrs. Leyanova say something in her native Russian tongue. He sighed to himself, assuming she'd probably just cursed him and his request. Too tired to confront her, he made his way up the stair way to the second floor, where his quarters were.

He stopped at the landing and looked up and down the hallway, which was quiet. The alcove sitting area at the end of the hall was empty. Captain Bordon had thought that someone would be sitting there, ready to comfort the grieving mistress, her room next to that area.

The officer thought it odd that no one was there, but quickly brushed it off, assuming that someone must be sitting with her in the bedroom. The redcoat padded softly down the hall, passing his own room. When he reached the alcove, he leaned over a chair and looked out over the lawn.

It was near sunset, and he noticed fires being lit in the tent area. His eyes moved across the yard to where the Burwell servants and slaves scurried from one outbuilding to the next, closing things up for the night.

The captain turned back to head to his room, but something stopped him again. It was too quiet, which bothered him. He thought he'd at least hear sobbing and subdued words of comfort coming from Miss Burwell's room, but heard nothing.

When last he saw her this afternoon, the teenage girl was distraught and lost after receiving the news. He stepped close to her door hoping to hear something. After a few seconds, he leaned in, putting his ear to her door, listening closely.

He was met with a heavy silence. Bordon was troubled now, thinking the worst: that her grieving had driven her to hopelessness. And that in her low spirits, that she might have hurt herself. The officer cursed the house staff under his breath for not having someone sit with her.

Captain Bordon rapped quietly on the door. When there was no answer, he knocked again and called softly through the door. The young lady still did not respond so he turned the door knob, warning her that he was coming in.

The dragoon entered her room and immediately saw the girl lying across her bed, still and silent. A grimace of pain and anguish marred her pretty face. He swallowed hard and closed his eyes. My God, she's done it, he thought to himself, she's taken her own life.

Staring at her lifeless form in disbelief, he walked quietly over to the bed. He wasn't sure how even to inform Colonel Tavington that their prized prisoner had killed herself.

Now next to the bed, he stood over her for a moment, feeling badly for himself and helpless that he couldn't have done more for the young woman. He noticed that she clutched a miniature portrait of her brother in her hand. Hugh reached down to take it from her hands, planning to move them to cross over her body in a peaceful position of death.

When the officer touched her hand, it was warm—hot, in fact. Her skin still felt warmed from the Carolina heat. The man leaned over her and noticed low, relaxed breathing. He sighed and closed his eyes in relief as he straightened his body back up.

"She's asleep," he murmured, feeling stupid. Then he cursed himself for letting worry make him panic so. Relieved that she was fine, he stood over her, studying her sleeping form. He noticed her face, contorted in grief, her cheeks red and tear streaked. "Poor girl," he said low to himself, knowing she cried herself to sleep.

The officer then looked about the room. The window was wide open, and two candles were burning. The man saw paper and pen on the desk, one of the candles blazing there.

Hugh Bordon looked at the other side of the room and saw a light blanket strewn over a chair. He walked softly over there to retrieve it, stepping quietly so as not to wake the girl. The man took the coverlet in his hands, shaking it out lightly, then draped it softly over Miss Burwell's body as she lay atop her bedspread.

Captain Bordon looked down at the exhausted girl, knowing grief himself. The girl had lost her mother, newborn sister, and now her brother in the short span of a year. Her father was miles away, unable to comfort the girl. Hugh had felt the same when his pregnant wife and young son passed within days of one another. He knew the hopelessness and despair at the death of loved ones, and how one's well ordered world could change in a small measure of time. The dragoon officer, not without his compassion, truly felt sorry for Miss Burwell, and knew that he could do nothing to help her through this.

The dragoon hoped that she would have a slumber undisturbed by nightmares and dreams of the dead. Bordon recalled how sleep had been a welcome reprieve for him in his own grief. From his own experience, he knew that many sleepless nights lay ahead for her.

The captain walked toward the door, then stopped. Being the good intelligence officer that he was, he walked silently to the desk, pausing to read what was there. A handful of blank sheets of paper, and a letter, barely started, lay on top.

"Dearest Father,

I know I shall ramble as I write this, for my heart is filled with sorrow and my eyes flooded with tears.

Stephen is gone now. The farm seized. The enemy living here. Captivity. I can't begin to speak of the depth of my despair.

Oh, Papa, what am I to do?"

No useable information, just a forlorn note, unfinished. Bordon put the quill back in the inkwell and extinguished the candle on the desk. Then he walked to the door, where he blew out the candle burning in the wall sconce next to the door frame.

Captain Bordon pulled the door open then stopped. The officer turned back to look at the grieving, sleeping girl. Hugh sighed then twisted his frame back forward. The redcoat then left the room, having pressing administrative duties awaiting him in his quarters to attend to, leaving the girl alone in sleep and grief.