Chapter 16 Betrayal Or Survival?
Hugh Bordon was relieved to see the Burwell house finally come into view after so many days in the saddle. His small detachment, including the new recruit Captain Wilkins, had ridden through so many towns and interviewed so many people and gained so much intelligence in three days, that the dragoon second in command felt his mind too full to hold another ounce of information.
Last night, after leaving Drakespar, the Selton plantation, they rode into Wakefield, the nearest village. It was midnight and they had hoped to find some rooms in the inn there, but found them all full. The dragoons found a glade not far from Wakefield, off the road to afford protection and covered by the full forest canopy above them. The men spread out their bedrolls, sans tents, for some rest.
The group of ten had only had a couple of hours of sleep when their vedette heard horses and wagons coming on the road. Riding to survey the situation, the private was alarmed to find an advance guard of uniformed rebels approaching.
Bordon and the men broke camp quickly and retreated further into the woods, smart enough to know that his small detachment was no match for a large force of rebels. They watched sleepily from where they hid as the rebel convoy passed, which turned out to be massive. All the dragoons could do was watch quietly from the shadows as so many wagons full of supplies, small herds of livestock, and companies of yankee soldiers passed by. The captain wished he had the men to attack as they could always use livestock, wagons, and other supplies. The officer also would have loved the chance to disable the colonials with confiscation of some of the valuables.
As it turned out, because of darkness and the amount of wagons and animals, the sheer size of this column of rebels moved slow and as a result, took hours to pass by the dragoons' hiding place. The detachment had to wait it out well into this morning before they could move. The men were hungry as a fire couldn't be made lest it give them away to the passing rebels.
Finally, late this morning, they were able to safely move out. By that time the Carolina heat was stifling and the sun hot and high in the sky. The men were tired and hungry after being at the mercy of the long rebel convoy, but glad to be riding again. They set their sights on home and rode hard through the countryside to get there.
The small bunch of cavalrymen were relieved as their horses trotted onto the Burwell farm. As Captain Bordon looked around the lawn, he was happy to see that the plantation was functioning as normal after the funeral days ago of Steven Burwell. Gazing at the house, his eyes looked up to the second story window that was Miss Burwell's room as they rode past. He hadn't seen her working outside with the servants so he thought maybe he'd catch a glimpse of her up there. The officer had wondered how the poor girl had fared since burying her brother. He was glad to see the curtains parted and window open, making him believe that she hadn't holed herself up in her room, realizing that after death, life does go on.
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Betsy sat quietly in the farm office, which was now Colonel Tavington's domain. She had been summoned there to speak with the dragoon leader, who finished signing some papers as she sat nervously in the chair in front of his desk. Her eyes drifted to the window, where she caught sight of Captain Bordon's detachment riding up the lane.
The girl felt some relief to see the captain returning as things seemed to run better and more calmly with him around; Tavington stirred up so much fear around the place, putting everyone's nerves on edge. Indeed, the girl wished that the dragoon second in command was sitting across from her now. Miss Burwell conversed more easily with him than she did with his superior. She had already put her hand on her own shaking knee twice to steady the thing in the short time she'd been in Tavington's office, leery to be alone with this man.
Colonel Tavington broke the silence. "Miss Burwell, what are these?" He held up some papers in his hand, familiar in format to the girl.
"You've seen them before," she responded. "You found their hiding place weeks ago."
"What are they?" he demanded, his tone commanding, ordering her to answer.
"Our farm invoices and receipts," answered Betsy . The girl was confused as to why he was asking her what they were, knowing that he knew damned well what he was holding.
Tavington said nothing, but instead began to rip the papers up. Betsy's eyes widened in disbelief.
"Don't!," she exclaimed, rising from her seat. She reached across the desk trying to grab them from the colonel's hands as he continued tearing the paper.
"Stop it! We need those!"
The redcoat officer took the rest of the invoices and threw them into the fireplace, where they burst into flame causing a small explosion of flying sparks.
Her jaw dropped at the dragoon's blatant actions. She raced around the desk as if she could save the already burning bills from the fire, but was pushed back by Tavington's large hand, shoved back into her seat.
"We need those to be reimbursed when the war ends!" she protested, not understanding his actions.
Tavington sneered down at the girl. "And how is a rebel government with no money—"
"There is some!" she shot back.
"Some that is borrowed from other nations," the British officer asserted. "How is a newly formed, cash poor government going to have the funds to reimburse your father?"
She said nothing as she sank back into the chair, feeling helpless. The girl was too stunned to try to answer.
Tavington went on. "They won't have the money. So, all that you've supplied to the rebels up to now, you can write off as a loss."
Betsy hated his righteous tone. The stupor wore off and anger began to rise in the girl. "You're a fool!," she said. "You've just burned evidence that you could have used to implicate my father as a traitor."
The cavalry leader smiled. He secretly held a few of the invoices in his records, ready to turn over to his government at the end of the war, or whenever Harry Burwell was captured. The men held back enough of them to help hang the rebel leader.
"You stupid little girl!," Tavington scolded. "Your father leads an army of rebels. That is evidence enough of his treachery!"
Colonel Tavington became quiet and calm as he sat back in his chair. The sudden change in his demeanor sent a chill through Betsy. His abrupt coolness made her want to run from the room.
"In the few days since we have moved in here," Tavington began, as if speaking to her on an equal, professional basis, "we have used some of the resources at hand. And, I gave Colonel Blake's infantry some salted pork to take with them—"
"I was glad to see them go," she interrupted, incensed at the man. "I hope they took their whores with them as well!" True to Captain Bordon's promise, he had made the camp followers set their tents up out of view of the house, warning the trollops not to go near it, so Betsy hadn't seen any of those strumpets about lately. Indeed she hoped they had gone with the regiment.
"Yes. I heard of your dismay that the doxies had set up shop here," the colonel replied, nearly taunting the girl again. "And to answer your question: no—only half went away with the infantry. I requested that some of the women stay behind….for the sake of the dragoons."
Betsy squirmed, not wanting to spend another moment in this man's presence. "Please colonel," she asked meekly, "may I go? I'm needed—"
"Not just yet, Miss Burwell," the colonel forbade. "This discussion isn't over yet."
"Oh?" the young woman swallowed, forcing herself to sit back in her chair.
"From now on," began Tavington, "we, the dragoons, will issue invoices as seen fit for what is used here."
Betsy looked cautiously at the man. She was glad that some records would be kept, even if by the British. The girl desired some kind of order in the farm's books.
"The rebel government won't want to pay you," she warned in a quiet voice.
"Yes, I surmised as much," Tavington informed. "So, the invoices will be paid by the British government. His benevolent Majesty King George always pays his debts."
"The king won't want to pay a traitor," she argued. "That is what you called my father, isn't it?"
"Yes," the colonel agreed. "He is a turncoat and His Majesty won't pay him—but he will pay his daughter. After all, you are housing the king's soldiers. King George will see you as a good and loyal subject, doing your duty."
"I don't understand," the girl said, more confused than ever. She studied Colonel Tavington's icy blue eyes, suspecting that he was hiding something—hatching some plot.
"Simple," answered Tavington. "Your father is absent; busy in his seditious activities. But you, as a good and loyal subject of His Majesty, will sign them instead."
"I don't sign my father's papers," she informed. Indeed Betsy wasn't in the habit of affixing her father's name to documents. The senior staff members of the plantation did that when Harry was away, entrusted by him to do such.
"No?" the dragoon leader questioned, his eye brows lifting. "Well, you will now, beginning with this one." The redcoat officer pushed the paper across the desk to the young lady.
The girl picked up the bill and quickly read through it. She stopped at the bottom, reading it more slowly a second time. She looked at the words yet a third time, studying them intently as if they may change shape. There was a blank line for her signature, and transcribed below, it read: "Miss Betsy Burwell, ever faithful subject of the Crown."
She stared in confusion as the officer handed her two more copies of the same bill. The girl looked them over then realized something odd. "Father usually only has two copies," she pointed out, "one for our records and one to send."
A sinister grin spread slowly across the colonel's lips. "The extra copy is for your father to peruse," he announced. "After you sign them, I'll make sure that he receives them. I'm sure he is interested in how his business fares in his absence."
A frown clouded Miss Burwell's pretty face. Her lips parted to say something, but she faltered instead, unsure what to say.
Tavington continued. "I'm sure your father will want to see the fine job you are doing managing the plantation, and equally as anxious to see the business decisions you are making—especially the wise choice to bill the British government for goods and services. He will see that you've become a loyal citizen of the Crown."
Betsy pulled back in horror. The young woman's mind whirled in circles at the implications of her signing those invoices. Not only would her father think that she had switched sides, but when word of her signing British invoices made its way around, the locals would think the same of her. It would also threaten post war business for the farm, as well, with rebel customers remembering that the Burwell's had done business with the Crown. Lastly, it would damage Harry's credibility as a colonial leader in his men's eyes and his superior's when the gossip of his plantation supplying His Majesty's army all the while that he is leading the rebels. They would question his loyalty to the cause.
"I can't sign those!" Betsy recoiled as she protested.
"You WILL sign these," Tavington ordered. He knew that with this plan, that only her original signature would do, and it had to look willing, not forced.
"I won't," she shouted, jumping to her feet, slamming the invoices down on the cavalry commander's desk.
The colonel stayed calm, slowly rising to his feet. His lean figure seemed to tower over her. Looking down at her from where he stood, he advised, "You will sign them…..or else!"
The threat was enough to make Betsy leave the chair and move swiftly to the door. She wasn't going to stick around to find out what the dragoon officer had in mind.
Once at the door, she unlocked it and slipped through, only to be met by the large and imposing Private Tuller, who stepped forward, making the girl slink back inside. The disappointed girl watched the private pull the door shut, leaving her alone with the colonel inside the office.
Betsy reluctantly turned about, staying close to the door as she looked at Colonel Tavington. Her jaw dropped and her emerald eyes rounded in terror. The redcoat commander held his riding crop in his hand and was starting to move out from behind the desk toward her.
"No," she pleaded in a whisper, shaking her head in disbelief and beginning to tremble. The dragoon leader's intentions were perfectly clear. "Please. Don't!"
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Never had Hugh Bordon been so glad to ride into a stinky stable on a hot day. He was the last in, having stopped while still on his horse to exchange a few words with Lieutenant Wentworth. By the time he made it into the barn, all the stable hands and slaves were busy with the other men's horses. The captain quickly dismounted and untacked his own mount faster than he ever had before. The officer was anxious to get in, make his report to Colonel Tavington then be through with his duty and retire to bed for a few hours.
The redcoat officer strode up the path between the stable and main house wanting a hot bath and his bed. He rubbed his temples for his head was pounding. As the captain walked along, he heard what sounded like shouting coming from the north wing of the house. As he got closer, it was apparent that a female was screaming. Alarmed, he quickened his pace, as fear and dread took hold, wondering what was happening.
"No! Please!"
Finally, as he mounted the steps into the house, he recognized the shrieks as belonging to Miss Burwell. The captain rolled his eyes and heaved a sullen sigh as he trotted along, unable to imagine what could be happening.
"Bloody Hell! What now?" he swore to himself as he paced along.
Once in the house, he identified the ruckus as coming from Colonel Tavington's office, and his commander's shouts now mixed with those of the young girl's. Hugh entered the main hallway then quickly turned to his left, racing down the corridor toward the fracas.
Ahead of him, Bordon saw the maid Pansy and Mr. Hantz arguing with Private Tuller. The two servants were trying to get into the office, but the hulking dragoon private barred their way.
"What's this?" asked the captain as he arrived at the doorway.
"Your leader is hurting her!" Hantz drawled in his German accent, still trying to get at the door. Pansy held onto his arm, afraid that the large private would slug him. Miss Burwell's screams had brought them to the door.
"The colonel wanted to speak with Miss Burwell," Private Tuller informed.
"It doesn't sound as if they are speaking!" Bordon exclaimed, agitated that he was greeted by this. The tired and dirty officer had hopes of peace and quiet upon his return. The captain reached for the door but was blocked by Tuller.
"Sorry sir. Colonel Tavington's orders." The large private crossed his arms in front of his chest, standing his ground enforcing the commander's orders.
"Stand down, Tuller," Captain Bordon barked, irritated.
"Can't, sir."
"You dare ignore the directions of an officer?," the second in command snarled. "Let me in! That's not a request—it's an order!"
"You're responsibility, sir?" the private queried, yet making it plain that he didn't want to be in trouble with the colonel.
"Yes! I'm responsible!"
"Very well, sir," Tuller said, opening the door for the captain.
Hugh Bordon entered the officer to find the appalling sight of Colonel Tavington beating Miss Burwell. The captain gasped as he hesitated for an instant, staring at the two of them.
The girl was pleading for him to stop. The colonel held her slender body with one arm hard against the wall as his other arm struck her with his riding crop. The young lady writhed and wriggled in his grasp as best she could, trying to dodge the blows.
Hugh let out an exasperated breath. Things sometimes got out of hand when he left and he wondered if that would ever end. For a strong leader like Tavington, the man couldn't seem to manage easy situations, escalating them instead. Bordon had to be the one to regain control, an unofficial duty he could do without that was, unfortunately, happening more often these days.
"Uh….sir…may I be of assistance," he began in an insistent tone, knowing he had to diffuse the situation quickly.
William Tavington let go of the girl and stalked to his desk. He picked up the invoices to His Majesty and thrust them into his subaltern's hands. "Yes!" the colonel answered in an aggravated voice. "Make her sign these!"
Hugh looked at them quickly, identifying them as the new bills that would be reimbursed by the Crown. It had been part of Tavington's plans to discredit Colonel Harry Burwell in the eyes of the rebels and his own commanders, then hopefully draw him out.
The dragoon commander scowled at the girl, making her cower back against the wall. Then he suddenly thrust the riding crop into his adjutant's hands as he marched out of the room in a huff, slamming the door behind him.
Captain Bordon knew that his superior wanted him to continue beating the girl. Hugh looked at the crop with disdain then threw it down to the floor with a hard breath of frustration. Then he glared at Betsy, furious that she had gotten herself into trouble again with the colonel.
"Well, what happened this time?"
The girl drew herself away from the wall cautiously. "Those invoices," Miss Burwell stammered, raising her arm and pointing at the papers in the captain's hand.
Hugh's eyes rounded at the sight of fresh blood oozing from her left palm. He reached for the girl.
She sniffled, wiping the tears away with her fingers. "I can't sign—"
"Good Lord," interrupted Bordon as he took the girl by the wrist, gently guiding her around the desk. "Sit down."
Betsy watched as the captain disappeared through the door. She could hear his muffled voice as she looked down at her hand in her lap, bleeding. It seemed to throb more as she stared at it.
Captain Bordon soon reappeared and moved back across the office. He quickly shed his red jacket, pulling his white handkerchief out of it as he laid the coat over a chair. The officer rolled his sleeves up and loosened his cravat. Then he pulled a chair over in front of the young lady, and sat down facing her, their knees nearly touching.
He took her injured hand and examined it. The redcoat surmised that it was a defense wound. The colonel had landed a direct hit to her palm when she tried to shield herself from him. His crop had opened the healing slice on her hand.
"It was healing well," Bordon said with a resigned sigh. He wrapped it with his handkerchief to stem the bleeding.
Betsy shook her head dejectedly. She rubbed her left shoulder, still smarting from one of the blows, with her right hand. The girl wasn't sure how many times the Colonel struck her. For once she was glad to be wearing a full bunch of petticoats during a hot day for it helped lessen the whip blows to her legs, providing a thick shield of material. Her arms and upper body fared less well, the single layer of material in her bodice not much protection against the crop.
At least my dress and long sleeves will hide any bruises, she thought to herself.
The girl looked down at the floor, fighting back her tears. The things being asked of her were too much, she felt. Housing the enemy and their whores, physical injury from their leader, the redcoats commandeering their foodstuffs, crops, and livestock for their own use, and now wanting to issue invoices in her father's name to the enemy government was personally devastating.
"Miss Burwell?"
The young lady was miles away, lost in her own sorrow. She forgot that one of the enemy leaders, a man she wanted to trust, sat near her. The girl heaved a sigh, her head spinning in confusion. Betsy wanted her ideal, boring life back. She detested the way things were now.
Hugh reached forward. His fingers beneath the girl's chin, he tipped her head up to where she looked at him. She looked so forlorn and helpless.
"Do you like getting hurt by the Colonel?" he asked, his voice full of anger and genuine concern.
His face bore a shadow of whiskers and the dust of the red Carolina dirt kicked up by his horse. But through the grime, Betsy could see that the man was physically tired. She also saw his frustration at her.
She closed her eyes and sighed. Then she stood and walked toward the window, where she hesitated.
"I have done a lot to accommodate His Majesty's cavalry," she began in a soft voice, "but I can't do this. I won't sign those papers."
"I'm afraid you are not in the position to refuse," Bordon advised as gently as he could.
"I can't," she said in a desperate voice. "Papa will think I've sided with the enemy. It will disgrace us…..and him."
"Miss Burwell, you have to—"
"Captain, I can't!" protested Betsy, hoping he would see her way. "We'll lose our customers if they know we are doing business with the British."
"You don't have a choice," the officer said firmly.
"I won't, captain!", she argued. "You have everything else…the house, the farm, me and my staff. You commandeered all that. Why don't you just take the supplies as well?"
"Because we are honorable soldiers, not thieves," Bordon said, believing it. That was a lie that he and every other British officer deluded themselves about. The King's army did take things, but in their eyes, it wasn't stealing. It was punishment doled out to the traitors and justified. It was also a necessity for the army's survival.
"If I sign those invoices, then my father will lose respect in the eyes of his men and the generals he serves under," she cried. "I won't do it!"
"Miss Burwell, it is Colonel Tavington's orders," the captain asserted. "You will sign them."
"My father will disown me," she bemoaned, fighting the tears again.
"I can assure you that the colonel will be hard on you if—"
"Please don't make me," the girl pleaded, shaking her head. "Don't make me sign them."
"Miss Burwell, I can protect you from everything but the colonel," he said, giving her a hard, serious stare that stopped her cold.
There was a long silence as the captain's words rang like a gong through Betsy's head and soul. She was learning to trust this officer. He seemed protective of her, always coming to her rescue when the colonel unleashed his wrath on her. The girl was confused again, not knowing who to trust or what to believe.
"You'd let him hurt me?," she asked in a tiny, hurt voice.
"Do you think you are the only one here who is left without a choice in such matters?" Bordon asked her. "When it comes to Colonel Tavington's commands, there is only so much I can do until it becomes insubordination. I wouldn't have a word in the matter. I can't stop his harshness upon you if you refuse."
The truth was that Hugh wouldn't stop it. He had plotted with the colonel to find other ways to flush Colonel Burwell out. Making the rebel leader's daughter look as if she was willingly dealing with the enemy was just one of the schemes to lure him to them. Bordon had to let some threat creep in to goad the girl into the plan.
"He's all I have now," she wept.
Bordon motioned for the girl to sit back down. He needed to keep her trust, keep her calm, and persuade her to sign their invoices all at the same time.
"War is a disastrous time," Bordon explained in an understanding voice, trying to win her back. "Captives in hopeless situations may fall to desperate measures."
Her tears seemed to stop for a moment as she looked at him, searching his eyes for something. Betsy wanted to believe him.
Seeing that he had her full attention, he continued on. "Prisoners sometimes have to do things they normally wouldn't do just to survive. You can tell your father that we forced you to sign the invoices."
"He won't believe—"
"Yes he will," Bordon assured. "He is a leader in this war and has seen firsthand what people must do for survival. He will believe that you didn't want to sign the forms, but that you did so to stay alive. He will forgive you later when you are reunited with him."
"I don't know," she said, obviously torn. Her face clouded into sadness.
"I don't want to see the colonel hurt you again," the captain cajoled. Yet he truly didn't want the girl suffering punishment at the hands of his leader. "Sign these so that you don't."
With that, he pushed the invoices across the desk to the girl. Betsy hesitated a moment, then took the quill from the inkwell. She swallowed hard as she scribbled her signature on the British papers. And as the girl pushed the papers back to the captain, she didn't feel any sort of relief; she only felt remorse and uncertainty.
A knock at the door broke the heavy silence of the room but couldn't coax Miss Burwell from her sorrow. She slumped back in the chair as the captain went to the door.
"Thank you, Miss Pansy," she heard the officer say just before closing the door. She heard his boots on the floor, hearing him stop at the desk. The young woman was too dejected to look up, not caring who had been at the door or what the dragoon adjutant was doing.
Hugh pulled his chair back over in front of the forlorn girl, once again facing her. "Give me your hand," he requested.
The girl looked up at him inquisitively. He was turned slightly sideward in his chair, occupied with something on the desk. Her eyes followed his arms to a basin and bandage rolls sitting near the man. The pungent smell of vinegar filled her nose as the captain opened a bottle of the stuff and emptied some of it onto a linen.
Blood from the reopened wound had seeped through the officer's handkerchief, still wrapped about her palm. The captain took her hand and gently unwrapped it, laying the soiled kerchief aside.
He studied the unfortunate wound on her palm and sighed. "Pity," he said softly, "It was healing well."
Captain Bordon dabbed at the cut carefully cleaning it with the vinegar soaked cloth. The girl inhaled sharply at the sting of the disinfectant.
"I'll have our surgeon look at it," Hugh said as he put the linen into the basin. The officer picked up a bandage and unrolled the strip.
"It is going to have to be plastered again," Bordon commented as he wrapped her injured hand.
Betsy watched the officer as he doctored her hand, remembering that he told her of the dragoons having basic knowledge of field medicine, for times that they were separated from their surgeon. She looked at his face as he inspected the bandage he'd just placed. She saw miles and hours of hard riding etched upon it, along with the dark circles under his bleary eyes. And although he was the enemy, she could see that the man was stretched in his duties and weary, yet here he was, helping her again.
"You look tired," she said softly, timidly.
"I'm exhausted," he answered as he closed up the vinegar bottle, placing it back on the desk.
Her eyes followed the sleepy captain as he stood and retrieved his coat from the back of the chair. He folded it over his arm as he walked toward the door.
The girl's voice stopped him. At the doorway, he turned to look at her.
"Thank you, captain," said Miss Burwell. "Once again you rescued me and mended my wounds."
Bordon knew she was referring to his "saving" her from the colonel's wrath. He said nothing, merely nodding his head to her.
"How do I repay you?" the young girl asked.
"By staying out of trouble," Captain Bordon replied. "Especially for the next few hours so that I can get some sleep."
"Yes sir," she answered, looking down at the floor.
She lingered alone in the office a moment as she listened to the captain's footsteps fading down the hallway. The young woman looked at her left hand, freshly bandaged. Then, Miss Burwell looked at the desktop again, spying the invoice, ink drying on it. She reached across the desk, pulling the bill back toward her with her fingertips.
The young girl studied the paper and felt a hurting in her heart as she read it again. Miss Betsy Burwell, ever faithful subject of the Crown, her signature on the line above it, blatant and glaring at her, reminding her of an innocent betrayal.
Tears welled in her eyes again, soon blurring her vision, making her unable to continue looking at her traitorous signature. She was sure that she had just made a deal with the devil, her name scrawled as a promise to serve.
Betsy stood to leave, looking away from the desk, not wanting to be reminded of her perceived treachery.
"My God," she sobbed, "what have I done?"