Chapter 18 Unexpected
"Private Kinney said that you needed to see me?"
Captain Bordon sat at the table in his room, looking down at stacks of papers neatly piled over the surface. The dragoon second in command was trying to finish up bookkeeping for the unit before the detachment could leave. It was only one of a handful of many mundane, administrative duties that the young officer had to attend to. He was rushing to complete pay packets for the men and balance the petty cash in case funds were needed for expenses while away on assignment. And at the moment, the money coming in and going out on paper was making his eyes cross.
Betsy Burwell stood at the door staring at the officer. He was rubbing his temples and sighing loudly. She could tell he had not heard her.
When the captain, still absorbed in his paperwork did not notice her after another minute passed, she knocked on the doorframe again. "Ahem," she said, clearing her throat to get his attention.
Finally, Hugh looked up at her. "You wanted to see me?" asked Betsy.
Caught off guard, he greeted the girl as he searched through the many piles of paperwork sitting before him. "Yes. Sit down, Miss Burwell."
The girl took a seat in the chair opposite him looking out the window at the cavalrymen assembling on the lawn as she did. The young woman busied herself watching the redcoats as they readied to leave, securing their packs and checking their saddles, while the captain continued rifling through the papers on the desktop.
Hugh soon located the forms he was looking for, shoving them across the desk to the girl. "Please sign these vouchers."
Betsy took the pen from the inkwell, writing her signature quickly, forcing her eyes not to look at the same old mocking words beneath the line. But still, the thought of the phrase, "Betsy Burwell, ever faithful servant of the Crown", would always hang at the back of her mind, still stinging her soul at the recollection of it.
The young girl handed the papers back to Captain Bordon. She stood to leave, then stepped haltingly toward the door. Once there, she hesitated, fingering her skirt apprehensively.
Hugh left the invoices opened on his desk for the ink to dry. He rose, only then noticing the young plantation mistress hesitating in the doorway. The officer shot her a quizzical look.
"Is Colonel Tavington going?" she asked timidly. Betsy and the other inhabitants of the farm had come to detest the harsh commander being left behind with them whenever Bordon was away on patrols and raids.
Hugh rolled his eyes in irritation. Normally he wouldn't have answered a question like that from a prisoner, but it posed no great intelligence risk. It would take a group of hearty, fearless, even foolhardy rebels to attack Tavington and the handful of Green Dragoons left behind at the farm. The attackers would be asking for trouble.
"No. Why do you ask?"
"It's just that," Betsy stammered, "we are more at ease with you here." True-the dragoon adjutant was more inclined to listening before acting, and carrying out the actions with fairness and diplomacy.
"By God, girl," he swore in frustration, "we've spoken of this before. Things could be easier with the Colonel if you and your staff would comply with his directions without protest."
"Yes, sir," Betsy answered, her eyes downcast and disappointed. She quickly disappeared into the hallway.
Damned rebels, he cussed under his breath. They could make things much easier, he thought as he neatly folded the papers from his desk, collecting them into his satchel.
The captain glanced out the window, perusing his men assembling on the lawn, readying to move out. He spied Tarsis, his steed, already saddled up, being held by a young stable hand.
While at the window, he donned his red jacket, buttoning it as he looked over the group of men, silently roll calling them.
The officer picked up the pace, quickly strapping on his sabre belt. As he did, he noticed Private Beck embracing his young wife, out on the lawn. He gazed at the youthful couple, holding each other as they bid goodbye.
In a flash, Hugh recalled holding Miss Burwell the other evening as she cried. The man remembered her thin body, feeling so light compared to his, as if holding her anymore tightly to him than he did would crush her. The officer could recollect her shaking against him as she sobbed, her little world falling down around her.
As Captain Bordon looked on at the Beck's, still hugging one another, he suddenly realized that he hadn't held a woman in his arms in nearly two years. The woman was Sarah, his wife. He had held her weakened body against him before she passed away.
And now, since Sarah Bordon, the recollection of a passing embrace with a distraught prisoner stopped him in his tracks. Then he felt his own skin starting to flush at the thought of being caught holding her the other night: by her servants and his own commander.
Hugh shook his head quickly, dismissing the thought as he checked himself in the mirror. Then, he recalled Colonel Tavington's blunt words to him: If you want to fuck the Burwell girl, just cease the slow seduction and have at it. She is a beautiful girl, though lacking some of those womanly curves, but she possesses that thing that all men want…virginity.
The captain closed his eyes. In his mind, the image of Miss Betsy Burwell writhing beneath him, tears of the pained shattering of her maidenhead in her eyes coupled with the bliss of finally feeling a man inside her, made him catch his breath. After another moment of joyful imaginings, he opened his eyes to the beginning of an erection in his breeches.
Stop it, Hugh, he chided himself as he shook his head. The man quickly stepped to his wash basin and splashed a bit of cold water onto his face, trying to calm his excitement. She's a child, for God's sake! Why lay with an inexperienced girl? A seasoned woman moaning his name was the preferred scenario to him.
He quickly left his room and then the house to join his men on the lawn. Bordon mounted his horse and quickly ordered the men to move out. As the horse began his walk, he noticed Miss Burwell on the front porch, arms crossed, standing next to young Miss Polly Callon.
"I hate it when Captain Bordon goes," Polly whispered to her mistress, "and we have to deal with Colonel Tavington."
"Yes," Betsy agreed with a resigned sigh. "The captain is far more understanding and patient."
Captain Bordon bowed his head to the two girls as he rode past them. The two curtsied in response, and did so for the rest of the departing dragoons. Betsy silently hoped the detachment would return soon.
*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*
"Whoa, Darden."
Betsy Burwell's old horse halted at the edge of the brook, immediately dipping his head down to the cool water. The girl adjusted her hat, retying the bow snugly under her chin, looking around at the farm as she did. She gazed out over the field of dingy brown cornstalks, already harvested and lying askew on the ground. The young lady sighed, then turned her attention back to her animal.
The beast drank loudly, sucking and swirling the cool liquid with a whoosh. The horse was swallowing so hard that Miss Burwell could feel his body jerk. Betsy smiled and shook her head, patting the neck of the creature. "You must be parched," she commented. "Drink up."
As the horse drank, Betsy's mind wandered lazily. Captain Bordon's squad had been gone two days, and the farm had been quiet. There had not been one incident with or angry outburst from Colonel Tavington. The most they had endured had been the cavalry leader's scowls and haughty looks of disdain at them, which they could live with. Indeed they were getting used to living with the enemy, crowding them, having them under foot and directing them about. The young lady chuckled to herself, daring to wonder if she and her servants finally understood how to avoid the colonel's wrath—or at least learned to tiptoe silently about.
Betsy was sorry that her ride about the plantation was near the end. She emulated her father's practice of surveying the farm regularly. As she inspected the land, she enjoyed being in the apple orchard. No one was working in it today, and the girl found solace as she was alone there. She relished the quiet rush of the wind through the boughs heavily laden with the green orbs. The breeze brought the sweet scent of the ripening fruit to her nostrils. It was lovely times like this that made her life as a prisoner on her own farm actually tolerable.
The girl realized that she couldn't idle the day away, knowing that she was needed back at the house, thus ending her peaceful abstraction. "Walk on," she said, then clucked her tongue and tugged on the reins.
After splashing through the shallow creek, she heard a distant thunder. Darden's head rose high and stiffened like a statue, his ears pricked up. After only an instant, the beast began to paw impatiently at the ground, nodding his head wildly up and down. Then the horse began to stomp back and forth, and whinnied excitedly.
"Steady there, boy," Miss Burwell commanded, with a firm pull of the reins, trying to keep the animal under control. She could tell by Darden's enthusiastic dance that the low rumble she had heard a minute ago was a group of horses. Knowing that her steed was anxious to see the equine visitors, she snapped the reins and let the horse canter on toward the barns. As she rode, she suspected that Captain Bordon's detachment had returned, and anticipated seeing the familiar dragoon red and green as she neared the house.
In a moment, her horse trotted onto the side lawn of the main house, where she finally caught sight of the cavalry. "Thank God," she murmured to herself, for once happy to see the return of an enemy—among them the diplomatic second in command. "A return to ease," she muttered in relief.
As rider and beast rounded the corner to the barns, Betsy came into a scene of complete confusion. She saw her female servants running from the house toward the tents. As she drew nearer the outbuildings, she heard Colonel Tavington barking orders as he stomped to and fro.
The young plantation mistress spotted Jonathon the stable boy, and rode quickly to him.
She threw the reins to him and dismounted. "What is the trouble?" she asked, straightening her dress when back on the ground. The boy didn't answer as he grabbed the bridle of her steed and the reins of one of the dragoon's mount at nearly the same time. The young man hurriedly ushered the beasts toward the barn.
Betsy scowled in irritation when Jonathon, preoccupied with the animals, didn't answer her question. She looked about at the disarray and sucked in a breath. The girl saw fifteen some odd dragoons hobbling about or leaning on others as they were helped into the large hospital tent. They were bloodied and dirty, and few with their uniforms in shreds. Miss Burwell knew something terrible had transpired.
She soon spied young Polly Callon racing out of the house with a basket full of bandages. Betsy stopped the girl as she neared. "What's going on?"
"The Colonel ordered us to help the surgeon," the servant shouted. She scurried away, not wanting to risk the cavalry commander's ire.
Betsy turned her head and spotted Captain Bordon talking animatedly to his commander on the sidewalk near the house. The girl headed toward the two dragoon leaders, hoping to find out what had happened.
As she drew near, she could finally discern some of their conversation. "We managed to destroy the powder. Blew the magazine off its foundation. We weren't able to get the foodstuffs because of this," Bordon exclaimed, holding his arm out, hand pointing toward his injured men.
Betsy surmised that there had been some sort of scuffle. She had been correct. Bordon's unit had ridden out two days ago, destroying rebel supplies and arresting those who aided the traitors. This morning, they had gone into the town of Marburgh to raid a supply depot. They'd managed to obliterate the gunpowder supply, but were surprised when the residents made a stand against them. A strong one indeed, for the skirmish that ensued pushed the dragoons out of the village, thus saving the food supply and livestock. The fight was savage enough that not one of the redcoats was left without some sort of injury, including Bordon.
William Tavington suddenly caught sight of Betsy. He turned on his heel and yelled toward her.
"See to the captain's wound, Miss Burwell!" he ordered.
Startled at the dragoon leader's sudden shout, the girl stopped in her tracks. Betsy gasped when she saw the blood on the left side of the Captain Bordon's jacket trailing down onto his black breeches.
"Nonsense!" Hugh Bordon protested. "Tis a scratch. The men are worse. They are more in need—"
"They are being attended," the colonel asserted. "I can't risk having you down with an infection. Your skill is needed."
"Colonel," Bordon began to argue, but was swiftly cut off.
"Now, go!" Tavington snarled to his aide de camp. "That's an order!"
"Yes sir," the captain answered with a tip of his head. He then turned to Miss Burwell.
"Go into the parlor and rest," she advised. "I'll tend you there." The two parted ways: Hugh walking toward the house; Betsy scampering toward the well.
Once there, she quickly drew up a bucket of water, then scooted into the house. The young woman stopped at the servant's kitchen, gathering some material, vinegar, and other things.
Miss Burwell entered the small parlor to find the officer reclined back on the divan, his arm over his forehead. The man's head pounded with a dull ache, but his wound, on his left chest, throbbed with fury. Betsy saw Captain Bordon's coat and vest thrown over the arm of the couch. Stripped down to his breeches and shirt, the sheer amount of blood soaking the left side of the white linen from what the man called 'a scratch' made the girl's breath catch in her throat. Seeing her startled, saucer eyes, the officer sought to immediately reassure the young woman, hating the fact that a handful of his men were more hurt than him and needed attention worse.
"It's not that bad," commented Hugh. "A mere slice."
The Burwell girl set her supplies on the floor near her and pulled a stool up close to the injured officer. "It just bled a lot," he stated, trying to allay his caretaker's fears. "It stopped awhile ago."
The sour tang of vinegar soon joined the sweet, thick smell of human blood as she opened the vial of the astringent. Bordon sat up straight again, lifting his shirt for the girl to begin her work.
As Betsy moved in close to peruse the injury, the distinct scents of leather, horses, and sweat clung to the officer. His face was soiled with the smoky grime of gunpowder, and a layer of red Carolina dirt.
She squinted, trying to discern where the stab wound began and where the stain of dried crimson ended. The captain watched her as she moved her head and sighed in frustration, unable to get to the injury, far up on his torso.
"Hold on," the officer apologized. The girl sat back allowing the man room to remove his shirt.
She gasped when she saw the full extent of the wound. "A scratch?" she questioned as she studied Bordon's torso. A gash, nearly two inches long, sliced the man's skin diagonally on his left breast above the nipple. It had bled profusely, the blood caked onto the skin around it and had leaked through his shirt onto his belly below.
"A rebel caught me with a sword," he admitted. "He was young—a boy. Not strong enough to stab it too deeply. I kicked him away."
As Betsy assessed the wound and how best to treat it, she couldn't help but notice the captain's chest, finely chiseled with muscle. Her eyes strayed occasionally from the injury, catching a glimpse of his well defined shoulders, as well.
Soon she turned back to her supplies, busying herself over them, feeling her skin flush warmly. She was blushing, and hoped the officer hadn't seen her. The girl had only ever seen the male members of her family, and occasionally the field servants, shirtless. Betsy was embarrassed at this, but knew she had no choice but to treat the man.
Miss Burwell dipped a cloth into the porcelain basin beside her. She wrung the water out of it and lifted the cloth to Captain Bordon's face. "Your face is dirty," she commented nonchalantly almost as if speaking to a boy.
Before she could start the task, the officer stopped her, grabbing her wrist gently. "You take care of the wound; I'll wash my face," he sighed as he took the cloth from her hand.
"Yes sir," she said, looking down. The girl quickly wet another rag, squeezed the water out and began to wash the skin around the wound. She glanced upward as she did, noticing that Bordon had finished wiping his face. The girl took the cloth from him and dropped it back into the basin as she continued.
After a moment, she finished. With the captain's skin clean, she could see the full extent of the injury. The slice was straight, and the skin about it had begun to swell with mild redness and purple with some bruising.
She softly probed the cut, her finger tips within, examining the depth of the wound. Hugh Bordon winced in pain as she did. "I'm sorry," Betsy apologized as the man held his breath. The girl finished quickly, wiping the little bit of blood from her fingertips on her apron.
The young woman smiled slightly as she poured some vinegar onto a clean cloth. Miss Burwell dabbed at the captain's injury with the disinfectant soaked rag, cleansing the wound. "It's not deep," she commented as she cleaned the slice. "Won't need a plaster. I can close it."
"Good," Bordon sighed. The man reclined back a bit, relaxing as Miss Burwell prepared the next part of the treatment. The officer hated having wounds sewed but knew it was necessary for this type of injury. He preferred not to watch the girl thread the needle, forcing himself to look elsewhere. His eyes settled on the basin of water near the young woman. The once clear liquid was now a dingy red hue—a mix of blood, soot, and dirt.
After a minute, Hugh saw that the girl was ready to begin. He sat up straight again, setting his jaw hard for the first stick of the needle through his skin. She put her left hand on his chest, holding the sides of the wound together with her fingers. Betsy brought her right hand up and made the initial stick as gently as she could.
Captain Bordon grit his teeth, looking away, trying not to flinch with each stitch of the needle. As she sewed, she leaned in close enough to him that he could now smell the faint floral aroma in her hair. It was enough to calm him a bit as she stitched.
But as her right hand worked, the heel of it brushed unintentionally back and forth over his left nipple. Her finger tips on the skin of his chest were soft. The officer hoped she hadn't noticed that his nipple had puckered and stiffened, or that she knew what that meant. Hugh closed his eyes and sighed, hoping she would finish soon.
After a couple of moments, the sewing was done. "Hold this," the girl said, handing a wet compress to the man. He pressed it against the freshly stitched wound, soaking up the little dots of blood from the many needle pokes to his skin.
Bordon watched the girl quietly as she put the needle and thread away. The scent of her hair, the fresh memory of her hands on his bare chest, and the ringing of Tavington's coarse words about her through his mind was too much for him. The captain felt warmth in his groin.
The young lady leaned forward again to survey her handiwork on his wound. As she looked intently at the stitches, he stared just as intently down at her. Unable to resist, Captain Bordon let his head drop down, his body swaying forward a bit, intending to kiss the girl.
Miss Burwell leaned back as he tried, avoiding the kiss. Startled, she sat backwards for an instant, frozen to the stool. Her eyes met the officer's. His face held the innocent expression of a man who needed to feel a woman's lips on his.
The scooting of the stool on the wooden floor broke the silence, Betsy jumping up quickly from it. She gathered her supplies equally as fast. As she did, the captain said nothing, staying seated on the couch. His face held no apology for making an advance on the girl.
The young woman was so stunned that she didn't know what to say or do. Some words finally formed and were blurted out. "If…if… you will leave those," she stammered, pointing at his discarded shirt, vest, and jacket, "I'll launder them and…and… mend the rip."
"Of course," answered Bordon with a nod of his head.
She turned away and walked toward the doorway. "I'll have the servants bring a bath for you," Betsy called back, wanting nothing more than to get out of the room and away from Captain Bordon.
"Miss Burwell," he called. The girl stopped in her track just at the door. She was filled with an inexplicable dread. She had almost escaped.
Betsy turned back slowly, her head down, looking at the man out of the tops of her eyes. She was relieved that the officer was still standing by the couch.
"Thank you for tending me," said Bordon, his voice deep and disarming. And though across the room from her still after this awkward moment, he looked at her with no regret anywhere on his being.
"I was ordered to," she stuttered, still not knowing what to say or how to act after the officer's boldness.
"Yes," answered the captain, "thank you for complying with the orders."
Betsy curtsied, then smiled a shaky smile and hurried from the room, still in disbelief over what almost happened.
/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/
"You didn't eat much," Mrs. Leyanova said as she collected the tray from the table in Betsy's room. The girl didn't join the others in the dining room for dinner this evening. She would not know what to say or how to act when encountering Captain Bordon again. The man's advance on the young woman earlier today had left her confused.
"Seeing the men today….all the blood," Miss Burwell stammered out her lie. She was too embarrassed and afraid to tell anyone that one of the redcoat captors had tried to kiss her.
"Tending wounds always made me sick when I was younger, too," the older woman commented in her Russian accent. "You'll be better tomorrow."
"Good night, missy," the maid said as she carried the tray toward the door.
"Good evening, Mrs. Leyanova."
When the door shut, Betsy stood and stretched. She walked aimlessly across the room, then settled onto her bed. The girl sighed, still troubled over the situation from earlier today.
She wondered why he had done what he did. Betsy did not think the older man to be interested in her. The young girl laid back, burying her face in the pillow, wishing she could get the incident out of her head.
After a moment, she groaned and pounded her fist into the bedding, unable to get the image of the man's face when it was so near to hers out of her mind. Betsy had admired his well toned physique, ashamed that she had, knowing that a proper lady should not have felt that way. Why would Captain Bordon be interested in a betrothed woman, she asked herself.
Miss Burwell suddenly remembered her dear Major Clark. Yes, father has me betrothed to George Rogers Clark, she thought. He was so handsome and kind to her last summer—she adored him. The tall red haired officer had been the first man she had ever given thoughts of romance about. But now, she dared to look at another.
Betsy sat up as her mind spun itself in circles. This other officer that she has noticed, that tried to kiss her, is the enemy. And her captor, nonetheless. The girl chastised herself for feeling like this. She had to do something to break the temporary spell that this redcoat had cast over her.
"I'll write to him," Betsy said to herself. She rose from the bed, walking toward the wardrobe. "I'll write to George."
The young woman quickly shed her dress, then pulled on her nightgown. "We can have a courtship through letters," Betsy said as she walked toward her desk. "I could send correspondence in care of one of the stations in the Kentucky territory. It is bound to get to him."
The girl sat down at her desk, pulled out some paper, excited at having her mind straight again. "He'll be surprised to hear from me," she giggled. "I'm sure he will write back." Betsy dipped her pen in the inkwell, then set to writing.
Major George Rogers Clark
in care of Logan's Station, Kentucky territory
My dear Major Clark…..
"We're going to be married," Betsy said to herself as she frowned. She shook her head and rolled her eyes. "I should call him by his name if I am to be his wife."
The girl took another piece of paper, and restarted the letter.
Dear George….
/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/
If you want to fuck the girl, then have at it! Tavington's crude but direct words had haunted Hugh Bordon for days. They tormented him exceptionally the past few hours.
The dragoon second in command spent the greater part of the day in his room after Miss Burwell had attended his wound. He had bathed; shaved; ate. He had written his official report detailing the Marburgh raid and subsequent skirmish. Colonel Tavington had visited him in his room. The commander wasn't overly upset that Bordon's detachment had failed to wrest the foodstuffs out of the rebel sympathizers hands. At least they had secured—well, blown up—the gunpowder.
Captain Bordon retired early this evening, needing the rest. The man was tired from riding hard for two days. He was weakened somewhat, as well, from the amount of blood loss after the injury sustained during the skirmish early that morning.
The officer was confident that he would fall into slumber a moment after his head hit the pillow. No use. Sleep eluded him. He turned from side to side only messing the sheets up.
The captain sat up in his bed, his mind a maze. The thoughts trapped within ran the network of passages, rounded the blind corners, faltering at the dead ends, unable to find the way out. He kept seeing himself and Miss Burwell in the parlor, overwhelmed by the situation at the time: feeling nearly helpless as the girl mended his wound; being close to the girl with his shirt off; glimpsing her stealthy glances at his naked torso; the touch of her soft hands on his chest, occasionally brushing over his nipple; the girl's finger tips grazing his skin lightly; the nearness of her; the scent of flowers in her hair; the fact that she was a young, pretty, virginal girl, innocent in a girlish way, ripe to be picked; how it was all too much for the man; how he wanted to kiss her badly at that moment; how boldness possessed him.
Then Hugh Bordon recalled the other night, holding the girl as she wept, remembering again that he hadn't held a woman in his arms since Sarah. He reminded himself as well that the last woman he comforted was also his late wife.
Hating to admit it, Hugh liked feeling the girl's willowy body in his arms; consoling her and how her lithe frame shook against him as she sobbed. Or maybe he just liked, and missed, holding any woman in his arms that he had any inkling of concern for. He didn't kiss or hold any of the whores he patronized—that is except as necessary to hold the doxy up against a wall in some standing position of a rushed sexual encounter.
Still, the captain's mind wandered on. He looked at the door, wishing he could see through it, out into the hallway and then through Miss Burwell's door and into her room. He wondered if the girl was sleeping. Could she after how shocked he had left her today?
The failure to feel Betsy's lips on his and taste her sweet cherubic mouth left him aching now. There was that familiar, warm nagging in his groin, and a swelling beneath the sheets. The officer pushed his hand under the covers hoping to alleviate those feelings. He stroked his semi rigid cock twice then stopped. Masturbation would not sate the man tonight.
The man had to do something else about it—NOW.
"Damn it!" swore Hugh. The officer tore the sheets back and popped out of bed. The captain quickly pulled on his breeches and shirt, his wound hurting a bit as he stretched his body into the clothing.
The second in command paused only a moment to down the rest of a snifter of brandy from earlier then slipped his boots on. His hair down and long, hanging as loose as his shirt tail, both swaying as he stalked toward the door. The man passed through it, shutting it with a mild thud.
Once in the hallway, Captain Bordon stood, a man seeking to silence his commander's terse words echoing in his thoughts, wanting to calm the sensual thoughts of women in his mind, and in desperate need of manly relief.