Hi all. As usual, my apologies for not updating sooner and thanks for your patience. Thanks to all who are reading the story. This was a long chapter, so I divided it. This is the first part, and the second part will actually be the next chapter. It is already written so hopefully I will have it up soon. Thanks.
Chapter 22 The Effects of Words
Autumn 1777….
Betsy shuffled out of the mercantile, a cloth sack filled with the sundries that she'd purchased tucked under her arm. Private Gwynne, one of the younger dragoons, saw her exit and met her at the steps, taking the bundle from her. She thanked him and only watched for a moment as he shoved the pack into one of the saddlebags on his horse. The girl walked to the edge of the covered porch that ran the length of the front of the mercantile. She leaned on the rail as she squinted in the sunlight.
Aside from Gwynne, who was posted near the Legion's horses, she looked about for the rest of her guard detail. Since she had been captive, the few times that she was allowed to venture off her property, she was always escorted by a small group of dragoons, politely called a "detachment" by Captain Bordon, for her "protection". But she referred to it as her jailers assuring that she didn't escape.
She spotted Ensign Kidwell, who was across the street talking to the apothecary. Then she saw Privates Rainey and Wells, two recent recruits from the area's loyalist population, talking and flirting with two young women they seemed to know, obviously showing off their new uniforms. Sergeant Jennings was atop his horse, walking down the street, looking official patrolling the town, and Captain Bordon was nowhere to be seen. They weren't assembled and ready to go, so she had time to kill.
Betsy sauntered to the edge of the porch at the side where there was no railing. She sat down on the edge there, away from the store's main door, in a little corner all to herself to wait for the men to assemble again. And although she was under guard there, she could breathe easier, for at home she felt them breathing down her neck, under close scrutiny with the walls of her own abode closing in on her. At least she was out and about now, and had a little space. The veranda was so high that her feet dangled a couple of inches from the ground. She sighed as she swung her legs, the same way a small, fidgety child would.
As usual, when out like this and not having a member of her guard nearly on top of her, her mind would start spinning, as she thought of a possible way to escape. These days though the wheels of thinking still spun, they chugged sluggishly, as the plan for escape wasn't as ambitious as before, knowing that she, whether on foot or on her horse, could not outrun or outride the expert horsemen of the cavalry.
After a moment of basking in the sunshine, a woman's voice pierced her personal solace. "I heard that Colonel Burwell promised her to an officer up in Virginia. He's fighting out in the Northwest territory now."
Betsy perked up a bit. She turned her head slightly to look at the side of the building. The words fit her situation, so she assumed the talk was of her.
Another strange voice joined in now, muffled, coming from inside the store, the words floating on the air out onto the porch and right into Miss Burwell's ear.
"Jeremiah told me that Colonel Burwell sent word to the man," the other feminine voice informed, "A Major Clark, I think is his name, begging him to come home and marry the girl and take her to safety."
Sighing in frustration, Betsy rolled her eyes. A look of disgust crossed her face. Must everyone around here know my business, she asked herself. It's hard enough that the British knew of my betrothal before I did. And the servants know. Good Lord, now the townspeople are gossiping about it!
"Too late now," the first woman exclaimed.
"Yes. The lobsters have her and her homestead, poor girl."
Betsy Burwell shook her head, silently agreeing with the woman. She was glad to at least have their pity. The girl closed her eyes when she heard no more voices and only shuffling from inside the mercantile, the warmth of the sun falling on her cheeks.
After another quiet moment of being wrapped in the sun's warmth, she heard the women's hushed voices once again coming from inside the store.
"Do you think she has turned?"
"I would think so," the other lady opined. "I heard that her farm is supplying the British now, and that she signs the invoices for their payment."
Miss Burwell felt distraught, now, as these two cackling hens discussed her loyalty. She hesitated, caught between wanting to confront the women, yet wanting to move away from the store, out of earshot so as not to be subjected to the talk.
"And those redcoats staying on her farm," the second lady lamented, "in her house, making her a prisoner there."
"Well, she can't be too much of a captive if she is allowed to come to town," the first woman declared.
Reaching up for the railing, Betsy pulled her body up off the porch. She stood and brushed the dust from her skirt, having made up her mind to walk away from the store, no desire to listen to the gossiping women any longer.
"She must like their company, for she seems to make no attempt to escape."
This was too much for the girl, who huffed in a breath at the words. She clenched her hands into fists at her sides as her lips drew tightly into a scowl. If they only knew, she thought, how close they watch me; how I can only leave the farm escorted—guarded—rather. And how, if I tried to escape, the dragoons would probably ride me down!
"Do you suppose she is made to share a room with any of them?"
"I wouldn't be surprised to learn that she is a mistress to one of them!"
The girl sucked in another breath at the harsh words. She changed her mind now, deciding to confront the gossipers and set them straight.
The two women continued on mindlessly, unaware of Miss Burwell, hearing all they said and stewing over it on the porch.
"Why hasn't her father rescued her," one of the women queried.
"Probably thinks it's a lost cause to expend good men to save his turncoat daughter," the other lady answered squarely.
Betsy burned and began to stomp across the porch, determined to enter the store and read the riot act to the old hens. Just as she reached the door, the deep voice of Captain Bordon caught her attention.
"Miss Burwell. We're leaving."
"Yes sir," Betsy replied as she let go of the door handle, feeling conflicted, part of her happy to be leaving, the other half disappointed that she didn't get to face down the two old biddies.
Moments later, the small detachment of the Green Horse was on the road making the short journey back to the Burwell farm. Betsy, the brim of her simple hat pulled down low over her eyes, let the horse walk along, guided by the other steeds of the group, as her mind boiled and rolled. The reins lay loose across her hand as she stared blindly out to the side. She kept hearing the two ladies gossiping freely of her and her supposed involvement with the redcoats, echoing through her head.
Captain Hugh Bordon rode beside her, noticing how quiet she seemed. The girl could be shy and retiring from time to time, so this small bout wasn't unusual.
"Did you enjoy the jaunt into the village," he asked cordially, making small talk.
The young colonial didn't answer. She hadn't even heard the man over the voices of those cackling old hens still gossiping in her memory.
The redcoat officer cocked his head, knowing the girl hadn't heard him. He knew she must have been distracted by a sight or a thought, nothing for him to dwell on.
"Did you find everything you needed at the mercantile, Miss Burwell?"
A scowl crossed his face. He knew that the chit wasn't being rude, but could see that she was rather preoccupied. Watching her a moment, he could sense something off kilter about her since leaving Cascadia. Ever chasing intelligence and not one to brush off any source, he spoke, determined to get her attention and find out what, if anything, had happened.
He cleared his throat and spoke a little louder this time. "Miss Burwell, your captivity has been ended," he declared. "You're free! You may go now."
When this elicited no response from the young woman, the captain looked curiously at the girl. She seemed a million miles away and he wondered what so thoroughly possessed her thoughts.
After another moment, the horse Betsy rode bobbed his head hard, pulling the reins right out of her palms where they lay. The sudden motion jerked her from the turmoil in her mind, making her reach forward suddenly to catch the reins. After she regrasped the leather, she looked to her side only to see the dragoon leader looking oddly at her.
"I'm sorry," she began in a confused tone, "did you say something?"
The captain laughed heartily in a deep tone. "Yes. I just gave you your freedom," Bordon answered dryly. "However, I'm revoking it now that I have your attention."
Betsy frowned sourly at the man for obviously poking a joke at her expense. Her look of disdain told him that she didn't appreciate being teased.
Before she could resume her reverie of dismay, the officer spoke again. "You don't seem to be yourself today, Miss Burwell. Is something the matter?"
"No….um….," her voice trailed off.
"Did something happen in town," he asked, genuinely concerned yet covertly gleaning for possible intelligence. "You know that you can speak to me of anything."
"Uh..no…everything is fine," answered Betsy shakily.
"Oh. Very well, then," Bordon replied. Another exercise in patience for him. He knew that if the matter was pressing, it would eventually eat away at the Burwell girl and she would end up spitting it out in conversation later. As usual, he marked it in his memory then looked forward to a quiet ride home with the detachment.
/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/
"Will you be needing anything else, miss?"
Myriam hovered a moment in the gazebo, looking at Miss Burwell and Miss Lansing. She stood in anticipation of pouring the first cups of tea, ready to serve the ladies.
"No, thank you," Betsy replied. "You can go back up to the house."
Betsy's friend, the soon to be married Hannah Lansing, had come to call on her this afternoon. And after hearing the disturbing gossip, which Miss Burwell was the subject of, she was glad and relieved to have a close friend to visit with and confide her woes of the world to.
"Very good, miss," the servant answered. And though the maid was used to serving tea in the house and staying nearby to attend, she wasn't surprised that Miss Burwell wanted to do it herself. Still, Myriam hesitated a moment at the step of the gazebo out of habit, in case the mistress might change her mind.
Betsy looked over at her and smiled reassuringly. The maid curtsied quickly, then turned and left with a swish of her skirts.
Harry Burwell's daughter and her friend, Hannah, exchanged conspiratorial looks with one another. Then they turned toward Myriam, watching her with eagle eyes as she trotted back to the house.
When Betsy deemed her servant to be out of earshot of the gazebo, she spoke. "I hope you don't mind having our tea out here," she said in a low voice, "It's the only place where we could have some privacy. The walls of my house have redcoat ears."
"No, it's a nice day," Hannah assured. The two looked over the small, sweet scones arrayed on the table before them, each choosing one and putting the cakes on their plates. Then each girl took a sip of tea.
"How are they treating you?" Miss Lansing began with the mandatory, introductory cordialities of a visit over tea.
Betsy looked around, gazing outside the gazebo to the yard beyond as she took a long sip of her beverage. Dragoons milled about engaged in conversation, some lounged in the shade while others ducked in and out of the tents in the canvas village that was situated on the back lawn. All of it was a constant reminder of her captivity. "As well as can be expected for being prisoner in my own home."
She set her cup down on the saucer and leaned forward, looking in earnest across the small table at her friend. "They watch every move I make," she began, as if it was something she wasn't supposed to tell anyone, "they listen to every conversation I have with my servants."
Heaving a sigh, she continued her lament. "I cannot leave the farm without an escort—they call it—which means 'under guard'. Good Lord, I can't even ride or walk to the edge of the property without asking first. They read all my correspondence and insist on seeing anything I send out."
"How are the officers?" asked Miss Lansing. Her head tilted to the side, a disconcerted look for her friend's situation clouding her features.
"They order me and the servants about," Betsy answered. "Captain Bordon is nice to me. He protects me, saying that though we are enemies that he does care about the welfare of their captives."
Hannah put her cup down on the table, then picked up her spoon and shoveled a bit of sugar from the bowl. "He probably feels a bit responsible and maybe thinks that someone ought to take care of you since your father is away," she pointed out as she stirred more of the sweet substance into her drink. "You're young and alone."
Both young women paused a moment to chew on their cake and sip their drinks. As they did, Miss Lansing looked about at activity on the estate. Her eyes traveled over the top of her cup, inspecting the young cavalrymen around the farm.
"There certainly are a lot of handsome soldiers about," Hannah observed aloud, trying to suppress an appreciative smile.
"Hannah, I'm shocked at you!" scolded Betsy in astonishment. "You're getting married in just days and your eyes are roving!"
"I can look all I want," defended Miss Lansing. "Does not one go to the gallery to admire a work of art?"
Both young ladies chuckled then took bites of their cake. After washing hers down with some tea, Hannah continued the conversation. "Have any of the young men here made advances toward you?"
At those startling words, Betsy choked on her tea. She put her cup down and patted her neck with her hand as she coughed. "Good Lord, you're scandalous, today," Miss Burwell exclaimed.
With that, she took a sip of her tea, swallowing it slowly to ease the irritation in her throat. A quick memory of when Captain Bordon had tried to steal a kiss from her flashed across her mind. The girl recalled how it had left her confused, wondering and in turmoil. And now, she bristled, uncomfortable at how that episode still evoked emotion in her. His advance made to her in the parlor was still her secret. She knew she should probably confess it to Hannah, but decided to keep it to herself.
"No, they haven't," lied Betsy in answer to her friend's query. "The whole countryside as well as the redcoats know that I'm betrothed."
"As if that has ever stopped a man—even a gentleman," Miss Lansing commented snidely as she took a drink. "Do you like any of them?"
"Hannah!" Miss Burwell was flummoxed at how bold her friend—nearly a married woman—was talking today.
"Oh, tell tale!," the engaged girl coaxed. "Major Clark won't hear of it from me!"
Miss Burwell sighed and rolled her eyes. "Yes, I agree," she admitted, "There are many nice looking soldiers here. And if I were to like any of them here, it would be Captain Bordon."
"He does seem the most gentlemanly of the bunch," Hannah concurred.
"Yes, he is," Betsy assured. "He is very fair towards us and treats us better than most of the men here. He's well educated and speaks a few languages. Mr. Hantz curses in German and we have to remind him that the captain understands what he is saying." Both young ladies laughed at the thought of Bavarian farm hand Hantz getting caught spewing a string of profanity in German.
Pouring some cream into her drink, she went on about the dragoon second in command. "He converses with the local Indians when they come through," she informed as she stirred her tea. "He is from a wealthy family, I hear. Poor man. He seems to spend most of his time calming Colonel Tavington down, and smoothing mishaps over. He is a true diplomat."
Miss Lansing nodded her head. "So, have you heard any good gossip you can share," she asked of her friend as she poured some more tea into her cup.
Becoming quiet, Miss Burwell frowned, looking down at her lap. A look of worry crossed Miss Lansing's face, moved by her friend's distress.
"Betsy?"
"Aye. I heard some vicious gossip this morning which I was the subject of," the girl answered. Betsy proceeded to tell her friend what she heard in town earlier in the day. The sting of those old biddies' words obvious to Hannah as Miss Burwell recollected aloud the incident.
Appalled and disgusted, Miss Lansing spoke up, supporting and defending her friend. "Betsy, you know that I and my family know the truth! Let them talk! They will surely see where your allegiance lies when this war ends!"
Betsy smiled at her friend, nodding her head in silent agreement. Both young women reached for another of the petite cakes from the tray.
Hannah took a small nibble of the tart and swallowed. After a sip of tea, she spoke. "I did hear some gossip that will make you giggle."
Betsy rolled her eyes and grinned at her friend. Despite what had happened earlier in the morning, Miss Burwell was thoroughly enjoying her visit with Miss Lansing.
"It involves Colonel Tavington," informed Hannah as she wiped the corners of her mouth with her napkin.
Betsy perked up and smirked impishly. "Tell tale," she said in a curious, yet cautious tone.
Looking about carefully, just to make sure no dragoons were near the gazebo, Hannah began. "Our cook, Mrs. Stennis, ran into Mrs. Kennert at market. She is the cook for Drakespar Plantation."
"Is that the Selton widow's farm?"
"Yes," Hannah confirmed. "Mrs. Selton's cook says that their farm was raided by the Green Horse weeks back when the widow was away, and that one of the maids was assaulted. They raided it a second time a couple of weeks ago and threatened to burn the place."
Miss Lansing paused to stir her tea. Tinkling her spoon on the edge of her cup, she went on with the story. "Apparently, the widow Selton and Commander Tavington came to some kind of agreement, for he called off the destruction. But, the colonel has since been to visit Mrs. Selton a few times with only a small guard."
The girl stopped suddenly, leaning in toward her friend. She reached across the table and touched Betsy's wrist. Miss Burwell leaned in, wondering keenly what her friend was about to say.
"He interrogates her, always meeting with her in her bedroom," Hannah revealed. "Mrs. Selton told some members of her staff that the colonel has employed extortion against her, and… has his way with her. Supposedly, she only allows it to save her farm and says that she abhors him and being forced to do it."
Anxious to get to the next part of the story, Miss Lansing could hardly keep herself from laughing as she told it. "However, the cook said that the widow acts giddy as a school girl and is all smiles when she receives news that he is coming to visit, and that there are screams of pleasure coming from her boudoir."
The girls giggled, then broke into full blown laughter.
"She's become his mistress at the price of saving her plantation," Betsy sneered.
"And apparently she's enjoying it all the while," Hannah guffawed. "No coercion there!"
As the laughter died down, an odd thought crossed Betsy's mind. She posed her question to her visitor. "I didn't see the blacksmith's daughter today. She's usually always helping her parents."
Miss Lansing's countenance turned serious. She hated to be the purveyor of negative gossip, especially when its subject was that of a friendly, innocent village girl that was well liked and never hurt anyone. Hannah, though, wanted to answer her friend's query and knew that she would want to know.
Sighing, Hannah answered sorrowfully. "You haven't heard. She was sent away, supposedly to help a relative. It was sudden….and secret."
Both girls were silent. Betsy ruminated on her friend's answer, knowing what it meant when a young girl was suddenly sent away from home.
Her face darkened. She closed her eyes and sighed. Shaking her head in disbelief, Betsy responded. "Oh no! That day that the dragoons kidnapped me from the village, I saw something horrible."
"What?" questioned Hannah.
Betsy couldn't help but feel sick as she recounted the incident to her friend. "Please keep this to yourself," the girl began. "As I ran to hide, I caught sight of one of the cavalry commanders straddled over the girl on the ground. He had her skirt pushed up." She stopped short there, knowing she didn't need to say another word.
"Who?" asked Hannah cautiously.
"It was Colonel Tarleton," answered Betsy, her voice lowered. "He was only with this group of dragoons for a few days. I heard the men talking about him, that he heads his own cavalry unit. He has since returned to them in New York."
Frowning, Miss Lansing felt as upset now as her companion. "Oh no! Father heard that the blacksmith had protested to the British generals about something bad that had happened to his family," added Hannah.
Both young women didn't have to guess what the worker of iron had complained about to the redcoat commanders.
"What did they say?" Betsy queried cautiously.
"The blacksmith told my father in confidence that they were sympathetic to him," explained Miss Lansing, "but that without proof, they could do nothing to the accused officer."
Betsy shook her head helplessly, knowing the frustration they felt. She herself knew that there was no dealing with the British.
"If you testified to what you saw, would it help his cause?"
"No." Miss Burwell replied. "I tried to tell Captain Bordon what I saw but he dismissed it, saying that I might have been in such a harried state that it must have affected my reasoning."
Betsy went on. "But I know what I saw," she proclaimed. "And even if I did testify to the generals, I'd be afraid of retribution from Colonel Tarleton or the same by proxy at the hands of Colonel Tavington or Captain Bordon."
Hannah watched Betsy quietly as the girl gingerly clasped her hands in her lap. She knew what the dragoon commander had done to her friend, having seen the lacerations on her palms.
The revelation, and subsequent guess that Colonel Tarleton had made the blacksmith's daughter pregnant, disturbed Betsy. She went on. "Captain Bordon insists that they are all gentlemen and don't do that sort of thing, despite any rumors. From what I observe every day, they are a loyal brotherhood that closes ranks on outsiders. I wish I could help, but I know that nothing I say will make a difference and will probably be turned on me."
Hannah nodded quietly. She didn't want her friend to be hurt again by her captors.
Betsy sat her cup and saucer down then reached for the teapot. She poured hot tea into both their cups, refreshing their beverages. Miss Lansing spoke as her friend served.
"So, are the redcoats going to let you attend my wedding," she asked playfully, shifting the tone away from the dark dialog they'd just shared.
"The Captain told me I could…under guard, or course."
"Well, ask him to assign the most handsome and eligible young men to the detail….there will be young ladies there," Hannah commented.
"I am sure he will appreciate my suggesting that," Betsy answered sarcastically.
Both young ladies nibbled their cakes again, then sipped their tea.
"Now, tell me all about the wedding plans," urged Betsy with a smile.
/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/
Hannah Lansing left late in the afternoon, and Miss Burwell was sorry to see her friend go.
As the evening wore on, Betsy grew melancholy. She was upset over the plight of the blacksmith's daughter. Poor girl, she lamented, pregnant through no fault of her own, with a lobster officer's bastard.
And Miss Burwell couldn't help but wonder what else was being said about her and her own situation with her redcoat captors. She cringed when she wondered how much worse the gossip could get. The girl made herself nearly insane as her mind spun crazy scenarios of unfettered gossip about her running rampant in the countryside.
Then, there was her ongoing imprisonment and lack of freedom. British soldiers billeted in her home, a farm which her father and grandfather and mother had worked so hard to make successful, was disconcerting. Not knowing if the plantation would eventually revert back to her father, or would be confiscated altogether weighed heavily on her soul. Only the outcome of the war would determine it.
And the war. Would this damned war ever end?
All of these thoughts crashed about within Betsy's head, depressing the girl. All she wanted now was to get away from the thoughts; soothe the anguish of it all.
She knew that sometimes, people would drown their sorrows in drink. Miss Burwell had never been drunk before, but if it works for others then she surmised that it may work for her as well.
From her room, she could hear talking and laughter coming from the ballroom. The girl recalled hearing Mrs. Leyanova remark that the assembly hall was going to be used by a group of soldiers this evening for some sort of celebration. A smile crossed Betsy's face as her mind worked.
She soon left her room, anxiously descending the stairway, then moving out the back door of the house and across the breezeway. The girl found herself standing at the door of the detached formal dining room, looking over a group of young, happy and laughing dragoon privates.
Betsy stepped through the door, standing just inside the threshold. It only took an instant for the celebrating lads to become quiet, noticing an uninvited outsider in their midst ready to wreck their private party. And it was a woman, no less!
As they stared silently at her, she looked straight back at them defiantly. Then Betsy put her hands on her hips confidently and stoutly declared, "I can drink all of you under the table!"