Hi readers. I apologize for taking so long to update. Wendy just finished school and is out for the summer and I've been busy with her. Also picked up some overtime at work, of which the extra money really helps! Thanks for your patience. Hope you enjoy this chapter.

JScorpio

Chapter 24 Setting Things Straight

"If you would please, raise your glasses and join with me in saluting the newlyweds, Mr. and Mrs. John Day."

"Hear hear!" the crowd shouted after Richard Day, the groom's brother, made the hearty toast.

Betsy smiled as she lifted her glass, gazing at her friend Hannah, the bride. Miss Burwell felt a nearly uncontainable happiness as she saw the way that her friend beamed today as a joyous newlywed.

When the champagne in the coupe finally touched Miss Burwell's tongue, she grimaced noticeably. Vivid memories of a recent drunken hangover flooded Betsy's mind. It had been but a week since her introduction to hard spirits, imbibing overly with the youngest members of the Green Dragoons.

She remembered nearly nothing of the incident, but painfully recalled laying in bed for two days with a raging headache and vomiting to the point of dry heaves. The girl had refused all food, not wishing to throw it up again, until Captain Bordon convinced her of the worthiness of bread absorbing any of the alcohol lingering in her system.

The Burwell family servants had waited on the sick girl, having been informed of her drunkenness by the dragoon second in command. Indeed Bordon recounted the event to the ill young lady and was not harsh on her at all. Instead of scolding her, his only words were "I hope you have learned a lesson about alcohol."

And now, at the wedding reception of her friend, the wine flowed freely and all the guests about her drank deeply of it. And as they did, Miss Burwell discreetly lowered the saucer and placed it on the table nearest her, resolving not to have any more spirits—at least at today's gathering.

A string of guests had lined up to toast the newlyweds. As they did, Betsy took the opportunity to slip away to the privy outside. She left the house and crossed the green, noticing the long driveway lined with carriages and horses, some overflowing into parking upon the lawn. The girl scowled at her own family's vehicle, which she easily picked out, for it was the only one surrounded by redcoats.

The gaggle of bright red uniforms hovering near the coach made her cringe. The same embarrassment she'd felt earlier having arrived in the company of these men still hung over her even though the guests were all inside. Betsy knew well that their presence seemed to put even the most innocent loyalist on edge. The silent, accusing stares had begun the moment she exited the carriage to enter the wedding.

The guard detail, commanded by Captain Bordon, sat on the ground on blankets spread out next to the coach where they played cards. Another private was on picket duty, vigilantly watching the immediate area of the house and celebration within. Betsy soon spied Cornett Galdun, on horseback, patrolling between the fresh cut lawn and the wooden fence of the pasture, in which the cows took no notice of him. The only dragoon not seen was Private Tanner, who was on vedette duty somewhere on the property, probably at the end of the lane, she assumed.

Betsy huffed in disgust and rolled her eyes at the men. All this fuss to assure that I don't escape, she thought. Seven men to make sure any brash rescue attempts are foiled. All this for some little country girl at a wedding. All this for a prisoner who's own father won't surrender himself and leadership for her. She entered the outhouse and let the door slam behind her.

After a moment, Miss Burwell reemerged from the privy having settled nature. Taking a few steps away to escape the smell, she hesitated a moment, taking in the view of the modest sized mansion before her. The old, white brick house was in need of some repair, but she had no doubt that the groom would soon take care of that.

Since his older brother was the benefactor of his father's fortune, John Day received this respectably sized farm from his aged grandfather: a gift to a beloved and much favored grandson. Hannah will be the mistress of all this, thought Betsy. Her own household to run, by her choice, at the tender age of 15. And no doubt there will be a babe about the home months from now. Miss Burwell couldn't help but grin at her ruminations.

Betsy's slender legs soon carried her back to the house. As she passed the out kitchen, the smell of baking made the girl stop in her tracks, then drew her back to it. She rounded the corner of the brick building, lingering for a moment, breathing in deeply the smell of fresh baked bread and cakes. The young lady closed her eyes, trying to guess what meat they were roasting, soon to be served. She opened them, but before she could crane her head to peak in and get her answer, the loud voices of the servants within startled her.

"The nerve of the Burwell girl bringing those lobsters with her today," one baker harshly criticized. "She's high and mighty going about with them."

"Aye," another woman chimed in. "Having those redcoats here frightens everyone."

"Really! Going about in public with them while she's betrothed to a proper Virginia gentleman," the other cook's voice derided. "One who's out fighting on the frontier now."

Betsy frowned. The residents in the local area had no idea what she was going through. All they heard were mostly rumors and only a handful of truth, which were then chopped up, rehashed, and jumbled over and over again. What they saw was a pretty young girl with no chaperone in the company of redcoat soldiers. And they were the WORST of the enemy; the Green Dragoons had the most lewd and vile of reputations.

The girl took a deep breath, summoning some courage and what bit of Burwell pride she had left inside her and strode to the house. Once there, she was met on the porch by two female party guests, who immediately hushed up their conversation the moment Betsy stepped up on the veranda. They regarded her with accusing stares, making no attempt to hide them.

Miss Burwell did not answer their stony silence, but instead walked slowly into the house. "Redcoat whore," one of the women murmured harshly, damning the poor captive . Betsy looked back, but decided not to approach the two society ladies on the veranda. The girl did not want to cause a ruckus on this most special day in her best friend's life.

Continuing on, Betsy Burwell strode nonchalantly in the ballroom amongst the wedding guests, doing her best not to draw any attention to herself. She couldn't avoid the suspicious looks from the people she passed. The muted conversations that suddenly stopped mid sentence when she walked by were the worst, making the girl blench and wish that she could somehow become invisible.

"Really! Must she flaunt her allegiance to the British?" a male voice whispered, on purpose, meant for Miss Burwell to hear. The young woman did her best to march on, suddenly making it her immediate mission to get away from her accusers and make it across the large room to the safety and protection of her friend, the bride.

Picking up the pace, she trotted along, making her way through the crowd, avoiding eye contact with anyone. "The shame her father must bear," still another voice impugned, "at having a turncoat daughter."

Betsy stopped suddenly, her legs paralyzed and frozen to her spot. She recoiled, in the midst of the many guests, in the grip of paranoia. Shame and fear washed over her, making her nearly gasp for breath. All she wanted to do now was run—escape—before the crowd, seemingly accusing her and ready to lynch the girl, could get her in its clutches.

Looking across the ballroom, she desperately wished to get Hannah's attention. She wanted to bid her farewell and feign some illness, but the new bride was busy accepting the congratulations of well wishers surrounding her.

Miss Burwell turned on her heel suddenly and slinked toward the nearest door, trying with all her might to control herself. She made a deal with her nervous legs, wanting nothing but to carry her away at the fastest gallop. If you can just make it to the door in a calm manner, then you can run all the way to the carriage and never look back!

But the actions of her body betrayed her, making her canter and twitch as she made quickly toward the exit like a scared doe galloping back to the woods for cover. She didn't look at the crowd of people as she passed them, sure they were smiling in approval at her hasty departure, glad to be rid of the turncoat girl and her redcoat escorts!

Just then from across the ballroom, the new Mrs. Day happened to look up as she was handed a glass of punch and noticed her dear friend dashing across the room in the direction of the door. Hannah, having known Betsy from childhood, could tell by the look on her friend's face that something was indeed out of sorts.

The bride, distressed and confused by the actions of her best friend, turned to her new husband.

"John," she said, laying her hand on his strong forearm as she spoke, "Betsy's leaving."

By the tight and frenzied grip her fingers made upon his arm, the groom could tell that his new young wife was greatly upset. "Not to worry, my love," he assuaged, "I'll go after her." He adored Hannah, and of this day of all days, he would do anything for her.

As he stepped away, his own father spoke up. "No! Let her leave," Mr. Day spat, "and take the lobsterbacks with her!"

"Yes," Mrs. Day, the groom's mother agreed. "Their presence has made the other guests uneasy."

"No," the young husband argued stoutly. "I'm going to do what I should have done in the first place!"

"That is?" asked the groom's father.

"Invite them in."

His parents were shocked. And as hosts of the wedding, would not allow it. "They're not welcome here," Mr. Day informed.

"With respect, Father, this is my house." John Day stopped in his tracks, forcing himself to keep his voice down, not wanting to cause a scene.

"You will insult your guests," his father advised.

"No, Father. I insult those men by not asking them in!"

"You have surely heard of how they conduct their duty," John's mother reminded. "The way they treat people, especially the women around here. And they burn houses and destroy property."

"That's exactly the reason why I should invite them in," the groom insisted. "My hope is that in the future, they will remember the hospitality we extended to them and spare us from destruction!"

With that, John Day tore away from his mother and father, marching purposely toward the door with his beautiful bride hard on his heels. His family followed after, as well, stopping just inside the doorway, looking on with worry as their son and new daughter-in-law approached the dragoon guard.

Betsy, who was near the coach readying to enter it, had not even noticed the people in her wake on the sidewalk. A voice stopped her as she took the hand of Wallace, one of the slaves who acted as coachman, to be helped into the vehicle. The girl turned to find the bride and groom standing before her.

"Miss Burwell, must you leave so soon?" asked John Day. "Hannah longs that you would stay with us awhile."

Surprised, Betsy was taken aback by the actions of her friends. She stammered, "Well….I..uh.."

Before she could finish, the groom chimed in, not giving her a chance at any excuse or refusal, as he turned to speak to Bordon.

"Major?" he queried in his best and most cordial tone.

"Uh…Captain," the dragoon commander politely corrected the host. "Captain Hugh Bordon at your service."

"Captain Bordon," the young groom began apologetically, "I hope you can forgive me. I am utterly embarrassed at my oversight. I've been terribly remiss not to greet you before now."

Though his face did not register the emotion, Hugh was surprised by the actions of this young colonial. The dragoons were used to facing frightened, suspicious, and often belligerent and combative locals. The youthful groom was absolutely charming and warm toward the redcoats.

"Well, you've been a bit busy today," Hugh laughed off the oversight, having not expected this much amity from any of the guests today.

"My bride and I would be honored if you and your men would join us in the celebration."

"It is a generous invitation, but we are on duty," Bordon politely declined. "Apologies."

"Perhaps you and your men could take turns between duty and pleasure," John offered as a solution, not wanting to take 'no' for an answer.

"We're not in dress uniform," the captain countered, trying his best to decline the invitation officially and politely.

"Nonsense! You all look quite appropriate, I assure you," the groom persuaded.

"Yes. Please don't refuse us," the bride pleaded demurely. "There are many young ladies in there that will have need of dance partners!"

Captain Bordon smiled handsomely and nodded his head. "Well in that case, we can't decline. We'd be delighted to join you. Many thanks!"

John took Betsy's arm, who was confused by and had remained mute during what had just transpired. Inside, she was still apprehensive, as well, to go back into the reception and dwell amongst the same crowd that regarded her with so much suspicion.

"Mrs. Day," Hugh Bordon said, looking down at the new bride with a warm smile, offering her his arm. She gladly took it, returning his look with a satisfied grin. She hooked her hand through his elbow, resting it softly in the crook.

"I'm so glad you could join us," Hannah said congenially, a happy and relieved look upon her pretty face.

Bordon bowed his head quickly in response then followed the groom and Miss Burwell into the reception.

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

An hour had passed since the Green Dragoons had been invited in to the reception. Miss Burwell had spent most of the time in stunned silence, still incredulous over the whole situation. She recalled the hushed gasp of the party guests as the feared enemy soldiers tramped in with the bride and groom. Then the cavalrymen moved amongst the crowd, displaying the utmost of genteel manners and politeness, easing and charming the other guests. The locals soon warmed to these redcoats, who seemed to be perfect gentlemen and nothing of the rogues they had heard so much talk of.

Betsy finished off a light meal, looking about at the couples as they twirled and whirled about the floor. The orchestra, hired in from Charlotte, had been adept in the current styles of music, moving from quadrilles, to jigs, to minuets, and to the latest reels of the day. The privates had already squired some of the women and girls about the dance floor, all the while their commander, Bordon, had spent most of his time engaged in conversation with the groom.

The girl thought it a clever ploy on the part of John Day to get her to stay longer for his bride by asking the British soldiers in. She had no choice but to stay with her guard so aptly employed in the joy of the moment. Miss Burwell had not a clue that the bridegroom's plan had been twofold. It had not crossed her mind that by inviting the redcoats in, that he was furthering future relations with His Majesty's forces should things turn ugly in the future. Betsy had been too rapt to think or even speak at the spectacle of the lobsters intermingling in pleasure with the locals, and the guests suddenly refraining, for the moment, from further accusations against her. For that, she breathed a great sigh of relief and the hint of a smile curled her lips a bit.

John Day ambled across the ballroom to the musicians, speaking in low tones to them, as the crowd milled about on a break during the dancing. Betsy watched him, assuming him to be requesting some special song.

The groom soon broke away from the orchestra, an impish grin on his face. The crowd quieted and turned to face where he stood.

"Captain Bordon," began Day, "I've been informed by your men that you are a dandy fiddle player." A violin was then passed into John's hands from one of the musicians. Offering the thing up, out in front of him, he asked, "Perhaps you would grace us with a tune?"

The commander was patted on the shoulders and back in enthusiastic encouragement by the youthful underlings. They cheered him on and pushed him forward from the crowd at the same time. He tried hard to hide his embarrassment.

"I haven't had the opportunity to play in months," Bordon apologized modestly. "I'm afraid I'm a bit out of practice."

"We'll bear that in mind," young John Day said as he pushed the fiddle into the officer's hands. It was obvious to everyone that the groom would not take 'no' for an answer, and Hugh Bordon was far too skilled in the manner of his social class, knowing better than to embarrass the host.

"How about something slow," the captain requested, still a bit embarrassed by the fuss made.

" 'The Ash Grove' " the officer announced. With that, he unexpectedly turned the instrument on its side in front of his body as one would hold a guitar, fret to the left and holding the bow in his right hand. He plucked through the first strains and chorus of the tune, always preferring to play the introduction in pizzicato.

At the end of the chorus he quickly and fluidly raised the instrument to the traditional position, on his left shoulder, tucked under his chin. For a musician out of practice, he pushed and pulled the bow expertly across the strings, making no squeaks or squawks, the officer proving his proficiency in the instrument. The violin in Bordon's hands sounded beautiful; a graceful, single instrumental voice. At the end of that second chorus, he nodded his head, never interrupting his playing, the sign for the orchestra to join with him.

As he continued to play as the featured soloist in this group, Miss Burwell looked at him, openly astonished, her breath taken away. She thought the playing to be as good as her mother's, who was considered in her time, to be one of the finest fiddlers of the area. Hannah, who was seated next to Betsy, took her hand, equally as surprised to hear the man's excellence on the stringed instrument.

"He's quite good," the bride gushed in a subdued voice. "You never mentioned that he could play."

Betsy, still incredulous, answered, "I didn't know he could."

"Didn't he ever play in camp there at your home?" asked Hannah.

"No," Betsy replied.

When the song was finished, the guests clapped wildly for the British officer, and shouted for another tune. He responded, showing off his prowess, playing a bit faster this time on the song 'A Soldier's Joy', with the orchestra joining him. This time the crowd not only listened, but danced as well. At its conclusion, they again wanted him to play, but he thanked them politely, saying instead that he wanted to dance a bit, handing the violin back to its rightful owner.

As the musicians moved into the opening strains of 'My Lodging is in the Cold, Cold Ground', Betsy left her friend's side and moved toward the punchbowl. On her way there, she was intercepted by Captain Bordon. The girl found herself tongue tied, usually able to converse easily with the trusted officer, still so surprised at his hidden talent of musicianship.

"This is one of the songs that I prefer to play," he remarked of the lilting waltz, "but I've taken enough attention away from the hired musicians."

He smiled warmly down at the young lady. She answered his look with silence, instead grinning nervously with a nod of her head. As the girl stepped around him, he caught her arm. Startled by his commanding touch, she stared at him in disbelief.

"And….I realized that we haven't danced together yet," he boldly commented. Bordon extended his hand to her and asked, "Might I have the pleasure?"

"Of course," Betsy squeaked. Without delay, she took his hand and let him lead her to the dance floor.

They moved lightly about the ballroom, blending with the other couples, not the focus of attention. The captain made customary small talk. "You look very pretty. More than one gent has stolen a glance your direction."

"You mistake that, sir," she corrected politely. "They only look at me because of the string of redcoats in tow."

Bordon smiled at her quip, knowing full well that the crowd did regard them with suspicion everywhere they went. He and Colonel Tavington, as well as their generals rather liked the fact that their mere presence commanded attention, and hopefully obedience and cooperation, everywhere they went.

The captain and Miss Burwell became quiet, listening to the beloved tune and submitting themselves to the dance. Hugh Bordon liked guiding the pretty young girl about the floor on his arm. He had danced with a few ladies this evening, including the bride. The officer felt a certain comfort moving with the mass of other dancers, as if the people might have forgotten for one moment that he was the enemy and might see him as just another wedding guest.

As they continued to dance, Betsy was awash in emotion, unable to comprehend why. She had last felt this way over a year ago, she remembered. It was in Charles Towne, in May of 1776 at a ball. The girl had danced then, as well, in the strong arms of Major George Rogers Clark, only having just met him. And now, she was feeling the same way while with Captain Bordon. The sensation of her hand being held firmly in a large, masculine one; the light touch of a man's arm occasionally wrapping about her shoulder or waist; the look in the eyes of her male partner; the commanding presence of being led about the floor.

And then there was the smell. The scent of a man and his uniform freshly washed with a soap cake for the occasion. And although the soldier and the clothes were washed spiffy clean, it couldn't completely erase the faint remnants of the equine odor of which the essence seemed to cling permanently to the cavalryman. Then there was the dominating aroma of the leather of his boots and breeches, tempered by the fresh sweet fragrance of apple pomade used to help gather and queue an officer's hair. The amalgam of it all gave the girl those same fluttery sensations in her stomach as if someone had unleashed a whirlwind of leaves in there.

Only this time, there was more. She found it hard to catch her breath, and her skin was hot, knowing she had to be blushing. But even worse, the young lady felt a strange sensation seeming to pool low, near her thighs, ending in a sort of unexplainable ache between her legs, in her innocent womanhood.

The couple had moved around the whole of the floor at least twice, Betsy not sure having how she'd done it with the emotions boiling in her head and stomach. But when she'd realized that the insanity of it threatened to reduce her to mush, she broke the silence, hoping to put the crazy sensations to rest.

"You play very well," commented Miss Burwell.

"Thank you," the captain acknowledged sincerely. "My Grandfather Hurley taught me when I was a wee lad. He was determined that one of his grandchildren would learn."

"I had no idea you could play," she admitted. "I've never heard you practicing at home."

"I've no fiddle," Hugh informed.

"You left it at home in England?" the girl asked incredulously.

"No. It was broken back in the Spring time," Bordon answered, "when rebels raided our camp. We drove them off, but my poor instrument was smashed beyond repair. It was sacrificed for firewood."

"I wrote to my parents and begged them to send me another one," continued the captain, "but alas, it has yet to arrive."

About that time, the song ended, and the officer and his captive bowed and curtsied as custom dictated to one another.

"Thank you, Miss Burwell, for the turn about the floor. You dance very well."

"As well, to you, Captain," she replied. "I enjoyed it."

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

The fading rays of the sunset streaked the skies as the Burwell carriage bounced along the road headed home. The reception had ended not long ago, the guests leaving the newlyweds to their home and first night alone as man and wife.

As the coach moved along, there was a stony silence between Betsy and Captain Bordon. They were seated opposite each other on the bench seats, the young lady having said nothing since bidding farewell to the Day's.

Again, ever the good intelligence officer, the dragoon adjutant wondered if the girl had learned of something while at the reception; perhaps over heard some information of use to the British. As usual, he decided to engage her in round about conversation to discern if she knew something.

"The men and I had a wonderful time," he remarked cordially. "Did you enjoy yourself?"

"A little," Betsy answered in a lackluster tone.

"Only a little?" Bordon queried, fishing for anything he could find.

"People stared," Miss Burwell replied in a clipped tone. "I was embarrassed."

"Why?" he coaxed. The officer always looked for information, which could be 'hidden' anywhere, such as in plain sight, conversation or the needle within the haystack. Hugh was always challenged to find it.

"Because I'm always accompanied by redcoats," she blurted sourly.

"We are at war," Bordon reminded. "And King George is still the sovereign of these colonies. You colonials should be used to seeing men in uniform."

"But there is still talk and stares," countered Betsy. "People either haven't heard that I am your captive, or they don't believe it. Some of the locals think that I just let you stay at my farm; that is isn't a forced billet. They say that Father is ashamed of me."

"Miss Burwell—" the officer tried to interrupt, but the distraught girl was reeling on a tangent.

She continued on excitedly, nearly in a wail. "They even say that I share beds with your men. But worst of all, there is talk that I've turned coat!"

"Where do you hear this?" asked Captain Bordon out of concern and curiosity. He moved to the edge of his seat, ready to comfort the girl, thinking she was near to bursting into tears.

"Back at the wedding," she cried.

"No wonder you were in such a hurry to leave," commented Hugh.

"There were whispers and stares," Betsy went on, "And I hear and see them in the village, as well."

"You can't stop gossip, Miss Burwell," he stated.

"I don't care to listen to it," she said, "And I hate being the subject of it!"

"You know the truth," the captain tried to calm her.

"I can't stand it anymore!" she exclaimed, nearly coming off the coach seat. "I wish now that you would just send me away to the fort or prison, then I wouldn't be subjected to gossip nor have to stomach it any longer!"

The officer closed his eyes and released a heavy sigh, not caring to hear anymore of her childish ranting about gossip. He knocked on the top of coach to get the driver's attention.

"Sir?" the driver called.

Bordon leaned his head out the window and spoke up to the man. "Stop the carriage, please."

"Yes sir!"

Betsy was glad inside. After the reception, she had been hoping to ride home alone, but Bordon had hitched his horse to the back of the vehicle and elected to travel within. She was happy that the officer was halting the coach to get back on his horse, so that she could be alone to wallow in her own self pity.

The ever vigilant dragoons on horse converged near the coach, leaving one out on the road to keep watch. They watched the door intently as their superior emerged.

"I'm sorry for the stop," he said turning back to the coach and extending his hand to the girl. "Miss Burwell needs to relieve herself. We won't be a moment."

The young lady hesitated inside the coach, not sure what was going on. "But, I don't have to—"

A strong hand grabbed the confused girl's wrist and yanked her out of the carriage. "What is the meaning of this?!" she protested.

Betsy had no idea what was going on; why the dragoon leader had become so angry in an instant and was treating the girl roughly.

"Stop!" the girl yelled as the redcoat hustled her along, nearly dragging her alongside him toward the woods. "Captain Bordon! Let me go!"

The redcoat officer, usually always diplomatic and understanding, had come to the end of his patience in only an instant. Miss Burwell's childish fussing, which was but only a girlish fit born of her own genuine frustration, drove Bordon over the edge quickly and he decided it was time to remind the youth just what was important at this time of war and want.

At the wood line, he threw the girl behind some bushes and smashed in behind her. "If you want to be sent to a prison," Bordon blew up, "THAT can be arranged!"

"At least I wouldn't be subject to humiliation!" she shot back.

The officer huffed out a breath of exasperation. Then he closed his eyes and shook his head, unable to believe this girl who had assumed the unwanted mantel of adult responsibility for her father's farm, as a youth, was now unable to realize the bigger picture.

Turning away from her, he paced a couple of steps, then spun back to face her. "You really are a sheltered, spoiled rotten little chit, aren't you?!"

The explosion took the girl by surprise, making her step back in fear. "What?! How dare you!"

"Miss Burwell, you seem to forget that this is a time of war," he admonished, "and though you are a captive, your situation is far better than that of other prisoners. Have you even stopped to think about that?"

"How so? I'm a prisoner. How is that any better?!" she shot back.

"Listen to me, missy," he scolded. "You are lucky to be in familiar surroundings; in your home. You have your trusted servants about you. You get to sleep in your own bed in your own room in a warm house. You are entrusted a certain amount of freedom within the confines of your farm. You are even allowed out occasionally, accompanied. You have food. And, though you may not realize it, you are protected by His majesty's army, and have me to watch and guide you when needed."

He continued on. "Those in the fort wile away their time in the cells and are not allowed out. Those banished to the frontier stations may get traded to the Indians, who might absorb you into their tribe if they're in a generous mood; scalp you if they're not."

Betsy knew better than to show indignation while the dragoon commander lectured her lest she face another, more severe tongue lashing. However, she was listening to him, his offer to send her away having grabbed her attention.

Captain Bordon went on with his discourse on imprisonment. "And then there is the Provost Dungeon in Charles Towne. Quite honestly, it is deplorable. It is dank, dark, and cold. Rife with vermin. No bed: sleep on the stone cold floor. No blanket. No food. Illness runs rampant. If you don't die from disease or starvation, you may be hanged. If the dungeon is full, then you will be sent to the prison ships anchored in the harbor."

The girl's eyes widened, knowing full well what happened to the men sentenced to time on those boats. It was unbelievably worse than the Provost dungeon, where you may have a chance of release if one lived or was traded. On the prison ships, the only escape was death. The corpse was carried off the vessel wrapped in a death shroud if a dingy was there and happened to be going to shore. Sometimes the bodies were just thrown overboard, the shallow floor of the harbor their grave.

Hugh Bordon knew that he had hit a nerve by the wild eyed, scared look on the Burwell girl's face. Truly though, he didn't wish to send her away.

"Now, Miss Burwell," he said, adopting an official tone and an officer's stance, "What will it be? Be sent away to some type of prison and lose what freedom and comfort you have just so that you don't have to endure humiliation? Or stay here, a captive in your own home with some privileges and relative comfort, for the small price of a bit of slander?"

The young lady opened her mouth, but the words wouldn't come out. Instead, she stared mutely at the captain, as if he should choose the fate for her.

"You have exactly five minutes," he informed tersely. "I'll expect an answer then." With that, Captain Bordon turned about quickly and walked a few feet to the edge of the woods, leaving his ward alone with her thoughts.

Feeling embarrassed after the officer had just reproached her for complaining of gossip about her, she looked down at the ground, tapping her toe quietly in the grass. Though she hated being the subject of rumors, she realized that she and those around her knew the truth, and that some talk was indeed a small price to pay for freedom and comfort. She felt remorse at having taken her comfort for granted and had to be reminded just how much more lucky she was than most captives.

"I'd like to stay at home, please," she whispered, flushed red in embarrassment at her oversight.

"I thought so," answered Hugh. "Wise decision, lass."

The two emerged from the brush and walked in the direction of the road, neither saying a word. After a moment of quiet strides, Betsy broke the silence.

"You usually have more patience with me," she reminded the officer in a subdued yet childlike voice.

"You're right," he agreed. "I hope you'll remember that the next time you feel the need for a childish tantrum."

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

"Did you learn anything that could benefit us," Colonel Tavington asked before he spooned a bit of oatmeal into his mouth.

"No. But we have made a formidable impression on them," answered Captain Bordon. He took a sip of tea, then added, "They are certainly afraid of us."

The small group of dragoon officers sat around the table in the dining room of the Burwell's home. Tavington had only been interested in the intelligence aspect of the Lansing and Day wedding the day before. He had hoped that his second in command might hear some new tidbit of information that they could use. So far, as for the fright and apprehension of the locals toward them, he already knew of it and they were certainly doing their best to exploit that fear.

The pretty quadroon servant named Myriam brought in a plate of toast which she sat on the table in front Lieutenant Wentworth. He took a slice and started the tray around the table, handing it to Captain Wilkins. The maid moved to the other side of the table and handed a bowl of fresh apple slices to Cornet Kidwell. She removed the teapot from the table, then headed out of the room with it in hand to refill, and just squeaked past young Polly Callon, who was bringing more freshly cooked bacon to the table.

"You're wanted in the parlor, Captain," the young servant said as she placed the platter of meat on the table.

"Oh. Thank you," he replied, wiping his mouth with the napkin. He scooted his chair back from the table and stood, addressing his fellow officers. "Excuse me, gentlemen." Then he quickly exited the room, the sound of his boots on the wood fading as he crossed the breezeway and moved into the house.

Entering the parlor, he found Miss Burwell standing there, gazing out the window. She seemed lost in thought, obviously not hearing him enter. He chose to stay quiet for a moment, regarding her silently.

Her slender, lithe figure covered in a plain work dress, was rumpled already under her apron. Her sandy brown hair, up on her head, already had tendrils of tired curls falling out of it. The officer could tell she'd already been attending to the chores of the farm this morning, and had interrupted them to summon him to the parlor.

He cleared his throat, drawing her attention from the window, turning to look at him. "You summoned, Miss Burwell?"

"Yes," she answered simply; quietly. The girl picked up a violin that was routinely positioned on a stand at the foot of the pianoforte. She looked affectionately at the beautiful instrument as she spoke to the officer. "This was my mother's. I was never much of a musician, not able to play this or the piano. She, however, was one of the best fiddlers in this area."

"I see," answered Bordon, a bit confused. He had noticed the fiddle, which never left its spot next to the piano, since the night they first raided the Burwell plantation. The dragoon adjutant had wondered why such splendid instruments were never utilized. Now he knew.

"The last time Mama played this was a couple of weeks before she died," Betsy said, looking sadly at the instrument, her fingertips touching the strings lovingly. "It just sits there now, gathering dust."

The officer nodded his head, saying nothing, not sure what the girl wanted. Maybe his playing yesterday reminded her of her mother, making her sad. Maybe she just needed to talk.

A moment of awkward quiet passed between them; Hugh Bordon admiring the beautiful violin and the youthful, loving daughter of its owner that held it. And Betsy, lost in reflection of her mother and how she used to play.

The young lady sighed and broke the silence. "Captain, the fiddle just sits here, which probably isn't good for it."

With that, she handed the violin to the officer. "You may play it here in the parlor, anytime you like. I mean, it needs to be played," she said slowly, as if apprehensive about letting some other musician play her mother's beloved fiddle.

"It's a fine instrument, indeed," he remarked kindly, looking over the violin after receiving it from the girl.

"At least play this one until your new fiddle arrives," Miss Burwell said, nervously.

"Thank you," the captain answered graciously, smiling at her. "I assure you, that I will put it to good use." With that, he raised the key cover on the piano as the girl hurried from the room.

As Betsy headed down the hallway, she heard the officer plinking notes on the piano, then tuning the strings of the violin. And as she rounded the corner to rejoin the servants in the preparation kitchen at the back of the house, she heard him drawing the bow across the strings, warming up. The girl was amazed at just how fast he'd tuned the instrument, readying it to play.

In the kitchen, Mrs. Leyanova was pouring a wet mixture of cake dough into a pan while Myriam chopped fruit to put into a pie for later. Betsy took her place back at the table, pushing her hands into the bread dough. The flat smell of the flour on the unbaked bread loaves sitting nearby, blended with the scent of the cut apples and the cake, made for a lightly sweet aroma hanging over the room.

As the three ladies worked, the sound of a single violin curved softly down the hall and into the room. Myriam and Leyanova both stopped their work, looking first out into the hallway, then at each other. The song was light and beautiful, 'Be Thou My Vision'.

"Well, now, that is the mistress' fiddle," Mrs. Leyanova said as her face lit up in a grin. "I'd know that sound anywhere!"

"Yes, but who is playing?" asked Myriam.

Betsy, who hadn't stopped kneading the bread, answered. "Captain Bordon. It turns out that he is a very fine fiddle player."

The two servants smiled at each other, loving the sound of the music which brought with it good memories of the late Katy Burwell. "It is well to have some music in the house again," commented Myriam as she went back to her cutting.

Betsy, too, smiled serenely, and spoke as she worked with the bread dough. "We should probably fetch the captain's plate, and keep it warm. I have a feeling he is going to be occupied with his music for awhile."