Chapter 29: Fruit Crushed Into Pulp

April 1778…

Colonel Tavington slammed his left fist on the desk then quickly downed the amber fluid left in the bottom of the glass in his right hand. He rose from his desk and walked over to the window where he stared at the medical tent. The officer wondered how his injured men were faring at the moment. He felt the need to go see them, yet he knew they needed their rest. He could just as easily ask for a report.

He was on the verge of being drunk, treading that fine line at the end of being tipsy. He had been drinking for hours, since he returned. William blamed himself for the whole incident.

Tavington and a small guard, six men in all including himself, had gone three days ago to Fort Carolina for a meeting with the generals. On the way back, instead of sticking to the main road back to the Burwell plantation, they veered off at his suggestion on a weed choked byway that had been marked on the map drawn by Captain Bordon. They had made good time and had an extra hour, so he wanted to explore and follow Cross Anchor Creek a bit to find another possible place for wagons to ford it. The horses had no problem with it, but if a redcoat supply train needed to get off the main road in an emergency, a stable place for wheels to cross the water needed to be found. Bordon had yet to discover one, having only a little time here and there to ride the stream, but Tavington hoped to be able to give him the spot to mark on their maps.

The dragoons overtook a small group of rebels on the byway. The group gave a good fight then fled, unable to match the skills of His Majesty's cavalry. Chase was not successful due to the density of the forest surrounding. None of the green horse came away unscathed. All, including Tavington, had stab or bullet wounds. The worst of which were Donovan with a bullet through the non dominant shoulder and Private Balon with a severe bullet wound in the thigh. The other four had only minor stab wounds.

Private Balon, a young recruit from Virginia, was a promising young soldier. He had superb riding skills and had already proved to be one of the best marksmen they had. The youth was one of those recruits that learned quickly.

As he lay on the ground in William's arms while Corporal Tracy fashioned a field dressing and rude tourniquet, the soldier, a mere boy of 17, apologized. "I'm sorry, colonel. I didn't dismount fast enough." The Virginian had taken the bullet in his leg and was unhorsed immediately in one of the first round of shots fired by the hidden colonials.

And as he apologized over and over again through gritted teeth and in pain, Tavington finally ordered him to be silent. "Nonsense! Stop this silliness! You are one of my best," he barked. "Now be quiet and conserve your strength!"

The young recruit rode back to the farm as far as he could before swaying in the saddle. He fainted and was caught by the nearest dragoon, which happened to be Wentworth. The adjutant then drew the unconscious private over to his mount, resting him in his lap as the men made back to the Burwell homestead.

By the time they arrived, poor Balon had bled out so much that the thick crimson stain covered much of Wentworth and his bay mare. The boy died on the operating table before a surgeon could even get to him. Tavington cursed the daring rebels and then himself for leaving a main road with such a small detachment.

In fury, he blazed a path to the house, screaming for Captain Bordon the whole way. The second in command met the colonel on the stairway and listened in confusion as his superior ranted in no specific order over what had transpired. Bordon, expert at interpreting his commander's tirades, took mental notes and organized them in his mind.

William ordered Hugh to take a small detachment and go after the small band of rebels, catch them and find out why they were in the area and so close to a known public billet of His Majesty's finest warriors. They were to give no quarter and leave their corpses to rot on the main road as a message for all who passed. Bordon, who had been busy with unit paperwork and dressed casually when Tavington and the detachment returned, was off immediately, throwing on his jacket and tying his cravat as he ran to gather men.

Hours later after dark, Bordon's unit had not yet returned, only adding to Tavington's foulness. He blamed himself for a fine young recruit's death. William drank whiskey steadily as he wrote a condolence letter to Balon's parents then wrote the skirmish report. When the whiskey ran dry, he stormed to the wine cellar for a bottle of madiera. As he drank his way through that, he couldn't seem to contain his hatred and disdain for all and any rebels, regulars, militia, townspeople—any colonial—involved or uninvolved in this conflict. And when that hate boiled to the top, fueled by the alcohol and remorse, his rage exploded and he did the only thing he could do to punish the rebels: he went after the closest one at hand; a young colonial; a girl. Miss Burwell. He recalled his promise to steal her virtue and use that as punishment against her father and fiance. And now was as good of time as any as he was spoiling for a fight to avenge his dead dragoon. She was ripe for the picking and he was in a fury to crush fruit into pulp under his booted foot.

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

Miss Burwell wiped her sleeved arm across her forehead and sighed wearily. She was in the warming kitchen at the back of the house helping servants Myriam, Polly, and Mrs. Leyanova knead bread dough. Pansy was outside in the cooking building, manning the ovens, baking the dough as it was brought out to her.

"Honestly, how much bread can the lobsters eat?!" Betsy complained, irritated at a recent order to double the amount of bread the Burwell farm had been supplying to the billeted dragoons. "They've nearly cleaned us out of flour! What do they expect us to live on?!"

The young lady punched her fists into the slab of dough, harder than she needed to, out of her own frustration at having to be in the kitchen this late at night to comply with their demands. She flipped the dough over, which raised a small cloud of white flour dust around the table. "If this is what they want, we're going to have to forego tobacco in the south field and plant wheat instead."

"Good for them; bad for us," Myriam chimed in from across the table. She twisted some dough into a loaf and placed it on a tray. She knew that though the farm would be compensated for more wheat grown for the bread, the tobacco there instead would have brought more of a profit to the farm.

"You've pounded that dough long enough, missy," the Russian head house servant said in a terse manner to Betsy, who looked up to see the older woman pointing accusingly at her. "Make it into a loaf and bring it here. That goes for you two, as well!"

The two servants and Betsy rounded the table and placed the raw loaves in front of the head house servant. The three girls began to reach for more flour but were soon halted.

"Well, this is it for the evening, girls," Mrs. Leyanova proclaimed. "We will get this out to Pansy to bake then we are going to bed. We have to have some kind of sleep to do chores in the morning. The soldier men will just have to make do with what they got until tomorrow!" Her Russian accent, still thick even after years in the colonies, seemed to punctuate the words with a sharp edge.

Betsy dipped a cloth into the washbasin, wetting it thoroughly. She then set about to wiping the chunky dough from her hands, rubbing hard at the dough that always wanted to cling like paste to her fingers.

Just then, the quartet of women heard boots stomping down the ornate wooden stairway. In an instant, they looked up to see Colonel Tavington in the doorway, wild eyed and near drunk. A collective shiver moved through the group of women, who could tell that the man was upset over something.

They could see that he had been drinking for hours. His hair was out of its cue, long and wavy over his shoulders. The only remnants of his uniform that remained, aside from the boots that had hammered the floor bringing the women to attention, were his white shirt and black breeches.

The redcoat officer raised his arm and pointed accusingly into the room, his eyes narrowed and crazed. "You will come with me THIS instant, Miss Burwell!"

Unfortunately for the girl, the moment had arrived for the dragoon commander to make good on his threat to take her into his bed. She didn't have to be reminded; she had not turned her back on the man in weeks, avoiding him when she could, especially when Captain Bordon-her one slim chance at protection-was gone. Betsy only breathed relief when the aide de camp was at home, hoping that Tavington would not pursue the issue with his wise and diplomatic second in command on hand to somehow talk him out of it or otherwise distract him.

And as luck would have it, Bordon had not returned yet, and Tavington was drunk and spoiling for a fight.

Betsy knew what was coming, and her eyes immediately well up with tears as her body trembled with fear. She took a step back and fell mute. All she could do was shake her head "no", and sniffle. The three servants stood frozen in place, looking on in disbelief and fright.

The colonel wasted no time stomping into the kitchen. Miss Burwell started around the table to get closer to the door and away from him, but he stretched his long, lithe body and soon had her wrist in a vice grip. Equally as fast, he dragged her bodily from the room in front of the horrified female servants.

"No! Don't! Oh, God! Please, don't!" Betsy screamed.

Mrs. Leyanova, although terrified of the dragoon commander, leaned into the pretty quadroon maid, Myriam, and whispered instructions. "Go to the door and call for Mr. Walrdon or Mr. Hantz."

The wide eyed maid complied. As she headed toward the door, the Russian head houseservant stepped forward to try and intervene. "Colonel Tav-"

He interrupted the older woman before she could get anything else out. "I am not to be disturbed," he yelled with Betsy struggling in his grip. "Everyone here will regret it if I am! And you all know me well enough by now to know that I make good on my promises!"

"Let me go!" wailed the girl as Tavington had her already in the hallway, roughly pulling her along. She kept trying to plant her heals to stop him. All this did was upset the carpet runner, pulling it into heaped up lumps and causing her to trip and fall at the foot of the stairway.

Polly, Mrs. Leyanova, and Myriam had followed the colonel and his captive into the hallway, standing in perceived safety at the kitchen threshold. They stared in fright, wringing their hands, unable to do anything to help the girl. They could only assume that the near drunken and angry officer was dragging the girl to his room to either rape or torture her. And, just as the poor girl did a moment ago, they had wished that Captain Bordon had been there to be the voice of reason and stop the man. The trio of servants looked at one another, then to the outside, all hoping together and silently that the second in command would arrive on his horse. All the residents there knew that Bordon favored the girl and was often compassionate and patient with her.

At this point, they knew he was the only one who could help her.

Betsy was still crying out in appeal as they ascended the staircase. "PLEASE! HELP ME! Don't let him do this to me!" Her cries twisted and echoed down the stairs to the second floor as they continued to climb.

And then, Betsy Burwell's voice disappeared behind a slamming door.

She immediately moved away from Tavington, and promptly fell backwards over something. From the floor, she looked up at the tall and menacing officer, then scooted backwards away from him. He grabbed her left forearm, making her whimper in pain, and hauled her up onto her feet.

The man threw her onto his bed, where she landed on her back. "Your father and fiancé are traitors and they must be punished now! You will pay for it in their stead with the forfeiture of your innocence, little girl!" he proclaimed as if he were a lawyer before a court of justice.

He unbuttoned his breeches, scrutinizing her as he did, enjoying her fright. In an instant, his body was atop hers on the bed, where he harshly kneed her legs apart as his hands pushed her skirts up.

Betsy fought him as best she could, but she wasn't near as athletic as he was. He wasted no time in pinning her slender wrists, held together in one of his large hands, above her head on the pillow as the other hand pulled his hardened manhood from his pants.

Unceremoniously and without hesitation, he shoved his prick up into her. She was not ready to receive him, having only a dry passage. Betsy turned her head and cried out at the pain of it, recalling that at least a drunken Bordon, weeks ago, had had the compassion to move slowly and gently at first.

William plowed his erection hard in and out of the girl for a few strokes, stopping every few to pull his hardness nearly out of her to check his cock for signs of her virgin blood. Not seeing it only made him punch in harder. Betsy had closed her eyes and bore it as best as she could, telling herself it would be over in a minute.

After a couple of moments of thrusting, the colonel still saw no sign of crimson fluid, nor had he felt the resistance of membranes within her. The girl also had not cried at the tearing of her maidenhead. And, he had deflowered enough virgins to know that something did not feel right about the girl's body and her lack of physical resistance and vocal objection after he had entered her.

The redcoat commander stopped, leaving his stiffened yard within the girl. Holding himself above her on his outstretched arms, his right hand took firm hold of her chin and turned her head roughly to look at him.

Her tear filled eyes met the ice blue eyes of the colonel, and she felt a shiver of cold move over her, then within her body. Those steely eyes were burning bright with anger.

"You rebel slut!" he ground out. "You are not a virgin!"

Betsy could no longer control herself and spat back, "No! I'm not! Someone else got there before you did!"

Furious, Tavington backhanded Betsy, making her cry out. She saw stars for an instant then regained her wits despite the stinging in her cheek. "Yes! I gave it to someone else of my own free will!"

The officer slapped her again, growling as he did. The girl continued to taunt him despite the blows. "It was a pleasure to give it to him all the while knowing that you wanted it!"

"Bitch!" he yelled. The colonel curled back and slapped her hard in the face a third time. "Who was it?!"

"I'll never tell you," she teased. And then another blow fell. She howled out in pain then wept.

Miss Burwell was laughing at the colonel's surprise and crying at the same time from the pain of her beating. But, she was driven by the power of having an upper hand of some sort over Colonel Tavington, and it possessed her to keep taunting the man despite being beaten.

"Who!" he demanded to know, wondering if she had had relations months ago with Colonel Clark. Yet he was angered, wondering if it was some boy from the town that had deflowered her, or even one of his own men?!

"You'll never know who beat you to my virtue!" she blubbered out in between sobs. The sound of her own voice, a sickening mixture of weeping and cackling, made her nearly insane. She wanted this to stop, yet she couldn't seem to control throwing the officer's "second place finish" in his face.

"I chose him," she howled as another punch landed on her face. "And I enjoyed giving it to him!"

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

Bordon took off his gloves after handing his steed over to Private Gooden, the man offering to take the horses to the stable for the night. He removed his helmet as he headed up the steps into the main house. He looked weary.

Indeed the captain was tired. Firstly, he was dealing with his own grief as a commander of the dragoons, for the quick demise of Private Balon. Second after riding for hours, they had only seen signs of where the rebels that killed the novice cavalryman had been, and had found no new intelligence. He had no answers for his superior and dreaded telling him this. But he knew the man would want answers right away, so he resolved to let the colonel know immediately.

Once in the hallway, he encountered Mrs. Leyanova and Myriam the maid, who looked absolutely distressed. "What is it?" he asked, their faces grim enough to make him notice.

"The colonel says he is not to be disturbed," Myriam stammered.

Bordon blew out a frustrated sigh. No servant was going to tell him what he could and could not do in regard to dragoon business. He knew Tavington would want to know. He could disturb him for this news no matter what the man was engaged in.

Once outside Tavington's door, he heard grunts and groans. He could not discern if they were of pleasure or pain. Thinking the man in trouble, instead of knocking, he let himself into the room.

He was taken back at the sight before him. He saw a pair of female legs entwined with the colonel's breech covered limbs, and the man holding himself on stiff, strong arms above the female, rutting away.

"I'm sorry, sir," he apologized, obviously embarrassed. It was only while backing out of the room that the colonel shifted his body to look back at his adjutant that Bordon noticed who was in the man's bed.

He was at first stunned to see Miss Burwell there, her skirt hiked up to her waist, and the only thing shielding a view of her young quim was the redcoat officer between her legs. In an instant, Hugh Bordon was angry. He had just plumbed the girl weeks ago, in a drunken stupor, both vowing never to speak of it to allay any rumors. Then, he immediately felt jealous, for inside, he did like the girl enough to want to protect her, but his heart felt a pang of romance for her, as well.

Willliam Tavington ceased his thrusting, holding himself above the girl on his arms. He glanced back at his subordinate nonchalantly then looked back down at his captive. Betsy, her eyes blurred from tears merely closed them and turned her head away knowing that Captain Bordon knew it was her. Now, aside from the pain and humiliation of rape, her heart hurt as well, embarrassed and disappointed that the only redcoat she trusted had seen her in his own superior's bed. She sobbed even harder now, thoroughly embarrassed and broken. Her face, red with slap marks, now began to burn with flushed redness of embarrassment to add to the sharp stinging of the punches.

"Ah, Bordon," Tavington crowed carelessly, "You can have her when I'm finished. I'll leave some for you!"

With that, Hugh Bordon shut the door, standing outside of it momentarily stunned and unable to move. When he willed his feet to walk, he was amazed that they didn't carry him to the landing and let him fall down the steps. He closed his own door and locked it, then sank back against it, feeling sick.

He suddenly realized that this little lass wasn't as innocent as she acted. She professed trust for him, and he had actually trusted her for the most part, though he trusted no colonial fully. But now he was finding that he had given her more credence than he had thought, for his heart ached. The captain too, now felt humiliated and embarrassed. Insulted as well. Miss Burwell had played him for a fool. He assumed that she had used him, and now she was using Colonel Tavington. But for what? Developing affection and trust to gain freedom? What a complete dunce he had been, so blinded by her feigned helplessness and innocence.

He went to his dressing table and splashed his face with cool water from his basin. The captain then stripped to his linen under drawers and looked about the darkened room for his flask. It was on his dresser, just where he'd left it. The man then crawled into his bed, taking the whiskey with him, for he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep without something to ease him.

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

In Tavington's bed, he had resumed lobbing his cock into Miss Burwell. He stopped long enough to grip the weeping girl's chin and pull her face up to look at him. "It makes no difference to me if you get pleasure from this or not. That is not the point. Maybe you will get your bellyful. Do you think Colonel Clark will want to raise a dragoon bastard? And how will your father feel about a redcoat by blow, hmm?"

Betsy didn't answer. The young lady closed her eyes again and let the man heave himself in and out of her, though she was feeling raw and sore. She hoped that his completion would come soon and bring this chaos to an end.

The colonel laid his whole body upon her, covering her. He buried his face in her shoulder as he reached up with both hands to grab the head board. With a tight grip on the wood, he pushed himself into her as deeply as he could, making her wince and feel nauseous. "So you are not a virgin, but God, you're so tight!"

After a few strokes, he felt the warmth, then the throbbing in his prick. And then a surge of tingling shot through his body, out to the tips of his limbs. He collapsed atop her after forcefully shooting his thick cream into her. As he rested after his satisfaction, he left himself in her as his breathing calmed and his strength returned.

Miss Burwell was relieved that he was done, but all she could do was lay there under him until he got up. She felt warm and wet inside, which made her cringe. A moment later, the colonel pulled his now flaccid member out of her, making some of the juice of his passion slip from her vagina, then onto her legs and the sheets. It felt slimy to her, and she sat up quickly as he exited the bed.

Betsy pushed her skirts down, and jumped from the bed. The officer did not give her a second look as he stood at his wash basin, washing all traces of her away from his groin.

Before she left his room, he taunted her one last time. "I'm going to absolutely enjoy telling your father and your fiance what I've done to you." She slammed the door behind her.

Betsy hurried along the corridor to her own room, but stopped short of going in. She stood there for a moment in the darkness, closed her eyes and sighed, still sobbing. The pain in her heart and sickness in her stomach would not ease until she could explain things to Captain Bordon. And though she was embarrassed and did not want to face him, she knew she had better get it over with now. The sooner the better to clear up the misunderstanding, she thought.

The lass took a minute to compose herself. She wiped the tears from her eyes and cheeks, wincing sharply as she did. Her face was throbbing wildly from the colonel's punches and only a slight touch aggravated it. No matter, she thought. She had to see Bordon right away.

Finding herself at his door more quickly than she had wanted, she took a deep breath, then let it out slowly, calming herself. And then she knocked.

"Go away!" came the angry response in the officer's deep voice through the door.

My God. He's furious but I have to make him understand. I know he will speak with me. "Please captain," she beseeched. "I need to speak with you."

"Yankee whore!"

The words tore at Miss Burwell's heart, making tears well up again. She sniffled them back bravely and kept on. "Please open the door. I can explain."

"No need for you to," Hugh yelled back, still refusing to open the door. "I saw it all!"

"You...you don't understand," she called back, desperation starting to creep into her voice, making it shaky.

"I understand perfectly!"

"Please sir! Let me in," she cried, trying to keep her voice low and keep the tears out of it.

"Go on to some other officer's bed! There are plenty of them!" The captain's voice was heavy and ominous.

"It's not what it seems," she whimpered. Oh God, just please make him open the door.

"GO...AWAY...NOW!" he snarled, enough to scare the girl.

At that point, he went back to his bed, where he took a pull from his whiskey flask, and Betsy slinked away in the darkness of the hallway, her heart and soul heavy with grief and remorse.

She felt dirty, now beginning to feel the remnants of Colonel Tavington's seed running down the inside of her thigh. Betsy pushed her hand between her legs and dabbed at it with her skirt. She needed a hot bath immediately, wishing to wash away all the illicit traces of the dragoon commandant.

Padding quietly down the hall toward the stairwell, she moved just as silently down the steps. Halfway down, within earshot of the kitchen, she made a request in a low, forlorn voice. "Is anyone awake?"

"I'm here, missy," Mrs. Leyanova answered, coming in from the kitchen drying her hands on her apron.

Thank God it is too dark for them to see me clearly, she thought. "I apologize, Ma'am," she began, "I know it is late. But I need a hot bath now. Could someone please bring the water to my room?"

"Of course," the Russian maid answered.

"Don't worry about retrieving it tonight," she whispered. "Someone can get it in the morning."

"Very good, missy."

She wasn't sure how she did, but somehow the young woman made it up the stairs and soon found herself in her room. Betsy slipped out of her clothes quickly, leaving them on the floor where they landed, beyond caring at this point. She wrapped her robe around her and sat on the bed.

Her body was soon wracked with sobs, so much so that she doubled over as she wept. A cacophony of thoughts and worries crashed around her mind giving her a headache to couple with the ache of her face, now swelling from the blows she had suffered.

Seeing Tavington atop her as he forced himself on her, then seeing his hand just before it smashed across her face played over and again in her head. Her heart hurt at the recollection of Captain Bordon's refusal to speak with her, to assume that he must have felt betrayed. And then she wondered what her Father and George would think when they found out. And then she had the rumors with which she would surely have to contend, for she knew that Tavington would not bother to keep this tidbit of lurid news to himself.

Betsy wrapped her arms around her body, and rocked herself in her own embrace, wishing that her mind would stop tormenting her for just one moment of peace.

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

Hugh Bordon was still in a sour mood this afternoon, unable to shake it away. He arose that way. The redcoat officer was still smarting from the sight of young Miss Burwell in the bed of his commander...beneath him, skirt up, legs open wide with Tavington snuggled between them.

The captain thought that his having slept with the girl and been given her virginity at her own hand, that he had a special part of his "ward" that no other man would have—that is, until she married Colonel George Rogers Clark. It had been his secret that he guarded closely; close to his heart. He had not blinded himself to the fact that he had noticed her innocent and blossoming beauty, and had feelings of affection for her that extended beyond merely being a protective captor. And, it hadn't been long after he had met the girl, only a matter of weeks, for him to feel in his being that he wanted to bed the girl; to bask in her sweet innocence. Those emotions were gone now. And all it took was her willingness to spread her legs for William Tavington.

The captain was glad he that he hadn't let the girl into his room last night—for explanation or consolation. In his eyes, she had betrayed him, using her youth and innocence as a tool to get something, of what he could only speculate.

In the morning, Bordon had been glad not to have crossed paths with Miss Burwell. She did not appear at the breakfast table. The girl was not busy at any of the chores she regularly assigned to herself, work that owing to the privilege of being the owner's daughter she did not have to do but did any way to keep busy and from going insane. No, this morning, her tasks had been divvied up by her servants. No one had uttered her name.

When the sun was high in the sky over the farm, the young lady did not appear for lunch or any afternoon chores. She was not seen seated in the shade sewing. She was not seen lounging in cool parlor reading to escape the spring warmth. She was not seen sitting at a desk or table attending the plantation paperwork.

The girl was lost, and her bedchamber door remained locked securely, no noise heard from within.

Good, Bordon thought. She should keep a low profile. For once, she has chosen wisely.

She is a disgrace. She has embarrassed herself. She has blemished her character. Knowledge of her action will offend her father and fiance. And she has severely tarnished the good name of Burwell...at least it is a good name here in the colonies.

The green dragoons were in residence today, observing one day of mourning their messmate's death. Bordon had spent the morning writing letters to new and formerly rejected candidates to fill the late Private Balon's now vacant spot. He had handed them off to a messenger to have them ferried immediately about the county. The second in command needed to speak with Colonel Tavington on brigade matters, but was glad not to have to be in his superior's presence after seeing him atop Miss Burwell last evening. The regiment aide de camp had been told that his superior was spending the day with the men down at the tents, probably gambling and whoring, and Bordon was not about to disturb him.

Hugh found himself with his work done and some free time. He had received a request from his superior to bring his fiddle and come down to the tents to play for the men, who needed their spirits lifted. The captain emerged from his room with his instrument under his arm and descended the stairway.

The redcoat officer arrived in the parlor, which was empty thankfully. He stood at the piano in the corner, plinking out notes in which to tune his instrument. He'd pluck a string, then settle the violin under his chin and pull the bow across it, listening carefully to the sound. A lovely Spring breeze blew through the open windows as he tuned.

After a few moments, his solace with his fiddle was interrupted by the familiar voices of Mr. Waldron and Mr. Hantz. The voices annoyed him. He looked out the window to see where they were and found they were near the front door in the shade of the covered veranda. They talked away, thinking that Captain Bordon was busy in the parlor with his fiddle, paying no mind to them. The dragoon second in command blew out a frustrated sigh, rolled his eyes, and went back to his tuning.

"That's just it," said the heavily German accented voice of Mr. Hantz. "No one seems to know what happened."

"Well, if it was at the hands of that colonel, it wasn't good," Mr. Waldron.

These words got the attention of the redcoat officer. Bordon, still in the midst of tuning, let his left arm, holding the violin, relax at his side. He padded quietly on the fancy carpet back to the window, staying close to it, but out of the eyesight of the two rebel overseers conversing nearby.

"Indeed. Mrs. Leyanova said the lass was scared and screaming when he dragged her out of the kitchen," Hantz informed.

"Yes. I was told that one of the women tried to come get one of us," claimed Waldron, "but that lobsterback threatened them!"

Captain Bordon was suddenly confused. He figured correctly that they were speaking of Miss Burwell. But when he barged in on the two within Tavington's quarters, there was no screaming. He did not see that the girl was resisting.

The dragoon adjutant went on, quietly eavesdropping on the conversation.

"When she didn't come for meal," Hantz continued on, "Mrs. Leyanova took it up to her but she refused to let her in."

"Yes, I know that much," Waldron agreed. "She asked me to go up and talk to her. She wouldn't open the door, telling me to go away and that she would not see anyone!"

The two senior farmhands were interrupted just then by frantic shouts. This was followed an instant later by Polly, the young maid and Shep, the young African squire, running across the front lawn after some escaped livestock.

"Mr. Hantz! Mr. Waldron!" yelled Polly. "Come quickly! The ram knocked the gate open and all the goats got out!"

"Damn!" Waldron swore, and with that the two older men were off the porch. Bordon watched the fiasco out the front window, glad that he was inside. He had chased his share of goats and sheep on his own family's estate back in England years ago.

But, the words of Hantz and Waldron disturbed the man. They seemed contrary to what he had witnessed so very quickly last evening. And though he picked his fiddle up and tried to continue tuning it, he could not. Being the good intelligence officer, he had to get to the bottom of this situation because it didn't sit right.

The man went upstairs to his room. Hugh laid the instrument on his bed and thought for a moment. On his desk lay two invoices for the girl to sign. The officer picked them up then sauntered out of his room and across the hall.

He knocked on Miss Burwell's door. "Go away!" she said.

"It's Captain Bordon," he called again, trying the door knob. It was locked.

"I don't want to see anyone!" the girl yelled in an irritated voice.

Bordon, as an officer, was not going to play at the girl's juvenile game, whatever it was about. He knocked harder, more assertively. "Miss Burwell! You will open this door right now!"

"I am not a dragoon," she screamed. "You can't give me commands."

Her resistance made him angry. "You and all who reside here are to follow our instructions! Now, open the door, lass!"

Inside her room, Betsy fought back tears. She had really hoped to hide herself in her bedchamber for some time; or a few days; or the rest of her life.

The young lady held her breath then let it out. She walked to the door and opened it, immediately moving back away from it toward the window. Betsy crossed her arms in front of her chest, and turned away from the officer, not wishing to see him as he entered, and not desiring anyone to know the shame of her battered countenance.

"I have invoices for you to sign," he said.

That is all he wanted?! He could have shoved them under the door and left them, she wanted to scream. The girl just wanted was to be left alone for a couple of days. Time enough to allow the bruises to fade. Time enough to allow her psyche to start to mend.

"Yes, sir," she answered in a quiet voice, careful to keep it calm and emotionless. She kept her back to him, not wanting him to see the contusions. Also, it hurt her too much to look at him, the words "Yankee whore" still echoing in his deep, angry voice in her head; that name he called her still stinging her heart. "Please...just...leave them and I'll slip them back under the door signed."

The officer narrowed his eyes at her. Immediately suspicious at the rebel girl, he knew the signs. She was hiding something. And after finding her in his commander's bed last night, she had proven that her innocence and naivete was all an act. She could not be trusted.

"I am an officer of His Majesty's army," he spat without patience. "You will turn around and face me right this instant and accord me with the respect I am due!"

OH GOD NO! I don't want anyone to see me like this! I don't want any talk. I don't want to answer any questions. I don't want people to speculate over it. Just leave me alone! Consumed in her own fretting, she couldn't find the courage to look at him.

"NOW, Miss Burwell!" Bordon said in a low, threatening voice in which she heard the very last bit of his restraint. After all these months, Betsy knew the dragoon adjutant well enough to know that he was on the verge of losing his temper, which would mean a raised voice. And an officer's shouts drew throngs of onlookers hoping for a sensational show.

The young lady turned slowly. Her eyes met the captain's blue ones then she immediately dropped her head, stupidly hoping he hadn't see anything.

Hugh Bordon's eyes widened to the size of saucers as his mouth dropped open. "What happened?!" he exclaimed as his now slack hands dropped the invoices, which scattered around the room as they fell to the floor. This officer, who was used to seeing death and wounds of all kinds on men, was utterly shocked and momentarily speechless. He suddenly realized that he had never seen such a young, pretty girl marred up. He had seen older women, mostly prostitutes with occasional facial bruising, a hazard of that profession.

Her cheeks were red and swollen angrily. Both eyes were black, and she bore various shades of purple bruises on her chin, jaw and cheeks.

Not wanting to answer or look at him anymore, the Burwell girl dropped to her knees and began to busy herself picking up the loose invoices. She had hoped that in that distraction, that the redcoat adjutant would feel uncomfortable and just leave.

Instead, Bordon dropped to the floor as well and grabbed her left wrist to stop her. "No, no. Just leave those."

"Don't!" Betsy said, batting his sympathetic hand away. It was then that Bordon noticed violet contusions on her wrists and forearms. Small circles resembling fingers.

He stood, still unsure of what had happened. "I'll send for Doctor Sweeney from town."

"I don't want a doctor," she cried as she caught the last form in her hand.

"That's absurd! You obviously need one!" He backed toward the door.

"No!" Betsy exclaimed, her voice cracking as she stood quickly.

Still feeling useless and confused, Hugh marched to the door, and began to open it, his hand on the doorknob. "Then I'll call for our medic!"

With that, Betsy threw the papers down onto the table in frustration. She sat down on the edge of her bed and burst into tears. "Yes! Go ahead!" she sobbed, "Expose my shame to everyone!" Then she covered her face with her hands as she wept, careful not to touch her throbbing skin.

The British captain shut the door quietly, and stood looking at the sobbing, humiliated girl. He stayed silent a moment, just watching her while she cried. He thought about how furious he had been at her last evening, and was feeling disturbed at seeing her now in her sorry condition.

A small sigh escaped the man's lips as he took a step toward her. "If you will tell me about the incident," he began in a soft voice, "then I can better decide if a doctor is needed or not."

The man fished his handkerchief from his jacket pocket and handed it down to the girl. She took it and dabbed gently at the tears on her face as he reached for a chair. He drew it up close to the bed, where he turned it, and sat down facing the young lady.

He first carefully and slowly took her hands and turned them over, looking at her wrists and forearms, studying the bruising there. She winced but he could tell she was trying to hold back.

His right hand moved cautiously to her face, where his index finger gently raised her chin up. She whimpered audibly as he did this. Bordon lowered his hand a bit. "It hurts," she sniffled.

"Yes, I'm sure it does," he replied in a subdued voice, still looking over the angry injuries.

"And when I cry, too," she added, her voice broken. Just this act of weeping was hurting her injured face.

"Yes," he agreed, as he finished up perusing the injuries.

When he was done, Betsy looked down and shook her head. Now that he had seen her, and the worst of that was over, she bravely brought her face back up. She trained her broken and tear filled eyes on his.

"Now, calm yourself and tell me what happened," he cajoled in a soothing voice.

"It was your commander," she answered in a whisper.

"Colonel Tavington did this?" he asked and she nodded, confirming it. The captain had seen his superior do worse, so he didn't doubt the Betsy's accusations. And, he had seen the girl in his leader's bed just last evening.

"Why?"

"Because someone else spoilt me before he could."

Bordon was taken aback and said nothing as his mind mulled over her words. Again, he wasn't shocked to hear that his commanding officer sometimes favored the tactic of "soiling virgins" , or at least the threat of it, to get rebel compliance. However, he thought Tavington was having some personal, physical satisfaction as he screwed the girl and that it didn't really matter if she really was a virgin or not. He was puzzled.

"Did he tell you this?" asked the befuddled officer.

"Yes, and I knew it ahead of time, as well," she murmured.

"I must admit that I am confused, Miss Burwell." Hugh looked at her bruises again, as if the was an answer there. After a moment, he spoke again. "Something is missing here. Please start at the beginning."

Betsy sniffled again, and wiped the remnants of hot tears from her face and eyes. "A few weeks back, before the ball here, Colonel Tavington called me into his office. He told me that it was time for my father and George to pay for their traitorous actions."

She paused to take a breath, wanting to remain calm as she revealed the horrible episode. For so many weeks, she had kept his threat a secret and carried a fear that the dragoon commandant was going to exact the punishment. "He made an advance toward me. The only thing that stopped the assault was a messenger at the door."

She pursed her lips as she felt tears well up in her eyes, trying hard not to start crying again. The girl looked at the floor and thought of how much she hated the colonel, and that gave her a bit of strength to carry on, exposing her own shame. "He let me go that day, but not without a warning."

The ominous feeling hung heavy in the air over the two as they talked. Miss Burwell was trying her hardest to remain composed as she spoke, and Captain Bordon was doing his best to remain analytical, just as if this was just another prisoner interrogation for intelligence.

"What was that?" Bordon asked anyway, but he knew his commander well enough to have a bad feeling about what Tavington had said to her.

"That he would be the one to have my virtue," she responded, "no matter how he had to get it. And that he would make sure that father and George knew that he had spoiled me as punishment for their transgressions against the Crown."

She continued on, willing herself to keep emotionless, if only for a moment or so. "From then on, I have been looking over my shoulder for him."

Bordon was anguished, always wondering why people wouldn't want to reveal a situation that might be preventable. But then again, he saw it from the soldier's standpoint: that he had the might and authority to provide protection. He had forgotten in the heat of her revelation that she was a young, scared girl.

He also felt a twinge of insult. He thought that as the head of intelligence for the regiment that he should have heard of this. The captain felt that he knew most everything that was going on in their unit and the local countryside. It was unusual for his own commander to keep a plan, even one as sensitive in matter as this one, confidential from him. For some reason, it had been held back from Bordon. Hugh wondered if William had noticed how close he had become to the girl. After all, it was Tavington who made the coarse comment last summer about Hugh 'ceasing the slow seduction' and fucking the lass. Bordon had to admit that he had more than just feelings of protecting her as a child captive, that he had formed a bit of romantic attachment to the girl. And, after all, the biggest secret of all, that he had possessed her virtue himself during a drunken escapade that luckily, only he and Miss Burwell knew of. But, maybe he had become a bit too friendly and protective of the young lady. Maybe through his own carelessness, that now showed through for all to see. What if he was no longer trusted?

Then, the captain recalled that Colonel Tavington had threatened publicly to steal the girl's virginity. He had declared it during prisoner exchange negotiations with Colonel Burwell last summer. Bordon had dismissed it at the time, not thinking much of it because it was a common threat uttered from William's mouth. It didn't affect him as much at the time because he barely knew Miss Burwell; she was just another prisoner. It sickened him now, because he cared for Betsy, and would have done his damnedest to prevent the assault.

At this moment, Hugh Bordon was angry with everyone involved. He was furious with Tavington for doing something so heinous, and for his commander not telling him of his plan. He was upset with the girl for not letting him know of the threat. But mostly, he was mad at himself for his own lack of foresight in the situation to have not even guessed that his commander would try this with the girl, and for not recollecting that he had already made the threat months ago.

The captain jumped up from his seat and paced the room for a moment. He stopped to look out the window, shaking his head in disbelief. The officer rubbed his forehead with his hand, feeling a physical headache coming on at the internal and external troubles that this incident would cause.

Hugh Bordon heaved a heavy sigh then turned to face the girl. She looked pitiful and downtrodden, yet he admonished her anyway. "Why didn't you tell me of his threat?" He paced again impatiently as the girl looked up at him, those innocent eyes of hers filled with tears and pain, and as much confusion as he had.

He asked again, nearly accusing her this time. The redcoat captain did not give her time to answer, bowing to his own ardor and anger. "Why wouldn't you tell me something like that?!"

Betsy could tell how upset the man was, which made her afraid. She closed her eyes and sighed. Then she looked up at him again and replied, "What could you have done about it?"

"If I'd have known of it, I would have tried anything in my strength to have prevented it," he shot back. "I am sure I could have come up with something!"

"You wouldn't have believed me," she defended, almost weeping again. "You're his adjutant!"

"Yes, I would have!" he shouted. He knew the girl well enough now to tell when or not she was lying. And, he knew his commander well enough to know what he was capable of...and what he had done in the past. "I could have helped you!"

"No you couldn't!" Betsy yelled as she jumped to her feet. After panting with breath, she took a deep one, and quickly composed herself again. "You weren't even here when it happened. I can't expect you to be with me at all times."

"That doesn't matter that I wasn't here," he rebutted. "If I had known, maybe I could have talked the colonel out of doing something so deplorable to you."

"You yourself told me that you can protect me from anyone and anything, save for Colonel Tavington." The words were quiet and resigned, yet they rang loudly in Bordon's head and soul. They were his own words, and he knew they were true.

Dejected, Betsy sat down, and Bordon followed suit, knowing they were getting nowhere arguing over what the captain could and could not prevent, and something that had happened in the recent past.

The past could not be changed.

"Go on with your account," he said, sounding as deflated as the prisoner was. "How did last night come to be?"

It was painful, shocking and embarrassing, and she didn't want to repeat it. She knew she had to tell him and it had to be the truth, now that the other parts were out there. "He...uh..."

She stopped to suck in a breath, then she began again. "I was downstairs in the warming kitchen, helping with the bread dough. He had been in his room all day yesterday, while you were gone."

Bordon knew that was most likely true. They had lost a fine young soldier that day, and he knew Tavington to be one to not want to deal publicly with his own grief. He continued to listen to the girl.

"He came downstairs and dragged me up to his room," she informed. "I fought him as best as I could. None of the servants could help me. They heard me! He told them that he wasn't to be disturbed."

She stopped and choked back a sob. "He raped me," she told him in a shame filled whisper. She wiped a tear from her eye, and went on. "After a few minutes of rutting into me, when there was no blood and no maidenhead to tear, he realized that I wasn't a virgin."

"I'm sorry," Captain Bordon remarked, his voice low.

"He asked and I confirmed his suspicion," she continued, "then I taunted him about it, which didn't make matters any better. He was too strong to fight against, so I spoke out instead. I don't even remember when it was that you came to the door. I think I had hoped you would rush in and pull him off of me."

"I should have, even at the risk of insubordination," the officer admitted.

"He demanded to know who did it," Betsy informed. "Again I teased him and asked why it mattered, that the deed had already been done. Then he beat me."

Miss Burwell stood and turned away from the officer. She sighed and shook her head, scrunching her eyes shut as the assault replayed in her mind at that moment. "The beating was well worth it."

"Miss?" he began, clear to her that he didn't understand.

She turned back to face him. "I would have rather have had a beating then let my virtue be stolen by force, by him! And as it turned out, I had the opportunity to bestow it to someone I trusted weeks earlier, rendering my innocence unavailable to him."

Everything was clear now. He realized that Miss Burwell has lived with an attempted assault on her person, and the threat of finishing that assault for weeks now. Knowing that an attack was imminent, she welcomed Bordon's drunken advance, giving him her virtue. She protected him, refusing to tell the colonel who had deflowered her. And, not only had she been raped by the dragoon leader, she took a beating from him because she wasn't innocent.

Hugh looked at the floor and sighed. Feeling heavy hearted, he looked at the young lady. "This is all my fault," he lamented. "You were beaten because you weren't a virgin...because I took it. And I should have known that Colonel Tavington would try something like this."

"This is not your fault," Betsy countered. "I bear the responsibility."

She touched his wrist, and looked into his face. "I am not sorry. I gave you my virginity so that he wouldn't have the chance to take it. And I chose to keep his threat a secret."

"But now your virtue is gone and cannot be retrieved," Bordon commented. "It should have been given to your husband."

"It couldn't be helped," Betsy allayed. "The situation was desperate. I did whatever I could to keep myself in control of whatever I could."

Just then, Betsy burst into tears again, burying her face in her hands. "But the worst is yet to come. He is going to tell my father and George what he has done. And who knows how many others. It will be all over the countryside."

Bordon said nothing, feeling guilty enough as it was. He knew the Colonel would exploit the escapade for his benefit. Propaganda went a long way.

The girl cried even harder. "The colonel said that he hoped he got my bellyful. He asked what my father would think and if Colonel Clark would see fit to raising a dragoon bastard."

The captain felt sick. He had known of two instances, one back in England, and one in Pennsylvania, in which Colonel Tavington had left both women after making them pregnant. Both situations ended badly for the women, and the colonel escaped being held responsible for the pregnancies.

"Miss Burwell, I assure you, he will be made to take responsibility for you and the child," he assured, "should you find yourself in a family way."

Betsy spun around on her heel to look at the captain. A wild look of panic was in her eyes. "No! I don't want that! I don't want to be forced to marry him and spend the rest of my days with him! And I don't want to bear his child!"

She wept harder now, which moved Bordon. He stepped closer to the girl, pulling her into his arms. Not surprising, she did not fight him. Perhaps she was too worn down by the whole ordeal. Her face still in her hands, she rested against his chest as she sobbed.

He himself was awash with emotion. If it wasn't for the fact that the poor girl was weeping spasmodically, he would be fighting an erection that he knew Miss Burwell would feel against her. He couldn't help but smell the sweetness of her hair, and feel how soft it was as he ran a comforting hand over it. The soldier loved holding her in his arms, which had been a scan t few times, feeling as if he protected her. He loved the nearness of her; feeling her body against his in an innocent way.

Also, the dragoon second in command felt bad and a little jealous that his commander now had carnal knowledge of the girl. The officer hoped that she wasn't pregnant with the colonel's child. Then he would have to witness her life ruined by the fiend, and live in sight of it and his own feelings over it every day.

Captain Bordon felt the need to comfort her not only for her, but for himself. Aside from his own selfish reasons of the physical as a man, he needed to find some way to absolve himself for a situation that he caused, or felt that he did. And though Miss Burwell assured him that he "saved" her from her virtue being stolen by someone she detested, Hugh still felt that her husband should have it first. At the moment, he didn't know if there was ever a way to make this whole thing square with him.

"If you are with child," he queried in a soft voice, "what do you want to do about it?"

The young woman broke away from his embrace and turned to face the window. She shook her head and sighed, looking down all the while. "If Mama was here, she would send me away and keep things quiet. The child would be put in an orphanage."

"Yes, but she isn't here," Bordon reminded her.

Betsy stepped aimlessly toward the window. She closed her eyes as she crossed her arms in front of her chest. "Pennyroyal, I guess."

"Don't even think that!" he scolded. "That would cause a much worse scandal." The dragoon adjutant had enough basic knowledge of medicine to know that Pennyroyal was an abortifacient. Prostitutes and unfortunate women sometimes used the plant in different forms to intentionally end unwanted pregnancies.

"I suppose I would take to my room; isolate myself," she said. Bordon nodded his head in agreement. He knew that may be the best way, to stay away from the village and public gatherings when she could no longer hide a pregnant belly. Her not being seen for weeks would cause gossip, but her being seen unmarried with a large belly would cause the ruining of her family.

"You will tell me when your monthly comes on?" he asked tentatively. She had informed him privately that she had her period after they had coupled when he was drunk, which had given him great relief that he had not gotten her bellyful. Maybe she would be willing to let him know this time, as well. Then he could share in her relief or dismay if it didn't come.

She nodded as she dabbed at her eyes with his handkerchief. Betsy looked up at him as he moved toward her again. The officer reached out and lifted her chin up gently with his finger tips, again making her wince. He surveyed her bruising again for a moment, and then spoke.

"Put some chamomile in with your vinegar and water," he said. "It will help the bruises heal faster. And make the water for your compress as cold as you can take it. I have found that cold water on my wounds helps to alleviate the pain and swelling."

She nodded and smiled a bit, happy that he had decided not to involve a doctor or medic. Betsy was satisfied to be able to deal with this in her manner: to stay in her room until the bruises and swelling faded, avoiding questions and stares. The girl watched as the brawny officer stopped in the doorway.

"I will instruct the staff to leave you to your room for the next few days," he advised, "and that only Mrs. Leyanova is to bring your meals."

"Thank you, captain," she replied gratefully.