Chapter 30: Poison

May 1778...

Hugh Bordon looked up from his paperwork upon hearing the soft swishing of layers of skirts. He saw Miss Burwell standing just outside the open door to her father's office, where the Green dragoon second in command sat at the massive desk.

"Tea, captain?" Betsy asked from the doorway.

"Yes, please," he answered. The officer was glad that they still had access, though limited sometimes, to tea and coffee. With the war and shortages, so many of the colonists had trouble getting those beverages. The British officers had their share of difficulty obtaining it, but they took priority over the colonial residents, usually commandeering the valuable drink if need be. Bordon had assumed correctly that this was one of the scant reasons that the residents of the Burwell farm could find as an advantage to having the redcoats billeted there, for he heard no complaints about having the stuff on hand.

Betsy laid the delicate porcelain tray down on the officer's desk. She poured him a cup of the hot liquid and opened the sugar container for him. He thanked her as he spooned a lump of sweet granules into the cup.

"Miss Burwell, do you forget that you have servants?" he asked, half teasing, half serious, as he stirred the sweetener into his tea. He admired her for helping out with the work of her plantation even though she was endowed with the society and wealth it brought. She could have an easier life. He had seen more than a few Carolina matrons leave all of the household and farm work purely to the servants and slaves. Perhaps if she wasn't running the plantation for her late mother and brother, and absent father, then she would enjoy the leisure of the cultured provincial gentry, he thought.

"Father is gone and the days are long if I do nothing," she replied. "I believe I would go mad."

She caught sight of the empty wine decanter sitting on the sideboard by the book shelf. The girl scowled at the crystal container as she stepped over to retrieve it, making a mental note to fill it and return it to the office later. "You, sir, are from a wealthy family in England. Why do you trouble yourself with a soldier's labors?"

"Because it was expected of me and it is the right and loyal thing to do," he said after a sip of the tea. "I wouldn't ask my men to do anything I would not do myself."

"It seems that we both want the days to move quickly during this war," she said in a resigned voice.

"Hmm," he agreed, nodding his head as he went back to writing.

Betsy moved toward the door with the crystal decanter in her hand. She stopped in the doorway and turned back to face the busy officer. The maiden let a slow breath escape, then spoke.

"All is well with me, Captain," she said, rather cryptically.

"Hmm?" Bordon looked up at her, puzzled.

"You won't have to report Colonel Tavington to the generals," she said, slow and cautiously, "or have to put your musket into his back to force him into an obligatory marriage."

The young lady's flux had come a week ago, and it was a normal monthly. Never had the girl been so happy and relieved to have blood, cramps, and bloating.

"Oh," replied Hugh, a grin crossing his face as he understood. "What a relief...for you, I mean."

He was secretly glad that she had not become pregnant at the hands of his commander. The captain, for Betsy's sake and his own , was relieved as well. He would have hated to see the girl miserable as Tavington's unwilling wife and mother of his child. And things would have been deplorable for the dragoons and all around, as well, having an unhappy commander who already possessed a short temper. Bordon, who genuinely liked and cared for the girl, didn't want to have to billet here and be forced to live with that situation every day and the inward anguish it would bring to him.

An awkward silence passed between the two as Betsy stood in the doorway. Finally, after a moment of quiet reflection, she pushed the door shut quietly, then spoke.

"Captain," she began in a low voice, her eyes cast down, "Thank you for your protection and your caring these last few months. No other redcoat cares."

"You're very welcome, Miss Burwell," he responded, his deep voice nary a whisper.

She looked up and her eyes met his blue eyes, which were warm and sincere. He tilted his head and studied the girl, who still seemed so forlorn since her mother had died over a year ago; since she had been captured all those months ago.

"Please do your best to make good decisions and stay out of trouble," said Hugh sympathetically. "That's all I can ask."

"Yes, sir," she replied in a whisper. She opened the door and soon ducked though it, leaving Tavington's adjutant to a desk full of legion paperwork.

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

It was late afternoon of the same day and Captain Bordon had been shut away long enough. He'd finally finished payroll and sending invoices off to the generals at the fort. He was glad to be able to leave the confines of the farm's office and his administrative duties.

The officer retired to his room with a light lunch in hand. For the scant hour he was there, he ate as he read two letters he had received from home: one from his brother and one from a friend. Afterward, he pulled his jacket on and stepped out the back door to check on the men.

As he stood on the back step adjusting his neck stock, he remembered that he had run out of firewood in his room during the night, and had noticed moments ago that it had not yet been replenished by the servants. Though it was late spring, if they had another cool night like last, he would need a small fire. He looked over at the right, and the woodpile by the house had not been replaced either.

The captain saw a small stack of wood on the step of the kitchen building, but would not dare take any of that for his room lest he suffer the wrath of Mrs. Leyanova. That fuel was to keep the food fires burning, for soap and candle making, and hot water for baths and laundry. The Russian housekeeper was known to chase anyone caught in the act of pilfering wood from the kitchen supply with a rolling pin, which she whacked free as she gave tongue lashings in English and Russian. To her, a fire always blazing in the kitchen was of paramount importance!

Hugh squinted off toward the back field and could see his men at the wood line, the sight of which relieved him. The men were often assigned farm chores in addition to their military duties while in camp, alongside the servants and slaves when need be. He could see three of his soldiers busily chopping and splitting logs. The officer trotted off toward them, and though he wasn't fond of that particular chore, he would lend a hand if it meant getting it done quicker.

Once at the woodpile, he greeted the privates. Seeing that they were near finished, he dismissed them to the well for a cool drink of water and quick break. Three wheelbarrows stood nearby, two of which were overflowing with small logs. Glad not to have to split or chop any wood, he spied the third cart near the woodpile, lonely and empty. The officer didn't even bother removing his jacket or cravat, noting that he could get the small vehicle loaded in a moment of two. He grabbed quickly for the logs and began stacking them into the cart. As he reached for another piece of wood, he felt a sharp stabbing pain in his left hand!

"Agh!" he screamed, pulling his arm back rapidly against his body. He immediately felt stinging and burning sensations.

The officer surveyed his left hand and saw two, telltale holes, puncture wounds in the outer part of the top of the hand. He knew immediately what had happened.

"Oh, bloody Hell!" he swore at his own complacency, knowing he had just been bitten by a snake. He hoped it was only one of the non poisonous field snakes which were common to the area. He soon spied the suspect, slithering out of the wood and onto the ground. It was about 4 feet long with a brown and tan hue. He cringed when he recognized it as one the men commonly encountered in the woods hiding off trail. It was a copperhead, very poisonous, and had crawled into the woodpile to hide and soak up some warmth. And Hugh Bordon was the unlucky person to have disturbed the viper.

The captain looked about and quickly found an axe laying over the wood in one of the wheelbarrows. He reached for it fast and swung it equally as quick. It came down on the snake, severing the head from its body. The back end of the brown reptile curled and thrashed about in its death throes, making Bordon close his eyes lest he puke.

"Damn it," he winced sharply through gritted teeth, knowing he was in trouble.

The redcoat commander tried to stay calm, knowing that the venom would traverse his body more slowly if he did. He consciously took a deep breath to relax himself as he looked about for the closest person. Everyone he saw seemed so far away and was busily going about chores, not noticing the captain. Hugh had a decision to make: the medical tent was just as far away as the main house was. So, he started walking, slowly, making his way back, hoping to cross someone's—anyone's—path soon. Not wanting to yell and excite himself any, he kept calm and quiet as he made the trek toward people.

Bordon's hand had begun to throb. He held it up close to his body during his walk back to the house, willing himself to remain placid. When it was apparent that the busy servants and soldiers had not noticed him, for it wasn't out of the ordinary for them to see him in the yard mingling and working with his men every day, the captain upped his pace a bit to a fast walk.

After a moment at that pace, he stopped, feeling dizzy and disoriented. He tried to clear the cobwebs from his head, then took two more steps and felt weak. His legs were unable to hold him anymore and he collapsed on the lawn near the back of the detached dining room.

The officer laid in the warm grass and tried to keep conscious although his eyelids were heavy and threatened to close. He heard people yelling as his mind continued to swim. His whole body felt hot, as if he was on fire.

"Captain Bordon!" yelled young Lieutenant Wentworth, the tall, gangly blond officer running toward the man with two privates in tow. The trio of dragoons knelt near the man. "What happened?"

Bordon, already losing his color and sweating, held his hand up with what little strength he had left. The redcoat officer had been amazed at how fast the poison had entered his system.

"Viper...bite...at the...woodpile," he gasped. "I killed it...It's there." Knowing that they would need to identify the snake, he rasped that much information out to his colleagues. One of the privates ran to the medical tent to get the surgeon whilst the other galloped to the woodpile to collect the dead serpent's body.

A small crowd had gathered about the prostrate Bordon upon the grass, including the doctor when the private returned carrying the back end of the snake. "Copperhead!" he yelled.

"Very well," the doctor said to the young medic that accompanied him. "Get as much of the grease out of it as you can save." The young orderly ran to a table in the hospital tent, knowing he had the job ahead of him of splitting the dead creature open to retrieve as much of its body fat, which wouldn't be much, as possible to apply to the wound.

Hugh Bordon saw the blurred faces of many above him, feeling the radiating heat of the gathered bodies there. His head swirled quickly as in a whirlpool, and then everything went black.

"Get him to his bed. Quickly!" the surgeon ordered. Three dragoons picked up their commander's solid, stocky body and bore him off the lawn and toward the house. They juggled and switched positions, adjusting as they negotiated the curves of the hallways and up the stairs to the second floor of the mansion.

Now in his quarters and still unconscious, he was laid on his bed. The privates helped strip his body down, then placed him under a sheet.

The legion doctor looked at Bordon's left hand, surveying the damage. It had swelled to nearly twice the regular size and the two puncture wounds oozed a sickening mixture of crimson blood and an occasional drop of yellow venom that hadn't made its way into his system yet. The bite was red and purple, starting to bruise, stretching the skin across his hand.

The surgeon went to work immediately, making two small slices at the edge of each fang hole to let some of the pressure off. He suctioned as much venom, which wasn't much for it had worked its way into the officer's body, as he could from the wound. As he finished, the orderly entered with a bowl containing the fat from the dead copperhead. The medic watched as the doctor rinsed and sponged the captain's wound, cleaning it with a mixture of water and vinegar.

The redcoat doctor soon cleared the way. He stood quietly, looking on with concern at the unconscious Bordon, as the young orderly squashed the viper grease between his fingers, then smeared it carefully onto the bite.

By that time, a large group of cavalrymen and plantation servants alike had gathered, crowding into the room and spilling out into the hallway. Colonel Tavington, had been enjoying the afternoon shade on the porch, lounging in a chair reading over reports filed by his officers. At having been alerted to what had happened, He thrust he papers into the private's hands and sprung from his chair. To him, Bordon was too valuable of an officer to lose. He took the steps nearly two at a time, soon rounding the landing on the second floor and spotting the throng of onlookers in the hall. The man pushed through the mass of green uniforms and servants drab to find his second in command flat on his back in bed and the legion surgeon over him.

The doctor looked up at the alarmed commander."It was a copperhead, sir," he informed apologetically. I'm afraid he will be down for a fortnight...if he survives."

"Bloody Hell," the redcoat officer swore under his breath. He surveyed his adjutant, whose color was already washed out and his hand bruising and swollen. His arm had begun to redden and bloat now, as well, from the poison working its way up the limb. Looking at the unconscious soldier's well defined chest, large as a barrel, and thick muscular shoulders reminded William that Hugh was strong. But he took little consolation in that.

He looked around the crowd gathered, and spotted his officers. "Wilkins! Wentworth! Kidwell! Come with me. I will speak to you immediately in my office."

"Yes, sir," the trio responded.

The colonel surveyed the room again and saw the matronly head of the house servants. "Mrs Leyanova," he barked, making the older lady bristle, "Assign Miss Burwell to sit with him. I don't want him waking up alone and exhausting himself."

"Of course, Colonel," the Russian woman answered. She turned in a swish to go find the girl, who was last seen heading toward the woods to the South of the house. The young lady would often take repose near the side of the brook that ran there.

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

Some time in the middle of the night, Betsy, who had fallen asleep in the rocking chair, was awakened by a heart wrenching moan. She jumped from the chair, looking at Captain Bordon, who was ashen in color and sweating profusely. The snake toxin, after twelve hours, had worked its way well into the redcoat officer's system, and the effects had him gripped firmly. His muscles were now seizing and he convulsed and shook, his head thrashing from side to side on the pillow. The officer's joints hurt and each breath seemed an effort. The twisted grimace on his face told her how unbearable the pain was.

"Oh!...ah!..." the poor man groaned. Tears ran from the side of his closed eyes down into his sweat matted hair.

His right arm flailed in the air and the girl managed to grab it, grasping his hand firmly.

She reached out with her other hand and stroked his restless head, trying to calm him. It had been hours since the opium laced tea had been spoon fed to him in an attempt to keep the pain at bay and the convulsions mild. The young lady knew it had worn off, for his seizures had not been this violent.

"Captain," she said. "Captain Bordon. This will pass." When he tried to jerk his arm from her, she reached up calmly and put her other hand on his, capturing his uninjured hand between both of hers and holding it firmly between them.

"When your body has calmed," she whispered, "I can give you some more Laudanum."

After a moment, he settled down, the convulsions passing. He was still enough for Miss Burwell to sponge the man a bit. She pulled the covers down and ran a damp rag over his bulky, muscled chest then trailed it up over his strong, well defined shoulders. The girl left the blankets down for the officer's skin to air dry, hoping that would cool his temperature a bit while she again dipped the linen in the bowl and wrung out the excess water. She sat forward in her chair and dabbed lightly over his face, mopping his sweaty forehead.

Betsy replaced the cloth in the porcelain bowl and sat rigid on the edge of her chair. The young lady took his hand again, and pulled it up to her own cheek, near tears. "Please, get well, captain," she whispered. "You're the only one who protects me and cares for me."

She kissed his hand as a tear escaped. "You just don't know," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I wish I could tell you."

The girl replaced his hand and arm back under the blanket, where she tucked it in loosely about his body. She sat back in the chair and gazed at him, a pained longing bringing a pink glow to her youthful cheeks, yet draining her life's energy and resolve with it, as well.

Miss Burwell sighed and looked up at the ceiling. Again, her eyes trailed downward, to gaze at the unconscious officer.

Then, she silently mouthed the words, "I love you."

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

The next day found Miss Burwell still at the man's side, with Colonel Tavington having stopped in to survey his adjutant's situation. The commandant leaned against the fireplace mantel with his arms crossed and wasn't surprised to find Bordon delirious with a high fever.

"Robbie...Sarah...," the ill officer cried out weakly as his head rolled from side to side upon his pillow. "Charge bayonet...watch your flank, men!"

Tavington scowled as he closely watched his sick second in command. "Even while deathly sick in bed, he's calling orders!" the dragoon colonel remarked.

The redcoat officer sighed in derision at the dismal situation as he came away from the fireplace to stand tall. After a last look, he marched to the door and opened it. From the doorway, he barked a quick order. "Miss Burwell, you will have the surgeon report to me after he has seen the captain today."

"Yes, sir," she answered in a subdued voice. She sighed as she heard the door shut quietly.

In a few minutes, the man had calmed and opened his eyes. "Drink," he murmured.

She poured a half cup of tea, then put a pinch of a brown powder and some white crystalline into it, stirring the mixture up. The dragoon officer focused himself on the tinkling sound the spoon made in the porcelain cup purposely, feeling near to becoming hazy and fainting again.

He calmed when he felt Betsy Burwell's soft hand slip under his neck. She gently crooked it and lifted his head as her other hand guided the cup to his lips. The redcoat sipped the warm tea slowly, in shallow gulps.

After laying his head back on the pillow, she watched him as he closed his eyes and slipped into rest. The girl studied his face as it relaxed and the man moved not. Then her eyes moved down to his chest, watching it intently as it seemed to rise and fall evenly; calmly.

With a quiet sigh she pulled the covers up around his shoulders. As she gazed another moment on his handsome face, she hoped he would have a restful sleep, instead of one filled with seizures and delirium.

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

Eight days passed, with the world and plantation going on around Miss Burwell and her charge, Captain Bordon. He had been seen by the redcoat surgeon, as well as the town doctor, Sweeney. Both men had to assure the impatient Colonel Tavington that it might be yet another week before his adjutant would be well—if he survived. The dragoon second in command was still fighting for his life.

Hugh Bordon awoke shivering, shaking himself awake. He looked at the chair to the right of the bed to notice Miss Burwell slumped in it and sleeping peacefully. The man snaked his hand out from under the counterpane and reached for the girl. He smiled slightly, glad to feel a trace of strength returning.

"Miss Burwell," was all he could whisper. The girl didn't rouse. He stretched his arm a little further and groaned, his joints stiff. The redcoat grasped her hand weakly.

He said nothing for a moment, just liking the touch of another human, and feeling secure with that. His mind was foggy, but he recalled her hand, this hand that he now held, touching his feverish head and body gently. He remembered the young lady's hand holding his firmly, as if trying to still him. Had she been here this whole time, he wondered?

He looked at her pretty, slumbering face. His thumb weakly stroked the softness of her hand. The tip of it outlined the knuckles and joints, as the pad of it wisped over her warm skin.

"Missy," he murmured, shaking her hand nearly imperceptibly.

"Huh...hmmm?" the girl roused, immediately sitting forward in her rocking chair, obvious alarm sketched in her features. She shook her head. "Captain? What can I do?!"

She craned her body forward, getting close enough to hear his strained voice. "Have you been here this whole time?" He still held her hand.

"Yes, mostly," she replied. "The servants have relieved me from time to time, but Colonel Tavington assigned me the task of being your nurse."

"I'm thirsty," said Bordon, closing his eyes for a moment.

Miss Burwell poured just a bit of cold water. Hooking her hand beneath his neck, she lifted his head to where his lips met the cup. The officer took two slow sips, then sank back into the pillow.

Betsy watched him as he relaxed, then she spoke. "Sir, your surgeon left orders for you to drink some brandy. He thinks it would be good for you to sweat some more."

"I may have been in the ether these last few days, but I recollect sweating some already, " he protested.

The young lady said nothing, frowning as she reached for the small liquor bottle. The girl understood how he felt, having had to sweat out a few Malarial fevers in her own short lifetime.

She helped him up again, this time he took the bottle in his weakened hand and took a couple of sips, then made a face. He immediately felt sick to his stomach. "I don't think I will be able to keep that down." Within a moment of his declaration, his stomach burned and hitched.

"I'm going to be sick," he said, straining to turn his stocky body onto his side.

Quick thinking Betsy grabbed the porcelain basin and pushed it under the man's face. He gurgled and wretched into the thing as she steadied him, her hand on his shoulder helping to keep him on his side.

He had barely a bit of broth in his system, and his vomit was clear fluid. The redcoat rolled back onto his side, groaning in discomfort as he did, his muscles and joints stiff and sore.

Then he started to shiver.

"I'm...so...c...c...cold," he stammered, trembling beneath the sheet.

The brandy, supposed to make his sweat, didn't work. Betsy rose from her chair. "I'll fetch the doctor."

The sick captain had a surge of sudden strength, strong enough to reach up and grab her hand. Betsy was alarmed at how hot his hand felt amidst his being cold.

"No. Don't go," he begged, his eyes glassy and full of fear. "Please."

"Very well," she complied. Betsy lightly pulled her hand from his in order to stretch to the footboard, over which a thick quilt was folded. Laying it over one arm, she pulled the bedspread up to Bordon's chin, then spread the additional coverlet over the bed. She tucked the blankets in tightly around him, bundling as much escaping body heat around him as she could.

The girl then wrung the water from the rag in the basin and began sponging the man. His forehead and face were hot to the touch though he shivered still under the counterpane.

"This isn't what I envisioned for myself," he ground out with much effort through chattering teeth.

"Sir?"

"I would rather die on the battlefield than in bed of a snake bite," whispered Hugh.

"Why is one death more noble than another," Betsy queried as she slumped down into the chair again.

"Because I am a soldier," he answered, low and shaky. "I am a commander of soldiers. A battle death is more honorable than the bite of a viper."

Miss Burwell felt herself starting to tear up, and her throat tighten as she fought back tears. This strong man—military commander—who lay before, really thought he might die, and it frightened her. The girl didn't want him to pass. She wanted him to continue to protect her. And, she hoped that one day, he might realize her feelings for him. Feelings that she wasn't supposed to have, being betrothed to another man.

She suddenly wanted to blurt out her unrequited love and her longings. She needed him to know before he died. The words caught in her throat. She could say nothing.

Captain Bordon saw her eyes, watery, near to spilling over. He did not want her to burst into tears on his behalf. He had not the strength to comfort her.

"Don't," he beseeched. "I did not mean to scare you. I will be fine."

"Yes, I know," she acknowledged with a slight shake of her head and a forced smile.

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

"Get up, Miss Burwell!"

The girl roused from sleep at the loud banging on her door. She raised up on her elbows and looked about, trying to shake the sleep from her mind.

"Right now, miss!" with more heavy knocking on her door. "Colonel Tavington wishes to see you downstairs immediately!"

Pushing herself up to sitting, the girl tried to recognize the voice. She could not, only guessing that it was one of the cavalry privates.

Betsy had been in Captain Bordon's room at his bedside until near 4 in the morning. She was relieved by Nicholas, a young medic in training. And she was grateful to go to her own room, stretch out and sleep in her own comfy bed, instead of falling asleep slumped in a wooden rocking chair as had been her cause for days and days.

As she rose from her bed, she looked at the clock on the mantel and noticed it was 10 in the morning. She was glad to have had 6 hours of good sleep. She stretched and once again there was more infernal pounding on her door.

"NOW, Miss Burwell! Colonel's orders!"

She rolled her eyes and answered , "Yes! I will be right there." The girl wondered what was so urgent that she didn't even have time to get into proper dress.

The young lady reached for her robe, which was laid over the back of a chair. She pulled it on and tied it as she walked toward the window. Once there, she looked out over the farm, surveying the morning situation as she wrapped her hair in a quick, sloppy bun at the back of her head.

Outside on the green it looked as usual. The servants and slaves were busy going about their daily tasks. The dragoons were milling or walking about. And she saw a delivery wagon from the mercantile in town. Unloading it was young Johnny Lander, from town, who had stayed behind, instead of joining his father and older brother in the militia. He helped his mother run the farm, and worked as a delivery driver for Mr. Atterson's store for extra money.

She opened the door. "Where is the colonel?" she asked.

"On the front lawn, miss."

"Very well," she replied, and headed down the hallway. At the bottom of the stairs, she hesitated in the vestibule at the front door. The house seemed awfully quiet. As she tightened the belt of her robe, she looked about for the house servants and saw none. Shrugging her shoulders, she exited the house.

As she ascended the grand steps from the veranda, she noticed the house servants gathered at the side of the lawn with two of the legion privates near them, as if herding them about. She immediately suspected that something was wrong.

The girl strode a few yards to where Colonel Tavington, Lieutenant Wentworth and Private Danning stood. She could tell by the glower on the redcoat commander's face that he was perturbed about something. The trio of officers formed a loose circle about the same number of weapons laying in the grass.

"You wanted to see me?" she asked timidly, as the redcoats opened rank to let her into their midst.

"Do you recognize those?" Tavington enquired in a sharp bark, one enough to make the girl bristle.

At their feet lay a pistol, a musket, and a sword in its sheath. Puzzled, Betsy bent down to pick up the saber. With one hand on the hilt and the other palming the cover, she tried to pull it out, only to see that the weapon was rusted into the scabbard. She brought the handle close to her face, where she saw the faint outline of 3 initials etched into the metal of the pommel. HLB...for Harry Larsen Burwell. It was one of her father's old weapons. She replaced the cutlass on the lawn and picked up the pistol, noticing the same three initials carved into the wooden handle. Betsy crouched to return the gun to the ground. Staying there, she eyed the handle of the dull, rusty musket and again, saw that it also belonged to her father.

She rose to her feet again and looked quizzically at Colonel Tavington. The scowl of anger was still on his face making her take a half step backwards. "They are my father's," she answered in a low, unsure voice.

"Yes. My men found them this morning," he snarled, "hidden in a corner of the woodshed."

His tone was accusatory, which stunned and frightened the girl. She was confused, as well. The first days on the dragoon's billet last summer, she had walked the property with Captain Bordon, revealing all hidden weapons and surplus stores.

"That can't be!" she exclaimed. "I gave up all the hidden guns to Captain Bordon last summer, when we returned here."

The girl looked about in panic. She saw that more of her slaves and servants had gathered and were milling about on the lawn, staring in disbelief at the show before them.

"This is contraband, Miss Burwell!" the colonel accused. "You were to have surrendered all weapons to Captain Bordon months ago!"

"I did!" she shot back in defense, her voice cracking. "I don't know how—"

"You fired a weapon at me that you had hidden in the office," he recounted. "How am I to know what these are for? That you won't use them on my men. That you are stockpiling for the rebels."

"No! NO!" she cried, shaking her head in disbelief, "That's not how it is." She stepped backwards, wishing she could run. The girl knew that nothing good would come of this.

After another inch backwards, Private Gwynne seized her, his strong hands curled around her elbows. She was not allowed another step away.

"You have been given a decent amount of freedom here," Tavington said, his eyes narrowed. "I'm beginning to regret that decision."

Betsy was speechless, not knowing what to say or do. After a moment under the tall commander's glare, he spoke. "Take her to the tree. Bind her."

With that, Gwynne jerked her elbow, pulling her with him. She soon found Private Wells on her right, gripping her arm.

"No! Don't! Please!" she screamed as the two dragoon privates hustled her along. She looked behind her to see the trio of Lieutenant Wentworth, Tavington, and Private Danning following them. In front of her was the large oak tree where stood Private Tracy, who was quickly unraveling a length of rope. Beside him was Sergeant Ryder, who was unraveling his long whip from his belt.

Miss Burwell panicked when she saw this. She had seen a handful of infantry and cavalry soldiers flogged there on occasion. And, she had come to realize over the months that Ryder was the man charged by the colonel to administer corporal punishment to wayward soldiers.

She called to her servants, in the crowd as she passed them by. "Help me! Please!"

Mr. Waldron, incensed at what was going on, seemed to lead a line of male servants moving forward to protest. "You can't do this to her, colonel! She's just a girl!"

"And a treacherous one at that!" Tavington retorted as the walk to the tree continued.

"What makes you so certain that she hid those weapons?" Mr. Hantz asked in his strong Bavarian accent.

"Did you hide them?" Tavington shot back, turning the question about.

"No! But why are you so certain that she did?"

"I'm not," replied the colonel. "But she is the head of this farm at present, so she will receive the punishment."

Waldron bolted at that moment, and landed squarely in front of the Tavington and his officers. The whole entourage stopped their trek. Betsy looked back gratefully at her stalwart farm manager.

"Colonel, I will take her place," offered Waldron. "I will accept the punishment in her stead."

"I will take her beating," Mr. Hantz volunteered as well. There were then a ringing of several other male voices, her servants, each offering their hides in place of hers. Betsy was so moved, that tears rolled down her face, and she fell to her knees.

"Well, you are all fine examples of gentlemen amongst the Colonials," the dragoon leader stated, "and I am sure your mistress is grateful. But this is something she herself must receive!"

With that, Gwynne and Wells jerked Betsy back up to her feet. The march toward the tree continued on, and the girl's mind tripped over the confusion within.

Why? Why is this happening? I am usually asked more questions. But that is usually at Captain Bordon's request. If only he were here. He has been feeling better. Surely someone has apprised him of this. My God, where is he?! He would stop this, I know he would, she thought. Even though she knew better than to hope so much on that. That he had not been able to curb his commander on a few occasions and admitted as much to the girl.

Miss Burwell frantically scanned the crowd to both sides of her, searching for his face, hoping that he had been well enough to come down to find out about the commotion. Please captain! Please help me she screamed inside her head.

When they arrived at the tree, the sergeant untied the belt of her robe and removed it from her body, first one arm, and then the other as Gwynne and Wells alternated sides. The girl, immediately flushed in embarrassment, feeling stark naked, was clad only in her thin nightgown as a barrier between her and the world. It was only a small consolation that they didn't strip her back bare.

Betsy was then pushed against the tree and made to hug it, the front of her body against it leaving her back open as a clear target. This can't be happening! I'm having a nightmare! Wake up, Betsy! Wake up!

She felt the rope encircle her wrists then twisted firmly to bind her hands tightly. The length was pulled hard, securing her body flush to the tree. She could feel the rough, bumpy bark against her, which was already warming to the morning sun, but of no comfort to the young woman.

Once secured there, her fingers twitched and flailed, trying to find something to hold onto. Private Wells, seeing this, mercifully took both her hands and made her fists to wrap around the rope. He had seen enough floggings to know that the victim often looked for something to hold tight to, needing to brace themselves.

At this time, Miss Polly Callon, the 13 year old indentured servant, emerged from the privy. The maid knew nothing of what was going on. She looked about the back yard and fields and saw they were absent servants, slaves, and soldiers. The youngster had worked there long enough to know that daily chores were only interrupted for meetings. The girl, dreading another gathering of such, crept to the bushes near the house, slid her thin body in behind them and stole around unseen to the front corner of the building. Her mouth dropped open when she saw Miss Burwell stripped to her chemise and tied at the lashing tree.

Colonel Tavington whispered to Wentworth, and the junior officer trotted away. He found the young delivery driver from town, Johnny Lander, and pulled the poor lad away from his wagon. The lieutenant dragged the teenage boy over and made him to stand beside the furious farm overseer Waldron.

"Colonel Tavington wishes you to remain as witness to the chastisement," Wentworth ordered sharply.

The confused boy looked at Jake Waldron, who gave him a look of warning and apology. Warning him not to leave lest he suffer, and sorry that the teen had to witness the administration of a penalty.

William Tavington turned and faced the throng. "Let it be known, that treason has consequence. Miss Burwell has hidden weapons upon this property, after she was ordered months ago to give them up to us," he shouted to the hushed, stunned crowd. All the while the sergeant was readying his whip, loosening his arm up.

Betsy clamped her eyes shut and cried. She kept a tight hold on the rope, and wished for some kind of leniency or reprieve.

Then, the colonel turned to face the Lander boy from the village. "Boy! You are to go back to the town and tell all what you see here today. Tell them that his Majesty King George's army does not abide treason!"

Polly the young maid was frozen in her hiding place beside the house, gripped and afraid of every word the dragoon commandant uttered. She found the courage finally to slip back to the rear of the house stealthily. Quietly, she entered the abode. Once there, she tore away up the stairs, not caring if her feet made noise on the steps or not.

At the second floor, she barged into the room of the ailing dragoon second in command, the door of which was open. Private Rainey sat in the chair next to the officer's bed.

"Please! The mistress needs Captain Bordon immediately!" she shouted in obvious alarm.