Chapter 7 Deception And Escape

For a month after Melanie Prescott was informed of her family's terrible demise, she continued to grieve, but kept regaining her physical strength with each of those grief stricken days. Though she walked the lonely path of mourning by herself, she had been helped along the trail of recovery by the concerned officers and staff of the fort. At the end of these four weeks, the initial pain and shock that comes with grief started to ease, and Melanie began to accept that her family was gone.

Although Miss Prescott was still in the doldrums of grief, she wanted to break the monotony of her mourning. So, she decided to venture outside of the main house.

Melanie had been walking on her own for a few days. Most of the pain from her injuries was gone, although sometimes she still felt dull aches from them. She still tired easily, so she had to pace herself as she walked and watch that she would not overdo it. The doctor assured her that her stamina would return in a little while.

There was no resistance from the guards at the entrance to the main house, knowing that Miss Prescott was a guest there. She sauntered out of the house and into the courtyard area of the fort at a slow and leisurely pace. Walking along without a goal or purpose, just the action of this made her feel better. Just to be outdoors in the early spring seemed to help her recovery.

After a few moments at a steady pace, Melanie stopped for a moment to sit on a bench and rest. As she looked to her left, she noticed the tents and huts of the Colonial and Rebel Prisoner's Compound, an area attached to the back of the fort. She decided to explore this area.

Melanie rose to her feet and trekked gently toward the area. Walking through the gates, there was a myriad of activity going on. As she looked about her, she saw a site that her eyes had not seen in a while: ordinary, everyday life.

Amazed at it all, had she not known it was a prison camp, she would have thought she were in some village near her home. There were children of all ages; some were playing, some were helping with chores. Women were washing, sewing and mending clothes. Some of the captives were writing in journals, while others sat and read. The men, some in civilian clothing and some in tattered Colonial uniforms, were painting or fixing the buildings. All this made Melanie smile, seeing that life went on for these people within captivity and war.

However, lurking nearby around the side of a hut, a man watched Melanie from a distance as she walked about. The man, Michael Gladsen, a captured rebel, was middle aged, and knew who Melanie was. He turned back to look for two of his companions. He spotted one of them, John Blevins.

"John, look!" he said in an anxious and low voice. He waved at John, trying to get his attention.

John Blevins saw his older friend Michael motioning to him. He walked from where he stood next to a lady who had been mending, and joined Gladsen. Both men looked the direction in which Michael pointed, which was at Melanie, who was across the compound, still walking slowly along.

"Well, I'll be damned," Blevins exclaimed. "I thought she was dead."

As the two men stood, intently watching Miss Prescott, a third man, even younger than these two, walked up and joined them. He was curious to see what they were looking at.

"Hey Ryan," began John, "there's Hayden Prescott's daughter." He nodded his head toward her.

Ryan Addison, the youngest of these three rebels, kept calm and cool, hardly registering any outward emotion about it. He was amazed nonetheless.

"I thought we got all of them?" he asked in a smug, arrogant voice.

"Well, either she hid well," Michael stated, "or she lived."

"No. She wasn't hiding," John assured. "I stabbed her myself. Right as those Redcoat Dragoon bastards were riding in!"

The three men conversing there and watching Miss Prescott were part of the group of rebel zealots that attacked and massacred the Prescott family on that fateful day. The three of them had managed to escape that day while two of their compatriots hadn't fared as lucky. They later heard that the two that had been captured were hanged there at the fort.

John Blevins, Ryan Addison, and Michael Gladsen, were lucky enough to avoid capture that day, but were apprehended weeks later when a larger rebel camp they were staying in had been raided. So far, these three had been able to elude identification as being among the group that had murdered the Prescotts. The British thought them just more rebel militiamen.

As these three rebels watched her, apprehension swirled about all of their minds. They weren't sure how much she remembered of the attack. They had no idea if she may have seen any of them from a window in the house. They wondered if she could recall the face of the man that stabbed her. All of them were afraid of what might happen to them if they were identified.

"I'd hate for her to identify us," Michael said in a lowered voice.

"Me too," young Ryan agreed.

"But what can we do?" asked John Blevins. "We're prisoners. We've no weapons."

"What if we could get word to someone outside the fort through one of the contacts," Ryan speculated. "Maybe someone could capture her—or kill her."

The three men stood quietly as they thought more. They felt they had to come up with an answer, lest they be identified.

"I've got it!," exclaimed Gladsen. "Follow me."

The oldest of the three rebels led the way. The two younger men followed him a few feet behind, saying nothing, just watching. They stayed discreet and in control as they followed Michael, who made his way across the compound toward Melanie.

Michael Gladsen spoke as he neared the girl, who was unaware that they had been watching her. "Miss Prescott," he called out to her. "You're Hayden Prescott's daughter, aren't you?" His voice exuded innocence, surprise, and a little sly charm.

Melanie turned toward the voice. At first, she was amazed that anyone knew who she was. Then, she remembered that she was in the compound for Colonial prisoners. Melanie thought then that it was probably someone from the town, or perhaps a neighbor that had been captured and brought here. It was surely someone she knew.

"Yes?" she answered. She studied the face of the man, in his mid 40's, and the faces of the two that followed him, one of them in his 30's, and the other young, probably early 20's. Melanie was irritated with herself for not being able to recognize them or recall a face. But she tried to calm herself as she remembered the doctor telling her that she may have some memory loss of not only the traumatic event, but sporadic memories of things that happened and people she may have met shortly before the massacre. Maybe she had met these men before the attack at the plantation, but just couldn't remember them.

As the men approached her, she forced a smile. Feeling awkward, she apologized. "I'm sorry, sir. I'm not very good at remembering names. Have we met before?"

"Yes," he answered. "I knew your father." He slyly avoided giving his name, steering her purposely toward the subject of her father.

Melanie managed a smile and steeled herself, holding back tears. She answered the man flatly, no longer trying to recognize him. "You did?"

"Yes. I worked with him for a time."

Melanie was suddenly puzzled. If the man was a pacifist, then why would he be a prisoner in a Colonial Rebel prison camp, she asked herself.

"Why are you here in the prison camp? I mean, you were obviously a pacifist," she pointed out.

"Well," Michael began,"I joined up with the rebels after a time. I just didn't have the patience and hope with pacifism that your father had."

"Oh," she replied with a nod of her head, sounding a little disappointed.

Michael reached out and took her hand, leaving her a little confused. "It's good to see you alive, Miss! I thought you were dead." He played the role of the concerned neighbor very well.

"Dead?" asked Melanie, still confused.

"Yeah," answered the older rebel. "I heard rumors that you died."

"I...I nearly did," she stammered. "The British cavalry found me alive and brought me here. They saved my life."

"Found you? What happened?" asked Michael in mock surprise. He needed to hear the details from her end of what the British did, trying to gauge their situation.

"Well, rebel extremists attacked our home. My entire family was killed." Melanie swallowed hard to compose herself. She knew she'd have to face people and talk of this the rest of her life.

The two younger rebels with Gladsen had been silent, watching as the older man drew answers out of Miss Prescott. They watched and waited carefully, knowing he'd cue them indiscreetly was to when to join in the conversation.

Gladsen shot Melanie a puzzled look. "Are you sure? You're sure they're dead?"

"Yes," Melanie assured him with a nod of her head. "The officers told me they were. Why?"

"I'd heard they were captured and taken to a prison camp," lied Gladsen confidently.

At this point, Blevins and Addison joined in. The youngest of the three, Addison, spoke up first. "I haven't heard anything. I didn't know that anything had happened with your family."

Gladsen, in a roundabout way, introduced his two companions to Miss Prescott. "Oh, Miss, the three of us were in the same militia unit together, but captured at different times. These two know who your father is, as well." He was very careful to use the present tense when talking of Hayden Prescott, to keep her confused as to what to believe.

The rebel in his thirties, John Blevins, entered the conversation now. He turned to Michael, playing along with the ruse, and gave the older man a bewildered look. "Captured? Dead? Are both of you sure of either of that? I was just fighting alongside a man last week who knew your family. He mentioned that he'd been given an assignment to survey the area around your plantation for Redcoats possibly hiding in the area. He made the comment that Redcoats were camping on your plantation, but that your family was still alive. He saw them there."

"Truly," she asked incredulously. "He did?" Melanie was confused, but happy, for she felt a perplexed hope within herself.

"Yes Miss!" assured Blevins.

Michael Gladsen took over again in the scheme. "Are you absolutely sure that rebel extremists are the one who massacred your family?"

"The officers said as much," she said, a mystified look on her face.

"Maybe they said that to cover up the truth. Maybe they're the ones who did it! Maybe they tried to kill you."

Melanie was aghast. She protested in disbelief. "But that can't be! They saved my life by bringing me here to the fort. They've taken care of me. The officers have been nothing less than gentlemen toward me."

"Oh, Miss," Addison began, "Haven't you heard what they call the officers?"

She shook her head no silently, too surprised to talk.

Blevins answered. "They call Colonel Tarleton 'Bloody Ban'. Tavington is 'the Butcher', and the Major who does the interrogations is known as 'Brutal Bordon.'" This part the men did not make up for these names had been given to the men by the populace of the area.

"Your family has not come to see you at all?" Gladsen asked.

"No. I've not heard anything from them," she replied.

"Maybe that's because the Redcoats are keeping them under lock and key at your farm," Addison pointed out.

The three men were now surrounding her, making her head spin with hope and accusations against her British rescuers. She wasn't sure what to think. Melanie tried to take in everything they said and sort it all out. She felt that these men were concerned and trying to be helpful. After all, they knew her father and his reputation.

John Blevins spoke again. "Miss Prescott, these officers protecting you and helping you recover could be a sly act. They might want something more," he remarked. "They have been burning houses, looting, killing men without cause, murdering innocent women and children, kidnapping of the same, and raping Colonial and their own Loyalist women all over the countryside!"

Melanie was now drowning in confusion. She just wanted the truth. "But...I...but...well...I thought—"

Michael Gladsen, the ringleader of these rebels, cut off her stammering mid sentence. "Girl, heed closely what I have to say. I understand that you may feel a sort of loyalty to the men who saved your life. But don't trust these Redcoats. They have been known to lie—especially to Colonials. They also start false rumors in order to misdirect people. Have you been given proof that your family perished?"

"No. Just their word," she answered in a dejected voice. She wasn't sure whom she could trust now.

"Their word can't be trusted."

Melanie argued with them again. "I don't understand. I am a pacifist, same as my father. That is well known about my family. The British rescued me. What reason do they have to lie to me?"

"Maybe to keep you from your family and home," said Addison.

"Maybe you're a hostage and they're using your captivity to blackmail your father into using his influence for the English cause," Blevins pointed out.

"Or maybe they're going to use you for more sinister...or lewd...purposes," Michael Gladsen chimed in, his words slow in an ominous tone.

Melanie's eyes widened in panic.

The three men rejoiced silently inside as they all knew they had succeeded in confusing and scaring the girl. They now found out as well, that she had no memory of the dreaded event. They were happiest of all that she did not recognize them as being among the attackers.

Michael put his arm on her elbow gently and pulled her over closer to a building. Ryan and John, the younger rebels, followed. They all gathered in closely to her now. Michael looked around, obviously trying to show that he had something very secret to tell her.

Her eyes still rounded, Melanie shuddered at the action of him pulling her aside. She assumed he must have something dreadful to tell her. She blocked out the sounds of the prison camp around her, wanting to hear his voice.

"Miss Prescott, I am afraid for you girl," Michael imparted. "Maybe you should get away from here."

"But the Colonel said that I am in danger outside the fort," she whispered.

He shook his head. "I believe you to be in danger inside the fort," he disagreed.

Melanie still wasn't sure whether to believe the rebel's fears. "But they have me here to protect me—"

"Yeah, protect you for themselves, bloody likely!" Addison spat sarcastically.

Gladsen sighed, then continued. His eyes implored the girl to listen to him. "If I were you, I'd try to leave here and get back to your home to see just what the situation is. Then, at least you will find out for yourself."

Melanie nodded a confused acknowledgement. "Thank you," she murmured. With her head spinning at the new revelations, she started to walk away.

Michael Gladsen caught her hand again, stopping her. He pulled her back into the little group again and imparted a last warning. "Don't trust anything they tell you unless you see it with your own eyes."

Nodding silently again, Melanie Prescott strode back toward the gate into the main fort yard, in awe of what was said, and still trying to straighten it all out within her own mind.

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Melanie Prescott rose early the next morning after a nearly sleepless night. After mulling over what the three rebel prisoners had told her, she came to a decision last evening to leave the fort. Nerves over her early morning 'escape' attempt had robbed her of any restful sleep. Though anxious, the girl was excited and elated at the thought of reuniting with her family.

At 4:30am, Miss Prescott stuffed pillows into her bed under the covers, then left her room. She stole down to the kitchen building through the silence of the main house.

Once there, she spied a basket, which she picked up. Hanging on a hook was a mob cap. Melanie put it on, stuffing her long, blonde locks beneath it. As she adjusted the hat, she saw an apron folded up neatly on the counter. She slipped it on and tied it. Pulling the cap down a little lower on her head, she left the room dressed in the apron and carrying the basket. Miss Prescott hoped she could pass as one of the house servants.

She slipped out the back door and slinked around the corner of the main house. Quietly, the young woman inched toward the front, where she would soon be in view of the main gate.

Pausing there for a moment, Miss Prescott watched the activity at the gate, which was minimal this time of morning. She took a couple of deep breaths to calm her nerves, reminding herself of something she'd heard in conversation. It had been mentioned that the overnight sentry duty was often assigned to the younger and newest soldiers. The older soldiers with more seniority were sometimes given a choice of duty, when possible. Melanie had also learned that the less experienced, younger soldiers manning the gate were more lenient and gullible. She could use their inexperience and her own cunning as her way out of the fort.

With one last breath she summoned her courage. Melanie Prescott sauntered confidently up to the fort gate, swinging her basket. It appeared that she had not a care in the world.

The boyish sentry approached her. "Halt!" He positioned himself between her and the gate, preventing her from advancing any farther.

Melanie had been around as many English people as she had native Colonials while growing up. Lately, during her sojourn at the fort, she'd heard mostly English accented voices. She spoke now in one.

"You're new here, aren't you?", she asked, trying to throw him off guard. Melanie affected a perfect British accent.

"Yes, Miss," he replied with a smile. "Only arrived two days ago."

"Oh," she acknowledged. The young lady smiled prettily at him.

The soldier remembered himself and straightened up. "What's your business?"

"I need to gather berries for breakfast, and fresh flowers for the officer's table."

"Might early for that, isn't it? The sun is not up yet."

"Someone has to get up early to start the breakfast," she goaded. "I could sleep no longer, so I decided to go ahead and start things."

"Oh, I see," said the sentry. "But, you can't go out there without an escort. There could be rebels hiding in the woods."

"Sometimes we go out unaccompanied, if no one is available," Melanie lied. "We have to. You don't really think the officers will want to wait on their breakfast until I can find an escort, do you?"

The young sentry chuckled and rolled his eyes. Even though he was new to Fort Carolina, he'd been in the war just long enough to realize that some of the officers were more irritable these days than usual. After all, they were in the midst of a war.

"No," he answered.

Melanie grinned. "I didn't think you'd want them to go without their morning meal. Private, I am only going to the woods there, just after the clearing. The rebels wouldn't dare to come this close to the fort. They know that there is a regular patrol sweeping the perimeter. Besides, I'll call for you if I need help."

Her tone of voice, her eyes, her motions, all the time she spoke to the young man, she was charming him with innocence. She paused, then continued. "You'd come to my rescue, wouldn't you?", she flirted.

"Yes, Miss, I would," he assured. The soldier then stepped aside and motioned her through the gate. He opened it for her and said, "Alright. Pass."

She thanked him with a smile and a bob of her head. With that, Melanie Prescott strolled through the open gate and out of Fort Carolina.

Suddenly, the Private called back for her, stopping her dead in her tracks, a frown across her face. Melanie drew in a breath, fixed a girlish smile upon her lips, then turned back to look at the young man.

"Be careful, Miss," he warned. "Listen, look, and be aware of everything around you."

"I will, Private," she replied graciously. "Thank you."

She turned back toward the woods. Melanie could barely contain her excitement as she walked across the open grass just outside the fort. As she trekked toward the forest, she thought about the task that lay ahead of her and how to go about it. She knew that she would have to cover as much ground as possible and make good time quickly. After sun up, which was only an hour or so away, horse, wagon, and foot traffic would pick up on the dirt roads. There was the risk that she could be stopped or even identified.

After another moment of traipsing along and reasoning with herself, Miss Prescott soon found herself at the tree line. She followed the edge of it for just a few steps, then saw an opening in the thicket. Melanie stepped onto the path, then slid into the woods.

As the first rays of dawn pierced the foliage, she raced along as fast as she could until she came to a clearing. She spotted a road just in front of her. Tired, she stopped just within the edge of the forest, knowing that she still wasn't well enough to run steadily. She would have to pace herself slowly.

Melanie hugged the tree line as she followed the road, noting the path openings into the woods as she passed them. Suddenly, she heard horses in the distance. Then, she recognized the voice calling out instructions. It was that of Major Hanger, whom she knew to be Banastre Tarleton's second in command. This was the night patrol of Dragoons obviously headed around, or back to the fort.

The girl darted back into the woods, crouching low in some bushes until the unit passed her. She stayed hidden a few more minutes yet after that, in case they looked back behind them, came back, or if there were stragglers behind the group.

When the road was clear, she continued on. Miss Prescott pushed herself, but her body protested, so she had to slow even more.

More moments passed before she heard something: a wagon. British or Colonial wagons were usually in convoys and escorted by horse or infantry. This was a single wagon. As she listened intently, she heard a man and woman talking to each other. The accents were distinctly Carolinian, not British. Having no fear as this was most likely a local family, she stayed on the road and trekked ahead.

Without looking back, she could hear the wagon bearing down on her. A minute later, the wagon overtook her.

The driver stopped the wagon just in front of her. "Whoa!" Then, he looked back at the young woman. "You there! Oh Miss!"

"Yes," answered Melanie, stopping near the wagon.

"You from around here," he asked her.

"Not too far," she replied.

"Get on up here in the wagon, girl, and ride with us. I shudder to think what would happen if you were picked up by either army!"

Melanie's old injuries plagued her, making her sore and tired already. She kindly accepted the offer. The man helped her into the wagon.

He introduced himself as he climbed back up into the driver's seat. "I'm Josiah Bentley." He then motioned to the passengers. "This is Mrs. Bentley, and those two rascals back there are our children."

"I'm Grace Browning," she lied. Melanie wanted to take no chances of anyone recognizing her, or even her family's name. They were too well known in the colonies.

Mr. Bentley coaxed the mules on as Melanie situated herself in the back of the wagon by the kids. He continued on with polite conversation.

"Might I ask what you are doing out here alone, Miss Browning?"

Melanie had already come up with a cover story, just in case. She began spinning her deception.

"I had volunteered awhile back to go down South of here to help in the surgery tents. Yesterday and last night, we were making our way back to Winnsboro, taking the wounded to the hospital there. I stopped to comfort one of the dying soldiers. He was bad, and I knew he didn't have long. I pitied him and didn't want him to die on the way, so, I stayed with him until he passed on. I had told the group to go on without me, thinking he would pass in a matter of moments, and I'd catch up to them. Well, the poor boy hung on in pain awhile, then died. By that time, the caravan was well ahead of me and out of sight. I haven't been able to find them. So, I just went on alone, knowing if I kept to the road that I'd hit a village sooner or later."

"They probably left you behind, scared to death of all the Redcoats in the area. Why, we were stopped by that notorious British cavalry before we found you."

Melanie shivered. It was most likely Tarleton's Dragoons that had stopped him. "Yes," she said, "I saw them and hid."

She then changed the subject. "Where are you heading?"

"We're going northwest or so, into the Kentucky territory. We're going to ride out the rest of the war there. We don't feel safe here, anymore. The battles and skirmishes have been getting too close to our house and farm. Plus, there have been a lot of British in this area. Some of the things we've heard about them, especially the Green Dragoons, have frightened us."

Melanie was quiet for a moment, leaving a lull in the conversation. She remembered what the three militiamen at Fort Carolina had called Tavington, Bordon, and Tarleton, their nicknames and reputations. Yet, these same men had rescued her and even sat with her as she recovered.

Bentley went on. "With me hobbled like this, I can't defend my family or fight for my country. I have a brother who lives there in Kentucky, and he writes that there is no fighting up there—mostly Indians and vast wilderness. Very peaceful, he says."

The man turned back as he coaxed the mules on, to look at her. "Where are you going, missy?"

"Well, I was going to ask how close we are to Cascadia?"

"Not too far," he replied. "In fact, we're going to go right through it."

"Sir, if it's not an imposition, would you please drop me off at my family's farm," she requested. "It is well before you get into the town."

"No inconvenience at all," he answered jovially. "We're just glad you're not on the road alone."