Chapter 31 Losing Hope

In the days following Melanie Prescott's lashing, with the help of Reverend Oliver and Mrs. Nelson, the pain in her torn feet had become more tolerable. The swelling had subsided a bit though the horrible bruising and discoloration remained.

Also in those days, Mrs. Nelson and the Reverend Oliver had the girl first standing for short periods of time, which progressed into a few steps with assistance. The wounds were still an angry shade of red but were healing with no infection.

After a week of the first aid and delicate first steps, Melanie found that she could walk a short distance on her own. Even though she could, she knew she was not healed enough to escape. The Colonial army had incapacitated her in an expert manner.

The days of captivity in the rebel camp were long and boring. Miss Prescott spent the time resting in her tent, recovering with nothing to read or do. The excess amount of time did nothing good for her mental state; it made things worse.

The young woman was weak as the pain from her torture had left her with virtually no appetite. She had become depressed over her situation and scared of her captors, worrying if and about what they may have planned next for her.

Mostly she missed Alex. Melanie pined for his arms holding her. The girl yearned to feel warm and safe again in his bed. She desired his naked body, wishing to feel it next to hers. The young woman longed to hear his deep voice whisper "I love you" into her ear.

Miss Prescott wondered if the redcoats were searching for her; she felt certain they were. The girl was puzzled as to why the brave and audacious dragoons hadn't raided the camp. The young woman was curious to know if they had heard about her escape attempt.

With nothing but time on her hands, the girl pondered what next the rebels had planned for her. Would they kill her? Send her to prison? Mostly, she wondered if she would ever see Alexander Bordon again. Just the question of this brought tears to her eyes.

Melanie recalled their last time together: he'd made passionate, yet gentle love to her and they'd fallen asleep in one another's arms. The girl remembered how she woke up alone the next morning as Alex had slipped out of bed quietly for an early patrol, not wanting to wake his lover. What if this was the last time she would ever see him?

As the young woman ruminated over all this, she began to sob hard. She threw her arm up over her eyes as she lay dejected on her bedroll.

"Oh, Alex," she cried, "I miss you. I love you. Please come. Please find me, Alex. I'm afraid."

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Colonel Harry Burwell was glad to be back in camp after having been gone several days, meeting with General Greene. The Colonial commander was equally as happy to hear of the apprehension of Miss Melanie Prescott, who he'd not seen since 1776 in Charles Towne at a meeting, then party later the same evening. The officer had given the order to recover the girl and was very pleased to have her in their custody.

After riding all night, he'd taken the morning off to sleep a couple of hours. After that, he'd spent the lunch hour, afternoon, and supper meeting with his men and catching up on his work that had accumulated in his absence. The colonel was glad to finally have some time alone in his tent. But this evening, there was one more matter that needed his attention: to meet with the late Hayden Prescott's daughter.

After taking a few minutes to relax and catch his breath at the desk in his tent, he felt ready to give up his solace once again to meet with the prisoner. Burwell looked over at his aide-de-camp, who was busy looking over some maps spread out on a small table.

"Captain," called the colonel, "would you please fetch Miss Prescott and bring her here to me."

"Yes sir." With that the adjutant disappeared from the tent. Harry leaned back, putting his legs up on his desk to give them a bit of a stretch. He took a deep breath, held it, then let it out. The officer rubbed his temples as he thought about the matters he wanted to discuss with the Prescott woman. He had a reprieve of a few more minutes of quiet and solitude before she would appear, and the man relished it.

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Melanie Prescott had nearly fallen asleep for the evening when a rap on the tent pole roused her. She looked up to see a young man's head peaking through the canvas flap.

"Miss Prescott?"

"Yes?", she answered as she slowly moved up to a sitting position.

"I'm Captain Zeller, Colonel Burwell's subordinate," he introduced, "You've been summoned to his tent for conference."

"Very well," answered Melanie in a shaky and unsure voice. The girl, still sore from her rough treatment, was weary of all rebels and colonials around her now.

The young woman crawled slowly out of her tent, still favoring her aching feet. She painfully rose to her feet with the hand of Captain Zeller, who'd extended the aid when he saw how stiff her body was.

Once she got to her feet, stood solidly and got her bearings, she noticed two uniformed privates with the young officer. With not a word from them, each one moved to either side of her and took an arm in a firm grip. Melanie immediately went into a panic, wondering if they were really taking her to Colonel Burwell or someplace to inflict more pain.

The girl began to hyperventilate as her mind raced. Not knowing what to say, she opened her mouth, letting whatever words that would chance to come out suffice as her protest.

"Please, I've done nothing wrong," she pleaded, "I've been in my tent all week."

"Yes, we know that," replied Captain Zeller in a disconnected manned. "These men are here to escort you to see that there is no further trouble from you. You have been labeled as 'difficult'. All known troublemakers are required to have chaperones while in our custody."

These words did little to ease Melanie's fears. The girl was agitated and on her guard, looking about her as they marched her along to meet with Colonel Burwell. She hoped that this was the truth; that they hadn't lied to her and were escorting her into a trap.

The men's strides were longer than Melanie's, and her poor abused feet, as well as her lack of stamina, could hardly keep pace with her escorts. The long walk across camp found the girl nearly being dragged by the two privates as they neared the Colonel's tent.

Miss Prescott found herself winded, nearly leaning on her uniformed chaperones, as she stood waiting outside Burwell's tent. She had watched the young captain disappear through the tent flap, then heard lowered voices speaking through the canvas. However, the only words she could discern were "she's here."

In a moment, Melanie saw the canvas flaps part, and was moved into the large tent. Her feet were aching badly now as she continued to lean on the escorts to help keep her standing.

"That will be all," Captain Zeller advised. "Thank you, men."

At the dismissal, the two privates whom she so gingerly clung to instantly disappeared, leaving the poor girl to fall to the ground hard. The tumble aggravated her already decimated feet, making her whimper aloud.

Captain Zeller quickly grabbed a wooden chair and raced to the young woman's side. He again offered her his arm, helping her back up and into the seat. As this transpired, Colonel Burwell finally arose from his desk, looking silently and coldly at his adjutant and the prisoner.

"That will be all, Captain," Burwell directed with little emotion in his voice and on his face. "Please see that we are not disturbed."

"Yes, sir," the captain acknowledged. As he exited the tent, Melanie felt that little twinge of fear move back into the pit of her stomach as she was now alone with this most powerful commander. She tried to allay her own fears, remembering the man's manner in Charles Towne of a few years ago.

The girl recalled that while he was a serious man, quiet, dedicated to duty, he was also given to occasional genial words and with an equally as warm smile. Her strongest recollection of him was that he was an ardent colonial patriot, one of those no longer desiring a monarchy. These memories served to calm her down only a little.

"Ah, Miss Prescott," Burwell began, a bit of a country drawl in his voice, "how do you fare?"

This greeting irked the young woman. She was sure he had been apprised of the events of late. The girl forgot trying to stay calm and in control.

"You know damn well how I fare," Melanie snapped. "Do I have you to thank for this?" With palm up, she gestured downward toward her injured feet.

"No, miss," he answered, not acknowledging her ire. "I didn't order it—I only just arrived back in camp this morning. It was one of the other commanders."

An awkward silence then passed between the two. Colonel Burwell turned away from her, looking at something on his desk. While he did, Melanie thought about the way she had answered the man—the tone of her voice, and cringed inwardly. She thought she'd best pull back on her rebellious tongue lest she be labeled as 'impertinent'. They already called her 'difficult' and a 'troublemaker.'

The colonial commander took off his dark blue jacket and hung it on the back of his desk chair. As he turned back to face the young woman, he loosened his collar and cravat. He spoke again as he finished that task.

"I trust you won't try anything stupid again?"

"No," she replied flatly. "You've effectively hobbled me."

Melanie, still seated, regarded the man's demeanor as she tried to appear as if looking about his tent. While she did know him to be a man of few words, his manner was stone like, showing no outward emotion. This scared the girl since she could not gage what he was thinking, therefore leaving her helpless as to prepare herself for any conversation or actions coming her way.

"Tell me, Miss Prescott," queried Burwell, "How did the British punish your three escape attempts?"

"They didn't," she answered. "But the last attempt was followed by a promise to be sent to the prison ships. That alone stopped me from fleeing again."

"That alone?" he repeated her words in the form of a question. "I'm sure that wasn't the only circumstance that stopped you from fleeing. On the contrary, you stayed with the redcoats willingly." He looked at her, his eyes piercing through her, making the girl squirm noticeably.

Melanie shifted in her seat. "Willingly?" she now repeated his comment in a questioning tone. The girl tried to hide her nerves. She wondered fleetingly if this understated commander might be her undoing. After all, she had heard the old saying 'it's the quiet ones you must watch out for.'

"Don't play games with me, Miss Prescott," the officer warned, only a trace of malice in his voice. His eyes seemed to reflect the same warning. "Everyone knows you share Brutal Bordon's bed."

The young woman said nothing, not willing to pursue a discussion regarding her life with Alexander. She hoped her silence would discourage him from any further questions on the matter.

Colonel Burwell stepped a little closer to the woman. He bent down slightly, his head only a little above the girl's.

"So tell me," the commander appealed, "Are you a turncoat?"

Miss Prescott rose slowly. She tried to conceal the pain in her feet and legs, stiffened from just a few moments of sitting. Gritting her teeth as she straightened, the girl took a deep breath as she steadied herself, wanting to stand firm before the colonial leader.

"I most certainly am not," she said, holding his gaze.

"Come now, you cannot be mistress to a British commander, a master at intelligence, without you having gained his trust somehow."

The young woman felt rebellion boiling again within her head, feeling the need to give him some disobedient answer. But she remembered herself and the awful labels she'd already earned. She tried to keep herself together, but his unemotional, steady manner was unnerving her more and more with each question he posed.

"I am still a pacifist," answered Melanie slowly. "He doesn't make Loyalist demands of me."

"Does he not?" Burwell questioned, his face registering little surprise.

"No."

"I don't believe you," declared the colonel as he turned away from the young woman. The suddenly, the man turned back to face the girl quickly, clearly startling her.

Miss Prescott jumped slightly. The colonel's movements and words had all been slow and measured, as if he had the luxury of time to interrogate, then dwell on the answers. She had expected him to stay turned away from her, perusing objects around his tent, not shift back to her so soon.

But his swift twist back to face her brought an unexpected benefit with it: his face now showed emotion. The girl finally had something to work with—an inkling of what was going on in the officer's head. She hoped this might give her the upper hand, or at least help her prepare a defense if needed.

The colonial commander's eyes had narrowed in contempt of the young woman. His lips were drawn tightly in scorn.

"You're no more than a redcoat slut," he accused, his voice steady, "catering to the whims of your new master. If your father were alive, he would be disappointed that you've become the mistress of a married British officer."

Melanie's mouth dropped open. How dare he presume to know what my beloved father would have thought. The girl could not let this horrid remark pass by lightly. She opened her mouth, letting whatever bit of rebellion slip out freely.

"If rebel zealots wouldn't have massacred my family," she challenged, "then papa would be alive and I wouldn't be in this mess!"

Crossing her arms in front of her chest, Melanie stared silently at the colonel. He stared back, equally as unwavering. Both of them seemed to mutely dare the other to make the next move.

After another moment, Melanie felt lightheaded. She broke the stare to reach behind her to hold on to the chair for balance. As her hand felt the wood, she casually gripped the chair back, trying not to give away her sudden physical weakness.

Miss Prescott sat back down, needing to rest. She heaved a sigh as she looked at the grass serving as the tent floor, beneath her tender feet. The girl looked back up at her captor. Her gaze had softened as his returned to deadpan.

"Please," the girl asked, "I beg you to parole me to the custody of my Aunt and Uncle Prescott in Gettysburg, up north in Pennsylvania. They will vouch that I will not be a troublemaker or nuisance for either side up there."

"Absolutely not," answered Burwell with a stone demeanor. "I'm not going to send you to a region controlled by the British. You've seen our camp now, and you know too much. Who knows how long it would be before you'd be back in Bordon's bed sharing information about us."

"He's a good intelligence officer," she shot back. "He will get the information himself. Alex doesn't need to depend on me to provide it."

"If he's that good, where is he now?" queried the officer. "Why hasn't he come to your rescue?"

That was it—the dreaded remark. It undid the girl, making her mind wander for a moment, thinking about her lover and longing for him.

Burwell smiled inwardly. The commander could tell that he was starting to beat the girl down emotionally. He concealed the satisfaction he felt inside at knowing she was unraveling.

"Seems we've hidden you well," he pointed out.

She looked up at the colonial leader. "What are you going to do with me?"

"We're sending you to a prison camp," stated the commander as he took a step backward.

"But why?", asked Miss Prescott. "I was already disciplined once for escaping."

"No, not for fleeing," Burwell noted, "For being a turncoat."

The colonel took a drink of wine from a glass on the edge of the desk then simply remarked, "We hang traitors."

Melanie's eyes rounded as her mouth dropped open. She couldn't believe what she had just heard.

Noting the girl's alarm, he drew in a deep breath, then let it out slowly as he looked up at canvas tent ceiling. His eyes moved back to Miss Prescott as he went on speaking.

"Relax. We're not sending you anywhere until I'm through with you," he said blandly.

With that, the colonel turned away from the girl again and took a few steps across the large tent. His fingertips brushed over a map of Charles Towne that lay open on the table.

"Tell me," the colonel addressed her from several feet away, still near the map table, "do you recall hearing talk around your fort of an incident in Charles Towne with a woman there and the dragoons?"

Indeed Melanie had heard fort gossip of the event, the innuendo of which had disturbed her greatly. But she never asked Alexander about it, knowing better not to inquire about the cavalry's military business. The girl didn't know the full details of the incident, but had decided that she would rather not know the facts and what part her lover might have played in it.

"No," she lied. "I've heard nothing of the sort."

Burwell knew better; he knew the young woman was prevaricating.

"Hmm….Have you not?," he sniffed, a bit of emotion threatening to break through. "Well, a young widow woman there was accused of giving money to aid the rebels. When she denied it, the Redcoat cavalry, two units of them, deemed her as uncooperative and ……dealt with her."

Colonel Burwell again moved back over close to where Melanie was seated. He continued on with details of the event in Charles Towne. "The dragoon commander had his way with her, then let all of the other officers do the same."

Miss Prescott kept silent, afraid to say anything. The girl also fought to keep her feelings hidden, not wanting to let on that she had vague knowledge of the happening.

Burwell finished the account. "The woman that happened to is Isabella Pritzer."

"Isabella BURWELL Pritzer," , he pointed out, emphasizing greatly the name 'Burwell'. "My younger sister."

Melanie sucked in a breath in horrendous surprise. As she let it out, she closed her eyes. Her head dropped downwards and her throat seemed to constrict. The girl swallowed hard as she thought of the revelation. A dark feeling in Miss Prescott's gut told her that the rebel commander spoke the truth. Her heart sank as she realized that her rough treatment at the Colonials' hands wasn't over yet.

"I had nothing to do with that," she proclaimed, wanting him to believe her innocence.

"Just as my sister had nothing to do with giving money to the rebel cause," Burwell calmly volleyed back, "But your redcoat friends didn't believe her."

The colonel took a breath, keeping himself in amazing control. He elaborated more. "My widowed sister had been engaged to marry again. Her fiancé broke off the engagement after the incident, not wanting to be where so many redcoats had been. She's been cast out of Charles Towne society as well."

Colonel Burwell stopped for a moment, looking introspective. Then he voiced an afterthought. "To say that it changed her life is an understatement."

"Sir, please," Melanie began, trying to appeal to the man's common sense, "A group of men—rebels—severely changed my life as well. I've not called for revenge. It would do me no good nor bring my family back."

"On the contrary," said the officer sharply, "You've taken your revenge in a subtle way: bedding a British officer every night!"

Feeling a sense of dread wash over her, the young woman shook her head in mute worry. She correctly felt that Colonel Burwell blamed her not for the assault, but just for being associated with the dragoons that committed the act. And because he couldn't—or refused—to separate the innocent, the guilty, and the event in general, Melanie had a grave feeling that she may be made to pay for the dragoons' misdeeds.

"My sister is ruined," Burwell reiterated. He stared ominously at Miss Prescott, accusation apparent on his face and in his eyes. "Her reputation has been stained forever by the men you keep company with."

His last phrase echoed around her mind. Melanie closed her eyes and shuddered, distressed that something grim was in store for her.