A/N: 09/02/2020 Thank you Guest for your review!
Disclaimer: I do not own The Patriot.
One wants to give
One wants to take
One tries to fix me up
One is a mistake
Inside Out - AG (of The Rescues) and Brad Gordon~
Chapter four: No Flies At All~
Tavington's newfound line of work came with a plethora of benefits which he quickly found to be most pleasing.
He was granted complete run of the house, coming and going as he pleased, and doing as he wished so long as it didn't interfere with his job. His duties, strenuous as they were, did yield quite an income, well above the minimum wage, and Margaret proved true to her promise of eighteen dollars a week. Tavington hardly paid her any mind, for he was still deciding on whether or not his decision had truly been a beneficial one, but once his savings began to pile up, his mind was settled; he was not charged for food or board, and though he longed for a drink, he knew better than to squander his fortune the way his father had years ago on anything but necessities.
The first few weeks of his employment were hard, indeed, and his body - unused to such demanding physical labor - struggled to ease into its daily tasks. He had been charged with plowing the fields, making any necessary repairs to the house, tending the horses, and overseeing the slaves while they worked. His only scruple was that he was not allowed a whip, but he pleasured himself in finding more creative ways to discipline the help. He handled all of the outside duties, while Margaret tackled the inside particulars, namely writing and overseeing the cooking and housekeeping. He wondered if she ever received letters of importance (after all, she had said she had been a nurse, and as such likely had connections with generals and other such figures from the war), but didn't particularly care enough to find out for himself. His main goal was to look after his own well-being. He didn't see the young lady much, only during breakfast and dinner, and though his eyes sometimes mourned the loss of her beauty, his intellect did not.
Tavington strolled the gardens, surveying the land and the slaves working it. He hadn't bothered to learn any of their names the way Margaret had, for he saw it as an unnecessary hindrance. He watched with satisfaction as a male slave tensed while he deliberately walked past, critiquing his work as he planted tomato seeds. They had been wary of him at first, not knowing how he would treat them, but it was a friendly wariness, and that wouldn't do. It was only a matter of weeks before they began to fear his critical eye and the thump of his boots.
Finding everything to be satisfactory with the garden, he looked towards the barn, where the horses were kept. He squinted.
The door was ajar.
Deciding to investigate, Tavington left his place in the garden to see what the matter was. He entered the barn, finding one of the horses out of their stable. Swiftly grabbing it by the reigns, he led it back into its place and closed it up, searching the other stables. All remaining horses were where they should be, barebacked and unbridled, their accessories hanging on the walls behind them. He looked all around, and when no suspect presented themselves, listened.
Horses neighed and flustered, and tiny bits of dust floated in front of his face, illuminated by the tiny streaks of light filtering in through the open patches of the barn's ceiling. Seconds passed, and finally he heard it; creaks in the wood doors behind him. He quickly turned, just in time to see the house's youngest slave attempting to slip away unnoticed.
Wasting no time, Tavington apprehended the youngster, seizing him by the back of his collar and shoving him face first against the nearest stall wall.
"Thought you could get away, did you?" He chided. Sweat dripped down the slave's face, fear mixing with the heat of the day. "Come now. What do you have to say for yourself?"
Lips trembled as he stuttered for a reply. "P- please, master...it- it was a mistake! I forgot to stable her and I-" he swallowed fearfully. "I was just coming back to put her away!"
Tavington sneered, tilting his head. "Oh, I much doubt that, slave. You would have forgotten still, had I not come in here."
Jerking him backward, Tavington spun him around and grabbed hold of his throat, the young boy's head smacking against the splintered wood.
"You do realize that miss O'Neil's horse could have gone missing had I not made my appearance? My...how ever shall we rectify this situation?"
His hand enclosed upon the servant's throat, fingernails digging into his dark skin. He watched as the whites of his eyes grew wide, body trembling in terror.
"P- please, sir-" he choked. "I...promise it won't happen...again..."
Tavington's gaze darkened as his fingers clamped further around the boy's neck, employing more and more force until he could not speak at all. Muffled gasps filled the humid air around them, when finally, he let go. The boy fell to the floor, heaving in as much air as he possibly could. Tavington watched, disgust written on his features.
He did not kneel, for he had no wish to bring himself to a slave's level, but stood tall as he softly said, "Let's make sure we don't make the same mistake twice. Hm?"
The boy made no response, still gasping for air, and having finished with the conversation, Tavington sidestepped him and exited the barn.
"Stupid boy..." he muttered.
Supper time came, and Tavington ordered all to finish up their duties as he made to retire for the night.
He hadn't made it two steps toward his room when a feminine voice called to him.
"Mister Tarleton. I need to speak with you."
He looked up to see Margaret standing at the threshold of the library, her hands clasped unpleasantly in front of her. Her tone was the closest to curt he'd ever heard it, and his curiosity was beyond its limits as to what she inquired of him.
"What is it, miss O'Neil?" He inquired innocently, stepping closer as he adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves.
"It has come to my attention that you have been using unkind methods to produce more labor from your charges."
His face showed genuine surprise, while his mind was already working to figure out who told who what. "Unkind? Pray tell, what does your mistress consider to be...unkind?"
"I have heard tell that you are physically abusing my servants."
He scoffed gently. "I have done no such thing. I merely did what needed to be done to..." he paused, tilting his head in thought. "...Encourage them to work harder."
"Resorting to violence-" he opened his mouth to correct her but she spoke over him. "Or threats of violence to yield 'better' results is not the way I do things here. I do not rule with an iron fist, but a gentle hand. And though you have produced an excellent grade of work from my servants, your methods of obtaining them reflect upon me as mistress of this house. If you're unwilling to change your tactics, then I am afraid I will have to cut your wages and send you on your way."
Her words struck him, recalling similar lines from another many years ago.
The way you act reflects upon me. These brutal tactics must stop!
Tavington smirked uncertainly, cautiously approaching his response. "My dear miss O'Neil...are you now threatening me with termination?"
She stood tall, her gaze a steel fortress. "If you will not abide by the rules of your employer? Absolutely."
His mouth fell agape. He could not believe that this mild, demure woman was putting her foot down. And in so convincing a manner. Under any other circumstance, he would have shown the woman her place in the matter, but his pride forbade his sacrifice of labor and income. He needed to be tactful, and secure his foothold in this place should a better opportunity fail to come along.
Swallowing his dignity, he thus replied: "Forgive me. I have not worked with slaves since the war, and as I'm sure you can imagine, I am...rusty."
She sighed, but her gaze softened, and he knew he had succeeded. "It's no excuse."
He nodded. "Of course."
"But you are forgiven. However, please do not let me hear of any ill word toward you again."
"You shall not, ma'am."
He bowed in deference and she in turn curtsied, and the temporary rift was mended between them.
"Now," Margaret said, smiling. "Let us dine together. Fife tells me we're having fresh pork and beans."
Though dinner was not spent in silence, it was most definitely spent in resentment.
Tavington glared pointedly at every slave present, gauging their levels of guilt for having run to Margaret to tattle. The women were more intuitive than the men, it seemed, and showed no outward signs of tell. He knew the boy had to have said something, but to who, he couldn't figure. Whether he had gone to Margaret directly or told one of the others was unknown, though he suspected the latter.
Kitch, Margaret's aide and unspoken favorite, stood by her side from across the table, waiting to be addressed or needed. Though Tavington did not particularly care for any of the slaves, Kitch tried his nerves the most. He was always at Margaret's side, night or day, and Tavington at times found it difficult to be around her because of it. He disliked him greatly, though judging by the way the tall servant currently stared him down, the feeling was mutual.
"I'm sorry for my rudeness earlier," Margaret spoke suddenly. "I was not trying to imply that I am unhappy with your work. Since hiring you on, you have produced very splendid results."
Her downcast eyes rose to meet his, and Tavington was momentarily struck by not only her beauty, but also her sincerity. It was a strange feeling, as all his life he'd been told he wasn't good enough, that his work didn't meet the standard, that he needed to change the way he conducted himself. It happened in his schooling, with his father, all the way through his military career. Not once had he heard a thank you, received a single accolade for his hard work. And yet here was this slip of a woman, telling him the contrary. How dare she.
"I...thank you, miss."
She smiled gently. "You're welcome. Your skills at commanding others truly is extraordinary. I just wish you would find other ways to demonstrate that talent. More flies come with honey."
He nodded, taking a bite of his pork. "Indeed. I'm afraid I simply cannot help that I would prefer no flies at all."