A/N: 09/17/2020 Thank you to all the people actually reading this. Leave it to me to jump into a fandom 20 years too late X'D

Disclaimer: I do not own The Patriot.

Your songs remind me of swimming
Which I forgot when I started to sink
Drank further away from the shore
And deeper into the drink

Swimming - Florence + The Machine~

Chapter five: Phischer~

The next morning, Tavington had called upon the slaves for an early morning 'meeting' in the barn.

He was determined to uncover the mole who had gone to Margaret over the inconsequential matter involving the young boy and the horse.

'Unkind' means. Ridiculous.

William's boots slowly thumped against the downtrodden ground of the musty barn, sizing up the slaves as he passed them in their orderly line. All twenty-two of them were present, save for Kitch, but Tavington was far too intelligent to even think to include him; after all, he was clearly the ringleader of the group, and without him present to defy him, he was free to interrogate the others however he wished.

"It has come to my attention," he began, echoing Margaret's words to him the day before. "That one of you has thought it wise to go to your mistress and report the incident from yesterday. I am here to tell you...that is most certainly not the case." His critical gaze passed deliberately slower over the boy, the little simpleton responsible for the whole mess.

"Was it you, boy?" He asked softly, tilting his head tauntingly as he bent down to his level. "Did you run to your mistress to tell of the 'injustice' done to you?"

The timid eyes that stared back at him were covered by the woman to his left as she pushed him behind her protectively, and Tavington smirked as he rose back to his full height.

"Well, well. You must be the mother. Such a shame you never taught him anything of loyalty."

Flashbacks danced behind his eyes, and he was momentarily taken back to that little farmhouse on the Santee nearly sixteen years ago.

Ah, I see. He's your son. Well perhaps you should have taught him something of loyalty.

Shaking himself free of the resurfaced memory, he blinked back to the present. The slaves stared at him warily, and he cleared his throat and straightened his back.

"Miss O'Neil has made it quite clear that she does not wish to have any of you harmed. Even if the wrongdoing is your own fault to begin with." They shifted in their places, uncomfortable with the conclusion he was coming to. "But there are more ways than one to punish a slave. And let me assure you; I was known to be very creative back in my day."

The fear in their eyes was evident, and Tavington nearly felt the need to drink it for its potency. It had been so long since he'd been feared. Respected. This may have been just what he'd needed to make himself feel alive again.

"I will only ask this once. If you come forward now, there will be no punishment, verbal or otherwise. Who. Spoke. To Margaret?"

He stepped back to gauge the expressions of the people present, looking for even the smallest telltale signs of guilt. The seconds that passed were tense, and though he had been fairly certain at least one of them would turn on the others and crack under the pressure, not a single man, woman, or child admitted to any such thing.

Silence fell thick through the air, and when he had lost his patience, Tavington gave his judgment.

"Very well, then. If you will not speak, then I shall punish all of you fairly. In accordance with your mistress' wishes."

"You'll never turn us on one another!" A lone woman barked from the far end. "We're loyal to our own and our mistress! You have no right!"

Her husband yanked her back in line, shushing her furiously as he tried to cover her mouth.

Tavington redirected his attentions to her, amused at her antics. "On the contrary, I have every right. Your mistress was quite clear when she hired me on that I was to do...oh, what were her words...'however I see fit'?"

She glared but said nothing, and her husband's hand dropped from her mouth.

William stood tall, running his gaze over every slave as he commanded their attention. "Your workloads have just been doubled. Thanks to your..." he looked back at the woman, his blue eyes warm as ice. "'Loyalty'."

He pointed to the young boy, singling him out amongst the rest. "Except you. You will do nothing for the next week except watch as your fellow workers pull your weight."

Already, he could see the seed of resentment in the eyes of the others, and he almost couldn't wait until the supposed 'loyalty' they'd claimed to hold for one another shattered to pieces at his hands.

He smiled pleasantly, gesturing to the barn doors. "Carry on, then. You've a long week ahead of you. Best not waste any time."

Slowly, they filed out, the boy giving him a wary backwards glance as he exited the barn. Tavington gave a malicious smile, causing him to scamper off. He would find out who the problem child was. And when he did, he would deal with them accordingly.

The days came and passed, and miss O'Neil's eye gradually became less critical of him and his treatment toward her slaves, until finally things slipped back into normalcy.

Despite the incident involving the nameless boy (N'Wela, he had later come to learn) and the horse, Margaret commended him for giving him a week off work duties to 'think about what he had done'. Tavington waited with a listening ear for one of his charges to tell on him to their mistress once again, but he had not laid a hand on any of them since receiving his first reprimanding, and so he knew he'd done his job properly when no such news came to him, and his tactics had worked; thus far.

He was well aware that he had procured a very fortunate living situation, and had no intention of sacrificing it to anyone lest another, significantly better opportunity presented itself. Miss O'Neil truly was a generous benefactor, true to her word and relatively easy to please, though he thought her kindness and gentle nature to be pitfalls of her character. How he had managed to come into her good graces before any other was beyond him.

William wiped the sweat from his eyes, no longer wishing to be outside. He longed for a drink - ached for it, actually - but miss O'Neil kept no liquors in the kitchen or pantry, and she kept access to the wine cellar under lock and key. He wondered if she knew of his drinking problem - after all, she had found him outside a bar - but decided he would rather not know what she truly thought of him. As long as she kept up with their agreed payments, her personal opinions were no concern of his.

Ordering one of the slaves to finish up with the garden, he made his way back to the farmhouse to get a refreshment. Hopping up onto the porch, he crossed the short distance to the door and went inside. He took a deep breath as he savored the slightly cooler, shaded air that surrounded him, and made his way down the hall to the kitchen. Dishware clattered loudly in the silent house as he poured himself a cup of cider, wishing the liquid were cooler going down his throat than it was. But a drink was a drink, and it was better than nothing. Among the many amenities Miss O'Neil possessed, an ice house was also one of them; perhaps he could ask for her permission to use it for drinks.

Circling his glass of cider with his forefinger, Tavington mused on his thoughts a few moments more before deciding his break time must be concluded. Sighing silently, he carried his drink with him back through the house, passing by the library to see Margaret reading. She was content, rocking back and forth in her chair as she turned a page with a delicate turn of the wrist. And what was this? No Kitch?

"Mister Tarleton, hello," she greeted. "What brings you inside?"

He held up his glass of cider. "I was merely fetching a drink. It is rather hot outside today."

She made a flushed face. "Whew. You do not jest. I, too, have been struggling with the heat. It's worse upstairs."

"Yes, it does tend to be worse as heat rises."

"Yes indeed."

An awkward beat of silence passed, and William began to wonder if he should excuse himself or simply take leave.

"You are welcome to join, Mister Tarleton." Margaret gestured to her book and the empty chair beside hers. "But please be aware that I enjoy silence when I read."

He blinked, genuinely surprised. The thought of being able to once again peruse a library piqued his interest, but also made him wary; he had been disappointed by many an aristocrat's collection, and so he doubted if a colonial widow's would be much different. Still, an excuse to stay shielded from the day's blistering heat a bit longer was a most welcome one.

"I thank you, miss. It is noted."

Silently, he crossed the threshold to the reading room. It was decently sized; not vast, but not as small as he had assumed it to be, for this was his first true turn about the room since having been invited to stay. He had never had the time to ask permission before, and so he had never intruded. Margaret watched him from the corner of her eye, an almost mischievous smile at her lips. Feigning disinterest, Tavington moved to the row of bookshelves furthest away from her, eyes drifting lazily over the spines and their titles.

One title in particular caught his interest, for he remembered having started it during his time under the command of Cornwallis, but never finishing it.

Over seven years ago...

He pulled it from the shelf and sifted through its pages, key words and chapter titles jolting his memory but unable to pinpoint where exactly he had left off. Exhaling, he took the book and seated himself next to Margaret, who had already gone back to reading. She rocked back and forth in her chair, the low grinding the only sound to be heard in the whole of the house.

Her manservant, Kitch, decided on that time to reenter the room, having brought a drink for Margaret. She thanked him as he reclaimed his place at her side, and Tavington swallowed, trying to make himself comfortable. He was unsure why, but he found himself unable to focus on any of the words on the page before him. It wasn't until Margaret had turned a page in her own book that he was able to snap himself out of his daze and begin reading. He didn't understand why it was proving so difficult to sit back and enjoy a good book, but he absolutely refused to believe the young woman sitting in the chair next to him had anything to do with it; and certainly not Kitch.

Preposterous, his mind remarked snidely.

Giving his head the slightest of shakes, he brought up an ankle to rest on his opposite knee and relive Jacob Tollwright's Phischer.

Nearly an hour passed, and both Margaret and Tavington were well immersed in their books.

He would never admit it aloud, but he was truly pleased to have found something from his past that he was able to enjoy again, and he was decided that this was something he would finish on a positive note.

Phischer had just received word that his father had left, abandoned him and his mother to go traipsing around the world with vagabonds. This was the scene he remembered most clearly out of the entirety of what he'd read all those years ago, and he sped through it with bitter disdain, reminded of his own father. He would never forget walking into the parlor after finishing his lessons with his governess to find his mother in tears, his father's crumpled note in her hands. He hadn't even the decency to tell them in person that he were leaving, and leaving them with nothing. If it had not been for his mother's family connections, he was certain they'd have been destitute for the remainder of their lives. He wondered where she resides now, given she were still alive. But that was another question in his life that would most likely never be answered.

He finished with the chapter of the book, stopping at five. He pulled the ribbon into place to mark his spot, and closed Phischer, jolting Margaret from her own novel.

"Finished so soon?"

"I am afraid I must be getting back to work, Miss O'Neil."

She smiled. "William?"

"Yes, Miss?"

"Call me Margaret."

An unknown feeling shot through him, and though dull and mysterious in its origins, he brushed it away. "Very well, miss-"

She raised a brow.

"...Margaret."

She smiled fully now, showing teeth as she reopened her book.

"Very well. Carry on with your good work. William."

He bowed and left the room, feeling as though he were unable to get to the porch door fast enough. Though it had been cooler inside, he felt he could breathe once his skin hit the sun, and he all but rushed back into his daily grind amidst the slaves. Anything to keep his mind occupied from the house and the woman residing in it.

A/N: I probably should mention that Phsicher is not a real book and doesn't exist. I could have sworn it was an actual authentic historical fiction I had come across when I was googling old books Tavington might have been interested in, but alas, I can't find it anywhere. So it must have just been my imagination making it up ^^;