The Butcher's Daughter

Chapter 22

Captain Bordon reconvened with the Green Dragoons several hours after he and William parted ways. At daybreak, they continued on their search for Mabel. Their efforts were halfhearted, but Bordon began to sense a subtle change in Captain Wilkins. After years in the military, he knew what it implied. The young dragoon was both restless, drained and overcome with both anger and depression. His hands would shake one moment and steady the reins the next, the whites of his eyes wore a red glaze and were permanently widened as he looked out into the woods. Tavington had done this. He was terrified of him and what his fate might be should he fail to return Mabel to their unhinged commander.

"I'm relieving you, Wilkins," when Bordon touched the top his shoulder, the young soldier startled, "there are other lads, no doubt, at our lookout by the river at this hour. I want you to go down there and rest. Tell them that Bordon sent you. Tavington can answer to me when he returns." He gave no nod, no acknowledgement, really, to let Bordon know that he had heard. He simply rode alongside his fellow loyalist for several paces before trotting away into the woods. There was hushed gossip up ahead and he ripped into it without hesitation. "Pipe down!" Bordon nearly screamed, "You are here to follow orders. No matter how ridiculous they may be! I will have no further complications from the lot of you, is that clear? We will find that little shite. Today. Then, we will hand her over to Cornwallis at Fort Carolina and that will be the end of it."

They pressed on in silence for several miles. It was not in Bordon's nature to make a command twice. Nor was it in the nature of his fellow soldiers to question him. When he assumed the role, he wore power well. But Bordon also had a nearly inherent curse of being trailed by trouble wherever he went and naturally, trouble followed him into the woods that day. The ambush had "Ghost" written all over it. Shots rained down from the heavens and were fired from varying depths of undergrowth, obliterating the row of dragoons who were holding up the rear. Seven men total were dead on the ground before he gave his order. To tell them to disperse was his first instinct, but he knew what destruction that might bring.

They formed an outward-facing ring and returned fire out into the woods, killing a handful of Benjamin Martin's marksmen. There was no surrender from the opposers. Several did retreat. Amongst them was a young man who Bordon seemed to recognize from previous attacks. It might have been cowardice, it might have been bloodlust that ignited that same combination of emotions he glimpsed in Captain Wilkins earlier. I'd say that it was nothing more than the appeal of power that caused Bordon to chase after the boy, dismount when he was within reach and pin him to the ground with his blade pressed firmly to his throat. If he could not find Mabel, a lead to the Ghost would be more than sufficient.

"What is your name?" He asked, almost politely. Well, as politely as one might inquire while on the verge of slicing into another man's neck. "Where might I find your commander?"

His dark eyes glistened, nearly in laughter. "A loyalist," he smirked, "I learn something new about you dragoons every day. You hung those children in Pembroke, didn't you? I hope that your children hang, too."

This brand of slander would have seemed typical to any other man, but it unlocked a chamber in Bordon's heart that housed both pain and fury. He felt as though he was sinking into the earth as the memory of that hot summer day in New Jersey consumed him. How his dearest friend, John Andre had held onto his tiny son as he killed the last of the rebels on his property. How deeply the rough fibers of the noose had ripped into the child's neck, bruising and reddening his tender flesh. He did not struggle and suffer long like his wife, whose neck did not break, who continued to kick and fight even after she was pushed from the ledge, no. That boy, that innocent boy who looked so much like his father, loved nothing more than climbing that same tree to catch, study and release butterflies in the early evening, was there one moment and gone the next. It was not for Tavington, Cornwallis or King George that Bordon killed that marksman, it was for Sebastian. Every rebel that he had ever slaughtered since that day had been for his son. Bordon pushed the knife in deeply, pitilessly, seeing only retribution as the colonial bled out.
Once the light abandoned the man's pure brown eyes, Bordon searched his pockets for documents and letters. He knew exactly where to look, against the silent hold of his left breast. That was where Bordon kept as many letters from Sylvia as he could carry. "Gabriel Martin," he muttered aloud, stowing away the boy's letters from his beloved, Anne for later examination. Gabriel's name and bitter end meant little to the others and they pushed forward, hardly knowing what his death had set in motion.