South Carolina was a rich and beautiful place, Tavington decided, but not fit for human habitation in the summer. It had been an over-long patrol under a hot sun. Their uniforms clung sweat-sodden to them; it was impossible to drink enough water. Dealing with treacherous Crackers, and listening to their incomprehensible jargon, had tried his never strong patience. Perhaps the knights of the Crusades were right: Kill them all and let God sort them out. He looked back over his dragoons. They were bearing up well enough, but their mounts needed a breather.

"Wilkins!"

The local-born captain brought up his horse beside him. "Sir?"

"Is there a Loyal family within a few miles of here? The horses need rest and water without having to fight for them."

Wilkins tilted his head back, thinking. Then he grinned.

"Well, yes, sir. There's the Wildes' place, called 'Arcadia.'" He stretched in the saddle slightly, easing his back. "A little out of the way, but as loyal as any you'd like to see. John Wilde's dead, of course. Got wounded in Georgia last year and died here at home, but his widow's bound to be glad to see us, with all the murdering Rebels about. She's an Everleigh, you see, which makes her kin to me on my mother's side--"

"Thank you, Captain Wilkins," snapped Tavington, cutting him off. Of course Wilkins was related to every family within a fifty-mile radius. They were an incestuous pack of savages, at best. An elusive memory stirred. "Wait! Wilde, you say? John Wilde the naturalist?"

"Yes sir, that's the one," the hulking Carolinian answered readily. "Kind of an eccentric fellow, you see, sir. He came here from England years ago to paint plants and birds and such. Not a bad sort, really. He could ride and shoot and all like a gentleman, but sometimes he'd go off for days and take all his drawing gear with him, and my cousin Peter swears that he once saw him up in a tree down Camden way. There he was, drawing like it was the most regular thing in the world, and Peter calls out to him, asking what he's doing, and old Wilde answers, 'Following my Muse.'" Wilkins snorted to himself and chuckled, "Following his Muse."

Tavington grimaced. He had admired some of Wilde's work he had seen years ago in London, and then more recently in Charlestown. The impressive folio publication of Flora and Fauna of the Carolina Colonies was hardly within his own means, but he had greatly enjoyed the occasional glimpses that various acquaintances' libraries had afforded. He felt a pang for John Wilde, surrounded by ignorant yokels like Wilkins. And now dead, it seemed. All that artistry and passion for nature snuffed out by a clod of a Rebel. "All right," Tavington said. "How far is it?"

Wilkins shrugged, "Not more than another hour, I reckon, Colonel."

Longer than he liked, but worth it if it meant a chance to see Wilde's home. If the widow were truly sympathetic to the King's cause, perhaps he and his officers might be invited into the house, and he could get a look at some of Wilde's other work.

He gave a nod to Wilkins. "Lead on, then, Captain."

A sunken road led them through overhanging cedars. The shade was welcome, and Wilkins assured him that the house was "on apiece," but not too far now.

Suddenly the road turned northeast, and Tavington glimpsed part of a tall white house and an ivy-covered chimney. Gradually the whole house was revealed: large enough, but strangely retiring. Perhaps it was all the trees crowding thick around it, and the flowering vines garlanding the columns of the front veranda.

Then the silence struck him. An estate like this should be alive with people--family, servants, slaves. There should be horses in the nearby pasture, and activity toward the back by the kitchen and the slave cabins.

He exchanged a quick look with Bordon, who was obviously of the same mind.

"An ambush, sir?" muttered the captain.

"Tell Hunt and Monroe to be on their guard." Bordon turned his horse back to confer with his junior officers. Tavington eyed Wilkins with suspicion. He was new to Tavington's command, and the quality of his loyalty was still unknown. Wilkins seemed to notice nothing amiss, and appeared to be anticipating nothing more than a pleasant round of gossip with distant relations.

As they cantered up to the house, Tavington noticed that it was not entirely deserted. A small figure sat on the edge of the veranda, legs dangling over.

Closer in, he saw it was a nicely dressed little girl, who jumped to her feet and waved to them. Bordon glanced at his colonel, and Tavington shrugged. Hard to believe that even Rebel scum would risk a child in such a way. As he reined in at the front steps, the child saluted.

"Hello! Good day to you, gentlemen! We're so happy to see you!" Looking past Tavington she beamed. "Oh, hello, Cousin James! You look very nice." Some of the dragoons stifled guffaws.

Tavington raised an eyebrow at Wilkins. "Well, Captain, will you not introduce me to the lady?"

"Of course, sir. Colonel Tavington, may I present Miss Julia Wilde?"

The little girl squeaked with excitement. "Are you that Colonel Tavington?"

"I am quite sure I must be, Miss Julia." The child seemed impressed rather than fearful. "I would be obliged if you would fetch your mother. We must request that she extend her hospitality to us and to our horses in His Majesty's name."

"Oh, of course you can stay." The girl waved airily. "We're happy to have you, though we wish you'd come last week. And I can't fetch Mamma." Her happy mood evaporated. "She's dead."

"Cousin Emma's dead?" Wilkins seemed shocked. "Was it the Rebels?"

"No," answered Julia flatly, "a cancer." She turned back to Tavington. "Lilabet won't mind you staying. I'd get her, but she's trying to make Melly come out of the woods." Tavington stared at her. The girl brightened. She asked in a grown-up voice no doubt copied from her mother, "Would you and your officers care for tea, Colonel?"

Well, why not? "We would be most grateful, madam."

He signed to dismount, and swung off his horse, looking at his hostess. She was really quite pretty--dark curling hair and big dark eyes in a pale little face. He gave her a bow, and she replied with a smiling curtsey.

"Welcome to Arcadia, gentlemen."

Tavington turned to Bordon. "You and Wilkins with me. Detail the junior officers to supervise the halt. Two hours should suffice." Tavington had another thought, and stopped him. "Wait. Let young McKay join us." Cornet David McKay was the Dragoons' newest and youngest officer, and it seemed to Tavington that he had been particularly hard hit by the realities of war. Not that tea in the company of sympathetic ladies was a cure, but it could be something of a consolation.

The pleasantly cool house was typical of many in the South, built around a long hall with doors at either end. The girl led them through the entryway, and then left into the library. The house appeared deserted except for the five of them.

"Please make yourselves comfortable, gentlemen. I'll be back with the tea directly." The child turned to leave, when Wilkins stopped her.

"Julia, honey, are you all alone here? Where are the slaves?"

"Gone. Stolen by the--" she lowered her voice to a whisper, "dirty Rebels."

Tavington frowned. Misunderstanding his expression, she apologized. "I know I'm not supposed to say dirty Rebels. Lilabet says it's ungenteel. But," she said, looking defiant, "Melly says dirty Rebels, and I've heard Lilabet say dirty Rebels, and once," she added impressively, "she said something worse."

Her guests' expressions evidently satisfied her. "I have to go now, or we'll never have any tea. I'm sure Lilabet and Melly will be back soon." She looked hopefully at Tavington. "Do you like pictures?"

He gave her a slight smile. "I like pictures painted by your father." Julia looked as if life could hold nothing greater.

"You do? You know about Papa?" She dashed over to a table supporting a large folio album. "Then here's his big book. And here," she said, running to an easel with a portfolio leaning against it, "are some of the pictures he finished before he got himself wounded and died." She walked backwards toward the door, smiling at Tavington. "I'll get the tea while you're looking, and we'll have cake with it."

As her footsteps faded down the echoing hall, Tavington felt his officers' eyes on him. He turned, and there was Bordon, warm and kind; McKay, pink with suppressed mirth; and Wilkins, grinning impudently. He gave them a quelling look, and Bordon ventured, "Cake, sir? I am sure we are very obliged to you for your exertions in providing for your subordinates--"

Tavington cut him off, slightly irritated. "That will do."

Wilkins, unable to take the hint, observed, "She sure did take a shine to you, Colonel. I reckon none of the rest of us would rate cake."

"Wilkins."

"Sir," he subsided.

Tavington turned on the fresh-faced cornet. "Do you have an opinion, Mr. McKay?"

The boy choked a little. He was very young, and greatly in awe of his Colonel. "No sir." Then, daringly, he added. "She certainly seems very loyal."

Tavington gave a reluctant laugh, and the others smiled. "That she does." He walked over to the table, and opened the volume. A panther, Puma concolor, was vividly depicted, crouching in a cedar as if about to spring. Bordon and McKay looked over his shoulder. Wilkins glanced over from the mantel, where he was examining a finely made Kentucky rifle.

"It sure does look natural."

"Yes," said Tavington. "Yes, indeed." Leaving Bordon and McKay to look at the book, he strode over to the easel, and began leafing through the watercolours in the portfolio. Plants of all sorts, beautifully delineated in the finest style of horticultural drawing; animals at rest and in life-like action; and surprisingly, a series of charcoals of some attractive young girls, among whom he recognized the pretty features of little Julia. Then there was a sweet-faced, matronly woman. She was pictured sitting at the library desk, idly holding a quill over what appeared to be account books. The late Mrs. Wilde, he assumed. Then more of the young girls: a striking young lady on horseback, proudly straight in her riding habit; Julia and a slightly older girl playing with some puppies. Tavington wryly noted that the puppies and their antics were more carefully drawn than the girls themselves.

The next picture was different still. On it were several likenesses of the same young man, or boy, really, drawn in small full-length, in profile, full-face, and sitting in tall grass, reading a book. The paper was covered with different perspectives of the same lad. At the bottom, in a fine Italian hand. were the words, Ricardus, filius carissimus. The next few pictures were all of this same dear son Richard.

"What about the son?" he asked Wilkins.

Wilkins gave him the blank bovine look that so annoyed him, and then understood. "Richard Wilde? Dead at Brandywine. Nice young fellow. Never thought he'd make a soldier, though. Kind of soft, like his father."

Tavington grunted an acknowledgement, and turned back to the pictures. There was a variety of watercolours of Nicotiana, and a charming study of a mourning dove. He looked moodily away from the pictures, out the window, over the front lawn, at the dragoons walking out the horses. Obviously, the second volume of Wilde's masterwork would never be published, or would be published incomplete.

There was a noise, and a kind of bustle coming from the back of the hall. Hushed voices murmured, and Tavington discerned the high voice of Julia. Another, lower voice, that of a young woman, was approaching.

"Are you sure you will not change and join us, dearest? You ought to greet our guests." An indistinct answer followed, and the young woman spoke again. "Then lie down and get some rest. I'll let you know." Footsteps--two sets of them -- ascended the staircase. Little Julia came through the library doorway a moment later, carrying a tea tray with cautious haste. She begged them to be seated and busied herself serving tea to their tastes, bearing Tavington's over to him, eyes shining.

"We have pound cake," Julia informed them. "Right after everything happened, Lilabet said we'd all feel better after we had some pound cake. Luckily she knows how to make it."

"What did happen?" wondered Wilkins.

"It's a long story," the child answered solemnly. She perched on a chair opposite Tavington, with a company smile. "So, Colonel Tavington, are you married?"

Bordon smiled into his tea. McKay choked on his cake.

"No, I am not," answered Tavington with exquisite gravity.

"Are you engaged or anything?" she persisted.

Tavington cleared his throat and glared at Wilkins' idiotic grinning. "No, Miss Julia, I am neither engaged nor ----anything."

Wilkins never knew when to stop. "Julia, are you setting your cap at the Colonel?"

The child looked at him indignantly. "Of course not. I thought he might do for Lilabet --especially after what happened."

Tavington inquired delicately, "And that was?"

Julia sipped her tea. "Lilabet will tell you. She'll be down directly. She's changing her dress because she doesn't like to look more like a field-hand than absolutely necessary."

"Quite understandable," remarked Bordon, helpfully.

"Anyway, you should all have more cake. It's the last of it." She clapped her hand over her mouth, nearly upsetting her cup on Bordon. "I wasn't supposed to tell you that. Lilabet said that if I let on that we were running low on food, she'd box my ears."

Tavington could not repress a smile. "Does she box your ears often, then?"

"Never," Julia admitted. "She just says she will. I've never seen her hit anybody but Charles Crawford, and that was only with his engagement ring, so it couldn't have hurt more than his feelings, and he deserved it anyway."

"Because of what happened?" suggested Cornet McKay.

"That's right," affirmed Julia. "Lilabet says when a man brings all his friends to rob you in the middle of the night, it's a clear sign the engagement is over."

The officers considered this with due decorum.

Wilkins was the first to speak up. "Charles Crawford? Son of Hamish Crawford?"

"That's the one." Julia sniffed, "Melly and I aren't sorry though. We never liked him anyway, because he's two-faced."

Bordon managed, "Just as well that his true nature was revealed before your sister was bound to him in marriage."

"That's what I say," agreed Julia. "I'm not surprised he turned traitor. He was always just as nice as pie to Melly and me, but Lucy Stubblefield told Melly that Charles Crawford told her brother that he was packing Melly and me off to school in Charlestown as soon as he and Lilabet were married. So you see."

Whatever anyone might have said to this last was forgotten as a young woman entered the room. The officers all rose at her arrival, McKay fumbling with his teacup. Tavington recalled that she was in mourning, as he took in the summer-weight black silk gown. She had the same dark eyes and the same dark curling hair as Julia, though that hair in her case was partially covered by a very pretty lace cap.

She smiled at Wilkins. "Cousin James, how good to see you."

"Cousin Elizabeth," returned Wilkins, "allow me to present to you Colonel Tavington, Captain Bordon, and Mr. McKay. Gentlemen, my cousin, Miss Wilde."

"Madam," murmured Tavington and Bordon, bowing. McKay, flushing as he looked for a place to set his teacup, bowed a second later.

"Gentlemen." She dropped a graceful curtsey, and Tavington took a moment to study her. Attractive enough: very like a grown-up version of the engaging Julia. A little on the pale side, perhaps, but her delicate features had interest: the big, thickly-lashed dark eyes, a determined chin, and a haughty, high-bridged nose gave her face more character than mere prettiness. She was certainly the horsewoman of her father's sketch, though a few years older.

"We are very obliged to you, Madam," said Tavington, "for the warmth of our welcome here."

"Please be seated, gentlemen. I am sorry I could not greet you earlier," she said, seating herself. "Things have been rather hectic here lately. But I daresay, " she continued, with a wary look at Julia, "that my sister has been keeping you entertained."

Julia smiled back guilelessly. "I didn't tell them anything important. I knew you'd want to do that."

Tavington observed, "It appears, Miss Wilde, that you have had a visitation."

Miss Wilde gave a rueful laugh. "I suppose that's one way to put it. Another way is to say that we at last found out the worst about our neighbors. It's all very disheartening."

Wilkins leaned over for another piece of cake. "Julia said they took all the slaves."

"They took all the slaves, and all the horses, and all the rest of the stock. They looted the smokehouse and made a mess of the front lawn. All in all, a night to remember. Or not."

"And yet they did not burn the house, nor did they loot it," Tavington pointed out. "I wonder why."

Miss Wilde shot him a hostile look, which he accepted with equanimity. Little Julia fidgeted in her chair, obviously eager to tell all.

Miss Wilde said coolly, "Perhaps my appeal to their better natures was efficacious? I'm not entirely sure myself."

"Lilabet! Tell them!" Julia wriggled indignantly. She turned to Tavington. "They didn't burn the house because they're deciding who's going to get it. And Lilabet has to marry the winner, or we shall all be put out," she concluded with relish, "like cats."

"Julia, if you cannot hold your tongue, you will have to go to your room. Do you understand?"

Julia nodded, slumping sullenly in her chair.

Miss Wilde continued, with a warning look at her little sister. "That was one possibility discussed that night. Half of them were drunk, so they were hardly fit to make a rational decision. They did seem to feel that since the British would not burn the house with a Loyal family in it, they would wait until you have withdrawn, and then deliver the house to one of their own, by way of reparation, I suppose." She gave a soft sigh of disgust. "The other issue only applies if the lucky party has any interest in me."

Wilkins asked, "So Charles Crawford was with them?"

She sniffed. "Charles Crawford was with them, and he was loud in his representations that Arcadia should be spared. If he still has hopes of me, he's too big a fool to live. And so he may find." Her mouth tightened, and she stared darkly at the floor.

Considering, Tavington looked at her. "Madam, I must ask, even if it pains you -- was any violence offered to your person or to your sisters? Were you--insulted--in any way?"

Julia looked ready to burst. Her sister frowned at her and shook her head. "They were neither gentlemen nor gentle men, but it could have been worse."

Julia cried, "But Lilabet! They swore at us! And Melly---"

Miss Wilde snapped at her, "Julia, be quiet! That's not what the Colonel means!" She beckoned Julia over and put a calming arm around her. Her eyes met Tavington's. "It could have been a lot worse," she said quietly.

Tavington saw young McKay gazing at Miss Wilde with tender sympathy. He recalled that McKay's family, first generation immigrants, had been burned out of their home in North Carolina, and had refugeed south to Charlestown, where McKay had joined the Legion when he turned sixteen. Still, there was no reason to become maudlin about a girl older than himself who had, after all, escaped the worst.

He considered the situation a moment.

"Nonetheless, Miss Wilde, you and your sisters clearly cannot remain here unprotected. If you will please collect your belongings, we shall take you along with us when the horses are fully rested." He pulled his watch from his pocket and consulted it. "In about two hours -- say, one o'clock."

"Two hours!" Miss Wilde stood up, flushing with anger. "You cannot possibly imagine that we are going to leave our family home to those vultures! Why don't we all just surrender right now?" Tavington rose calmly from the sofa, eyes locked with hers. She glared at him resentfully. "I know not how the King's cause may fare, but Arcadia certainly has already lost the war."

Tavington glanced at Julia, who was staring terrified at her sister. Miss Wilde, following his gaze, pulled her sister close.

"Don't be frightened, darling. We're not going anywhere. This is our home, and the dirty Rebels won't drive us out, even if Colonel Tavington is afraid of them!"

Tavington refused to be angry with an overwrought young woman, and refrained from rolling his eyes.

"Indeed, Madam, I am offering you my protection, not because we fear the Rebels, but because we shall not be here in another two hours. By your own account, sooner or later you will endure another visit. Do you think it will be better -- or worse? And how do you think your sisters will enjoy it?" He saw that he had hit her harder with that than he had anticipated. He gave a small, reassuring smile to little Julia, who was looking to him to make everything all right. Miss Wilde stood with eyes cast down, plainly trying to find another solution.

Finally, she sank back into her chair, head in her hands. She made a soft sigh of distress that Tavington found somehow more poignant than a sob. The other officers stood close by, looking at the girl in silent compassion. Julia put her arms around her, her small face hidden in her sister's hair.

Miss Wilde looked up at Tavington, eyes huge and red. "I thank you, sir, for your offer; and it is certain that we must accept it. But," she continued bitterly, "it is plain to me that you have no home of your own, or you could not so blithely bid me leave my own behind."

"You mistake me, Madam, if you think I do not know what it is to lose one's home." Her gaze softened, and swallowing, she nodded in acceptance. He continued more gently, "If you have a wagon, you can take what you can pack in it in the time allotted. I shall detail some of my men to assist you."

"I have a wagon, but no team to draw it."

Tavington paused to think. "Who is your nearest neighbor?"

"The Stubblefields are two miles north. But the Crawfords," she snarled, "are three miles east of here, on this side of the river, and I know they have some of our stock."

"How many men?"

"Very likely none, other than Pengelly, the overseer, and the slaves. Charles, Francis, and their father are apparently chasing about the landscape with their heroic rebel friends. When they were here four nights ago, there was talk of them heading southeast for some sort of meeting with another militia group." Tavington looked significantly at Bordon, who nodded. Miss Wilde narrowed her eyes, "I'd rather you went there. I have no quarrel with the Stubblefields, and they don't have much to begin with. But the Crawfords will certainly have either cart horses or mules enough for a decent team." She added tartly, "especially since some of them are ours."

"Take your troop," Tavington said to Bordon. He frowned, thinking. "And be prudent. If you meet with any resistance, withdraw immediately. Send a message, and we shall set out and deal with them in force. If all goes well, requisition what animals we need, burn the house, tell the slaves they are free to go, and return at once." He smiled winningly at Miss Wilde. "I trust that is satisfactory?"

She smiled back a little uncertainly. Smoothing Julia's hair, she took a deep breath, and nodded. "I shall begin packing immediately. Excuse us." She stopped on her way out of the library, and turned to Bordon. "And if you see a grey mare, fourteen hands high, with a white star, and dark grey markings on the left hindquarter---she's mine!"

Amused at Wilkins' indignation, Tavington had declared, "Very proper, Captain, to render your cousin all the assistance in your power." He had felt a little alarmed at Miss Wilde's speculative look, as if she were contemplating what task she might dare to assign him.

Now, with the library to himself, and no reason not to indulge in the luxury of stretching out full-length on the comfortable sofa, he wondered if he had been excessively influenced by a pretty face, or indeed, two pretty faces. He smiled to himself, thinking of the entertaining little Julia. He must get her aside and hear the full story of the rebels' visit, rendered in her amusingly naïve style. Her reserved older sister seemed unwilling to divulge many details. He wondered again if the rebels had gone farther with her than she would admit. Not that it could be in any way her fault. Still, his instincts told him that more had happened than he had been told.

He had surprised himself at his unguardedness in mentioning the loss of his own home. Years ago, of course, but somehow today's events brought it all back: the frantic packing, his mother's anguished indecision as to what to leave and what to take, his own bewilderment. Unwillingly, he wondered if he did get a shameful satisfaction out of seeing others suffer as he had. Firmly thrusting the idea aside, he took the last piece of cake, and savoured it slowly.

Rising lazily, he decided to take pity on Wilkins. He went over to the window and called out to Lovins and Baird to assist Captain Wilkins and Miss Wilde upstairs. Feeling he had done his duty, he strolled back over to the folio album. Surely she would want to take this. Involuntarily, he found himself drawn to the bookcases, considering what he would want to keep in her situation.

He heard the dragoons' heavy tread ascending the staircase. He felt himself well out of it. Turning back to the books, he took in the expected number of books on natural history and philosophy. There was also an impressive collection of literature, ancient and modern, including a great deal of poetry, and not a few collections of letters. Two full rows of legal tomes, he noted, and some well-bound novels. An obviously much-loved copy of Dr. Johnson's dictionary.

Miss Wilde walked into the room, Baird behind her. He carried a moderately large wooden crate and she, a quilt.

"Excuse me, Colonel," said Miss Wilde briskly. "I need to pack up what I can of our library." She paused before the shelves, and looked from them to the crate, obviously wondering how to make the contents of one fit into the other. It was plainly not going to happen. She sighed, and turned to Baird. "Please, Mr. Baird, wrap up the large book on that table in this quilt. Very carefully, I pray you. The book was my father's and very precious to us."

Baird busied himself with spreading the quilt on the floor and wrapping up the volume. Miss Wilde came to stand beside Tavington, pensively regarding the bookcases. She bit her lip, and then turned to speak to Baird.

"When you are done, please take it and that large black portfolio out to the carriage house. Just leave them beside the wagon, and I'll decide how to pack it all later. " She turned again to the bookcase. "One hardly knows where to begin," she murmured, half to herself.

Tavington pulled out the copy of the Dictionary. "I would advise you to take what you like best, not what you think you ought to bring."

"Very wise of you, Colonel. I certainly wasn't planning to transport the family law library. Or Archbishop Tillotson's Sermons." She began to sort quickly through the books, laying some on the floor by the crate.

"I'm shocked," Tavington said primly. "Shocked. What about Fox's Book of Martyrs?"

"A good thought. Julia adores the gruesome bits." She placed the volume on the growing stack and then began sorting through the novels. "Pamela, Tristram Shandy, the Vicar of Wakefield, Rasselas...."

"You're leaving Clarissa?" asked Tavington, eyebrows raised.

"With pleasure. I loathe that book."

Tavington smirked.

"Well, I do," she huffed, placing another few books on the stack. "Clarissa Harlowe is the stupidest women in English literature. She runs away with a man whom she knows to be wicked, and then is terribly surprised when he behaves wickedly. What a fool."

Tavington could not resist. "Miss Wilde, you don't know me at all, and yet you will be travelling with me in less than two hours. What would the literati say of you?"

She glared at him. "Apples and oranges, Colonel. Would you be so good as to hand me the Dryden and the Spenser on the top shelf? I am travelling with you as you represent the King's authority under this roof. Are you unworthy of his trust?" She laid the books down, and then sat on the floor by the crate, tentatively beginning to arrange the volumes in the most compact way. "And I think I could manage Mr. Gray as well. To your left. Thank you."

"'The paths of glory lead but to the grave, Miss Wilde?'"

"All paths lead to the grave, Colonel."

"Yes, I believe that was Gray's point."

"Actually, my thoughts were more in the vein of 'Where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise.'"

Tavington smiled, and looked over the shelves. "Surely you don't mean to leave this behind," he said, displaying the cover of Sidney's Arcadia.

She looked up at him, hurt, and Tavington felt a little ashamed. "You are unkind, sir. Do not forget to wave Paradise Lost in front of me as well. But you are right, of course." She reached up for the Sidney.

"And Mr. Milton is the red morocco further down. Yes, that's it. It is a very fine edition. And Mr. Pope's Iliad." She smiled fondly.

Working together, they quickly filled the crate. Miss Wilde rose and looked unhappily at the remaining books. "You know, Colonel, if you or your officers see anything here you care for, I would much rather you all had them, than my treacherous neighbors and their new best friends."

"That is most generous."

"Not at all."

Baird had come back, and Miss Wilde directed him to take the crate out to the carriage house. He looked askance at it, and went for help. When he had gone, Miss Wilde turned again to Tavington.

"My cousin James is helping Julia pack her toys and books from the nursery. I thought that would suit him better than this. I also asked him to collect my father's weapons. He owned a very beautiful set of pistols I must show you when we are at leisure."

He accompanied her into the hall, and was surprised to see a young boy leaning wearily against the wall. No one had said anything about a boy living here. He looked again, and saw it was not a boy, but a pretty young girl of thirteen or fourteen, dressed in a boy's shabby breeches, shirt, and waistcoat. Obviously, the sister he had not yet met, by her dark eyes; though these were accompanied by light brown hair, rather than dark.

Miss Wilde introduced them. "Colonel, my sister, Amelia Wilde. Melly, this is Colonel Tavington of the Green Dragoons." She gave Tavington a hard look, daring him to say anything about her sister's appearance. He bowed to the girl, and she gave a curtsey, at odds with her costume. She murmured an unintelligible greeting, her eyes averted from him.

Amelia whispered to her sister, "I've packed all the food that's left. What do you want to do about the wine and spirits?" Lovins, passing through the hall with a heavy load, looked hopefully at his Colonel. Tavington cleared his throat.

"I would advise you, Miss Wilde, to take a few bottles along for medicinal purposes." He smiled, "Perhaps you would not begrudge my officers and men the rest."

He received a knowing look in reply. Miss Wilde turned to her sister. "There is a crate in the dining room. Pack the silver candlesticks, and gather Mother's tea set and wipe it. The officers were using it in the library. Bring the silver chest as well--and the box of candles. We won't have room for anything else. Then," she said, touching her sister's shoulder gently, "you must pack your trunk. Please be sensible. And help Julia with hers. I'll be up to look at them shortly."

She gave Tavington a crooked smile. "To the cellar, then, Colonel?" He followed and stopped behind her as she looked into the front parlor. He gestured at a fine grand pianoforte.

"I imagine you'll be sorry to leave that."

"We won't be entirely bereft musically. There is a small square instrument in the nursery I asked Cousin James to have loaded. The legs unbolt, so it should fit in the wagon quite well. I'll put the music we're taking in Julia's trunk. She'll have the most room."

Tavington noticed a very beautiful portrait above the mantel. He approached to look at it more closely. From the previous sketch, he gathered it was Mrs. Wilde. She was depicted before an exotic background of native plants and animals. He had never seen a portrait like it. The woman seemed as much a part of the natural world as everything else in the picture.

"Your father painted this, I presume? It is very much in his style."

Miss Wilde actually laughed. "Indeed it is. We told him he should submit it along with his other pictures for the next volume, and name it Femina Carolinae. You know my father's work, then?"

"I first saw his book in London -- years ago, now. A friend owned it and had it open at the drawing of the live oak. It is a very powerful picture: ancient, garlanded with moss, unlike any tree I had ever seen. It represented all the lure of distant lands to me."

"Is that why you are in Carolina?"

"Madam, I am in Carolina to serve the King. It's an ugly business, doing one's duty, but just occasionally, it's a real pleasure."

They smiled at each other for a long moment, and Miss Wilde blushed and dropped her eyes.

"Of course I must keep it. When we are finished in the cellar, I'll tell one of your men to take it down and wrap it."

They proceeded on to the kitchen, and downstairs to the cellar. Tavington was impressed.

"A great deal of this was put down before I was born," Miss Wilde told him. "As you see, there is far more than we can dream of taking." She picked up a crate and began filling it. A good brandy, a few bottles of very good claret, some port, and --

"Rum, Miss Wilde?"

"It's very good for cleaning wounds. Which reminds me that I mustn't forget the medicine chest. There, that's all, I think." She started to lift the crate, but Tavington forestalled her, and carried it upstairs for her.

"Thank you. I'll tell one of your men to take it out. Please make free with the rest. I really must change and see to my trunk." She hastened away with a rustle of silk, and Tavington returned downstairs to contemplate his find. He pulled out a brandy and a claret for himself, and decided to turn the rest over to Sergeant Cameron, after the officers had a chance at it.

Once upstairs, he came down the hall to see Lovins and Baird with the body of a small pianoforte between them, and Wilkins following them, carrying the legs. Julia hopped down the stairs after them, and then seeing Tavington, skipped over to him.

"Hello, Miss Julia. Have you already finished packing?"

"Well, I'm done, but my packing isn't. Melly said I was doing it wrong. Then Lilabet came upstairs and told Melly she was doing hers wrong. It's a little tense up there now, so I thought I'd come downstairs and help you."

"Thank you. I was just going to the library to choose some books. You could help me carry them out to my horse."

In the library, ostensibly studying the books, Tavington considered how best to approach the child for information.

"Has your sister Amelia always worn boy's clothes?"

"Doesn't she look peculiar? No, only since last Friday. That was the day after the dirty rebels came. She says she doesn't want to be a girl anymore. She put on some of Richard's old clothes, and now Lilabet can't get her to change."

"It must have been a terrible time for all of you. Did something particularly shocking happen to Miss Amelia?"

"Shocking? I guess I'd say that. Those men, those dirty men came riding up to our house, and I knew right away that it was different than anybody else ever coming here. Some of them were the sort of men who always came to the back door before to ask for things. But now they acted like they owned everything. They had chains with them, and started shackling all the slaves. I wanted to run and hide with Keziah (she's my friend), but Lilabet said it would be worse if we hid and they found us. And they did find Keziah under her cabin, and they dragged her out, and I think they hurt her arm."

Julia fidgeted in her chair. "And so there we were, all three of us, standing on the front porch, and those men were running around and grabbing slaves and driving off the horses and cattle. It was confusing. And this man who was leading them came up on the porch to talk to Lilabet, but I could see that she didn't matter to him. And then he saw me, and knelt down and held my shoulders and told me not to be scared, like he was my friend." At this, Julia made such a face that Tavington couldn't help laughing.

Julia scowled at him. "Well, I'm not stupid, you know. I may be ten, but I'm not stupid." She kicked her legs back against the chair. "Not stupid," she repeated.

Tavington came over and gently laid his hand on the curly dark hair. "I can see you are not. What then?"

Julia jumped up and pulled him over to the sofa with her. She lowered her voice to a whisper. "Some men came up and started talking about Lilabet and how pretty she was, and they started touching her. And then that Charles Crawford ran over and put his arm around her, and told them to stay away because she was promised to him. I thought Lilabet would slap him, but she didn't. She was really quiet. And then one man came up to Melly and asked, 'And how about you, Missy? You promised to someone?' And Lilabet cried, 'She's only fourteen!' and tried to go to Melly, but Charles Crawford held on to her. And that horrible man said, 'Old enough,' and he grabbed Melly and kissed her right on the mouth." Julia huddled against Tavington's shoulder, and to his own surprise, he put a comforting arm around her.

"And then I guess Melly bit him, because he yelled and shoved her away, and then he hit her with his fist so hard, he knocked her off the porch." Julia looked up at him, tears glistening on her lashes. "Lilabet got away from Charles Crawford, and we ran over to Melly and held her where she lay on the ground. And then that rebel Colonel made the men get back and leave us alone. Charles Crawford stood there beside us, but Lilabet wouldn't look at him. We heard them talking back and forth about whether to burn the house or not, but then they decided that if you British went away, it would be nice to have the house to give to someone you'd burned out. And Charles Crawford asked them not to loot the house yet, because he and Lilabet were going to get married and he wanted time to pick out what to keep, and they could have the rest then. And it seemed like he and that rebel Colonel were real good friends, so they said maybe they'd let us stay if Charles Crawford married Lilabet. So they decided just to take the slaves and livestock and share them out. They got on their horses and Charles Crawford looked back at Lilabet and she said, 'Be sure to get your share of the loot. I know your family will be proud to have stolen things.' And then he was riding away with them, and she took off his ring and threw it at him, and she yelled at him, 'And don't forget this, traitor!'"

They sat together for a little while, and Tavington drew a deep breath. "I am very sorry this happened to you -- to all of you. But you are safe now. You will come away with us to Fort Carolina, and no one will dare bother you there." Julia looked up at him. He took out his handkerchief and wiped her face. "I will protect you. You have my word of honour as an officer."

"You know what, Colonel? We found that engagement ring the next day, and the next time we go to Charlestown, Lilabet is going to sell it, and we shall all buy something we really like with the money!"

He smiled and kissed the top of her head. "What an excellent notion." He rose and offered her his hand. "And now you must help me finish choosing my books!"

In the end, he found some wonderful things. The Misses Wilde, he decided, read French but not Latin, because the untranslated classics were untouched. He found a Georgics, a beautiful Catullus, and smiled slyly as he pulled out a rare copy of Petronius' Satyricon. He much doubted that the innocent young ladies had a clue what that was. He decided he could fit one more volume, and opted for a collection of Marlowe's plays.

Stacking the books in Julia's willing arms, and picking up his bottles, he strolled out into the sun. He saw dark smoke rising to the east, and smiled grimly. The patrol was not yet returned, so he took his time inspecting the state of the remaining dragoons. Julia was entranced with everything and full of artless questions. He decided not to mention the cellar and library to anyone until Bordon was back, and could have first choice.

Miss Wilde came out of the house, dressed in a black riding habit suitable for travelling. She looked more than a little irritated as she stalked to the carriage house, talking in a agitated manner to Wilkins. Tavington eased out of sight behind a horse, and saw that Julia had done the same. They both laughed.

"Lilabet really is very nice, but she gets cross sometimes since Mamma died. Even when Mamma had to stay in bed all day, she could still help Lilabet and tell her how things were done, and talk to her. I think Lilabet misses her. I know I do. She was lovely." Julia stoked the horse's soft muzzle and looked up at Tavington. "Do you still have your mother?"

"No, Miss Julia, my mother died many years ago, but I still think about her." He heard the sound of horses approaching. "That should be the patrol returning. Off you go now. See if you can help your sister in the carriage house."

Julia trotted away obediently, and Tavington looked for Bordon at the head of the dragoons. A glance told him that the raid had been a success, by the large number of horses tethered behind. Some very fine mounts were among them, he noted appreciatively; but he did not see Miss Wilde's grey mare.

Bordon reined in and dismounted.

"Good hunting, I take it, Captain?"

"Indeed, sir. The overseer did not dare offer resistance. The slaves were somewhat bewildered, but I directed them to take the Camden road, where they can be sure of safety. Some of them wanted to follow us back here, but I explained that the Wildes were leaving and that we would catch them up anyway. We'll undoubtedly come across them when we finish here and head home. Otherwise, such a large party of slaves would be a prize for the locals."

"Very well. Breathe and water your mounts. You have forty-five minutes to get some rest. Have Sergeant Davies take a team of horses to the carriage house, where Miss Wilde is loading the wagon." Bordon bowed, and turned away to obey. "Oh -- and Bordon?"

"Sir?"

"Miss Wilde has permitted us to take what we wish of her library and cellar. I advise you and the other officers to avail yourself immediately. When you are finished, have Sergeant Cameron distribute the rest to the men. With strict orders not to touch it until we have returned to the fort, you understand?"

Bordon smiled. "Indeed, sir."

"Colonel Tavington. Good," were Miss Wilde's first flustered words. Composing herself, she began again, rather cautiously. "I wonder, Colonel, if I might ask a favour of you. Would you return with me to the house?"

"As you wish."

They ascended the steps together and she dropped her voice. "There is one last thing in the library that I need, but I wanted to have the assistance of someone who could promise me discretion as a gentleman."

"Madam, your cousin, Captain Wilkins---"

"Just so. He is my cousin, and this is something that I do not want spread all around the family connections."

His curiosity aroused in the highest degree, Tavington followed her into the plundered library.

"Please help me move the hearthstone." Tavington's face showed his puzzlement. She explained impatiently, "There is a counterweight, but it is difficult for me to operate, and impossible for me to retrieve what lies beneath."

Here was a mystery! Tavington strode to the fireplace and pressed firmly against the mantel at the spot indicated. The granite slab moved reluctantly, and revealed a hiding place roughly two feet square beneath it, holding a locked wooden chest.

Miss Wilde looked about for any witnesses, then gestured peremptorily at him to remove the chest.

He manhandled the surprisingly heavy object out. The contents shifted, and he heard the audible clink of metal inside. He looked a question at Miss Wilde, eyebrows raised.

"Yes, there is some money in it. Also quite important documents. Don't look at me like that: they have nothing to do with this war or any other war. They have to do with my family and are no one else's business. Give me your word, your sacred word of honour, that you will never mention the existence of this chest, its contents, or its hiding place to another soul."

"You have my word, madam. " He eyed the chest with a certain distaste. "I take it you wish me to convey this chest out to the wagon myself?"

"Yes, of course. First, though, I need you to move the hearthstone back into place."

Thinking words he would never utter before her, he accomplished that with some trouble; then hefted the chest up into his arms. As he strode from the room, he gritted out, "Would you be so good as to open the door?"

Miss Wilde had had the foresight to reserve a place in the wagon nearly large enough for her mysterious chest. Luckily only Sergeant Davies was about, harnessing the team, and he watched his Colonel being harassed by Miss Wilde's importunate demands with more veiled amusement than curiosity. Tavington examined the laden wagon and shrugged. It would certainly slow them down, but so too would the Crawford slaves they would encounter. It couldn't be helped. He considered the young woman beside him.

"Miss Wilde, do you know how to drive a team?"

"Yes, of course. One has to master all sorts of skills in an isolated place like this." Comprehending him, and displeased, she drew a deep breath. "I had hoped you would allow me to ride one of the animals from the Crawfords' place."

"Your wagon, Miss Wilde. Your belongings, your sisters. I hardly think it unreasonable to expect you to look after them. Even had you proved incapable of driving the team, I still would have wanted you in the wagon, caring for the children. Your ability simply frees a dragoon to do his first duty." She sighed in submission.

"And, Miss Wilde, we will have to spend a night encamped on the way to Camden. Have Baird and Lovins bring out a featherbed so you and your sisters will have something other than the ground to sleep upon." She nodded and went to look for them. He called after her. "And please collect your sisters. We are moving out as soon as possible. It would unfortunate to have to leave them behind." She looked back at him, incredulous and indignant, and hurried away.

Within minutes she was back, supervising Baird and Lovins as they shoehorned the featherbed on top of the other belongings and under the canvas covering. The girls emerged from the house, carrying pillows and a few assorted bags.

Tavington was preparing to mount, when he saw Miss Wilde coming toward him with a glint in her eye. He nearly groaned aloud in exasperation, and went to meet her.

"Miss Wilde, it is time to go. Can this not wait?"

She stepped under the shade of the nearest tree and Tavington joined her. She regarded him warily.

"There is a matter than concerns the slaves you confiscated from the Crawford place." Tavington was sure he knew what would follow, and braced himself.

"Some of the slaves were our property, stolen by the rebels. I hope there will be no difficulty in reclaiming them."

"Miss Wilde," he began levelly, "whatever individuals were liberated from the rebels were in the possession of the rebels, and thus our legitimate spoils of war." She looked up at him, her eyes beginning to blaze. Gazing back stonily at her, he continued, "Captain Bordon, under standing orders, has offered those slaves the promise of freedom if they wish to serve the King. Do not interrupt me, Madam," he said, stifling her protests.

"I have shown you every consideration since I arrived, Miss Wilde. I have given you the assistance of men who worked when they could have rested, and sent others of my men into possible danger so you would not have to refugee to Camden riding pillion behind a dragoon with only the clothes on your back." He stepped closer to her. She flinched slightly, but stood her ground. He looked down at her grimly.

"But never ask me to make a liar of one of my officers. You appealed to me before as a man of honour. Honour, I think you will find, is a double-edged sword."

She looked up at him, eyes wide. She is trying very hard not to tremble, poor thing, he thought.

"I am not afraid of you," she said defiantly.

He leaned over, lips almost brushing her ear, and whispered, "Then you are a very silly girl." He stepped back, looking her over. She looked back mutinously, pressed against the tree, breathing heavily.

"The subject is closed, Madam. Get in your wagon. Take the place that Sergeant Davies assigns you, and do as you are told. If you ride with the Green Dragoons, you ride under my command: and I do not tolerate insubordination."

Alert as always, he noticed the Dragoons looking surreptitiously at him: he was unsure just why. From the corner of his eye, he could see Bordon's pleased look, and Wilkins' shocked amazement. His own face expressionless, he looked over his men and discerned repressed grins on many of the war-hardened faces.

It occurred to him at last that his quarrel under the tree with the fair Miss Wilde might have been interpreted by those who saw but did not hear as a tender scene. His whisper in her ear might have looked like a kiss; her angry response like passion. It was too absurd to deny, and too embarrassing for a proud man even to acknowledge. Passing the innocent McKay he growled, and was cheered at the panicked response.

Seated on a fallen log near a fire, he stared introspectively into the flames, and tried not to taste his rations. They would have actual food tomorrow at Fort Carolina. In the meantime, he would have to subsist on the memory of Miss Wilde's pound cake. Spoiled and demanding as she was, she had her merits. Perhaps he should have invited her to join the officers for dinner. Cornpone and maggoty dried beef? There's an invitation no woman could resist. Perhaps he should check on the ladies to see if they were comfortable and secure. And lying on the dirty ground, with only the sky for roof. Perhaps Miss Wilde would have a few choice words for him. Now that's very likely. Would I prefer to sit here and wonder, or go find her and hear them for myself?

Rising instantly, he made his way toward the canvas-covered wagon and the fire near it. He saw a sleeping Wilkins wrapped in a blanket close by. Miss Wilde was washing Julia's face with a handkerchief. Someone had already taken out the featherbed, and it was neatly and incongruously made up with a quilt and three fat pillows. Amelia was resealing the water cask on the wagon's side, and started at the sight of him. She touched her elder sister's shoulder.

"What is it, Melly?" Miss Wilde caught sight of Tavington, lit by the dying fire's last flickers. "Oh, Colonel Tavington." She took in a breath to speak, and let it out again.

"I just wanted to see if you and your sisters were all right," he said quietly. She gave a sweet, ironic smile and finally, a nod.

"Yes, we're really quite all right, except for leaving our family home and most of our possessions, and wondering what shall become of us, and where we shall live, and my arms feeling as if they could drop off from all the driving---but I will stop complaining now because, really, we are all right. Really." She gave another, firmer nod, caught Tavington's eye, and laughed.

Julia looked exhausted, but she caught her sister's spirited mood, and told him with smothered excitement, "We're going to sleep outside right here with all our clothes on!"

Amelia seemed mortified, and Tavington barely heard her whisper to Julia, "Don't talk to a man about sleeping and clothes!"

"What? Should I talk about no clothes?"

"Hush, Julia!" Miss Wilde softly admonished her. "People are trying to settle down to rest, and so should you. I want you and Melly to get under the quilt and try to sleep."

"I can't sleep! This is so exciting!"

"Try anyway." Miss Wilde lifted a corner of the quilt and motioned to Julia to lie down. Gamely, Julia took off her shoes and crawled to the middle of the featherbed. Melly hung back, whispering in Miss Wilde's ear.

Miss Wilde sighed, nodded, and walked over to Tavington. "How long will the journey be tomorrow, Colonel?" she asked softly, leading him away from the wagon.

"Not more than half a day." He frowned. "Surely you already knew that?"

"I needed to walk you away from the wagon. Melly was too bashful to lie down in front of you. She's -- not comfortable with men." Miss Wilde blew out a breath and looked up at the stars. "There's Lyra. I love constellations that look like their names. And Delphinus." She pointed east.

"You are an astronomer, Miss Wilde."

"Just a watcher of the sky." Her head was tilted back, face pale in the dim light. "When I was a little girl, my father taught me the name of every star and every flower, every tree and every bird. He loved the natural world so much, and wanted everyone else to love it too."

"You must have loved your father very much." She was very near. The soft night breeze carried the light scent of the rosewater she used to rinse her hair.

She said nothing in response. Puzzled, he tried to make out her expression, and it appeared more thoughtful than anything else. Oh, well done, Will, he thought. Such a way you have with the ladies.

He tried again. "I've always admired your father. It must have been exceedingly difficult to observe his subjects and pursue his art; and still raise a family and manage your extensive plantation."

"Hmm," she smiled sadly, and then gave him a peculiar look. "My father--" she began, and stopped. To his surprise, her lips curled sardonically, and she gave a little laugh.

"My father was a naturalist, an artist, a man of science," she said carefully, testing her words. "He could be all of those things because my mother made it possible for him."

"I don't understand."

She bit her lip. "My father was a naturalist, an artist, a man of science," she repeated. "He was also a negligent farmer, an incompetent businessman, a careless husband, and a partial and unkind parent." She gave a long sigh. "There. I've said it. You mustn't imagine, Colonel, that I've ever said this to anyone else." She looked up at the sky again. "I don't know why I'm confiding in you. Perhaps the extraordinary events of the past few days have made a revolution in me."

He rolled his eyes. "I trust not, Miss Wilde. I have all the revolutions I can handle already."

She laughed softly, and took his arm. "I must sound a dreadful harpy. I think what I'm trying to say is that my mother deserves a great deal of credit. It was she who was the planter, the businesswoman, the firm and loving head of our family. She kept the estate, the family-- our whole little world--running smoothly; while my father painted, went on his expeditions, and traveled at will to London to see his engraver and publisher. I can't bear that she be forgotten or even discounted."

He laid his free hand on Miss Wilde's. "Surely that will never happen, Miss Wilde, while you live."

"Perhaps I should write a book about her."

"Perhaps you should. And entitle it, The Adventures of Femina Carolinae, by her daughter."

She smiled, more at peace now, and looked back toward her sisters, now angelically at rest under the quilt. "But first things first. I have my sisters to care and provide for, before I start performing any literary feats."

"To that end, you must get some rest. And so must I," he said, walking her toward her wagon. "Do you have any place to stay in Camden?"

"Yes," she began hesitantly. "We have kin in Camden. I have been deciding whom I could best approach." She wrinkled her nose. "Our most likely shelter is with an elderly great-aunt, who is not exactly...."

Julia, at that moment, sat straight up and declared, "We are not staying with Aunt Sarah Jane Minerva, and that's final!" She flopped back on the featherbed, and pulled the quilt over her face.

Amelia murmured a protest. Miss Wilde disengaged her arm from Tavington's with an unamused glance at Julia's quilt-covered body.

"Good night, Colonel."

"Miss Wilde." He was reluctant to leave, but could find no excuse to linger. Miss Wilde was sitting on a campstool, tugging at her boots, when Julia popped back out from under the quilt.

"We can't stay with her!" She sat up, and told Tavington earnestly, "She's the meanest old lady on the face of the earth. Her house always smells peculiar and she's always making fringe, and she has that picture!"

"Julia, hush! Beggars can't be choosers. Camden will be crowded with refugees. Even if it weren't improper, it would be impossible for us to find lodgings there by ourselves. Cousin Mary Montgomery doesn't even have room for her own children, and that leaves Aunt Sarah Jane Minerva. Now go back to sleep. Colonel Tavington doesn't want to hear gossip about our family."

Julia appealed to him. "Colonel, don't go! Aunt Sarah Jane Minerva will be miserable to us! She says spiteful things to Lilabet about being an old maid, and she makes Melly play the pianoforte in front of strangers, and she'll make me look at that picture again!" She hissed at Wilkins. "Cousin James, Cousin James! Wake up and tell Colonel Tavington about Aunt Sarah Jane Minerva's picture. Isn't it the worst thing in the world?"

Wilkins thrashed about in his blanket and stared wild-eyed at Julia. "What's wrong?" he croaked.

Miss Wilde quickly knelt on the featherbed and pushed Julia down bodily. "Shame on you! There's no reason to wake Cousin James! I'm sorry, Colonel. All this strain is finally telling on her."

Julia wriggled rebelliously, and refused to be quiet. "It's the worst thing in the world. Isn't that right?"

Wilkins moaned sleepily, "Oh, Julia, honey, don't make me think about Aunt Sarah Jane Minerva's picture. We'll all dream about it now." He burrowed down into his blanket and covered his ears. "'Night, Colonel."

"It's a picture of a skinned dog! What kind of person would have a picture like that and make a little girl look at it? I ask you." She began shaking uncontrollably. Kneeling next to Miss Wilde, Tavington took Julia's hand in his.

"Julia, stop this now!" His voice was soft but stern. "I am ordering you to settle down and let everyone sleep." The child looked beseechingly at him. "Go to sleep," he repeated. "We can talk about this when you're safe in Camden."

"Will you call on us there?" Julia pleaded. Miss Wilde blushed and shook her head at Julia, but Tavington reassured her.

"It would be an honour."

"She'll be mean to you too."

"I shall be fully armed."

Julia smiled at that, and nestled back against her pillow. Miss Wilde looked her thanks at Tavington. She knelt, bootless, on the quilt and gave a long tired sigh. He reached out to touch her shoulder, but remembered himself; and with a curt nod, bade the ladies goodnight.

Standing in the shallow streambed, cleaning himself up, he saw a few of the slave women getting water for washing and cooking. At least someone was making an effort. He wondered if some of the women were the former property of Miss Wilde. He had no desire to quarrel with her today, so he hoped the women would have the sense to avoid her and the inevitable confrontations that would follow a meeting.

Before the sun cleared the horizon, he had given orders to Bordon and Wilkins to have the dragoons and their charges on the move within the hour. He felt a growing unease about their vulnerable situation and the large numbers of straggling civilians wandering about the camp. He had managed to stay alive this long by trusting his instincts. Pausing on his way to his horse, he stared into the shadows of the trees to the west.

There! A flash in the brush that could only be sunlight on metal. He caught Bordon's eye and spoke in a hushed tone. "Call the men to arms, but do so quietly. Our rebel friends don't know they've been spotted. Are our pickets asleep?"

He called to Lieutenant Monroe, a few yards away. Dropping his voice, he ordered, "Get the Negroes and take them to the streambed. Tell them to lie flat and stay there until this is over. They're less likely to get in our way or be shot at if they're not running around." At that moment, he heard one, then two popping noises to the south.

He glanced over his shoulder to where he knew the wagon must be. He pictured the three girls asleep on their ridiculous featherbed, and hoped they would have the sense to crawl under their wagon. Never had he imagined having women on his hands at such a time.

Grey smoke puffed out of the woods, and a split second later he heard the report of a musket. "Fire at the smoke," he roared. Then a hell of gunfire erupted.

Monroe was shouting at the slaves and herding them past. There were panicked cries, but for the most part they were in the habit of obedience, and were making for the stream. The dragoons had taken cover behind horses and trees, or were prone on the ground with their weapons. Dense smoke filled the air, and Tavington feared it would soon be impossible to see where the shots were coming from. A horse screamed appallingly, and fell with a shuddering crash.

Hoofbeats were fast approaching. To the south, between the trees, he saw a group of riders, half-hidden in the smoke. He made a dash for his pistols, and looked for a clear shot.

David McKay ran right in front of him, nearly taking a bullet in the back of his head. "Move aside, Mr. McKay," Tavington shouted, "and clear my line of fire." McKay whirled and saw the pistol pointed at him. Frightfully startled, the boy jumped behind a horse and used the saddle to support his own pistol for better aim.

Tavington took a rough count of the horsemen. Ten, no -- twelve riders. They must be mad to attack a force so superior. They were firing wildly as they galloped, wasting their shots. Amateurs, he thought contemptuously. He had no clear idea how many muskets were in the trees to the west, but it was already too smoky for them to do any but accidental harm. Aiming the heavy pistol with great care, he squeezed the trigger and gave a grunt of satisfaction as his target flew backwards off his mount. The riders were fifty feet away, then thirty, and Tavington fired his second pistol at the same moment that McKay fired his. A rider whooped and fell, twisting, to the ground. Well, one of us got him. Then he drew his sabre, and the enemy was upon them.

With a two handed grip, he swung his sword at a passing rider, unhorsing him and slashing the animal across the withers. He dodged the horse's struggles and plunged his weapon with a practiced hand into the man's kidneys. That's a kill.

He straightened and looked around. The muskets to the west were silent, useless now for fear of hitting their own men. A few rebels were still mounted, slashing desperately at the remorseless hands dragging them down. From their shouts, it was apparent that they had not known what they were getting into. They probably thought Bordon and his patrol were all there were of us, and didn't scout properly. Amateurs, he thought again.

The four riders left were trying to hack their way directly through the dragoons, probably hoping to get to the shallow stream and escape across it to the east. One rider fell from his horse, sword in hand, and stumbled away, running low.

"Kill that bastard!" he heard Bordon bellow. Tavington ran after the enemy, losing sight of the dismounted man in the gunsmoke. Passing a knot of dragoons neatly dispatching a pair of the rebels, he decided they were doing fine on their own and ran on.

A thin shriek, shriller than a bird, cut above the curses, shouted commands, and clash of metal on metal.

Julia. He heard the shriek redoubled and seconded with a woman's wild, frightened cry.

Tavington sped on; leaping over a dead horse, and evading a cooking fire. Roughly shoving past a pair of men locked together in combat, he nearly tripped as he came up to the wagon and saw what lay before him.

Miss Wilde had indeed had the sense to get under the wagon with her sisters; but the unhorsed rebel, in his panic, was trying to crawl under the wagon and join them. A pistol shot sounded, and the man jerked, twitched, and was still. Julia dashed out from under the wagon's opposite side as Miss Wilde tried desperately to pull her back with her, and they fell together, nearly underneath the pounding hooves of one of the mounted rebels' horses.

Tavington went after the rebel with all the fury he possessed. Reaching up and savagely yanking at the man's jacket, he toppled him from his horse. The man fell with a howl of pain, and tripped over Julia and Miss Wilde, huddled at his feet. Grabbing Miss Wilde by her long hair, he pulled her up in front of him, shielding himself from Tavington's sword, his back to the wagon.

The other dragoons pressed forward, but Tavington shouted them back. "No, he's mine." Coming closer, he gave the man a wolfish grin, and snarled softly, "You idiot. It's not going to save you." He tried not to look at Miss Wilde's eyes, black and enormous with shock. He heard Julia whimpering to one side, and the sounds of Amelia crawling out from under the wagon to look.

Reflecting only a moment on his options, he shifted his grip on the sword hilt, and quicker than the man could follow, plunged his point above Miss Wilde's shoulder and directly into the man's eye.

Miss Wilde's gasp of disbelief was drowned out by the wounded man's keening wail of agony. She stumbled to the ground, reaching out desperately to pull Julia close. The rebel fell to his knees, clutching his face. Tavington pulled his sabre free from the eye socket with difficulty, and grasping the hilt with both hands, swung the blade with all his strength, decapitating the man in mid-scream.

The head flew past the horse and was kicked aside by another, skittering out of sight. The headless trunk, pumping spurts of blood from the dying heart, collapsed across Miss Wilde's legs, pinning her to the ground.

"Off! Off! Get off of me!" Miss Wilde punctuated each cry with a shove with one hand, while with the other hand she tried to cover Julia's wide, wide eyes. The child struggled out of her grasp, and scrambled away from the gory sight before her.

Tavington kicked the dead man away, and pulled Miss Wilde up with his left arm in one lithe movement. Holding her fast against him for a long moment, he looked into dazed, dark eyes. After a moment, she swallowed and shut her eyes, and dropped her forehead against his shoulder. He held her a little longer, feeling her heart beating wildly against his own, feeling the soft warmth pressed trustingly to his body, feeling her. He looked up and took in the situation.

The last of the rebel riders was down, dead in the sparkling streambed, where the slaves had pulled him from his horse and savaged him before Monroe and two other dragoons could get there and finish him off. Bordon was squatting down next to another of the rebels who appeared to be dying, undoubtedly trying to get what information he could from him. A moment later he rose, and approached Tavington.

"He's dead, sir. This was a spontaneous gesture. Apparently some of the rebel militia returned to the Crawford plantation and got the story from the overseer. They believed that the raiding party was our full strength and set out without delay."

"Get three men and get back into those western woods. See if you can find those marksmen. Call in the pickets, if they're still alive." Tavington thought a moment more. "Find out who's wounded. See if we've lost anyone." Bordon nodded and walked away, relaying his orders to the other officers.

Tavington looked down at Miss Wilde, still held close. "Are you all right?" He slackened his grip, and she held on to his arm, a little off-balance.

"Just barely," she replied, with a wan smile. She looked around, and put out a hand to Julia. Amelia looked on, still and silent. Miss Wilde drew her into her other arm, and the three girls clung together.

Miss Wilde touched Julia's face, wiping blood from it. Her hair swung loose, brushing blood onto Julia's cheek again.

"I have blood in my hair," Miss Wilde said wonderingly.

Tavington touched her shoulder reassuringly. "At least it is not your blood." He wiped his blade on the dead man's coat, and sheathed it.

Julia stared at the mangled corpse. "Well, I guess that really is worse than Aunt Sarah Jane Minerva's picture."

"Oh, Julia," groaned Miss Wilde. "Don't look, darling." She straightened and looked around, concerned. "Where is Cousin James?"

"Here," answered a deep, slightly slurred voice. "I feel like I've been kicked by a horse. No. I was kicked by a horse." Wilkins, a few yards away, sat up slowly, cradling his head in his hands. A huge purple bruise, oozing blood, was forming above his left eye. Miss Wilde was quickly at his side, appraising his injury.

"A glancing blow, luckily, or you would be dead. Julia, climb into the wagon and get one of the rolled bandages from the medicine chest."

Tavington looked him over. "His helmet took some of the force of the blow." Miss Wilde gently and expertly wound the bandage around her cousin's head. Tavington asked brusquely, "Do you think you can ride, or will you need to be carried in the wagon?"

Stung, Wilkins answered, "I can ride away from here---sir."

Tavington chuckled darkly, and walked back to the shambles around the wagon. The featherbed was trampled, bloody, and leaking white feathers that drifted gently around the scene of carnage like snow.

"Someone get this carrion out of the way. Lieutenant Hunt! Get some of those blacks to help us clear this mess up!"

Willing hands carried off the headless corpse. Others pulled the dead man from under the wagon. Julia gave an odd little gurgle at the sight of the ruined head.

"Good shooting, Miss Wilde," complimented Tavington. The young lady shook her head and nodded toward Amelia.

"I killed him," the girl whispered. She stood, silent as always, looking reflectively at the gruesome sight.

Tavington came up and patted her gently on the back.

"Well done, then." He praised her as he would any young soldier making his first kill. Feeling she needed more, he continued, "You saved your sisters, and you have done nothing for which you need be ashamed."

She looked him in the eye for the first time. "I am not ashamed. I'm glad he's dead." Tavington saw she had a pistol in each hand. She caught his glance and answered, "Yes, I fired the other one, too, but I think I hit a horse." She made a face, and Tavington smiled.

"Nevertheless, you've done very well, indeed. Are those your father's pistols?" Amelia handed one to him, and he took a moment to admire it. It was well balanced and beautifully chased: a splendid piece of work. "Those are fine weapons. Your father would be very proud of the use you put them to today." He gave her a smile, and she smiled faintly in return, meeting his eyes again.

Julia came up and put her hand in his, wanting his attention. "You cut that man's head right off. Right off, just like that," she repeated, in disbelief.

He frowned, and refrained from stroking her hair when he saw his right hand was still wet with blood. "Sometimes it has to be that way."

"But you did it so well. He must be the deadest man who ever lived." Baird, passing by as he collected his gear, laughed aloud, and went off to repeat what he had just heard to his friends. Miss Wilde gave a sigh of despair.

"Colonel, I take it we're going to leave as soon as possible?"

"As soon as everyone is accounted for, and I feel our party is in proper marching order."

"Then I suppose I had better find my boots." She looked down at her feet and walked away, complaining bitterly, "Good God! I have blood on my stockings, too."

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