A Long and Lonely Mile

Chapter 1

1781

William Tavington remained alone and defeated in the place where he had fallen. He couldn't talk and could scarcely move, so he watched the sky and waited for the eternal darkness of death to prevail. His fingers clung weakly to a tattered white ribbon as he remembered its previous owner and a comforting thought consumed him. The Butcher was dead, departed from this world on a cold battlefield instead of wealthy and surrounded by the countless rewards of a long and prosperous life. His alter-ego was all that remained. How could this be? That the "weaker" half of him would outlast the stealthy, powerful dragoon?

"I am nothing now," he thought, watching the clouds of smoke and debris churning above his head, "nothing but the man who loved Annabelle Casey."

He fought against the blinding pain of his wounds as he moved the ribbon to his lips. A game of sensory memory ensued as he recalled his wayward love. He could hear the stream, smell the faint fragrance of lavender and rose that was always infused in her corn silk colored hair, and lastly, feel the kiss that she had gifted him with- it should have been too innocent and precious to sexualize; but he had in the darkest corners of his mind.

Just as the sting of guilt arrived, a recognizable sound assaulted his senses. An ominous black cloud approached like a tidal wave and covered the sky. This was no ordinary raincloud or thunderhead, but a mighty ensemble of a thousand crows clothed in their obsidian capes, swarming in to strip the flesh from the newly dead. The stark contrast between this scene and the memory of his beloved was borderline poetic. The crows hollered back and forth to one another with noises that were rude and sour. In his periphery, he could see their tactless, clumsy dance as they hurdled over the corpses of his fallen enemies and comrades.

Annabelle's pet name to those who held her dear was "Hummingbird" and rightfully so. Restless and petite, she wove herself in and out of his daydreams with joyful elegance. The humming of cheerful melodies and spontaneous recitations always accompanied her presence.

"If anything," Tavington offered his failing conscious, "I was akin to these ghastly crows, racing towards death and condemning my hummingbird. I have earned the fate that they have in store for me."

There was some truth to this, of course. Less than a mile away, she was battling the inevitable outcome of mortal wounds as well. The only thing that either of them had to hold on to now was the mutual promise that they would be together again. But that small beacon of hope was quickly diminishing.

By some miracle, he managed to hear the shifting of hooves amidst the commotion and directed his gaze towards a passing soldier just in time to be seen. The men recognized one another and even under these circumstances, hostility could be sensed from both sides.

"Perhaps if you had waited for your command," General O'Hara gave condescending shake of his head, "you would have spared yourself such a violent end..." He dismounted and began to examine Tavington's wounds with roughness, "and myself," O'Hara continued, his mocking blue eyes narrowing as he drew his pistol, "the most unfortunate predicament. But it is only humane to deliver a wounded beast from its suffering."

As O'Hara took his aim, Tavington's grasp on Annabelle's ribbon tightened. He turned his head to the direction of the camp where she lay. Probably dead, but he didn't know for certain. Although he did long for the release of death in this moment, he quietly wished that his message was received. There was no gunfire, only blackness and yet he assumed that O'Hara had taken the initiative and ended it all for him, anyway. This theory was proven wrong, however, when Tavington found himself on the verge of consciousness. The light from a nearby lantern glowed pink from the opposite side of his closed eyes. The coolness of a cotton bedsheet touched the back of his neck. Carefully, he considered where he had been.