His Father's Son
Summary: Col. William Tavington had a son and a family just like many other men. Benjamin Martin destroyed not only the man, but the man's family. What happens when a son brings his father's murderer to the same end? Features an OC
A/N: This story is NOT I repeat NOT historically accurate. I don't want to hear anyone complaining about it. Features character Death, graphic murder, and whatever else I decide to do. Also, I stole Inigo Montoya's line from "Princess Bride". So deal with it.
My father was Col. William Tavington of Her Majesty's Mounted Dragoons. He was not a particularly gentle or kind man, but then neither was he deliberately cruel. He did his job to the best of his ability, and if that meant having to slaughter hundreds of American turncoats, so be it.
I was turned into a cruel monster, bent on revenge for my father. My mother, god bless her, cried for days when she heard of my father's death. They told her it had been sudden, that he had bled out quickly and there had been no pain but I knew the truth. I heard it from one of his men who had been at his side on the line of battle. He described with grotesque clarity, the expression on my father's face as Benjamin Martin stabbed him in the throat. He spoke of my father's attempts to speak; strangled gurgling sounds. He spoke of the satisfaction on Benjamin Martin's face as my father collapsed onto the ground, dead. I knew of the murders my father had committed, Martin's two sons, one a soldier, and one a petulant boy of fifteen. What did it matter, Martin's losses? He had seven children, and I only had one father.
Very few people attended my father's funeral. It didn't bother me. A few of his loyal men showed up and I stood with my mother, supporting her as she sobbed. When the casket was lowered into the earth, my mother cried harder. This was it; this was my father's final resting place. I was the first in line to toss a handful of dirt onto the lid of the coffin and the last to leave the cemetery.
When my mother grew ill, weeks after the news of my father's death, I vowed to myself that I would destroy Benjamin Martin. I wanted him to feel the same grip of Death he had been so eager to thrust upon my father, and when my mother died of "a broken heart", as they explained it, my vow was cemented.
My own heart was broken. In a few short weeks, Benjamin Martin had orphaned me from three thousand miles away. The time for my revenge would come and Benjamin Martin would rue the day he ever laid hands on my father.
I sold my childhood home and all my possessions, using the profits to sail to the Americas, but finding Benjamin Martin proved to be more difficult that previously thought. In truth, it took me years to find him.
I joined up with the Loyalist Army in the area and spent my days training and my nights planning my revenge. The years passed, the war ended and all British troops were recalled home. Many of us stayed. Despite our battle against the Separatists, many had formed families with the locals. I was not among them, but stayed all the same.
I eventually found Martin, in a grand plantation farmhouse with his remaining five children and his second wife, Charlotte. I watched them, for days I watched them in their happy oblivious life, unaware that Benjamin Martin was soon to die. The children often played in the fields, blissfully happy, and it was during one of these childish games that my chance came. I had hidden myself away, in a tree, when the oldest daughter, Margaret, came shrieking out of the field. She stopped by my tree, leaning against it and breathing heavily. She had to be at least fifteen. A year younger than I had been when I lost my father. She turned back to the field and that's when I jumped down behind her. She started to turn to see what the noise was, but I trapped her hands behind her back and covered her mouth with my free hand.
"Not a word." I hissed into her ear.
Margaret nodded mutely, her body trembling with fear.
"Where is your father?" I asked.
She mumbled something under my hand.
"Will you promise not to scream if I let you speak?" I asked.
The girl nodded and I cautiously removed my hand.
"He's in his workshop. Trying to build a rocking chair." she said.
"Very well. Lead me to him, if you please."
"I cannot walk with you holding my wrists like that." she complained.
I withdrew my pistol, checking the powder pan and making sure it was loaded. I cocked the hammer into place and held the pistol to her back.
"If you try to run, I will shoot you. If you try to scream for help. I will shoot you. Do you understand me, Margaret?"
"Very good. Now. Lead me to your father."
I held the gun to her back as she led me to the workshop. She was silent the whole way; I could tell she was positively terrified. We arrived inside a large barn. She pointed into the barn.
"The workshop's in there."
I frowned at her.
"You had better not be tricking me, woman."
"I'm not. I swear to God."
I spat at the mention of God, sneering down at her.
"Th-that's b-blasphemy!" she exclaimed.
I snorted back laughter and seized hold of her once more, then bound her hands with a length of rope that was hanging on a nail by the barn door. I took out my handkerchief and was about to gag her when an evil idea struck me. I pulled her up to her feet and tipped her chin up with my thumb and forefinger. I leaned in and kissed her hard, almost bruising. She struggled and protested for a moment, then gave herself over.
"What was that for!" she hissed when I pulled away.
"You'll know where you're older." I said by way of an answer as I gagged her.
She glared at me, furious at my lack of respect for her body. I smiled back and set off into the barn. I found Benjamin Martin in a room in the back, making a chair leg on a foot-powered laithe. I pushed open the door, silently withdrawing my knife from its sheath on my belt. Martin appeared to be completely oblivious to my presence; he was deeply entranced by his work.
I carefully closed the door, locking it behind me; then I seated myself on a tall stool on the opposite side of the room from him. I watched him for quite a while, then I became bored. I wanted this man to suffer. I wanted revenge and I wanted it now!
I cleared my throat.
"Son? Is that you?" he asked, not turning around.
"I am a man's son. Yes, but not yours. Turn around slowly Benjamin Martin."
He froze, then turned cautiously on the spot.
"Drop the awl, if you please." I requested, motioning to it with my drawn pistol.
"My children they-"
"Your children are fine. Especially that daughter of yours, Margaret." I leered salaciously.
"Who are you? What do you want?" he asked, anger flaring in his eyes. "What have you done to my daughter?"
"Relax, Martin. Your daughters are fine. I just had a little taste, that's all." I smiled at him, self satisfactorily.
He took a step toward me and I cocked the hammer on my pistol.
"Not another step, Ghost." I sneered.
He froze in his tracks. A semi-smile of realization came over his face.
"You're British." he stated.
"Oh well spotted." I replied blandly. "Is there anything else you've figured out?"
"Yes. There is. Who was your father, boy?"
"Don't call me boy, Martin. I could just as easily take you life and the lives of you and your precious family, as take a breath."
"You look like him." he said suddenly.
"I take that as a compliment."
"It's not. William Tavington was a murderer and a bastard." Martin ridiculed.
I crossed the room in a few steps, knocking him backwards and holding my pistol to his head.
"Murderer? If you do beg my pardon sir, from what I hear, you are not much better."
"That was a long time ago. I gave up those ways, I was redeemed by God-"
"God!" I raged. "You massacred just as many men, women, and children as my father! What makes you so much better in the eyes of God!" again I spat on the ground.
Martin protested, then was silenced as I pressed the blade of my knife against his throat.
"What are you going to do?" he asked.
"I'm going to kill you, just like you did my father. You and he were the same, but you fought for ideals. My father fought for a crown. That is what you cannot stand!"
I stood up, my father's dragoon jacket hung loose over my shoulders. He had been a bit bigger than me but the jacket gave me strength and a feeling of purpose. I wore my father's clothes and was armed to the teeth.
"My God, son, do you realize what you are aspiring to be like! He was a monster! You must realize that!"
"He was my father. There is no better person to which I could aspire. " I replied simply.
"Even if you succeed in killing me, my sons will shoot you the moment you step out that door."
"That's a risk I'm willing to take. In fact, I'm rather counting on it."
"Suicide is an offense against the Lord!"
"You foolish boy-"
"Enough! I've had enough of your religious claptrap. I will give you the dignity of a fight. Now, cease with your attempts to convert an unbeliever. Today you die." I hissed.
I opened my coat and withdrew a sword, then tossed my spare to Martin.
"This is madness!" he cried as I began circling him.
"Sir, I have nothing left to lose. And it is all because of you. I will have my satisfaction. On your guard!"
I struck at him, he blocked just in time. We fought, back and forth across the small room. He managed a hit, sliding the blade of his sword into my side. I growled angrily and caught him a blow on the shoulder, he let out a roar of pain and struck out at me blindly. I parried him easily, knocking him to the side and slicing him neatly across his back. He was getting winded, he was losing and he knew it. He fell onto his knees and remained there, panting for breath.
"My mother died, soon after the news of my father's death." I said as I wiped my blade clean on my pants. "The doctors said it was of a broken heart. Tell me, Martin, have you ever had a broken heart?"
"Yes… Once… When my wife died."
"Very good. Now you understand how I feel. My heart was broken, not once, but twice. And you are responsible."
"What do you want from me?" he panted.
"I want my father back you stupid American son of bitch."
I kicked him onto his back, pressing the point of my blade into the hollow of his throat.
"I cannot give you back your father's life." he said, his eyes pleading.
"Well, that's too bad. I'll just have to take yours. Let's hope that God of yours is watching, perhaps he will allow you to die quickly. I'm told my father's death was not."
"Please, do not do this. I have children-"
"So did my father."
"But-but you were older. My children are young. They need a father!"
"So do I." I replied quietly.
I thrust my blade down, into his throat. He gurgled, his eyes staring up at me in disbelief. Blood spurted from the wound in his thick neck.
"You didn't think I could do it, did you? I've been waiting years to do that." I cocked my head. "What's the matter? Does it hurt? I'm terribly sorry."
I kicked him in the stomach, then reached down and wrapped my hands around his ripped throat. I pressed my fingers in, hard, feeling his life's blood running over my hands. Benjamin Martin died at my hands, I felt no remorse for my dark deed. My father's death was avenged. The blood on my hands dripped down, hitting the floor and creating round spots of dark red on the smooth wooden boards.
"Father… It's over. You can rest now."
I could feel a cold chill come over the room, an odd wind seemed to whirl around me. Icy fingers touched my shoulder and I knew it was all over. The fingers moved from my shoulder to my cheek. Tears dripped down my cheeks, making tracks in the blood there. Then, just as suddenly as it had come, the presence disappeared.
"Father? Father come back!" I called out. "I still need you!"
I collapsed against the wall, the whole of my being exhausted. I wanted my father back. Now more than ever. I had destroyed the man who had destroyed my life. It was over…
It was a long time later that I shook myself out of my reverie. Benjamin Martin's body lay where I had left it, blood pooled around it. I heaved myself to my feet and staggered to the door. I listened carefully, my ear to the door, before pushing it open; pistol drawn. There was no one outside. I strode out of the barn, ignoring the frightened look from the girl I had bound and gagged. Outside it was unnaturally cheery. The sun shone bright and birds chirped in the trees. There was nothing that let people know that a man had just been murdered.
I staggered my way into the forest, finding my horse still tied to the tree where I had left it. As I heaved myself into the saddle, a sharp pain lanced my side. Confused, I opened my father's jacket and looked down at my side. The stab wound Martin had managed to inflict on me. It bled slowly, staining my shirt and jacket. I didn't really care. I had done my duty, I had gotten my revenge. My father could rest peacefully now.
My horse nickered as I kicked it into a trot. Black spots clouded my vision, I needed to get to a Loyalists' home and soon. I knew the Separatists' would let me die in an instant. As my horse and I traversed the main dirt road, I heard a blood-curdling scream from the farm I had just left.
"Sounds like they found him…" I murmured to my horse.
I rode for a long while, drifting in and out of consciousness, then noticed that I had ridden into Charlestown. I knew of a few Loyalists that lived in the area. I was getting some strange looks from people on the street. I knew why; the British were all supposed to be gone, it frightened them to see an English officer in a dragoon jacket, riding through their town. It incited all sorts of feelings of hatred and fear.
I nearly fell off my horse as I tried to dismount in front of a house I knew to belong to a rich Loyalist merchant. I rapped smartly on the door, leaning against the frame as I waited. The door opened a crack and a woman appeared.
"Who's there?" she asked cautiously.
Before I passed out, I managed to introduce myself. Drawing myself up to my full height, I spoke out clearly and loudly. My name was one to be proud of.
"My name… William Tavington… I am an officer of His Majesty's army. I require your assistance…"
Ok. I hope you liked it. I liked it. It got a little anger out of my system. Reviews would be muchly appreciated.