Normally
I write both week’s Muses and Musings blogposts on Sunday, but it’s now 8:11 in
the morning on Wednesday, and I’m just starting today’s.
It’s
been one of those weeks.
Not
all in bad ways, admittedly. I mean, Sunday’s NaNoWriMo kick-off had me writing
10,000 words in a day. And between Monday and Tuesday, I wrote another 10,000
despite alleged bedbugs and a hectic work day, the combination of which had me
sobbing like a 14-year-old on my mother for the first twenty minutes of my
drive down to last night’s NaNoWriMo write-in.
Not
fun, right?
But
what is fun is my one villain. I hate to say that, because this isn’t a villain
of my own making. Lieutenant-Colonel Banastre Tarleton was a real person and a
real jerk according to American history books. You know The Patriot starring Mel Gibson? The antagonist in it... Colonel
William Tavington, who locks civilians in a barn and then burns it down?
That
wretched fictional character was based on the wretched real-life character of Tarleton.
And while I didn’t come across any actual accounts of him burning anyone to
death, what I did read was disturbing enough. Always a brash young man (who, it
turns out, got a brief mention in Maiden
America, though not by name), he was a skilled cavalryman and commander who
didn’t think much of the people he was sent to subdue.
Hence
the reason why, after his victory at the Battle of Waxhaws, South Carolina, he
ordered his men to go through the list of surrendered American soldiers and
bayonet them to death.
As
for those men, it can easily be argued they were even worse. Here’s a
history-filled excerpt from Designing America’s
(and Maiden America’s) heroine
Abigail Carpenter’s perspective:
The clear leader
of the sizable Calvary reins in his brown horse, leaving the mount champing at
the bit to get back to his canter. It’s a magnificent beast with its own mind,
I can tell, so it says a lot about its seated master that it only tosses its
head and lets out a whinny before quieting down altogether.
I know who that
master is before he introduces himself. His immaculate attire speaks volumes by
itself, as does the appearance of his men. They are all well-clothed and
well-fed. In a group that size, that means they won’t be Americans.
I think the man
himself in his mid-twenties, and he is very attractive to look at with his red
hair and broad shoulders covered by a green coat with gold trimmings and
buttons, and white breeches beneath. His hat is black and billed with a very
large black plume atop it, and his boots are black up until his mid-calf and
then brown the rest of the way to his knees. Moreover, along with the two
buckled belts slung over each shoulder, he is fitted with a saber and a long
musket.
His name is
Lieutenant-Colonel Banastre Tarleton, and he’s a monster, no matter how pretty
and proud he sits there before me. It is his men who have been accused of
mutilating and murdering pregnant women. It was also two of his men who were
hung back in May on Cornwallis’ orders, not their direct commander’s, on
charges of robbery and rape.
I imagine not
nearly enough of them swung from the gallows that day.
So
again, I’m not proud of myself for smirking over this character. In my defense,
he’s been nothing but nice to Abigail, since he’s trying to prove himself a
respectable gentleman instead of the monster she very obviously regards him as
during their entire first day of acquaintanceship.
That
alone wouldn’t make me enjoy him (notice I’m staying far away from the word “like”).
It’s the fact that, in trying to stay true to the history books, where even
some of his fellow British officers described him as an arrogant little brat, I’ve
turned Tarleton into just that… an arrogant little brat, who will roll his eyes
in polite company when polite company turns tedious, and make the kind of
comments you really want to say to irritating individuals but can’t because you’re
too well-mannered.
It’s a bit hard not to snort in amusement over
that kind of villain. I dare you not to do the same when I’m done writing Designing America.
I’ve
never had kids. So when it comes down to it, I’m no expert on what it’s like to
carry a baby inside me for nine months and then go through hours giving birth.
But from everything I hear, that latter part is not a fun experience. So
knowing that my kid sister (not really a kid at 28 years old, but still) was
going through such trials and travails was more than a bit distracting.
