you can have multiple most gorgeous looking women giving performance of their lifetime in a movie or show yet people will still come out obsessing & wanting to fuck a white man with the personality of a wet cardboard
My multi-year obsession with The Patriot was ignited by a student essay, and student essays continue to fuel it even now. Once of my students is writing a personal narrative about a book that shaped his views on the necessity of brutality in warfare. The book is about the U.S military: shocking, I know. And it got me thinking about how many times, across so many nations and through so many decades the U.S military has employed very Tavington-esque tactics that are then hand-waived by supporters with "That's the price of freedom."
"That's the price of freedom" is also the rationale for the choices Benjamin Martin and his men make, but that wording never comes up in Martin's account of his own Tavington-esque tactics. Instead, Martin's relation of his war crimes centers his feelings of shame surrounding them, and the film respects his privacy in this matter.
Martin, in the quiet of the night, with only his eldest son to hear: "I pray daily to be forgiven for my wildly successful but deeply unethical wartime strategies."
Meanwhile, Tavington, at the top of his lungs in a courtyard full of British enlisted men and officers: "Oi, Ghost! Did your dumbass kid die?"
Tavington is likely not providing new information about himself to most of the men present; no small number of British soldiers were on site when he did the thing. Similarly, O'Hara informs Cornwallis that Tavington has been nicknamed "The Butcher" by Colonials in a tent full of officers and sees no need to moderate the tone of his voice. Everthing nefarious Tavington does is a matter of public knowledge, and he seems to have no problem with this. "I will do what is necessary" is probably the most accurate summation of his views on warfare that he ever gives us.
In contrast, the assurances Martin receives that he is a good man in spite of what he has done come from people who only know what he has told them. "You've done nothing for which you should be ashamed" comes from Charlotte Selton who only learns what happened with the British soldiers at the Martin farm when its white occupants show up on her doorstep. Martin's reply, "I have done nothing, and for that I am ashamed" only confirms her ignorance. He arrives drenched in blood without a scratch on him, and while all his children are traumatized to some extent, a couple are more traumatized than the others. He done something!
We never see Charlotte question him, here or elsewhere. It is her choice to remain in ignorance. This is a theme. When Martin confesses what he did at Fort Wilderness, Gabriel's response is to change the subject. Later on, though, he asks his father how he changed in spite of having had a front row seat to how little Martin has changed since Fort Wilderness just a few months prior. It is worth noting that this confession takes place when Martin's less scrupulous companions from the French and Indian War are not present. There's no Rollins or Billings to turn around and say, "That's not how I remember it, Martin" when he describes what "we" did like he was part of a committee or tactfully omits any mention of what happened to civilians at Fort Wilderness. Like his aunt, Gabriel is curious about none of these things. He has an interest in accepting his father's version of events uncritically that is more than just emotional.
Essentially, Martin is absolved of what he did to obtain land by a woman whose wealth comes from a plantation and the boy who is first in line to inherit his own land. This is not atonement so much as laundering. Martin invests the gains from his atrocities in marriage and fatherhood the way other criminals invest money from illegal activities into legitimate businesses. The audience is meant to go along with this as unquestioningly as Martin's family because we, as American citizens, are also beneficiaries of brutal tactics employed by men like Martin. That this does not hold for all Americans equally is not something the filmmakers considered. The Patriot is for people already conditioned to accept American war crimes as necessary.
This intended audience is a staple for the Mel Gibson Cinematic Universe. Of all his war films, at least the ones I've seen. We Were Soldiers (2002) puts the most emphasis on the American soldiers' families in spite of the war being fought on foreign soil. Of course, this is the Vietnam War during which American targeting of civilians received more media coverage than ever before, but Gibson's longtime collaborator Randall Wallace did not include that pesky detail in his script. Better to focus on the results, the men returning to the arms of their wives, than the brutal tactics they employed against other civilians. Ironically, it was Jason Isaacs who said in a 2020 interview, "We send people to other countries to win wars in our name, and we don't want to know too much about what they do when they get there" while describing Tavington. Neither Benjamin Martin nor Mel Gibson have that kind of self-awareness.
A/N: Co-written with @bastillia.
Hello! I hope everyone is doing well - we're closing in here now on the last few chapters of Playing Soldier and by golly what on earth is going to happen? I wish we knew (we do. mostly). So happy for everyone's patience as we work to finish this story that has become so dear and meaningful to us. We truly and deeply appreciate every one of your comments. <3
The Black Swamp did well to merit its name. To pass through the first veil of trees was to discover a world secluded from light. Even as dawn rose it barely needled the canopy’s shield, casting the world into eerie purple hues. Blackwater flooded the earth so high that it consumed the forest of cypress within it, lying in wait to reclaim the untouched patches. Water erupted from the grass with every step. Trees stooped and trawled mossy nets through the mire, as if eager to claim you as well. To wrap you up and hide you away from anyone who might dare follow.
The sun had already struck the iron sky by the time you and Lottie arrived at the encampment nestled into the ruins of an old mission. You were then spotted by a stranger: a man who looked a bit younger than your father and just as self-assured. The worries of war had weathered valleys in his face.
“Hold there,” he commanded, hand held in the air as he approached you. “Identify yourself.”
You gave your name, your father’s name. “And this is Charlotte Goddard. We’ve just ridden here from Fort Carolina. Reverend Oliver sent us.” At this, his eyes widened. “We were told to ask for Colonel Martin?”
“You’re speaking to him,” he said, approaching more quickly. “You spoke to my men? They’re still all right?”
“Yes,” you said, “but could we discuss this on the ground? We are exhausted.”
Martin nodded, then turned to call over his shoulder. “Pearce! Help us out, here!”
While you were certain this could be no other than Christopher Pearce, you could not be bothered to pay him mind while Lottie was barely conscious behind you. By now, her entire body ached, tears had streaked her skin raw in the cold, she trembled from the lack of food and water.
“Get her off, get her onto solid ground.” You winced as you eased yourself from Puck, legs twinging in complaint.
By the time you’d steadied yourself, Pearce had arrived and seemed committed to looking anywhere but at you as he assisted Colonel Martin with guiding Lottie from the pony. Eschewing help, you gathered all of your belongings in silence as Martin introduced you both to Pearce, who did not admit to already knowing you. Once standing, Lottie took a step, and Pearce gasped.
“Careful, Mrs. Goddard,” he said, “the swamp is a bit too forgiving.”
“Oh. It’s Miss Goddard,” she replied. “Benedict is—was my brother.”
Pearce cleared his throat. Both he and Martin glanced at one another. “I—I wasn’t—”
“I don’t wish to speak on it right now.”
“Right,” Pearce sputtered. “My apologies. Let’s get your things, then?”
A bit of pride in her buzzed in your chest. As they shuffled behind you, Puck made himself busy with the marshy grass beneath his hooves while you surveyed the little swatch of swamp for a place where the both of you could potentially rest your heads.
“So, Reverend Oliver sent you?” said Colonel Martin, coming to stand beside you. “How many men were there with him?”
“Father? Who are these women?” said another voice from behind you, and you turned to face a man who could not have been all that much older than Goddard himself. Maybe by a few years. “We’ve just got your horse readied.”
Martin gave your father’s name. “This is his daughter. And that’s Goddard’s sister,” he said. “They just rode in from Fort Carolina.” He gestured to his son. “This is Gabriel.”
You gave a half-effort curtsy and your own name before proceeding to ignore him entirely. “There were eighteen, exactly,” you replied. “Goddard was the only one…” What word should you use? “Murdered.”
“Right. Good.” He flinched at his own words, raising his brow in apology before looking at you. “They hung him?”
“They did,” you said, and then, as if you needed to reaffirm it to yourself, added, “Colonel Tavington did.”
Gabriel huffed. “Of course.”
“Not much that man won’t do,” said Martin.
You tried to keep your face still as possible, as if the reality of what Colonel Tavington would and would not do was a complete mystery to you.
Martin’s boot squished the grass. “But, that’s all right. We were just preparing to depart for Fort Carolina when you arrived.”
“Oh,” you said. “You already knew?”
“One of the others told us,” said Martin, gesturing to the other horses being readied. “We’re heading to free them.”
You laughed in disbelief. “They’re prisoners of war within a British stronghold.”
“We have a plan,” he said, nodding to himself. “It’ll take a couple days. Might be a huge mistake.” A wry grin broke across his face. “I think it’ll work, though.”
“It’ll work,” said Gabriel, grinning with him.
You studied him. So much audacity in stock for his so-called men, and so little for the only man who still mattered to you. “What about my father?” you asked. “He’s been captured for weeks.”
Martin sighed, eyeing you warily. “Your father…” He glanced at the ground, and back at you. “He was put directly on a dragoon horse. He’s almost certainly in a prison ship offshore by now. Or…”
He trailed off, cleared his throat, realizing too late that the alternative possibility already festered in the air between you.
“You didn’t stop them from taking him there?”
“We didn’t know where he went to start,” said Gabriel, stepping forward. “We know where our men are.”
You met Gabriel’s step with your own. “That sounds to me as if you didn’t try.”
“Your father is not the only man fighting in this war,” Gabriel replied, chest puffing.
“He’s certainly one of the only ones worth being rescued!”
“All right,” Martin said, stepping between you both. “Gabriel, finish packing.” His son glared at you before turning on his heel and marching off. Martin met your gaze, his voice soft. “Your father isn’t unimportant. And I promise that I will keep an ear out for him. If I hear anything about him, you’ll be the first to know.”
“But he’s likely on a prison ship. Or dead.”
Martin nodded, face grave. “Likely so.” The unfavorable estimation of his fate remained very blatantly unspoken. “We’re departing now. But Captain Pearce is staying behind. He’ll take care of you both—he’s a good man.”
“Thank you,” you mumbled, because you did feel grateful for the hospitality, despite resenting almost everything else. “Good luck.”
Colonel Martin bid you farewell, and you wandered into the camp. The land squelched beneath your feet, soaked your stockings. For once, you were relieved that it was nearing November. You would at least be spared mosquitoes.
Shuffling nearer inland, you found a flat, dry stretch of ground closer to the campfire. Even if it meant you would be forced to speak with some of these men, Lottie would need the warmth. You heard her behind you, recounting the journey to Pearce. He was leading Lottie toward you, his arm helping her balance before she sank next to you with a sigh. As she relaxed, he glimpsed you, the stiffness in his demeanor suddenly forcing him to speak.
“Your feet’ll get cold,” he said, pointing to the water creeping up your stockings. “Make you sick.”
You stared at him. Said nothing. Wished William were—
Heat flashed over your skin, you looked into the fire. You did not wish William was anything other than dead.
The hours on horseback had done little to dull the edge of that desire. If anything, the cold, the sore pull in your thighs and arse, the stretches of silence had sharpened it, dug it like a trowel into the depths of your chest. Each time you fought to numb it, it wiggled deeper, piercing parts of you that you’d tried to protect. Now they oozed into your insides, a wound you could not even see to staunch its weeping.
William Tavington had betrayed you. There was no use in sweetening it. And you could not decide what was more humiliating—the fact that he’d done it, or the fact that it revealed how deeply you’d come to trust him altogether.
But you would not allow yourself to cry. It was, after all, your own fault. You had ignored all internal protests, all attempted reason in favor of whatever poison that man had used to corrupt your mind. There hadn’t been just a single hint of danger—there had been dozens, possibly hundreds, that might have allowed you to draw a more intelligent conclusion to this situation. Instead of heeding them, though, you had chosen to pursue intimacy, forgo responsibility, shuck everything you’d ever learned like too-small skin. It was only right that you be forced to reap the barren lands of what you’d sown with your own negligence.
Despite that, it was difficult to prevent yourself from peering into your own memory, from recalling the strong breadth of his chest, the scent of his hair, the steadying grip of his hands. Even more difficult was ignoring the involuntary recollections of how his gaze saw through you, how his touch excited you, how your insides glowed when he smiled. Most difficult, though, was how your body itself had been rent asunder, as if your flesh had been ripped from your bones through his deliberate absence.
You did not know it was possible, until now, to feel another person’s breath to be as intrinsic to living as your own. Every intake of air twinged in your lungs when you tried to hold it, and when you exhaled, whistled through a gaping, tattered hole—a hole that, if you allowed yourself to ponder it, would subsume you entirely.
The most frustrating part of it was, really, that you did not want to bother with it at all. The hot dagger-point between your ribs throbbed with a familiar resonance—you’d last felt it when your mother died, had last learned its uselessness when you realized that night that the only person able to put your baby sister to bed was you. Now the person in need of you was Lottie. Bemoaning the boundaries of a reality that you had caused was pointless.
You peeled off your shoes, pushed your feet closer to the fire. Pearce rubbed his forehead and focused on Lottie. “I’ll get you something to eat, then?”
She nodded, offering him a smile that warmed even you. “Thank you, Captain. You are too thoughtful.”
“N-nonsense. It is my pleasure, Miss Goddard.” He gave a slight bow before stepping away.
Lottie watched him go and sighed again, resting her head on your shoulder. She had barely slept through the night—you’d done your best to keep her upright and latched to you, but you imagined it was not only the physical discomfort that had stymied her rest.
“He’s so kind,” she murmured. “Do you know him well?”
“Not well.” Your muscles loosened. “But he is kind. Earnest.”
She sighed and inched closer to you, the both of you watching the fire dance in silence.
“I am so sorry,” she said. “About the colonel.”
“I’m sorry,” you replied. “I think one of us has sustained greater loss due to his behavior.”
“Well…” She hesitated. “You also aren’t sure where your father is yet.”
You winced the reminder. “Regardless. The colonel is no significant loss.”
For the first time in over an entire day, Lottie broke into a laugh, easing off of you. “You’ve an awful sense of humor.”
“I’m not joking. We had a convenient and enjoyable acquaintanceship.” Your throat tightened, the next words squeaking out. “And now it’s over.”
“Do be serious.” Lottie uttered your name like a command. “You are very obviously and egregiously in love with him.”
Your heart clenched to a fist—tears leapt to the corners of your eyes as if summoned, and you sniffled them down. Lottie was the second person in nearly as many days to level this accusation at you, and you supposed you could do nothing now but address its inevitable shadow over your mind.
William Tavington slaughtered your countrymen with the same hands he used to caress your throat—deceived you with the same mind that entertained you, committed himself to war with the same zeal he committed to saving your life. You could not, in good consciousness, have permitted yourself to love him. At some point, however, your permission became irrelevant.
Between the gaps of protest, you had fallen in love with him.
Pearce returned with a canteen and a handful of salted beef and tucked them both into Lottie’s hands. “I know it isn’t much, but—”
She gasped, tore off a piece of beef between her teeth instantly. “It’s plenty,” she blathered through her full mouth.
You bit your lip to keep from giggling, your tears disappearing. Pearce gazed at her with wide eyes. Realizing what she’d done, Lottie swallowed and sat straighter.
“I… Captain, do forgive me, I’ve just been so hungry, and—”
“No, no apologies,” he said, bowing his head, clearly hoping to hide his smile and failing miserably. “Would you—may I sit next to you both?”
“Please do,” she replied sweetly. She looped her arm in yours and allowed her head to rest on your shoulder again as she ate. “Thank you again for receiving us.”
Pearce shrugged. “I consider it a part of my duty.” His eyes met yours again before flicking toward the fire, and he sat on the ground a few arms’ lengths away. As silence crept in again, his gaze traveled to Lottie. “Your brother was a brave man.”
She tensed. “He was not yet a man.”
“He conducted himself as a man.”
“So he deserved to be hanged?” There was an unfamiliar acrimony in her voice. “Because he made decisions that only men should make, he deserved to be upon the noose?”
“Not at all. He behaved with honor,” Pearce insisted. “There is no shame in that.”
Lottie laughed bitterly. “Honor served him well, didn’t it? After he was hanged like a common criminal.”
“No, no,” said Pearce, “you misunderstand me—”
“I think I understand you perfectly well, Captain.”
Pearce’s face crumbled. He had an uncanny inability to speak to a woman without inserting his boot halfway up his own arse.
You squeezed Lottie’s hand. “Captain Pearce is not your brother’s murderer,” you said gently. “He only wishes to remember the good he did.” You glanced at Pearce.
“Yes, exactly that,” he said, nodding gratefully. “Please, Miss Goddard, excuse my phrasing. I am grateful to Benedict Goddard and I deeply regret his loss—I myself lost my younger brother as a boy.” Lottie’s grip untensed in yours. “I could never imply his death was deserved. I…” A frustrated laugh escaped him. “I am not… Words have never been my strength.”
Logs crackled within the flames. Lottie exhaled, took a sip of water, a bite of salted beef. A shiver rippled over her.
“I apologize, Captain,” she said, weary. “I am afraid I need rest. And I’m sorry to hear about your brother.”
He shook his head, about to speak, but you widened your eyes in a bid to shut him up. “Finish your food and water,” you said, squeezing her hand again. “I’ll prepare you a place to sleep.”
She lifted her head from your shoulder. “You’re certain?”
“I’ll—I can assist,” Pearce said, standing. “We have spare bedrolls.”
You nodded as he went to fetch them. It was approaching midday, but you imagined with a comfortable enough spot, Lottie would likely sleep the rest of the day into the next morning. You set about gathering what she’d taken with her and using what Pearce provided to create a flat, even, dry surface, then guided her to settle onto it. After reaching beneath her bodice to loosen her stays, you tucked her into a blanket and pushed her hair from her face. Her dark eyes were hazy and red, already fluttering with the weight of sleep.
“Thank you,” she mumbled. “You’ll sleep soon, too, won’t you?”
“Of course.”
Pearce sat by you as Lottie drifted, as the fire popped. Shackles had attached themselves to your limbs; you would have thought a gorgon had concealed itself in the fire and turned you to stone if your head hadn’t begun to throb in complaint. Food, water—you needed them, too. At some point. When you were worthy of the palliation they offered.
And to sleep would be to admit defeat. To admit your heart was not broken, but destroyed. To enter a world where you had even littler control than the waking one, a world where dreams could wound you more deeply than reality, if that were even possible.
You had begun to mend with Grace, but that mending was perhaps permanently unfinished, left to gather dust until your next meeting. The likelihood of that now seemed as hopeless as a Patriot victory. When the fog of war receded, would she sail across the sea with Ferguson? Would she think of you when she bore her first children? Would they ever wonder what the woman who had raised their mother was like?
Perhaps for the best they never wondered, since that woman was indeed a person who saw fit to lie to everyone she loved. In fact, being loved by you seemed to guarantee being a victim of your deception. It was why you could not bring yourself to resent William as badly as you wished—you had lied to him first. He had known your heart from the moment he met your eyes.
And what if your father had been dead for the past three weeks? What if William killed him in retribution for your betrayal? And if your father were dead, could you return home? Would there be a home to return to?
Would a home ever feel as home to you, now, without your sister, or father, or William in it?
But this was what was owed a miserable, selfish shrew. This was the lot of a woman who could not be tamed. In your desire to stake out your own existence, you had expelled everyone from its perimeter. You had been destined from the beginning to reign over your life entirely alone.
“We’ll find him,” said Pearce. “Don’t despair.”
You shook your head. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your father,” he said. “We won’t abandon him.”
That wasn’t what Martin or what the men at Fort Carolina had seemed to believe. The fatality rate on prison ships was obscenely high—higher still with disease spreading in winter. Your father was not elderly, but he was older than most men serving, and became more vulnerable every year. Each day he spent in British custody was a day he had potentially borrowed.
“Sure,” you said.
“Really,” he said. “I promise.”
You gazed at Pearce. He was not an unhandsome man. There was a buttery curve to his jaw, a softness in his eyes that hinted he would be a thoughtful husband, a gentle lover, an attentive father. Yet no part of you stirred in desire, or even curiosity. You did not want him. You would not want anyone ever again.
“I suppose we’ll see,” you replied, staring into the fire.
A breeze stirred. The trees cast their nets among schools of fireflies.
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