30th May, Early morning: Watering riflemen

To Starling's unhidden surprise, the man lurched forward, interrupted somehow in mid-swing. The Pioneer took advantage of the opportunity and took a solid grip on the front of the other man's jacket. With one swift, single motion, he hefted the smaller man clear off his feet.

"Ah, so it's yerself," he said to the boy, who was revealed when the other redcoat no longer blocked Starling's view so fully. There was a short sword in the boy's hands. No doubt the weapon that had caused this fellow's abrupt shying away.

Now to dispose of this annoying bastard. Starling released his grip on the man's arm, settling for simply holding the stupid sod up in the air, and thought for a moment. Using him as a shot-put clearly did no good. Something a little more pointed was obviously in order.

"Fetch them strips what the grasshopper's been tied with," he said to the boy. He had an idea. A very good one.

Davy looked down at the sword bayonet in his hands for a moment; the edge was dripping with blood where he'd cut the man. Had he killed him? No, he was still kicking around, so he wasn't dead, and so Davy didn't worry about it. Served the bastard right - he hoped he had cut him up good for what he did to Pye. Narrowing his eyes at Sykes, he hissed out through his teeth. The man wasn't half as badly hurt as Davy wished he was.

When Starling addressed him, Davy's eyes fixed upwards on Goliath for a second, while he decided whether to do what he said or not. It didn't take him more than a moment to decide that he would. The rabbit was overshadowed by the man's appearance in time to rescue both Davy and Pye. Maybe Sykes had been going to kill Pye. And he'd had Davy too. He wasn't sure why the man decided to help them, but Davy's gratitude for it outweighed his obstinacy. Pye was a lot more important than a rabbit.

Nodding, he scampered towards where Pye lay, picking up the cords that he'd been tied with and looping them around his hand. He reappeared at a respectful distance from Starling just a few seconds later, and held them out to him.

"Ah'm reet glad ye divnae choke," he said, after a moment.

"Le' go o' me, damn you!" Sykes spat, thrashing furiously in the bigger man's grasp. It was no good; nothing he did seemed to phase the other man in the least and it wasn't long before he gave up trying.

For several moments he simply hung there, breathing heavily. Then the boy, that meddling, poxy brat returned, bearing the strips of wool with which Sykes had bound the rifleman, and the struggling began again.

Was he, now. Starling was almost tempted to grin. Instead, he gave his captive a shake before dropping him unceremoniously to the ground. The Pioneer knelt immediately and seized the man's wrists, before the cursing fellow could think to slither away.

"Bind 'em well," he told the boy as his gaze drifted to the man's sheathed bayonet. Yes, that would do nicely.

Davy slid up next to Sykes where Starling was holding him pinned, and he twisted the makeshift cord around his wrists. Pulling it tight enough to cut ridges into the skin, and wrapping pieces around several more times, he finished it with a series of knots pulled as tight as his fingers could get them. Davy felt it was fairly secure; he wriggled his fingers underneath the ties and jerked on them to make sure they wasn't just going to give way, but they held.

"Ah think tha' does i'," he said, settling back on his heels to look at his handiwork.

It all happened a little further away. Further away. He heard the little child, Davy, come to him. Or maybe he awoke when the boy was already running back the second time with strips of his coat. He had wanted to stop him, yet not a sound came from his mouth. He lay there as if unconscious still. He caught a glimpse of the boy's injury, blood on Davy's face.

He failed him. There was still some ringing in his ears, a headache that would not go away. He felt dazed, disoriented. His shirt was gone and he was aware of that now. His coat lay in tatters to his left. Was it even worth the name of a coat? It barely resembled more than a heap of wool. Torn wool. It was stiff in places where sewn in coin had kept it so. He was only fortunate that those weren't discovered. But fortune left him there.

He caught the merest glimpse of the big burly man, that helped Davy. That man protected Davy and did, what Pye ought to have done. Davy was better of with someone like that. Someone who could be true to his word, strong.

He felt something dry on his cheek and licked to see it was his blood. The cut under his eye made it look worse than it was.

His mind reeled with the events, with what had just happened and made some order in the jumble of thoughts.

His sword bayonet. Lost.

His rifle, lost.

The kettle for tea, lost.

The trust other riflemen might have had in him, lost.

His coat, perhaps not lost, but in enough taters to be that.

And failures? He failed against Sykes, making it a child's play for the man to take revenge. He failed Lucy, for he did not protect Davy, as he had promised. Davy, he saw, was injured as well. He failed Davy, simply for not protecting him at all. The boy got hurt and it was his fault. Davy's hurt was his fault. He failed his family, the only people he could ever have considered so. The riflemen before that day, and even then. He was a weak link which should have been weeded out. He was a fool to ask to be transferred. Hakeswill knew his true nature, and he only thought to deny it.

He struggled up, feeling blinding pain burst from his hand and saw the mangled fingers. He had almost made an effort to lean on it, if only to inflict more pain onto himself. He deserved it.

If only it had only been the attacker. He'd have beat him, yes. But then the attacker would have grown bored and leave. Instead the worst thing possible had happened. Pye's resolve finally broke. He pulled himself forward slowly. He had to leave before anyone would see him there. He could not, would not face Davy. Or Lucy.

Pye felt tears at the corners of his eyes, but bit hard on his bruised, bleeding lip until they stopped. No, was he not shamed enough?

His bruised body protested, but he willed it on. Why was he not heading for camp though? The direction he was taking, it wasn't the right one. He knew that. He knew where the camp was. perhaps he was dazed, but he still knew. Clutching his injured hand against his chest he helped himself to his feet, a tree as his aid. Davy had a protector, the riflemen would no longer be in fear of their good name, Lucy... she would do better. She always did.

He smiled when he found he succeeded in getting out of sight. Good. Further he could get, the better. It was senseless, it was foolish what he was just trying to do. He failed at self-preservation, he could not survive out there. Without anything. He was abandoning his chick as well, but Cotton could take care of it, Newbury too. She liked them, she would get used to staying with one of them, and even if she would not be with the riflemen maybe Maggie could take care of her then. He should have listened to Jenny. Atleast now the ones he cared for would no longer be in danger because of him. No longer.


He goes here.

Sykes growled something that was incomprehensible through a mouthful of leaves and dirt. He had drawn his knees up towards his chest and now tucked his head down, spitting out the contents of his mouth and forcing himself to breathe evenly. He was pretty certain what came next. Only this time he was on the receiving end.

Aye, the bonds looked secure enough. Good. Starling knelt and plucked the man's bayonet from its scabbard.

"You jus' lay quiet there," he told the other redcoat, before stepping toward the nearest tree. It took only a second for him to estimate the most likely height, then he drove the bayonet into the tree. Using the side of his axe-head, he hammered the bayonet deep into the wood and finally stepped back to admire his handiwork.

Now it was time for the next step. The Pioneer slipped the axe back into its frog and turned to fetch up his prey. "Shoulda scarpered," was his curtly-offered reprimand. In truth, had this fellow been smart, he would have run. Too late now, though.

Recognizing the rasp of the bayonet leaving its sheath, Sykes shuddered. He squeezed his eyes shut, expecting to feel the edge of the blade against his skin. Instead he heard footsteps moving away, followed by a new sound, the origin of which was not immediately obvious.

Releasing the breath he'd been unconsciously holding, he opened his eyes to see the other man hammering his bayonet into a nearby tree. Sykes stared; any relief he might have felt at seeing the blade buried in something besides himself was canceled out by the growing fear of whatever unknown form of torment the stranger was devising.

It occurred then to Sykes that there was no longer anyone holding him down. Slowly, carefully he shifted position. Visibly little changed except that his knees were no longer drawn up to his chest, his right leg twisted so that the foot braced up against a root.

The hammering stopped then and the man approached Sykes once more. Standing over him, he spoke, but Sykes wasn't listening. With a final, desperate effort, he wrenched sideways, pushing up from the ground and launching himself forward away from the stranger. But he was off balance and no amount of momentum could keep him up.

He made it several yards before he hit the ground, hard. There wasn't time to get up again. Flipping onto his back, he kicked with all his strength for the other man's knees.

From out of the shadows under the trees somebody unexpectedly spoke.

"Well, well. What do we have going on here, lads?"

The voice, which was that of a man, practically purred with malevolence.

"Don't seem like anything permitted in the Kings Regulations, does it? And regulations is what keeps you this side of hell, my lads."

Now what? Starling paused, midway in the act of grabbing one of the tied-up redcoat's feet, upon hearing a new voice speaking up. His left knee throbbed distantly from a successful kick, which only made him more determined to make this bastard suffer.

The new arrival was yet another redcoat and for an instant Starling contemplated knocking him down too, until his gaze alighted on the grubby white chevrons on the man's sleeve. Piss on it. It would have to a sergeant.

"Jus' some private dealin's," Starling replied curtly, reluctantly letting go of the bound man's foot. Maybe once this interloper was gone...

Hakeswill stepped forward from out of the shadows. He had seen everything. Having come down to the river in pursuit of a couple of camp followers he had seen Pye, then watched with fascination as the whole drama had unfolded; the rifleman, the redcoat, the boy and now the pioneer.

Had Hakeswill been an educated man he would probably have used the words 'deliciously complicated' to describe the situation presented before him; but as he was not, Hakeswill merely saw an opportunity for some sport. He grinned, his child-like blue eyes alight with glee.

"Looks like brawlin' to me," he said silkily. "Brawlin' and guilty of rendering men what are good soldiers of the King unfit for duty." His face twitched convulsively. "And I don't think it bein' private 's going to save your hide from a flaying, would you?"

If the bastard lying on the ground was a good soldier, Starling was a Frog. Not that he had any claim on such a description himself.

"What if it don't?" He asked with a shrug. What the hell sort of business did this sergeant have down here, anyway? He was spoiling Starling's fun.

Not only was he caught red-handed, but this one seemed stupid too.

With alarming speed Hakeswill lumbered up to Starling, grabbing at the man's crossbelt and dragging him close with surprising strength, the sergeant's foul breath reeking into his face.

"You wants to know, do you?" he spat. "I can make sure you finds out! brawlin' means floggin' apiece for both of you - and I'll make it a good flogging with plenty of bite! 'Coz you see here -"

He shrugged his shoulder, indicating the chevrons on his sleeve.

"- you know what these stripes mean, don't you? It means you're scum, and I'm not; and what jack puddin' of an officer is going to take the word of scum over mine?"

His face twitched and shuddered as he gave another horrid grimace.

"So you'd better mind your manners, my lad, and stay the right side of Obadiah if you wants your back all in one piece!"

Rolling out of the other man's immediate reach, Sykes had got awkwardly to his feet and, after putting several paces more of distance and at least one tree between them, turned to regard the newcomer. It was a sergeant and Sykes had felt a flood of relief, beginning to imagine that he might make it out of this without his limbs rearranged after all. He had opened his mouth to protest the bigger man's claim of innocence, closed it when he realized that any kind of attention was likely to bring to light the previous incident and earn him a flogging, and kept it shut when it became clear that he was damned no matter what he did.

Or was he? Wishing like hell that the boy's knots weren't so effective, Sykes ran.

When the sergeant grabbed hold of Starling's crossbelt and put his ugly face close to Starling's, the Pioneer very nearly hit him for it. Had it not been for those damned stripes...

"I reckons," Starling said slowly, glad that his beard helped conceal his resentful expression, "if you was 'round long 'nuff to see brawlin', you oughta've stopped it."

He was going to get a flogging no matter what this foul-breathed sergeant said. Brawling was indeed an offence that merited lashes. Captain Ashe would be only too happy to order them, too. And now there went the other redcoat, finally scarpering away despite having his hands bound firmly behind him. That would leave Starling to suffer the triangle alone.

Bloody perfect.

Davy went dead still the instant that Hakeswill's voice hissed out of the shadows; he stayed frozen there, standing by the tree where Goliath had left hm, for a few moments. Then he backed up, soundlessly, into the deeper shade of the leaves, wishing he could just disappear completely. He followed the 33rd. He knew well enough who Hakeswill was, although the sergeant most likely had no idea who Davy was. Davy was good at staying out of the way of people he knew were trouble, and he'd never run afoul of Hakeswill before.

His first thought was for Pye, getting him out of there somehow. His eyes flashed to where the Rifleman had been lying, and with an enormous relief he saw that Pye wasn't there. He must have woken up and run, while they'd been tying up Sykes. Anyway, he was gone, out of Hakeswill's reach, free as a bird. Davy wasn't, yet, but he thought if he was careful, he could probably get out of this himself.

Hakeswill was more interested in Goliath than in Davy, fortunately for Davy. He felt like he ought to think of something to help get the man out of this, since Goliath had stepped in to help him. Trouble was, he couldn't think of what. He wasn't going to stand around, however, and wait for either a brilliant thought to grab him or for the Sergeant to. Hakeswill's back was to him. Best to follow Pye's example and just get the hell out of there. The rifleman had left his coat behind - he picked it up and tucked it under his arm; no need to leave that behind to incriminate Pye!

Moving with deliberate slowness, he edged away from the two men. Once he was out of Hakeswill's peripheral vision, he would start running.

The sergeant, however, was quick to see the boy out of the corner of his eye.

"Stand there, my laddie!" he barked, his eyes swivelling full to focus on him. "Don't you be runnin' off now, when you're a valuable witness to this whole affray! I knows you, don't I? Yes, I thinks I do. You're one of my lads, aren't you? Or will be, when you've grown up enough for your balls to 'ave dropped!"

He cackled. He had recognised the boy to be on that went around with the camp followers of 33rd.

"Yes, you'll stay right where you is."

Davy didn't wait to hear any more from Hakeswill.

Instead, he ran for it like a small, tow-headed bolt of greased lightning.

Hakeswill swore and called after the boy.

"Come back, you little whoreson! I told you to stay!"

But Davy was gone. Hakeswill swore again, but did not run after the boy. He would find him later, that he would be certain of, and then he'd be sorry. Besides, he had a much more important victim in front of him here.

He turned his full attention back to the pioneer and leered.

"Just you and me again now, isn't it?" he cackled. "Save your mate on the floor, an' he isn't goin' to want to help you, is he?"

Beneath his beard, Starling curled his lip. "Don't need no man's help," he growled, debating the wisdom of breaking the sergeant's grip on his crossbelt. This was getting very close to angering him.

Hakeswill smiled his leering, rotten-toothed smile.

"You'll be needin' mine, I think," he purred.

Somehow, Starling doubted that severely. "That so." The sort of help this foul bastard probably thought to give was probably no kind of good help at all. Even if Starling was of any mind to accept it.

Hakeswill's face twitched.

"Aye. To keep you out of trouble."

A rasping chuckle rolled up from the back of Starling's throat. "Like to know how you'd manage sommat like all that."