Visitors

Two men in ragged, travel-worn clothes peered cautiously around them before looking up at the strange building in front of them. Both carried muskets and the necessary accoutrements to use them, but neither looked much like fighting men. One, the shorter of the pair, wore an uneasy expression on his face. At his nod, the two of them approached the building and the door set in the wall nearest them.

They entered warily and made quick work of ensuring they were the only occupants of the room. This was a damned strange place and neither of them liked it. Both moved on silent feet to the opposite side of the room and peered cautiously out through the open doorway. There didn't appear to be anyone else about. Hopefully that was a good thing, if anything about this unfamiliar place could be called 'good'.

The shorter man returned to the middle of the room and leaned his musket against a chair. "Jack, we ain't in with the regiment no more."

"Did they leave us?" Jack asked, keeping his musket in hand. He didn't trust this place.

"Seems so."

"Bastards."

Yep, Ben Strout thought sourly. That just about summed it up.

Tide Evans was hungry. This in itself was not an unusual occurrence, save for the fact that he was hungry for one of those fantastic Pete's pies. Barring that, he would settle for whatever he could filch from the cupboards.

"Ahoay," he said as he came into the galley to see it already occupied by two men in ragged clothes. Their presence was surprising and their possession of muskets moreso. Tide paused a moment to study the men's coats, then shrugged. They were a faded shade of blue, not unlike his own, which lessened his initial short-lived suspicion.

"Where've you two lads come wanderin' in here from?"

"Who you shoutin' at, Tide?" Billy called from the next room. "The Pete's pies are in that ice cabinet. I'm lightin' a fire."

At the stranger's entrance, both men started. Jack reacted more swiftly than Strout, since he had kept his musket in hand, and had his firelock levelled at the newcomer before Strout was able to grab up his own.

"Who the hell are you?" Strout demanded, resting his thumb on the musket's hammer.

"And who's Pete?" Jack added.

"Steady now, boys," Tide said as he lifted his hands up to show he meant no harm. What the hell sort of pair was this? "Billy," he called back over his shoulder. "Wouldja find an officer? There's one or two roamin' around in here some place."

He eyed the two muskets uneasily. Maybe even an officer wouldn't help matters much. "I'm Evans," he told the shorter man. "Quartermaster, off His Majesty's frigate Terpsichore. Dunno how I come to this daft place but I'm here - and so're you both. What 'bout you put them firelocks aside for a bit, eh? Bad luck keepin' a sailin' lad from food, y'know."

Billy was just about to poke his head in the galley to see what the problem was when he heard the mention of "firelocks." That could not be good, and he would be of better use to Evans by running for an officer than getting himself holed up in the galley too. Fortunately, there was an officer just passing the door.



"Now then, what's the trouble," Deverel asked lazily as he drifted into the kitchen. He became more alert when he saw the two blue-coated men who were holding muskets, however. "Who the hell are you and what are you doing? Put those things away. This is a neutral territory here." In fact he had no idea if it was neutral or not, but it seemed safe to say that it was.

Strout shifted his aim to the man with the strange blue coat. These weren't just strangers, but British strangers at that. "Neutral nothin'," he snapped in reply. "You're both damned Englishmen."

Deverel glared at the muskets indignantly and spoke with the loftiness of one accustomed to being obeyed. "Of course we're Englishmen - we're in England. Are you planning to conquer the whole country? Put those things down, you great bloody fools."

Jack Leech curled his lip derisively. "That's a bloody lie. We're in New York colony. Course you'd say it was England, though. Lookin' to drive you lot straight out and all."

"You step back out that door," Strout said, as if Jack had not spoken. "And we'll forget we saw you. Ain't got time for prisoners."

The men were mad. Or perhaps just confused. But since they were not interested in taking prisoners, Deverel thought going back out through the door sounded like a good idea. "Come on then, Evans," he said, taking the quartermaster's arm. Then he paused. "Don't have time for prisoners?" he asked the second man. "Are you in a hurry, for some reason?"

It was Strout's turn to curl his lip. "Long day's marchin' waits for us. The Massachusetts Line don't fuss about when it comes to gettin' where it needs to be." He glanced back over his shoulder for a second, checking that he had a clear route to the exit. "Prisoners never march so well, do they?"

Deverel smirked. "Then why stop in here at all? Have you come to loot and pillage on your way?" He looked at his quartermaster again. "Evans, go and get Perry, if you can find him."

"No different from what you bastards do," Strout retorted disgustedly. "C'mon, mate. Let's get shut of this place, before they send for more redcoats. Shouldn't have stopped at all."

"Fine by me. Goodbye and good riddance," Deverel said with another smirk.

Billy meanwhile had gone to fetch another officer and thus was not there to guard the door from others who might go wandering into the kitchen. And so there came the sound of small feet padding along, running, and young Marta appeared in the doorway. She looked at the strangers with muskets and frowned but remained frozen to the spot. "What do?" she asked the room cautiously.

"Should kill him anyway," Jack said flatly, though he too was backing toward the exit.

It was tempting. Strout bit his lip and considered. In truth, it wasn't a bad idea. Certainly shooting this officer would slow down any pursuit that would be made. He was just opening his mouth to tell Jack to fire when the child appeared. Hell.

"Nothin's doin' here, girl. We're just leavin'. Out the door, Jack," Strout told his friend. "Quick now."

But before they could even reach for the door handle, it opened and Paul Perry came in, carrying a shopping basket and dripping with rain, though the latter did not seem to bother him. "Got some more o' that soft tack. There was - whoa." He stopped when he saw the weapons that the strangers were carrying. "What're y'all doin' with them? It's bad luck to point a musket in a tavern."

Deverel took advantage of the distraction of Perry's entrance to grab at the nearest man's musket, trying to wrench it from his hands. Perry saw the lieutenant's sudden move and followed suit, grabbing the other man and trying to pull his musket away.

Strout cursed when the British officer grabbed hold of his musket barrel. Idiots! "Shoot 'em, Jack!" He cried, even as he pulled the hammer back with a hasty jerk. So much for getting out of here peacefully. His musket flared smoke and lead, almost directly at the blue-coated officer.

Jack, on other hand, settled for a different approach. He heaved back on his musket, then suddenly lunged forward at his assailant with a closed fist. "Bastards!"

Perry had been in his fair share of fights, and the blow to his head was not unexpected. Painful, yes, but he resisted the instinct to let go of the musket to protect himself. He had nearly lost his balance when the invader had jerked it back, but he held on like a bulldog until the man lost his grip.

He did not have time to glance at the wounded lieutenant clinging to the kitchen table, but hopefully others would have heard the shot and would soon come running to their assistance.

Edward had been sitting in the library reading Austen's 'Pride and Prejudice', which seemed to be quite engrossing, despite his dislike for romantic novels. He sipped his tea which was sitting on a side table with a small plate of pink wafers. As far as he was aware, life was good and the pink wafers were quite lovely, despite being a little too sweet for his liking.

BANG!!! Came the sound from the kitchen.

Edward jumped, dropping the book onto the rug, before getting up and making his way to the source of the noise. Sabre drawn, he burst into the kitchen to find a Royal Navy Lieutenant bleeding profusely, and two strange visitors. He put the tip of the sabre to the throat of the man nearest to him.

"Put the weapon down, or I will have absolutely no hesitation in dispatching you to the next world!"

The look on his face showed that he meant business.

The ball had gone home true. That was one opponent out of the way. Strout pulled his musket away and started immediately to reload it. There was another arrival to the room however, and this one was armed.

"Jack," Strout said tersely, frozen in the midst of pouring powder into the pan, "Don't you be movin'. Now see here, fella. I ain't puttin' nothin' down 'til the pan's shut. No sense wastin' good powder."

Perry's stranger obediently stopped where he was, and the seaman took advantage of the pause to give him a good thump with the butt of his own musket before turning it around to point the barrel at him. "Put it down!" he shouted at the other man, "Or your mate gets it!"



Deverel grasp on the table failed and he slipped to the floor, staring in shock at the wound and the blood that came away on his hands. "Bloody hell!" he gasped. At least the little girl had run away and been replaced by a responsible fellow with a sabre.

Vickery had been relaxing in the private parlour when the musket went off. He leaped to his feet, determined to find whoever had done such a damn fool thing, and haul him over the coals for being so stupidly irresponsible as to fire inside the Crown.

The sight that met his eyes was every bit as bad as he'd feared it would be. There was a Navy officer on the floor, obviously shot, and a group of men hanging around.

He knelt by the Naval man's side, without taking his eyes off the men. "Which irresponsible idiot fired that musket?" he asked, his voice quiet and ice-cold.

Despite the blow from the solid wooden stock, Jack put his hands on the musket barrel when it was turned on him and, by the look on his face, was only too ready to carry on the fight for the weapon. In accordance with Strout's order, however, he made no further move and instead waited to see how his companion would react.

"Surrender? To you?" Strout curled his lip. "We'd have been long outta here if you fools had let us go with no trouble." But of course the British could never do anything the sensible way.

And now there was another new officer. What the hell sort of place was this? Acting uncaring of the sabre at his neck, Strout spat onto the floor to show his disdain. "Better question is, what irresponsible idiot tried stoppin' us two from makin' a perfectly peaceable exit. What he got's only what he deserves. Now what about lettin' us carry on outta here. We ain't got no business with you lot."

"Whether someone got in your way or not, there was no need to fire." Vickery said, frowning as the uncouth ragamuffin spat on the floor. "There is absolutely no need for violence. And one of you go and find a surgeon. Now." He looked down at the officer on the floor, reaching to unfasten his buttons so that he could see how badly he was wounded.