30th May, Early morning: Watering riflemen

(ooc Sykes and Pye)

The night had been a tiresome ordeal, and very little shut eye had been got. In part it was the closeness of the enemy, that could be blamed, and that strange feeling that pervaded the air, made it all the more tense. Things had however calmed down ever since both court martials had been completed. One, which had destroyed prospects for some men in the lines of provosts and offeres a small victory to those who had worn the rifles green, and the other which gave a slight reprimind to the lad who surprisingly had not much of role to play in the first and yet they were both connected.

The air was fresh, and there was still water found on the leaves of grass and trees. Every so often a droplet would fall of a broad leaf of this or that tree. It was almost peaceful, when one considered what went on elsewhere and what would go on very soon. Pye had slipped from his camp again, but as times before, he had gone away with a purpose. A kettle rested in his hand, empty for now. He yawned and stretched. He still felt some soreness where the wood had struck. It did not bother him however. A faint reminder of what was, it had made him glad it was all over too.

He had gone further in the directon of the other camps of their army, where it was certain to be safer than if he had ventured towards the 95th and the French lines. Passing, and remaining still inside and behind the picquet lines, he reached his destination. A small stream. Smaller than the ones he remembered in the past few days, but nice, cool and clean. It would take some effort to fill the kettle now. The water did not grow deep enough to sink it in fully. He frowned. This could prove to be tedious very soon. Half filling the thing with the angle that he had managed to put it, he sat it down into the stream next, and began filling it, a handfull at a time.

[ooc] (modding of Pye done with player's permission) [/ooc]

Hearing a splash off to his left, Sykes grabbed his musket and dropped into a crouch, peering through the trees. To his relief, the sound did not herald the arrival of blue-coated hordes. Instead, a single green clad figure was crouched beside the nearby stream.

Sykes swore under his breath. The last thing he needed was another bloody green-jacket poking his nose where it didn't belong. There was something oddly familiar about this one, however, which prompted him to move in closer. He must have made more noise than he thought, for the rifleman paused suddenly and looked around. If he'd turned his head a little farther, he would have seen the former provost whose scarlet coat offered nothing in the way of camouflage.

The glimpse of the green-jacket's face in profile, brief as it was, was sufficient and Sykes grinned wolfishly as he recognized the rifleman who had caused them so much trouble. He looked around, thinking that he could not possibly be so lucky, but as far as he could see, the man was alone. So much the better.

Leaving his musket, he broke cover and crept cautiously toward the stream bed. If the threat of a flogging crossed his mind, he paid it little heed. When he got to within several paces of his quarry, he charged, launching himself at the man's exposed back so that they both landed sprawling in the water.

Struggling to keep on top of the rifleman, Sykes grabbed a fistful of his hair, forcing his face beneath the water and grinding it into the sandy creek bed.

If he had heard a squeak of the pebbles disturbed by a sudden pressure of a foot stomping on them, he paid it no heed. He was behind the picquets and far enough that he believed himself safe. Just as that, he believed that the later the morning it would be, the more men might come to do about the same as him. Fetch water, have a wash of their faces, replenish their canteens or go abouts doing their business. So, it was too late, when he felt a sudden gust of air, which was almost instantly followed by a far greater force knocking him forward. He had gasped in surprise and landed, splashing, in the small stream. Before he was able to start getting up the weight seemed to try and pin him further into the freezing cold waters. His hair was grabbed, and his face held under, pressed hard against the pebbles, of which one or two actually got into his mouth. His nose was submerged and the air, previously knocked from his chest, could not be replaced with any. He choked and tried to buck the offender of his back, twisted with his arm to drive his elbow at the side of him.

He was getting more than a mouthful where it wasn't at, and caughing only made him take the water in. His second attempt at a twist and a turn was made furiously. He couldn't see anything. Then a moment later a different tactic was used, all in a desperate attempt to get free. He pushed forward. It might drag his offender with him, but he might be dragged behind, rather than on top and he then could gulp for some air and caugh water out.

Damn, but he was a slippery little bugger, thought Sykes, adjusting his grip as the rifleman tried to wriggle free. Of course, it would have been a good deal easier if the daft lad hadn't chosen the shallowest stretch of the entire stream to fill his kettle in. With one hand still holding down the green-jacket's head, Sykes levered himself up and with one swift movement drove his elbow down against softer area just below the other man's ribs.

Pye felt the sudden explosion of pain, his body tensing up. It wanted to curl around itself, but failed with the weight that kept it down. It was growing weaker, its owner suddenly motionless and limp.

He was wet, from head to toe, except for his back, and the back portion of his trousers higher up. His collar was soaked, and his shirt would need a good wrenching before it could be considered to be worn again. His legs had in most part been more wet at the knees,and drier where they had been closer to the dry pebbles sticking up beside the stream.

In theory, partial drowning as a means of incapacitating someone worked well enough. In practice it wasn't so bad either — provided one did not intend to bear the now sodden victim any great distance. This small caveat, however, did not occur to Sykes until it was far too late and, since he did not wish to risk interruption by staying near the stream, he was obliged to carry the rifleman who, by the time Sykes reached what he judged to be a 'safe' distance, felt easily twice as heavy.

Letting him drop, he stripped him of his coat, shirt and any equipment. With the shirt, he bound the man's ankles, then cut several strips of cloth from the coat from which he hurriedly fashioned a gag and a blindfold. Dragging him up once more, he propped the rifleman awkwardly against a tree and secured his hands behind it with the remaining strips of cloth, tugging sharply at the knots to ensure they were tight.

That done, there remained little else to do but wait. Settling himself on a fallen tree, Sykes reached into his coat, pulling out his flask and giving it an appraising shake. Pleasantly surprised to find it not empty, he removed the cap with a single, practice movement and tossed some of the contents down his throat. He returned his attention to the green-jacket then, watching impatiently for any sign of consciousness.

Was he dead? Alive? He would have probably not felt anything if he had died. And he did feel some discomfort just then. His hands were held behind him, pressing against something hard and rough. As he tried to pull on them something resisted and tightened when pressure was placed on it. He relaxed his arms again. Still held there, it seemed that whatever held him also held him upright. He felt his feet encounter a similar resistance, though they were certainly also touching the ground, flat.

His coat felt rather loose, probably not buttoned up, or was it even there? He tried opening his eyes, but his view remained rather as pitch black as before. When he was to talk, all that came from his mouth was a muffled: "Guh." Whatever lay in his mouth had a rather unpleasant faste, a fairly rough, wooly surface and texture. It had contained a taste of literally, wherever it has been, but adding to that his time at scrubbing it clean.

He jerked his head sideways as if expecting to see something. Still black. He tensed. All came flooding back, but only figuratively. Water, somebody had tried to drown him. But, it seemed they changed their mind. His side hurt because that same someone used a part of his body, probably his elbow, to jab it there.

He pulled more roughly at the bonds that kept him in place, determined to free himself. He did not know whether the man was still there, but assumed he wasn't since he could not hear anyone.

Was it his imagination or had the green-jacket moved? As quietly as he could, Sykes rose and picked his way across the ground until he stood before the rifleman. He seemed to be conscious. Sykes peered curiously at him, wondering how alert he was. The blindfold and gag made it difficult to tell whether or not he supsected the other's presence, but Sykes hoped not. He wanted the first blow to carry all the fear and surprise of being taken unawares.

Flexing his left hand, he drew it into a fist, but hesitated, relishing the feeling of total control, the potential to take another's fate and twist it as one wished. But what was potential without action? Drawing his arm back, he swung for the rifleman's face, throwing his body weight into the blow.

The bindings, which he was slowly recognising not to be ropes, kept his arms and legs in place no matter the effort with which he had twisted and pulled on them. He knew he had to hurry, till whoever had left him here would come back. There was a possibility that he would not come, and that this was how he had wanted to leave him till the army took off and he was deemed a deserter. But it seemed more logical to worry that the man, he was certain it was a male, would return.

It came as a great surprise when, all of a sudden a solid fist came in contact with his cheek, so that his head snapped to the side and back. He heard nothing to warn him of this. No sound, not a foot being placed upon the ground or a ruffle of fabric. He should have, but he did not.

The direction of the punch had it bouncing of the tree trunk behind him. The force was that great. He could see stars, and mmphed and gasped in pain, completely unprepared for the punch. He jerked his head wildly trying to see, but the blindfold had stayed in place. The sudden sharp pain, was blossoming into a throbbing, hot reminder of where the fist had struck. He could taste blood on his lip, while the gag took some of its colour.

He hmphed in protest jerking his head back, as if expecting another blow. A rather large bruise began forming at the back of his head, where he had struck the tree. Dazed, he tensed expecting another blow in quick succession to the first. Not knowing when it would come, from whom it was delivered nor even why this all was happening, seemed to leave the lad in alarm.

Sykes laughed as the green-jacket's head rebounded off the tree. Taking a step back, he surveyed his handiwork, grinning broadly. "No officers to save you this time, boy. 'S just you an' me." He stepped in swiftly, aiming his second blow for the man's gut.

It was, he decided, rather less satisfying beating someone who was tied to a tree, they couldn't be knocked down and could not be kicked in any of the important places, but he could hardly risk this one pulling off the blindfold and seeing his face. Sykes did not want his back decorated any further and especially not on account of this poxy little runt.

He hit him again and again, all about the face and torso. The process allowed for far more precision than he was accustomed to and he found he enjoyed the opportunity to land his blows where he wished for maximum effect as opposed to being restricted to the openings dictated by an opponent's movements.

Sykes paused momentarily; he thought he had heard the rifleman trying to force something resembling speech through the gag. He leaned in closer. "What's that? You'll have to speak up." He punctuated the taunt with another jab to the stomach.

He could swear he had been able to see the flash of pain, at the earlier strike. The offender spoke. He tried to remember the voice. Who could it have been? Hakeswill? No, certainly not him, though he might've been the sort to say something like that. Sergeant Hakeswill he knew. The man would have been sneakier or else well, it somehow did not fit, even if the man was quite cruel.

But who else could it be? None of the provosts he knew or heard. None of the German riflemen, nor did this one have an accent like that. He couldn't double over, nor was his body able to evade the blow, pressed so close as it was against the tree. The trunk did not budge when his back thumped against it, the fist driven in further. He choked on the gag. The bonds on his arms were strained as his body wished to bend over to protect itself, yet was unable.

He barely caught his breath when the fists began to shower down against his chest, face, torso, leaving bruises, making the already existent worse. Some made the skin split in places. If he had been engaged in a brawl and was on the loosing side, he might have looked similar. He did not make a sound. He would have pursed his lips, if not for the gag. Even so, he let himself only to have a breath caught, or released. Inhale sharply perhaps, exhale at the punch, but not cry out again. Not now, that he was ready and knew he would be punched even if he did not see them come. He tried to speak, and was mocked for it and gasped again, as his gut was struck. He felt ill to his stomach. Black and blue, that's certainly what he was.

The green-jacket remained silent. Not a sound passes his lips even as his head was snapped back against the tree once more. Sykes narrowed his eyes, annoyed. "I'm sorry. Am I boring you?" Reaching up, he deftly untied the knot and ripped the gag free.

He waited a moment to be sure the prisoner wasn't immediately about to start screaming for help and then moved to retrieve his musket from where he had left it propped against a fallen tree. Hefting the weapon, he again approached the rifleman.

"..You're a coward." Pye spat, some blood coming away, but probably not hitting the attacker, as he could not aim for him even if he had wanted to. "..only a coward would tie a man...a weak creature, fearful of a lad..because of what?... You hide your name...but I will find you... coward! Thinking yourself tough... for beating a bound man. ...a child could to that! Are you one?"

He laughed, knowing he was a fool to taunt a man he could not defend himself from. Yet, if he was to die, he did not intend to give him the satisfaction of seeing him hurt, of seeing him afraid or defeated.

"Oh, aye," he said softly, "A child could do it. But it wouldn't hurt nearly so much as this." With that, he drove the but of his musket into the rifleman's stomach.

He couldn't bend over, just as before. There was a momentary lapse, as his stomach contracted. He had been sick before, but the musket only made it so much worse. What Sykes could hear, was a rather odd sound. He could have seen the lad's muscles tense up. A small hiccup promised nothing good and what followed would have left a nasty, smelly stain on anyone who it would've hit. Pye's stomach chose that moment to empty itself of a portion of the food and slime, that it had contained from the other day. Much of it was in it's final stage of digestion, and Sykes perhaps was unfortunate in that. Little bits of food could probably be less unappealing, than the actual 'soup' of things.

If Sykes was not quite quick enough to react evasively, he lost no time in retaliating, clipping the rifleman's chin with his musket. "You little ****er, " he snarled, "Think that was funny, do you?"

Furious, he let his musket fall to the ground and made his way round to the other side of the tree. Grabbing one of the green-jacket's hands, he pinned it hard against the trunk, seized one of the fingers and snapped it.

Pye had a lopsided grin appear on his face, when his body no longer wanted to retch its contents onto the unsuspecting or the somewhat suspecting. Even the clip to his chin could not stifle his high spirits at the unintentional success and small victory. He heard the musket fall. Good. Perhaps the man would go and wash it out. It didn't have the most pleasant scent.

He heard him walk closer. Not good news. There was a soft snap, as a twig broke under the man's weight. Too close, but behind him. He craned his neck to hear better. Some pressure was applied to his hand. He twisted his other somewhat, trying to catch grip of the offending hand. The captive one could not be moved one it was pressed into the rough bark. A finger was singled out, and left the young rifleman holding breath. The snap was heard. It took Pye a moment to understand, to feel the pain, and then this to register in his mind as something that he ought to yelp for.

He did.

And cursed. His other hand twisted in its bonds. Its aim was to sink its nails at the flesh of the attacker. "Bastard. Stupid.. bloody , cowardly bastard!"

Sykes felt the nails bite into his hand and jerked it away, shaking his head. "Are all the rifles as dumb as you?" He took another finger and bent it back, slowly this time, until it gave way with a satisfying crack. Then cupping his hand around the rifleman's, he closed it, balling the other man's fingers in to a fist and squeezing.

He considered moving on to the other hand, but he was beginning to lose interest in that particular technique and so returned to the other side of the tree and retrieved his musket. Brushing halfheartedly at the mechanism with his sleeve, he propped it against a sturdy sapling.

With what was left of the rifleman's coat, he cleaned -- attempted to clean -- some of the vomit from his own uniform and then tore off another strip of cloth. He had seen a bayonet among the possessions he had taken from the other man and had decided to put it to use. A cursory search revealed the object in question and, unsheathing it, he once again approached the tree.

"Nice bayonet," he remarked conversationally, drawing the blade across the green-jacket's skin just beneath his right eye. It drew blood. Sykes raised an eyebrow. "And well taken care of, I see."

Moving round the tree, he halted behind the rifleman, resting the blade on one of the broken fingers. "A mite difficult to shoot a rifle with a few fingers missing, I'd guess." He increased the pressure on the blade until it bit into the flesh and then, abruptly, withdrew it, slicing through the man's bonds instead.

Dropping the bayonet, he grabbed the other man, pinning him to the ground and wrenching his arms behind him before he could pull off the blindfold. He bound the wrists once more and rose.

"There," he muttered, giving the rifleman a solid kick in the ribs, "Much better."

Pye grit his teeth. It hurt. The finger was bent, and bent. It was slowly getting to the point at which it could no longer withstand the pressure. The pain was building and then suddenly the bone snapped. He halted his breathing so that he would not cry in pain. Then he forced himself to let his breath out very slowly. Good. No sound.

But it did not stop there. The man held his hand curled into a fist over the injured fingers and then squeezed. Pye's breaths came fast. He had to control them, he knew. Still, it was his fingers that this man was injuring, that he broke. His precious fingers that he used to steal, he took pride in. Slight of hand, with broken fingers he could hardly do anything of the sort.

The bastard. He would pay. If Pye lived, the man would pay!

"s' a sword bayonet. " He retorted when his weapon was taken up by the attacker. He could not see him, he did not like to guess what the man would do with it. Had he not been blindfolded he might've jerked away from it as soon as it came close. Instead, it was the cut that he felt first, before he jerked his head against the tree, grunting briefly.

"..every rifleman takes greatest care with his kit." He speaks coldly, flinching as he expects another strike, but which does not come. "...so thair aim is true. ..that they shoot the enemy dead.. .without so much as an effort." Oh, but he was suggesting a different enemy altogether.

His breathing stopped. This time however it was not so much to keep himself quiet, but because fear and dread did come to his mind. His finger was in danger of being sliced of. Both, or more. It was not something he was willing to sacrifice. Sure, his face could be injured, damaged in some way. Scars were already there. As long as his eyes were untouched, another would not matter.

Fingers however were his, they were important and he was about to fly of on that, with threats and with all sorts of things that might be geared in doing what harm they could, when he was not free himself. He felt the slice.....but with some relief found that the finger remained attached, though bleeding profusely.

He fell to the ground stunned. He did not feel his bonds as tight as before. A hand would come loose in time. He wiggled it, twisted and waited to see where the man was heading, and where his gaze would stray. If he wanted to free himself, then this attacker would not be good to see him do so.

He gasped again, and began to get to his knees. He pushed forward trying to crawl away after the first kick. Falling to the side, he rolled another time, this time hissing out in pain, as he'd managed to roll right over his fingers, broken and not. One of his legs was raised ready to kick out, the other supported him in his position on his side.

Sykes stepped back, but not before the rifleman's foot connected painfully with his shin. He was a stubborn little bastard, Sykes would give him that. "Seems there's been a misunderstanding 'tween you an' me. But yer a slow learner, so I'll repeat meself." Stepping back within range, he aimed another kick at the green-jacket's ribs, then stomach.

It looked, for a moment, as though the rifleman might try to speak again and Sykes sent his head snapping back with a blow to the face. Circling round behind him, he kicked him again and again just below the ribs, occasionally bringing his boot down on the man's hands instead.

It was harder to find water than it had been in some campsites; Davy knew he would be tired by the time he lugged the kettle back to their site from the little stream, but that was better than going thirsty, or having nothing to cook with. He kicked at the ground as he walked, swinging the kettle around in a circle on his hand. Why did he have to fetch the water, anyway? It felt like he had to do everything, and Davy would have complained if there had been anyone around to complain to.

When he heard the first sharp yell, he didn't think anything particular of it. It could have been anything. You never knew what you'd hear, walking around the camp. Davy had heard and seen some interesting things, some of them pretty darn interesting. But it generally didn't pay to look too closely into it when someone was yelling. The only thing was, though, that it was coming from rather close by, in a small stand of young trees just off to his right.

Now wary, Davy moved a little more quietly, his eyes flickering about him on the watch for whoever that had been - or whoever was causing it, more importantly. He planned to give the trees a wide berth, until his alert ears picked up a voice that was awfully familiar. He almost dropped the kettle. That was Pye's voice. Another man spoke, and Davy couldn't make out the words, but the tone was clear - he stayed frozen for a moment, sudden panic welling up in him. That was Pye who had yelled, sure as anything, and if Pye was in trouble - how could Pye be in trouble? He was a grown Rifleman, and nothing bothered Pye, nothing dared to. Davy didn't move for a few seconds, until he heard the other man talking again, punctuated by the heavy thump of his blows. Pye didn't cry out again.

He didn't think to go for help. Instead, Davy ran towards them, as softly and quietly as he could on the uneven ground. His friend was doubled up on the ground and trussed up good, curled away from the boot of the man who was standing over him. A big man. Bigger by far than Davy. Bigger than Pye. Fear didn't have a chance, though, in the middle of his anger.

Davy swung the kettle with both arms and all his might at the man's back.

Sykes whirled round, swinging at empty air. There was nothing. Nothing at his eye level, at any rate. His confusion was hardly lessened, when he dropped his gaze, by the sight of a child, furiously brandishing a kettle, an item which Sykes, by the process of elimination, recognized as the object which had collided so painfully with his back an instant before.

Retreating a step, he tripped over the rifleman and fell sprawling in the dirt. "What the bloody hell are doing?" he shouted, scrambling to his feet as the boy advanced. Without waiting for an answer, he dealt a swift backhand to the side of the lad's head.


[OOC] Just fyi, I dont' mean to imply that the blow actually connected. That's up to you.[/OOC]

Davy felt the shock go through his arms as the kettle connected with the man's back, and he heard the soldier grunt as he stumbled, just before he whirled around with a fist swinging. It whiffed right over Davy's head, since the man had been expecting a taller enemy, but he ducked anyway, then skittered back to avoid the man's backhand. The kettle wasn't the handiest of weapons, being rather slow and unwieldy, but it was the best he had; he couldn't really hurt the man with his fists.

"Ye filthy f**kin' sod," Davy growled as he brought the kettle around again, "ge' awa' frem Zack!"

After the kick to his face Pye's awareness fell to its bare minimum. The surroundings would have seemed to have blurred if he could actually see, and he did not even hear the man approach as he did to kick him again. He coughed as the leg connected with his belly. Gasped again as another few kicks followed. Hissed in pain when the man stepped onto his hands and the broken one felt that pressure.

And then, after what he could only guess how long, it all stopped. He had heard a thump this time, the hollow sort that a kettle would do when hitting something solid. His attacker was as surprised about the strange sound as he was and taking his steps back fell smack across him. Pye was still too stunned to retaliate even if the opportunity might have set him on top of Sykes. Instead he lay in that little heap and did so even when the other had scampered to his feet.

Pye tensed. He recognised that voice, young and impish, and with a sure knack for curses. Davy! He couldn't call his name though. Had he, and the attacker might recognise him, look for him at another time.

"Get away!" The boy would be knackered, beaten into a pulp. It wasn't a sign of his lack of faith in Davy, but just mere logic. The boy was small, this man was big and knew what he was doing too. He could guess where they were quite well now. The sounds of shuffling feet made him push forward. If the boy wished to have a chance, then the attacker had to be on his back. Legs up and himself vulnerable. He couldn't let something happen to Davy. If Pye was hurt, then he thought he would live, or if killed, there'd be little loss. But little Davy had Lucy and he was his friend.

Blindly so he heaved his body towards the sound made by the boy and man wanting to come under his legs to trip him again. "Shove off!"

He twisted sharply at the bonds, but they were giving only slowly and still held on.

Zack? So the boy must be a friend or relative of the rifleman. Well, that made rather more sense. There was no shortage of folk who disliked Sykes, but as far as he knew, his reputation was not yet such that it inspired young children to attack him on sight.

He sidestepped another swing of the kettle, nearly tripping over the rifleman - again - who had endeavoured to tangle himself around Sykes' legs in a misguided effort to do god knows what. "Oh for Christ's sake!" In exasperation, he kicked hard for the green-jacket's head, hoping to eliminate him as a variable in what was becoming an increasingly chaotic equation.

"Gimme that, you little s***." He lunged at the boy, making a grab for the kettle.