30th May, Early morning: Watering riflemen

The kettle swung in another heavy arc, but the man stepped out of the way easily; Davy couldn't attack fast enough now that Sykes knew he was there. Still, he tried again, because the kettle was all he really had to attack with. And the man had nearly stumbled over Pye again, who was writhing on the ground in his bonds. He'd said something about getting away to Davy, but Davy was not about to leave his friend like this. He tried to take the opportunity while Sykes was distracted to get in another good lick with the kettle.

But this time Sykes made a grab to catch it, at the beginning of the swing before it had gathered enough momentum. The man caught it, and with a powerful wrench he pulled it straight out of Davy's hands. Davy cut loose with a torrent of swear-words, and skipped backwards to try to avoid a counter-attack.

Water, to wash away the crusted blood that made his beard clump together. It had been two days since that snotty upstart had chucked a rock at him and Starling was only now properly seeing to the wound. Or, more accurately, washing away evidence of it. He had splashed some brandy onto it to ward off infection but that had been all he knew - or cared - to do for it.

Thus, with a mostly-clean scrap of linen in hand, Starling made his way toward the trickling stream that the army had halted near. He took care to avoid the small groups of other redcoats and even more care to skirt away from the Riflemen, for he wanted nothing at all to do with anyone that morning. Not until they got on the march again, anyway. It was bad enough he had to spend hours sandwiched in the ranks, with nothing to look at but the back of the man in front of him.

The Pioneer had only just found a suitable spot to kneel and soak his linen scrap when he heard a voice calling out in familiar, nearly-incomprehensible speech. That little snot was close enough by to be heard. Wonderful. Starling swabbed roughly at the gash on his chin as he came back to his feet. What sort of thievery was that scamp up to now? Without a doubt Starling was not the only soldier the boy had attempted to fleece.

Ah. It was a fight, instead of thievery. He stopped some ways distant and leaned against a tree, amused by the sight. So the boy had crossed somebody more willing to beat him than Starling. This needed watching!

The blow to his head was unfortunately a lucky one. It had made his head snap back, and there to strike a rock. Perhaps he had seen nothing before, but now he also felt nothing, his body slacking and lying on the floor as dead. It was still at the feet of Sykes and thus close to Davy, but it was no longer attempting to trip one and make the other flee.

The rifleman's bonds though had slipped at that time and were now so loose, that when he was able to awake again, he would be able to free both hands. He'd have known to do it gently, to prevent more 'stimulation' to come to the broken pair of fingers and his bruised hands.

All in all however, for now, he was no longer aware of anything and anyone.

Sykes narrowly avoided hitting himself in the face as the pot swung free, and he was not quick enough on the back swing to catch the lad as he had intended. Damn slippery little bugger, this one. Jumping the prone form of the rifleman, Sykes closed the distance between himself and the boy and brought the kettle arching down toward his head.

Pye had stopped moving. Davy's eyes flickered down to him, and widened in fear for his friend; was he dead already? Was he just knocked silly? He tried for a moment to stand over Pye protectively, but when Sykes leapt at him, the kettle swinging at him, Davy had to leap out of the way, the kettle missing him by a fraction. Just as the weapon had been too slow for Davy to use it effectively against Sykes without the advantage of surprise, however, it was too slow for Sykes to use it. The man hadn't figured that out yet. Davy was lighter and much quicker, and could be as slippery as an eel if he chose to.

Perhaps he could lead the bastard away from Pye. "Ye're too slow, ye sackless clot," he taunted as he danced backward. Meaning to enrage the man into chasing him, he literally danced as he dodged, kicking up his feet in a mocking pattern. "Slow an' stupid."

**** it. Flinging the kettle as far from himself as he could, Sykes lunged at the boy, grabbing for his shirt.

Davy leaped backwards again, but he was a fraction of a second too slow. The man's fingers caught on the front of Davy's shirt. He tried to wrench free before the man could get a better grip, but the shirt wouldn't tear free; he promptly sagged his full weight against it and tried to slip right out of the shirt itself. He dropped down, disappearing inside the shirt and hanging from Sykes' hand - but it caught on his arm and wouldn't pull free. He was trapped in the fabric now.

Panicking, he struggled to get himself free.

The boy nearly managed to wriggle free. He was slippery as a fish and Sykes might have been impressed, had the boy's antics not so successfully inflamed his temper.

Seizing the boy's arm with his free hand for a more secure purchase, Sykes forced his head down and brought his knee up at the lad's face. "'Bout time someone learned you some manners. Mouthy little git."

Davy had just about worked his way free, but the man caught his arm with a grip like iron before he could fully get free of the tangling shirt. A second later Davy's face met Sykes' knee. The knee won. His nose broke with an audible crunch, and the blow left Davy dazed for a moment; he did not cry out.

With one hand still clutching a fistful of the boy's hair, he yanked back, bringing his other fist down backhand across the lad's face.

Right. This was not going to end well. Starling straightened up away from the tree, having seen enough to realise that the boy was not going to come out of this on his own.

He crossed the ground quickly and took a great fistful of the back of the other man's jacket. That snot-faced boy might not be able to deliver any meaningful punches but Starling certainly could. One sharp upwards jerk with that hand and a solid sideways blow to the man's head with a half-closed fist. That was good for a start.

If Davy had been able to think more clearly, he would have run when the man let go of his arm and grabbed ahold of his hair. But he was still trying to gather his wits. He did try to throw a punch at the man, but he couldn't see straight to land it, and his small arm couldn't do much damage anyway. The next blow would have rocked his head back on his shoulders, except that Sykes was holding his head fixed by the hair. That made it worse.

From out of nowhere, seemingly, hands grabbed him from behind and with a startled yelp, he was hoisted up. Instinctively, he tried to lash back with his elbows, but a blow to the head forestalled this. Letting forth a torrent of curses, Sykes kicked back as hard as he could.

"That it?" Starling took the kick without flinching and hit the man again, this time with a firmly closed fist. How well was this fellow going to bear up against somebody who could hit back?

Davy was abruptly released, and he dropped to the ground, landing sprawled there. He had the presence of mind to roll away, first, then began to crawl before he'd even had the chance to figure out what just happened. There was blood washing down his face from a cut above his eye. His head was pounding and his thoughts seemed fuzzy. He struck his knee on a sharp rock, and the burst of pain brought a little clarity to his world.

He glanced over his shoulder to see how far behind him Sykes was. He had only gone a few feet, and probably that hadn't even been in a properly straight line, but Sykes was right where he'd dropped Davy...the full-grown man hoisted up by his jacket and dangling from one hand of the rabbit-stealing Goliath. Who had just took another heavy swing.

It was incomprehensible, especially with his head throbbing the way it was, but Davy wasn't about to let the man go it alone. He pushed himself up, first to his knees, and then picked up a heavy stone to give his arm more weight. He stumbled into a run and went for Sykes, meaning to hit him in the gut with the stone.

Sykes gritted his teeth against the pain in his head. What the hell was going on? His first thought had been that the greenjacket had somehow gotten loose, but that made no kind of sense. He could think of at least half a dozen people it could be, but that hardly mattered. What mattered was that he was still hanging in the air like some absurd puppet and stood a good chance of being pounded to a pulp if he didn't get loose.

It was then he noticed the boy coming at him with a rock. "Like bloody hell..." Sykes snarled, kicking at the boy as soon as he came within range. Spitting out several further choice words, he wrenched himself to the side, trying to twist out of the other man's grip.

Good lad, Starling thought with approval. He gave the man in his grip a rough shake, then tossed him carelessly aside. If the idiot got up again, Starling would have no problems showing him the mistake of that notion.

Davy was still not thinking clearly enough to avoid Sykes' boot as the man kicked out at him. It hit him squarely in the middle, and he staggered back and doubled over, gasping as the wind rushed out of him. It hadn't been as neat a blow as it could have been, but it did for Davy for the moment; he could only gasp, and retch as his injured belly tried to bring up its contents. He was still on his feet, though, and as Goliath pitched the man to the side, even though Davy still hadn't gotten his breath back, his eyes stayed fixed on Sykes with a determined light.

He threw the rock at Sykes.

Landing in a graceless heap, Sykes rolled and scrambled to his feet. He stumbled back several steps, his gaze focusing on the new arrival. Oh. Hell. It was not the greenjacket. It wasn't even a rifleman. It was no one he recognized or could recall having offended. In fact, he looked like exactly the sort of person, Sykes avoided offending.

There was the sharp bite of pain as something collided with his forehead. He jerked away, swearing in surprise and pain, and whirled on the boy. It was a mistake, one he should have known better than to make.

It seemed this man was a slow learner. A scowl formed on Starling's face as he stepped briskly forward to seize hold of the man's jacket with both hands.

"That ain't sportin'," the Pioneer said and gave the man an almighty heave.

Davy wondered if maybe it was better just to let Goliath do the work now - he'd hit Sykes with the rock, good and hard. And Pye was still lying nearby, in the same place he had been before; he wasn't moving - Davy wasn't sure if he was breathing. What had Sykes done to him?

Not quite moving in a straight line, he made his way to the Rifleman's still form. "Zack? Y'areet?" he said, unsteadily. Setting his hands on Pye's shoulders, he shook him, but his friend's head only flopped back and forth. "Ye're nivvor deed? Ye can't be deed." He shook Pye harder, biting down hard on his lip until he tasted blood. "Stop i'."

This time a tree interrupted Sykes' horizontal progress; a large, sturdy one which might have been a rock for all that it bent under the impact. Hitting the ground, he stifled a groan as an exposed root caught him beneath the ribcage. How in the hell, he wondered, picking himself up, had he managed to provoke someone who could throw grown men like it was some kind of bloody caber toss?

He regarded the other man, anger mingling with consternation, waiting until he got close again, before dodging sideways and swinging for his head.

This, Starling thought, was an undeniably plucky bastard. He squared himself when the man moved toward him with fists up, but did not do more than watch him carefully. It was only fair to let the man get in one punch, after all.

That punch came after a quick sideways feint. Starling let the blow land mostly unchecked. Then, blinking a couple of times, he reached out sharply for his assailant's arm. He'd let the bugger have his one punch. Now he was going to have some fun.

The thought finally occurred to Davy that perhaps he ought to take off the blindfold and the bonds. He scrubbed the blood away from his face with the back of his sleeve, and pretended that he had not been crying. He'd realized that Pye was actually breathing, at least. But he still wasn't moving, no matter what Davy did. Once the blindfold was off and he had untied his friend's hands, he peeled both of Pye's eyes open, hoping that might wake him up, but they were rolled back in his head and he didn't react to that either.

Looking back at where Starling and the other man were squaring up, Davy's eyes narrowed angrily. The big man didn't need his help, but Pye's sword bayonet was sitting right there, near his hand. His eyes flickered downwards to the long blade, and then back up; his fingers curled around the hilt as he stood up. His balance was a little better now. And Sykes' back was to him.

He darted down towards the two men, bringing the bayonet back to swing it.

Oh. Shitohshitohshitohshit!

Sykes tried to pull his arm free, but the stranger held it fast. In mounting panic, he drew his other arm back, meaning to strike the man again -- for all the good it would do -- but the blow never fell. Instead he stumbled forward, crying out in pain as something sliced across his back. He wrenched wildly, twisting in an attempt to face this new assailant when escape proved impossible.