5th July; Harmless as the Devil

(This takes place at the same time as The Great Ball Game.)



The rest of the 60th was preoccupied with their daft game of ball. Like a pack of brainless chickens scrabbling about a farm yard, really. It went without saying that Jack was having no part of such nonsense. His already low opinion of the 60th had dipped further when he'd spotted the game in its opening stages. Let those bird-witted hobnails lark about all they wished. Their being distracted so afforded Jack an opportunity to take care of a little business.

He slung his newly-cleaned rifle from his shoulder and set off. A casual stroll was in order, first, to avoid arousing suspicion. Eventually, he intended to happen by apparent chance to find himself near the 33rd's camp. Mayden had related the tale of his encounter with that ancient redcoat, who had come throwing around accusations about that damned mutt. The redcoat claimed nominal ownership of the beast, by the sound of it, and that was enough for Jack. His hand was still bandaged and still ached constantly where the dog had bitten him.

Even if he could sort out only one of the two today, he would be content. He'd prefer to settle the dog's account first, though. His quarrel with the redcoat was not as pressing, since the oldster had not harmed him personally. But, Jack thought, he would not turn down an opportunity to square up with the spooney old bastard. Especially not since the man had just appeared, walking in the same direction Jack himself was going. The cove seemed a bit tall for what Mayden had described, but it was near enough for Jack.

One hand drifted casually toward the front of his jacket, with the appearance of his needing to scratch his stomach. His knife was hidden there, because a missing button allowed his thin hand quick access to the short-bladed weapon. Just a few more steps and he'd be almost right behind the redcoat. Then it would be the simplest job imaginable to silence the bugger and continue on his way.

It was no strange thing to have folk walking in one's wake, not in a bleeding camp, but the steps behind Sykes neither turned off, nor made to pass him. They simply closed, gradually, until they were almost on top of him.

"The hell you playin' at?" he demanded, whirling round.

The redcoat's abruptly spinning around to face him took Jack by surprise. He picked at the loose button above the missing one on his jacket, deftly improvising in the face of unexpected confrontation.

"Wot're you yelpin' 'bout?" Jack countered with a scowl. "I'm walkin' 'ere is all."

The color of the fellow's coat did nothing to ease Sykes' suspicions.

"Aye, well you can bugger off wherever you was goin' then," he spat, " 'Fore I do you like I done for that mate o' yours."

That remark only caused Jack's suspicion about the man to deepen. This wasn't the oldster he was after, but what was he on about? Were the Rifles viewed as nothing more than objects to abuse by these redcoats?

"Wot you on 'bout, cully?" He asked coldly.

The question caught Sykes off guard. He scowled. "Meanin' 'less you want t' wind up like your crippled mate an' his whore, you'd best piss off."

'Crippled mate and his whore'? Jack knew no one by either description. No wait. He'd heard about some Rifleman who'd had to be sent back to Lisbon or something, but the man was no mate of Jack's. He knew nothing at all of any woman who might be attached to such a fellow.

His lack of recognition of the people mentioned aside, the meaning of the redcoat's words caused Jack's frown to deepen. "Wot you fink you c'n do, then? I ain't no kinda cock robin like the Sixtief 'as in it." Maybe he should have poked this fool and gone on his way. But there was still time for that yet.

The hell with this. Sykes' fist shot out, a sharp jab aimed just below the fellow's breastbone.

So that was how it'd be. Fine enough by him. Jack stepped back to let the punch sail harmlessly past then closed the distance again, his rifle butt coming up sharply at the redcoat's gut. Teach him to try sneaking a punch!

Sykes twisted away, but not quite fast enough to avoid bellyful of brass. Damn, but the man was fast. Gasping out a curse, he slipped his musket from his shoulder, bringing the barrel down to try to knock away the greenjacket's rifle, before driving the butt up under his chin.

Damned sly bugger, thought Jack as the musket butt clipped against his cheek. He wasn't fast enough to dodge aside from that one. But he knew readily enough that with that musket now in play, his rifle was useless.

There was thus only one solution. He put his left hand under his jacket, through the gap where the button was missing, and in a twinkling had his knife out. The blade slashed out at the redcoat, for it mattered little to Jack where the man got struck. So long as he was.

Sykes recognized danger in the subtle movement, even before his eyes caught the glint of metal, but his reflexes were not so sharp as they had once been and he hadn't time to drop his elbows before he felt the knife slice across his ribs. Bastard! he thought, gritting his teeth as he shifted his hands so both gripped the barrel, and swung the musket backhanded at the rifleman.

The strike felt successful but it wasn't good enough. The redcoat was still on his feet and still swinging. That meant Jack had to finish the job properly. He set his feet and was just starting to lunge forward for a final poke when a sharp, authoritative voice barked out "Stand off there, you two men!"

Jack halted his fledgling lunge immediately, his knife disappearing back under his jacket. Had the officer seen it? He didn't know. But as he stepped back and assumed a nominal position of attention, he realised it was not even an officer, but instead a sawbones. Christ.

Sykes checked at the command, but seeing his opponent coming to attention, made a swift jab with his musket for the man's stomach before straightening up himself.

Any other time, Jack would have reacted to that last sneak-attack with his knife, but with a figure of authority present, he forced himself to take the blow unchecked. He would get this bastard back later.

"That," the sawbones snapped, snatching at the redcoat's musket, "is quite enough! What regiment is yours?" He did not need to ask that question of Jack, whose green jacket and black facings were impossible not to know.

Sykes was too astonished to resist as the sawbones yanked his musket away. What the devil did the man think he was doing? He needed that. He'd half a mind to snatch it back, but he was in enough trouble as it was.

"2nd Foot Guards," he muttered sullenly, keeping his hand within easy reach of his bayonet and trying to ignore the fiery pain which raked across his chest. He was going to get that greenjacket for this.

A God-damned Guardsman. The simmering dislike in Jack's gut began to strengthen. That was almost as bad as a man from the 33rd. One end of the scale to the other, really. Damn this sawbones for coming along when he had. Five seconds more were all Jack had needed.

"Are you one of Captain Blackwood's men?" Mister Todd asked, thinking that if this fellow was, it was a damned unfortunate thing.

Blackwood... why did that name sound--oh, sweet Christ. This interfering git would know him. But one company would serve as well as any, he supposed, and here the fellow had gone and handed him the name of the appropriate officer.

"Aye." Sykes tone remained flat and reluctant. Did the man genuinely expect him to answer honestly?

He studied the redcoat for a moment and suppressed a sigh. "I shall have a word with your captain, then," Mister Todd said presently. Certainly Blackwood would wish to know what his men were getting up to. So too would Captain Vickery.

"Now what in the name of God has provoked this particular disagreement?"

Jack withheld a sneer only with an effort. "No dis'greement 'ere. Sir."

"Aye, that's right, sir. Just messin' about like."

"Then why," Todd asked pointedly, "are you bleeding from your side?"

Damnit.

Sykes looked down, swearing aloud this time. Bloody hell -- he hadn't thought it was bleeding that much.

"This? Been like that since yesterday," he protested, "Damned thing's just opened up again, is all."

Indeed.

"Wounded in action, were you?" Todd made little effort to conceal his disdain, for now that he had taken a closer look at the redcoat, he realised he knew this man.

"Don't recall," Sykes bit the words out. What the devil did that have to do with anything?

"Of course not." Todd glanced at the skinny slip of a Rifleman, then shrugged. "Captain Vickery is your officer, I assume?"

The Rifleman looked affronted. " 'Tenant Sharpe. Sir."

Whatever. "I shall need to have a word with him, about this non-disagreement. Unless there is anything I have not yet been told?"