5th July; Harmless as the Devil

Oh, there was a whole heap of thing he hadn't been told, most of them pertaining to where he could go and what he could do when he got there.

Sykes stared balefully at the surgeon. "I'll be needin' that back. Sir," he said at length. It grated to have to say it; the stupid sod shouldn't have touched his musket in the first place.

Todd made no move to give the musket back. "I think you might need to see a surgeon for your side," he said. Despite his own standing as a surgeon, he would not tend this man himself. Not after what he knew this fellow to be. "Fairly soon at that."

The musket was now held out to the redcoat. Todd waited only until it had been grabbed back before turning sharply on his heel and walking away.

~



The sawbones had gone. Jack could hardly credit his good fortune. He curled his lip at the redcoat and pondered the likelihood of having another go at him. Best not to, though. That sawbones was fly to him.

"You tell yer mate McIntyre 'e's lucky I ain't settled wi' 'im yet. Or eivver of you, an' any uvver Thirty-third oafs wot comes round. That straight, cully?"

Oh, aye, that was plenty straight.

Sykes spat. If this jumped up diver wanted to start a war, he was more than happy to oblige him.

Jack had a hand on his knife almost before he was aware of it, but he managed to keep from drawing the short blade from his jacket.

"Mark it down, you jackanapes. Or I'll carve it inter yer 'ide so's you doesn't ferget."

Sykes snorted. "Aw, go on an' try it, then."

All right then. He needed no further invitation. The knife was in his hand and he was driving forward hard without a second thought.

This time he was ready for the knife. Sykes sidestepped -- only just evading the lunge -- and jammed the butt of his musket down, aiming for the greenjacket's wrist.

Damn it. This was a fly bugger after all. Jack took the blow to his wrist without a sound, even though there was almost certainly a pop from the joint. He was going to kill this sly boots.

He had his rifle, at least. He swung the weapon up one-handed like an awkward club.

Something cracked against the side of Sykes' head. He broke off, pulling back sharply and trying to blink the world back in to focus. What the hell was that?

Success. Grimacing, Jack slashed at the redcoat with his knife, steadfastly ignoring the pain in his wrist. One strike. Just one. That was all he needed.

Sykes sprang back, swinging his musket in a mirrored arc in hopes of connecting with the greenjacket's cut. The bastard knew how to fight. -- properly -- Sykes would give him that. He would almost have enjoyed the scrap, if it wasn't in such deadly earnest.

If there was any doubt before, there wasn't now. His wrist was definitely broken. Jack kept a grip on his knife, barely, and used his own momentum to slip past the redcoat. He would gain nothing by staying here.

There would be other times to sort this bastard out. Jack made his retreat steadily, the knife again disappearing into his jacket. He was going to need a sawbones for this, wasn't he? Shit.

Sykes stared after the greenjacket. He had half a mind to go after him; he would not get a better chance to finish this and he knew it.

Instead, he spat out a curse and, tugging his coat so that the knife wound was less obvious, headed in the opposite direction. He couldn't go to a surgeon, at least not yet. That damned sawbones would not find him on the Coldstreamers' books, nor, he was determined, any surgeon's log. He would have to sort this himself as best he could and hope to Christ it didn't start to fester before this mess blew over.

And who -- he wondered suddenly -- the bloody hell was McIntyre?