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barefoot_bardTitle: Stars
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: None
Original pen-date: 11 January 2010
Summary: The Massachusetts Line regroups after the battle of Long Island. August 1776. (A Strout and Leech adventure.)
Author's Note: There are probably some historical goofs in here and I apologise for them.
Defeat makes a man reconsider his purpose. Makes him question his devotion to a cause. Makes him even contemplate the impossibility of victory. These were the thoughts of Benjmain Strout as he tramped wearily down the barely-lit street, his musket balanced over one shoulder. Night had long since fallen, bringing a noticeable snap to the air. A brisk wind cut through the damp fabric of his shirt and coat, causing him to shiver. The boat that had borne him and several others from his company had sunk several yards from safety, overburdened as it was, and the desperate men had been forced to swim as best they could to shore. It was only good fortune that they had escaped at all, with the British moving steadily closer to the heights with their siege works.
The army had not stood. This might have been bearable, except for the eventual order to evacuate the heights instead of making another fight of it. The Twenty-third had performed nobly, or so Strout thought, but it hadn't been enough. Defeat. The very word tasted bitter on his tongue and he spat on the ground in disgust. His regiment was scattered now and he had no idea where the rest of his company was. Worse, it had barely stopped raining in over a week. Shivering again, he tugged his coat tighter around his shoulders. It hadn't been his coat originally, belonging instead to old Dan Cross, the Cambridge tinsmith. Dan was dead now though and his meagre kit divided up amongst his mates. Strout had been fortunate to get the tinsmith's coat, including all the odd bits stuffed away in its pockets. If only the coat was still not so fully soaked.
His shoe caught briefly on a loose cobblestone and the thin sole flapped loosely against his bare foot. Stupid thing. The shoes had worn out distressingly fast since leaving Boston. Like the rest of his clothes. There was a hole in his breeches that refused to stay mended, which was now beginning to honestly annoy him. He was still wet and it was still raining. Cursing to himself, Strout shifted his musket to the other shoulder and tried to keep from thinking of home. It was impossible. They would be making jams, he thought. Jams and pastries. How good had the season's yield been? What he wouldn't give for some of his mother's apple tarts...
"You there! You man, what regiment is yours?"
Strout stopped in his plodding pace and looked up at the dark outlook of a figure on horseback. It sounded like an officer. "Twenty-third. Massachusetts Line."
"Massachusetts Line, eh?"
"Yes, sir."
"I see. Carry on. There's a regiment just a quarter mile along." The officer trotted his horse away, leaving Strout feeling confused and not a little disgusted. 'Massachusetts Line, eh?' The officer was probably a Marylander. Stuffy puppet. He sighed and resumed his slow trudge. Onward, ever onward. He'd rather be walking on a road heading back to Boston.
"Benjamin!"
That was a voice he knew. Strout quickened his stride, a relieved smile lightening the gloom on his face. "Jack Leech. Made it out after all, did you?"
Jack laughed and swept Strout up in a bone-bending hug, musket and all. "Ezra is here too."
"Is he?" Strout wheezed. "Set me down, Jack. Gently now. There's a fellow." He rolled his shoulders in a slight shrug to loosen them after being so summarily squashed, then nodded toward the little fire blazing merrily in the middle of the street. Ezra Marsh was indeed there, with a handful of other men in the faded brown coats of the regiment. Strout realised he stood out amongst them now, with his blue coat. It was a pleasant little detail, he thought.
"Tuck," Ezra said, holding out a battered tin plate.
Strout set his musket aside as he dropped down to sit on the uneven cobblestones. " 'Bliged," he replied when he accepted the plate. It looked like it had once been chicken. Ezra must have cooked it. Not that Strout cared. He was too glad to get some half-warmed food.
"Will we get to fight again?" Jack Leech asked.
"Probably," was Ezra's brusque reply as he tucked a blanket around himself. "Hush yer talkin' now. I'm sleepin'."
To cover a chuckle, Strout stuffed some of the blackened chicken into his mouth. It was good to know Ezra was still around. The grumpy old flake. The chicken was tasteless, all flavour having been cooked out of it, but it might have been mince pie. It was gone in only a few minutes. Strout wiped the plate clean with a rag and handed it to Jack, who offered him a cup brimming with wine.
"Sleep soon," Jack told him, with a nod toward the other men around the fire.
"Aye." Strout brought the cup to his lips and enjoyed the dry bite of the wine as it ran down his throat. He had no idea where the chicken or the wine had come from, but he was not in the mood to care. He was back with his company. That was enough for him. With a half-stifled yawn, he drew his musket closer and let himself sag down onto the hard cobblestones. The damp and constant tension of the preceding days were catching up to him. For the moment, it didn't even matter that the British had beaten them so completely that they'd been forced to abandon Brooklyn. Strout cradled his musket in the crook of his elbow, instinctively keeping the firelock in hand even on the verge of sleep.
"Look," Jack Leech said and pointed skyward. "Stars."
Stars. Strout pulled his hat off his face and looked up. The sky had cleared briefly of low-hanging rain clouds, revealing a healthy sprinkling of pale pinpricks of light. It was a heartening sight. "Ain't that somethin'," he muttered. Maybe that was a sign that things would look up for the Line after the humiliation they'd just endured? Who cared. Strout grinned to himself. It had been a long time since he had been able to simply lay on the ground and look at the stars. It was certainly a heartening sight.
"Enjoy your stars, Jack," he said to his friend as he tugged his hat back down over his eys. Beside him, Jack Leech tucked his knees close to his chest and stared skyward, a boyish grin on his face. He would not sleep while there were stars to gaze at.
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: None
Original pen-date: 11 January 2010
Summary: The Massachusetts Line regroups after the battle of Long Island. August 1776. (A Strout and Leech adventure.)
Author's Note: There are probably some historical goofs in here and I apologise for them.
Defeat makes a man reconsider his purpose. Makes him question his devotion to a cause. Makes him even contemplate the impossibility of victory. These were the thoughts of Benjmain Strout as he tramped wearily down the barely-lit street, his musket balanced over one shoulder. Night had long since fallen, bringing a noticeable snap to the air. A brisk wind cut through the damp fabric of his shirt and coat, causing him to shiver. The boat that had borne him and several others from his company had sunk several yards from safety, overburdened as it was, and the desperate men had been forced to swim as best they could to shore. It was only good fortune that they had escaped at all, with the British moving steadily closer to the heights with their siege works.
The army had not stood. This might have been bearable, except for the eventual order to evacuate the heights instead of making another fight of it. The Twenty-third had performed nobly, or so Strout thought, but it hadn't been enough. Defeat. The very word tasted bitter on his tongue and he spat on the ground in disgust. His regiment was scattered now and he had no idea where the rest of his company was. Worse, it had barely stopped raining in over a week. Shivering again, he tugged his coat tighter around his shoulders. It hadn't been his coat originally, belonging instead to old Dan Cross, the Cambridge tinsmith. Dan was dead now though and his meagre kit divided up amongst his mates. Strout had been fortunate to get the tinsmith's coat, including all the odd bits stuffed away in its pockets. If only the coat was still not so fully soaked.
His shoe caught briefly on a loose cobblestone and the thin sole flapped loosely against his bare foot. Stupid thing. The shoes had worn out distressingly fast since leaving Boston. Like the rest of his clothes. There was a hole in his breeches that refused to stay mended, which was now beginning to honestly annoy him. He was still wet and it was still raining. Cursing to himself, Strout shifted his musket to the other shoulder and tried to keep from thinking of home. It was impossible. They would be making jams, he thought. Jams and pastries. How good had the season's yield been? What he wouldn't give for some of his mother's apple tarts...
"You there! You man, what regiment is yours?"
Strout stopped in his plodding pace and looked up at the dark outlook of a figure on horseback. It sounded like an officer. "Twenty-third. Massachusetts Line."
"Massachusetts Line, eh?"
"Yes, sir."
"I see. Carry on. There's a regiment just a quarter mile along." The officer trotted his horse away, leaving Strout feeling confused and not a little disgusted. 'Massachusetts Line, eh?' The officer was probably a Marylander. Stuffy puppet. He sighed and resumed his slow trudge. Onward, ever onward. He'd rather be walking on a road heading back to Boston.
"Benjamin!"
That was a voice he knew. Strout quickened his stride, a relieved smile lightening the gloom on his face. "Jack Leech. Made it out after all, did you?"
Jack laughed and swept Strout up in a bone-bending hug, musket and all. "Ezra is here too."
"Is he?" Strout wheezed. "Set me down, Jack. Gently now. There's a fellow." He rolled his shoulders in a slight shrug to loosen them after being so summarily squashed, then nodded toward the little fire blazing merrily in the middle of the street. Ezra Marsh was indeed there, with a handful of other men in the faded brown coats of the regiment. Strout realised he stood out amongst them now, with his blue coat. It was a pleasant little detail, he thought.
"Tuck," Ezra said, holding out a battered tin plate.
Strout set his musket aside as he dropped down to sit on the uneven cobblestones. " 'Bliged," he replied when he accepted the plate. It looked like it had once been chicken. Ezra must have cooked it. Not that Strout cared. He was too glad to get some half-warmed food.
"Will we get to fight again?" Jack Leech asked.
"Probably," was Ezra's brusque reply as he tucked a blanket around himself. "Hush yer talkin' now. I'm sleepin'."
To cover a chuckle, Strout stuffed some of the blackened chicken into his mouth. It was good to know Ezra was still around. The grumpy old flake. The chicken was tasteless, all flavour having been cooked out of it, but it might have been mince pie. It was gone in only a few minutes. Strout wiped the plate clean with a rag and handed it to Jack, who offered him a cup brimming with wine.
"Sleep soon," Jack told him, with a nod toward the other men around the fire.
"Aye." Strout brought the cup to his lips and enjoyed the dry bite of the wine as it ran down his throat. He had no idea where the chicken or the wine had come from, but he was not in the mood to care. He was back with his company. That was enough for him. With a half-stifled yawn, he drew his musket closer and let himself sag down onto the hard cobblestones. The damp and constant tension of the preceding days were catching up to him. For the moment, it didn't even matter that the British had beaten them so completely that they'd been forced to abandon Brooklyn. Strout cradled his musket in the crook of his elbow, instinctively keeping the firelock in hand even on the verge of sleep.
"Look," Jack Leech said and pointed skyward. "Stars."
Stars. Strout pulled his hat off his face and looked up. The sky had cleared briefly of low-hanging rain clouds, revealing a healthy sprinkling of pale pinpricks of light. It was a heartening sight. "Ain't that somethin'," he muttered. Maybe that was a sign that things would look up for the Line after the humiliation they'd just endured? Who cared. Strout grinned to himself. It had been a long time since he had been able to simply lay on the ground and look at the stars. It was certainly a heartening sight.
"Enjoy your stars, Jack," he said to his friend as he tugged his hat back down over his eys. Beside him, Jack Leech tucked his knees close to his chest and stared skyward, a boyish grin on his face. He would not sleep while there were stars to gaze at.
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Date: 2010-01-12 03:16 am (UTC)And also bonus points for going with Massachusetts people on Long Island. ;)
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