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barefoot_bardTitle: Drifting
Rating: K (Suitable for all ages)
Disclaimers: None.
Original pen-date: 16 July 2010
Summary: A deserter from the Twenty-seventh Foot makes his way west after the Battle of New Orleans. May 1815.
Author's Note: This is just a fun little drabble.
The river was a wide, glittering ribbon of blue against the expanse of dark verdant woods. There was not a soul to be seen for miles. No buildings, no roads, no trace of men anywhere. Except, of course, for himself. It was how he liked it. The wave of settlers were not long behind him however. They never were. If he stayed in one place long enough, they inevitably caught up with him. It was best to keep moving.
Adam Starling pulled his hat down lower over his eyes and nudged his horse forward, down toward the river's edge. The packhorse behind him nickered in mild annoyance at the light tug on the lead rein, but he ignored it. They were all in need of water. Never minding that a river was nearly always a good place to stop for the night. If he was lucky, there would be fish for his dinner. Fish and whatever else he was able to hunt in the woods on this side of the river.
The journey down the hillside was made slowly, for Starling was in no hurry. He could remain here for weeks before the first of the ever-moving tide of settlers reached him. A desire to avoid just that occasion kept him from settling. His preference would have been to return to Vermont, but he was not welcome there at all. Not anymore. If his relations had considered him unworthy for deserting the American army, they would probably kill him for taking up as a British soldier.
What they didn't know wouldn't hurt them, though. Or so Starling's thought on the matter went. He had deserted again, after the battle of New Orleans. It was an inevitable event, really. What better time to abscond than in the aftermath of a battle? He had taken his arms, his pack, and a dead officer's horse and ridden fast up-river. In the months since his flight, he had abandoned his red jacket and shako, for they were the two things guaranteed to mark him out as British. How ironic, really.
He had kept his kit, however. Musket, bayonet, axe, pack, crossbelts... everything that was useful needed to be held onto. His red jacket had been replaced by a brown tailcoat and his shako by a coachman's hat. In the course of his travels, he had also come into ownership of a packhorse, which carried his old Army pack and a miscellaneous assortment of kit. These acquisitions had earned him the brand of thief, which helped spur him along.
The river gurgled gently over the rocks that comprised its bank. Starling drew rein and surveyed his surroundings. In the half-hour of his movement to the bank, the sun had advanced with increasing haste to the western horizon. No better time than now to make his camp and see about getting a fishing line out. He swung down from his horse, wasting no time pulling the saddle off the weary animal's back. Both horses moved to the river's edge once they were untacked and drank their fill of the cool water.
Starling managed with some effort to build a fire some yards away from the river, in the shelter of a towering stand of trees. His two horses were picketed close by and a fishing line had been cast. It was pleasantly peaceful here, really. If he could be assured that he would always be the only man in this place, he might stay here for ever. That was impossible, of course. The only place he might find that sort of isolation was the mountains. He'd heard plenty of talk about great mountains far away to the west. Such talk appealed to him, for he was a mountain man to his bones.
With a yawn, he ran his fingers through the tangled chaos of his beard. It had been quite some time since he had troubled himself to trim either beard or hair, so that both had become thick and wild. Equally, it had been quite some time since he had last bathed. Starling grinned to himself and looked around. He was all alone in this great expanse of wilderness. What better time than now to enjoy the solitude? Stripping out of his worn, filthy clothes did not take long. He waded into the soothing cool of the river and let the current wash over him.
Funny how it had taken committing two hanging crimes to bring him to this, he thought as he dunked his head underwater. Fate was a fickle creature. He didn't regret a moment of it. Not anymore. Army discipline and the confining nature of service were things he no longer had to worry about. Out here, with only two horses for company, nothing mattered. Starling ran his hands back through his well-soaked hair and succeeded eventually in combing it into some semblance of order. Precisely why he was bothering to entertain such vanity... he couldn't say. There was no one anywhere near to impress and his horses certainly did not care what he looked like.
The sky above him was mottled with an array of pink and orange hues. It was a prime sight, he thought and splashed some water up onto his face. He didn't know where he was going from here or when he'd stopped travelling, but it hardly mattered. All he cared about was moving along day by day. Maybe he'd settle down when he reached those mountains way far off to the west. Maybe he'd stay here on this river. Who knew? He had all the time in the world and he was in no hurry at all to get there.
Rating: K (Suitable for all ages)
Disclaimers: None.
Original pen-date: 16 July 2010
Summary: A deserter from the Twenty-seventh Foot makes his way west after the Battle of New Orleans. May 1815.
Author's Note: This is just a fun little drabble.
The river was a wide, glittering ribbon of blue against the expanse of dark verdant woods. There was not a soul to be seen for miles. No buildings, no roads, no trace of men anywhere. Except, of course, for himself. It was how he liked it. The wave of settlers were not long behind him however. They never were. If he stayed in one place long enough, they inevitably caught up with him. It was best to keep moving.
Adam Starling pulled his hat down lower over his eyes and nudged his horse forward, down toward the river's edge. The packhorse behind him nickered in mild annoyance at the light tug on the lead rein, but he ignored it. They were all in need of water. Never minding that a river was nearly always a good place to stop for the night. If he was lucky, there would be fish for his dinner. Fish and whatever else he was able to hunt in the woods on this side of the river.
The journey down the hillside was made slowly, for Starling was in no hurry. He could remain here for weeks before the first of the ever-moving tide of settlers reached him. A desire to avoid just that occasion kept him from settling. His preference would have been to return to Vermont, but he was not welcome there at all. Not anymore. If his relations had considered him unworthy for deserting the American army, they would probably kill him for taking up as a British soldier.
What they didn't know wouldn't hurt them, though. Or so Starling's thought on the matter went. He had deserted again, after the battle of New Orleans. It was an inevitable event, really. What better time to abscond than in the aftermath of a battle? He had taken his arms, his pack, and a dead officer's horse and ridden fast up-river. In the months since his flight, he had abandoned his red jacket and shako, for they were the two things guaranteed to mark him out as British. How ironic, really.
He had kept his kit, however. Musket, bayonet, axe, pack, crossbelts... everything that was useful needed to be held onto. His red jacket had been replaced by a brown tailcoat and his shako by a coachman's hat. In the course of his travels, he had also come into ownership of a packhorse, which carried his old Army pack and a miscellaneous assortment of kit. These acquisitions had earned him the brand of thief, which helped spur him along.
The river gurgled gently over the rocks that comprised its bank. Starling drew rein and surveyed his surroundings. In the half-hour of his movement to the bank, the sun had advanced with increasing haste to the western horizon. No better time than now to make his camp and see about getting a fishing line out. He swung down from his horse, wasting no time pulling the saddle off the weary animal's back. Both horses moved to the river's edge once they were untacked and drank their fill of the cool water.
Starling managed with some effort to build a fire some yards away from the river, in the shelter of a towering stand of trees. His two horses were picketed close by and a fishing line had been cast. It was pleasantly peaceful here, really. If he could be assured that he would always be the only man in this place, he might stay here for ever. That was impossible, of course. The only place he might find that sort of isolation was the mountains. He'd heard plenty of talk about great mountains far away to the west. Such talk appealed to him, for he was a mountain man to his bones.
With a yawn, he ran his fingers through the tangled chaos of his beard. It had been quite some time since he had troubled himself to trim either beard or hair, so that both had become thick and wild. Equally, it had been quite some time since he had last bathed. Starling grinned to himself and looked around. He was all alone in this great expanse of wilderness. What better time than now to enjoy the solitude? Stripping out of his worn, filthy clothes did not take long. He waded into the soothing cool of the river and let the current wash over him.
Funny how it had taken committing two hanging crimes to bring him to this, he thought as he dunked his head underwater. Fate was a fickle creature. He didn't regret a moment of it. Not anymore. Army discipline and the confining nature of service were things he no longer had to worry about. Out here, with only two horses for company, nothing mattered. Starling ran his hands back through his well-soaked hair and succeeded eventually in combing it into some semblance of order. Precisely why he was bothering to entertain such vanity... he couldn't say. There was no one anywhere near to impress and his horses certainly did not care what he looked like.
The sky above him was mottled with an array of pink and orange hues. It was a prime sight, he thought and splashed some water up onto his face. He didn't know where he was going from here or when he'd stopped travelling, but it hardly mattered. All he cared about was moving along day by day. Maybe he'd settle down when he reached those mountains way far off to the west. Maybe he'd stay here on this river. Who knew? He had all the time in the world and he was in no hurry at all to get there.