The Enemy

[barefoot_bard]

Title: The Enemy
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: Names given in this story are fictional and any relation to an actual person, living or dead, is purely incidental.
Original pen-date: 18 August 2010
Summary: A regiment of the Massachusetts Line assumes responsibility of a small prisoner of war camp. January 1777. (The continuing adventures of Strout and Leech.)
Author's Note: Written by request of alia_hildwyn and lipton_tea.



"Keep in line, there! Eyes front!"

The sullen-faced prisoners trudged along, moving toward the crumbling barn that was to serve as their barracks for the winter. Spread out around them, men in worn blue and brown coats watched their movements warily. The aftermath of the fight at Princeton had found the Twenty-third saddled with a particularly unpleasant duty. Guarding a makeshift camp that was well-packed with British prisoners. None of them cared for the duty, but their colonel had volunteered them for it. The empty-headed fool. This was a burden better left to Captain Hamilton's artillerymen - it had been them who'd captured the redcoats, after all.

"Keep moving!" Corporal Thorne barked. A stocky redcoat wearing a tattered sash glared balefully at him, to which Thorne responsed with a surly, "Eyes front. Sergeant."

A little further along in the line of guards, Benjamin Strout barely suppressed a chuckle. It amused him to see the British put in their proper places. The least they deserved, after everything they'd done. He was happy too that they had avenged themselves after the rout at Long Island. It was still disgraceful that the Main Army had been forced into retreat, but the fine performance days before made up for that previous failure.

"Corporal Thorne!" It was Captain Hill. "Secure the prisoners and post a guard, then your men may retire."

"Yes sir. Jacobs, Strout, Leech, and Macarthur. You're on first watch." Thorne turned away to rap out orders to the rest of the company.

Great, Strout thought sourly. Instead of taking refuge in one of the abandoned houses close by, he was to remain outside in the cold standing guard over these damned redcoats. He shouldered his musket and tried to ignore the tingling pain in his barely-protected feet. What he wouldn't give for a good pair of shoes!

"Settle in, you boys," Corporal Thorne told them as the last of the prisoners filed into the over-crowded barn. "You'll be relieved in four hours."

"Aye, Corporal," Jacobs answered. Without another word, Thorne strode away toward the nearest house where he would, doubtlessly, warm himself by the fire. Bastard. The four men stirred to assume positions around the outside of the barn, though Strout considered it unlikely the miserable redcoats would attempt to escape. It was marginally warmer inside the barn, with so many men crammed inside, than it was outside. They were fortunate in that respect. Moreso than their guards.

Strout leaned against back wall of the barn and shivered. Standing for four hours in the brisk winter chill was a chore he disliked heartily. At least when it was over, he could shelter indoors somewhere and attempt to coax warmth back into his feet. The blanket he'd carefully tied around them, the blanket he'd received after Trenton, was beginning to wear through in places. He needed shoes, a better-fitting pair of trousers, a proper shirt. Shoes most of all. He couldn't remember how it felt to wear them, since his old pair had fallen apart months ago.

Nearby, Jack Leech blew his nose into his coat sleeve and snuffled thickly. Poor bastard was ill. Not that such a state was wholly unexpected given the weather and the company's relative lack of proper clothing. Strout glanced over toward his friend and saw Jack swipe his nose dry with his sleeve before settling back into a mostly-watchful stance. Funny how they had grown to do their best to conceal their hurts and ills, lest they be considered less than true. Or no better than those cowards who left the army when things had looked bleak, only to come swarming back after the success at Trenton. For his part, Strout regarded such men as unworthy of any respect.

A hesitant tap came at the single door in the back wall and at first Strout ignored it. The prisoners had no claim on his attention. He was determined not to give them any. The tap came again, with more force, but still he ignored it. A glance at Jack showed that his companion had either not noticed the noise or was, like Strout, ignoring it. He could not ignore that annoying scraping tap, however, when it began to sound as though it was coming from the wall near his elbow.

"Jack," he said, shifting away from the wall. "Keep an eye here. I'm goin' inside a second."

Jack stepped closer to the door as Strout unbarred and opened it. There was no lantern in the barn but the door's opening cast enough watery afternoon light inside to permit Strout to see. Several faces turned his way, including one belonging to a boy who looked scarcely older than Strout himself. The boy, he saw, had a worn knife in his hand. Strout levelled his musket at once.

"Lookin' to escape already, are you?"

The boy stared at him. "No," was the reply. "We need a splint, for Jem's leg."

Oh. Strout looked past the boy and saw a redcoat laid carefully out on the dirty straw, his leg stretched out awkwardly. What was he supposed to do about that? His gaze returned to the boy with the knife, a little of his suspicion fading. That was a relatively harmless undertaking. Wasn't it? He was about to shrug and offer a gruff warning to keep the noise down when the boy handed the knife to one of his companions and stepped forward.

"Have you no loose wood to spare?"

Strout was obliged to shake his head. Whatever supplies might have been here, the artillerymen had taken away with them. Not that he would necessarily have offered anything even if there had been. Not for a redcoat. "Not a scrap. Tend your mate with whatever you can find. And be quiet about it."

The boy glanced at his companions and sighed. "Of course. I don't s'pose I can beg a short walk outside, then? Gotta use the privy, y'know."

This request gave Strout pause. He was not aware of any accommodation being provided for the purpose of relief, which made the boy's question not wholly unreasonable. What was the harm in it, really? Assuming Corporal Thorne didn't take it into his head to check the sentries, anyway. "Make it quick," Strout said finally and stepped backward away from the door. The young redcoat came out and led the way toward the looming dark woodline. Jack's eyes were on them unwaveringly, as if he expected the redcoat to attempt to run.

"That's far enough," Strout said after a dozen paces. "Be quick."

The boy nodded, then, to Strout's surprise, began to unfasten his breeches. Stupid bugger hadn't even troubled himself to give Strout a warning. Red-faced, Strout turned partially away. Damned indecent British.

"What is your name?"

His... name? Strout blinked and turned back out of instinct, then jerked his gaze away again. There was just enough light in the overcast sky to see the pale white of the boy's exposed thigh. What the hell did this boy want to know his name for? "Strout," he answered after a pause.

"Strout... an interestin' Christian name," the boy remarked idly, not seeming to find anything unusual about the present situation. "Lads call me Will."

Behind them, by the barn, Strout heard Jack cough heavily. What must he be thinking of this? Hopefully he couldn't see this boy Will's hanging bits. Poor simple Jack. "Well. Will. Do you hurry up your business."

Will laughed. "Are all you rebels so afeared of what God has graced you with? Never woulda guessed it, even the way you lot fight."

"What the hell's that s'posed to mean?"

"It means," Will answered, using a handful of snow to wipe his bottom, "that I don't reckon there's many of you rebels got any balls, 'cause you sure don't fight much like it. Pity, I s'pose. There's lads in the reg'ment what say nothin' but good 'bout the fellows they knew from the last war."

Heat spread across Strout's face. "We fought well 'nuff to round you lot up."

"Sure, if sendin' two regiments 'gainst one is called fightin'. When your army can hold a field 'gainst us'ns, maybe you can say you got a pair." Will tossed the soiled mush of snow away and tucked his shirttails back into his breeches. A minute later, he made another movement that brought surprise back onto Strout's face. Once he had refastened his breeches, Will knelt down and unbuttoned the bottoms of his short gaiters.

"The hell are you - "

The boy wavered awkwardly on his haunches for a moment, then straightened up and held out his buckled shoes. "You may be a rebel, Strout, but I reckon someday you'll make a soldier. There's no soldier livin' what shouldn't have somethin' on his feet when he goes away to fightin'."

Stunned, Strout simply stared. He had not expected such a gift from anyone, never mind a redcoat. His rational mind recovered quickly, fortunately, and he realised that shoes were a true blessing, regardless who they came from. He shifted his musket to one hand and reached out to accept them, trying to find words to express his gratitude, while not seeming like a soft-heart at the same time.

"Thank'ee for the use of your privy," Will said, not appearing to care if he was thanked. He grinned at the still-mute Strout and made his way back toward the barn. After a moment, during which he mastered himself, Strout turned as well. The door was closed and rebarred, and he was just in time to see Jack resume his place by the corner of the barn.

"Redcoats," Strout muttered under his breath, even as he settled onto the thin pack of snow to hastily unwrap the worn-out remains of the blanket that covered his feet. The shoes scraped against his aching, frozen feet as he slipped them on, but they were heavenly in comparison to the thin, useless wool that had been there before. Despite the cold of the late afternoon, the chill of melting snow that was seeping through his overalls, and the pain of stiff leather on his feet, Strout laughed.

So that, he thought, was the enemy.