![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
barefoot_bardTitle: Loyalty
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: 24 November 2010
Summary: A chance meeting of two countrymen aboard a prison hulk. May 1780.
Author's Note: The dialect contained herein is mostly the result of me winging it, but it seemed fitting. If I've gotten any of that wrong, I apologise. After the siege of Charleston, the American squadron under Commodore Abraham Whipple was captured. Included in this number were roughly two hundred Continental Marines. There are mentions of these American naval prisoners being accommodated aboard hulks in Charleston harbour. I do not know for certain if British Marines were employed as guards on these hulks so I am taking a bit of liberty with that. Interestingly, however, Continental Marines truly did have green coats!
The pale green of the man's coat stood out almost unnaturally in the deepening twilight. There were several others like him aboard, but none who insisted on taking a turn about the foc's'le every evening. Strangely, none of the officers seemed to care about that, so long as the solitary fellow caused no trouble. He didn't, either, which made the entire arrangement seem all the more odd. Neither did he ever speak to the foc's'le sentry, save for once, when he asked for a tinderbox to light his pipe with.
Rabbie Cameron stood near the base of the bowsprit and found himself watching the strange green-coated man with quiet interest. He'd never seen a regimental coat in that colour before. It struck him as foolish. Red was the only proper colour. Or blue, he supposed, if you were a sailor. But that was it. Maybe that was another way for the rebels to proclaim their precious independence. That was another thing he couldn't understand. What was so bad about their lot that they should even consider breaking away? From what he'd seen, the colonies had it just fine.
He straightened up when Corporal Hall appeared, making his usual check of the deck sentries. "Aw's weel, Corpr'l," Cameron reported, offering a crisp salute. Hall simply grunted and moved on. He had never taken well to Cameron's broad accent. Not that it was anything the young Marine could help. Not any more than Hall could help being a prat.
There was a quiet snuffle of noise from the strange green-coat, once Hall was well out of earshot. It sounded almost like a chuckle. "Damn me if tha' ain't a tuin I've not heard in many a year," the green-coat said, strolling casually toward the leeward side of the foc's'le. "From the hills are ye?"
Cameron stared, all but slackjawed. This fellow sounded just like him. But how could that be? The man was a rebel, a colonist. It wasn't natural at all for a fellow Scot to be on the opposite side. But there it was, it seemed. "Aye," he said cautiously. "Whit're ye, then?"
"Maccrae," was the reply. "Oot o' Philadelphia-town."
It defied crediting, it really did. Another Highlander, all the way out here. He shook his head. "Cameron's me awn," he offered. "From Lochiel."
The green-coat - it seemed strange to consider his name truly was Maccrae - was smirking. "Aye, I ken Lochiel. Ain't naethin' like it here awa, mebbe, but 'tis better here." He puffed at his pipe and gazed toward the dark blot of land. "Whit're ye servin' the King for? I'd've reckoned somebody like ye wou' be agin' anythin' t'do wi' the crown."
What the hell sort of question was that? There wasn't any other side he'd rather be on. Cameron scowled lightly. "Nae," he replied curtly. "I ken me duty."
Maccrae glanced at him. "Ye ain't but a wee thing. Richt queer, seein' a lad like ye bein' a King's soldier."
Soldier. No he bloody wasn't! "I ain't nae soldier. I'm a Marine!"
"Are ye." The older man paced casually toward him, eyes narrowed in the fading daylight. He looked the Marine over closely, paying particular mind to the buttons that Cameron worked so hard to keep polished. It was almost as if he was seeing the young Scotsman for the first time. Perhaps he was. It could very well be the first time he'd ever looked any of them in the eye.
In turn, Cameron found himself studying Maccrae's coat. Aside from the daft colour, it might have been a mirror of Cameron's own. White facings, silver buttons with anchors on them, long turned-back skirts. The smallclothes were in better shape, maybe. The hat was much too different though. It too was far from proper. Instead of having three upturned sides, there was only one, leaving the rest of the brim flat around the hat.
"Whit're ye?" The question seemed stupid the instant it was asked and Cameron blushed.
"Marine. Naiturally." Maccrae said flatly, as though he did not put much stock in the title. Well. That only made sense, didn't it? What did colonists know of what it meant to be a Marine? Clearly they had no notion of dressing like one! Green coats for Marines. Cameron shook his head.
"Bin at it long?"
The older Scotsman shrugged. " 'Listed a while sin. Dinnae 'zactly hou lang. Was anely richt. Standin' oop agin the Crown. 'Tis ivery man's duty tae defend his awn hame."
"E'en whan 'tis yer awn doin' there's ane need fer it?" Cameron couldn't understand that at all. The colonies had been peaceful enough until some loud-spoken men kicked up a fuss about having to do their own duties as citizens. He had been in Boston before the actual outbreak of war. If the colonists didn't live better than people back in England, he was a damn Frog.
" 'Tisn't anethin' ye'd unnerstand."
Cameron rolled his eyes. How many times had he heard that, from other Marines and from his own family, back home? He was barely eighteen but he wasn't a simpleton! What made people think he wouldn't understand anything beyond arms drill? "Nae? I ain't stupit. This's awl 'bout nae havin' t'do yer bits as cit'zens. Defyin' yer King for naethin' mair'n bein' axed t'do yer proper duty."
There was a scoff from Maccrae. "Tain't so simple, laddie. Ye don't ken half o' it." He breathed out a stream of fragrant smoke and shook his head. "Ye'd have tae live here tae ken it proper. This is a new laund. Grand an' open, for ane man wha'd want tae claim his patch. Yer King don't have power oot here. Ain't like auld Scotland, see. A lad c'n tend his awn farm an' nae worry 'bout bein' turned oot 'cause o' some royal bugger sayin' so."
Maybe the man was right. Maybe Cameron didn't truly understand it. Nor, he thought, did he really want to. It sounded like a load of fantastic rubbish to him. What use was all that fancy talk when the Yankee army couldn't win an outright battle? "S'awl talk," he said derisively.
"Is it?" Maccrae shrugged. "We'll see, laddie. Niver thought I'd see a clansman thinkin' like ye. S'a richt disgrace!"
To that, Cameron only snorted. A disgrace was it? Maccrae was a fine one to talk! He was only glossing over his treason. That's what it really came down to. Loyalty, or the lack of it. There was no escaping that reality. No matter how many pretty words Maccrae used. And to think he was Scottish!
"Guid luck t'ye, gettin' yer patch now," Cameron said after a moment. That was the funniest thing. All that fine talk and yet here Maccrae was, confined aboard a prison hulk anchored safely out of reach of land. There was a certain amount of pleasure to be drawn from, Cameron found. "Ye'll nae git off o' here, 'less 'tis in a hammock wi' a round shot sewn in."
There was a shrug from Maccrae. "Mebbe so. But I'll still have knowed freedom!" He snuffed out his pipe and tapped the used-up tobacco into his palm, which he tossed carelessly over the side. The pipe disappeared into his coat and without so much as a second glance, he ambled toward the forrard companion ladder. Cameron watched him go, feeling a mixture of relief and regret. Relief because he had not been far from cursing at the man for being stupid. Regret because he felt somehow that he had missed grasping something very important.
He turned slightly and looked toward the distant shoreline. Of that country, he had seen only a little. How much more to it was there? Was it truly like Maccrae claimed? No. Even if it was, what good was it without a familiar, established system to protect those who lived on the land? He shook his head slightly. It was the empty talk of a man who had nothing but foolish dreams to comfort him with. The sort of nonsense that all those so-called patriots blathered on about. It wasn't for Cameron. No sir. He knew his duty and he knew his loyalty. That counted for much more than some impossible fantasy.
Didn't it?
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: 24 November 2010
Summary: A chance meeting of two countrymen aboard a prison hulk. May 1780.
Author's Note: The dialect contained herein is mostly the result of me winging it, but it seemed fitting. If I've gotten any of that wrong, I apologise. After the siege of Charleston, the American squadron under Commodore Abraham Whipple was captured. Included in this number were roughly two hundred Continental Marines. There are mentions of these American naval prisoners being accommodated aboard hulks in Charleston harbour. I do not know for certain if British Marines were employed as guards on these hulks so I am taking a bit of liberty with that. Interestingly, however, Continental Marines truly did have green coats!
The pale green of the man's coat stood out almost unnaturally in the deepening twilight. There were several others like him aboard, but none who insisted on taking a turn about the foc's'le every evening. Strangely, none of the officers seemed to care about that, so long as the solitary fellow caused no trouble. He didn't, either, which made the entire arrangement seem all the more odd. Neither did he ever speak to the foc's'le sentry, save for once, when he asked for a tinderbox to light his pipe with.
Rabbie Cameron stood near the base of the bowsprit and found himself watching the strange green-coated man with quiet interest. He'd never seen a regimental coat in that colour before. It struck him as foolish. Red was the only proper colour. Or blue, he supposed, if you were a sailor. But that was it. Maybe that was another way for the rebels to proclaim their precious independence. That was another thing he couldn't understand. What was so bad about their lot that they should even consider breaking away? From what he'd seen, the colonies had it just fine.
He straightened up when Corporal Hall appeared, making his usual check of the deck sentries. "Aw's weel, Corpr'l," Cameron reported, offering a crisp salute. Hall simply grunted and moved on. He had never taken well to Cameron's broad accent. Not that it was anything the young Marine could help. Not any more than Hall could help being a prat.
There was a quiet snuffle of noise from the strange green-coat, once Hall was well out of earshot. It sounded almost like a chuckle. "Damn me if tha' ain't a tuin I've not heard in many a year," the green-coat said, strolling casually toward the leeward side of the foc's'le. "From the hills are ye?"
Cameron stared, all but slackjawed. This fellow sounded just like him. But how could that be? The man was a rebel, a colonist. It wasn't natural at all for a fellow Scot to be on the opposite side. But there it was, it seemed. "Aye," he said cautiously. "Whit're ye, then?"
"Maccrae," was the reply. "Oot o' Philadelphia-town."
It defied crediting, it really did. Another Highlander, all the way out here. He shook his head. "Cameron's me awn," he offered. "From Lochiel."
The green-coat - it seemed strange to consider his name truly was Maccrae - was smirking. "Aye, I ken Lochiel. Ain't naethin' like it here awa, mebbe, but 'tis better here." He puffed at his pipe and gazed toward the dark blot of land. "Whit're ye servin' the King for? I'd've reckoned somebody like ye wou' be agin' anythin' t'do wi' the crown."
What the hell sort of question was that? There wasn't any other side he'd rather be on. Cameron scowled lightly. "Nae," he replied curtly. "I ken me duty."
Maccrae glanced at him. "Ye ain't but a wee thing. Richt queer, seein' a lad like ye bein' a King's soldier."
Soldier. No he bloody wasn't! "I ain't nae soldier. I'm a Marine!"
"Are ye." The older man paced casually toward him, eyes narrowed in the fading daylight. He looked the Marine over closely, paying particular mind to the buttons that Cameron worked so hard to keep polished. It was almost as if he was seeing the young Scotsman for the first time. Perhaps he was. It could very well be the first time he'd ever looked any of them in the eye.
In turn, Cameron found himself studying Maccrae's coat. Aside from the daft colour, it might have been a mirror of Cameron's own. White facings, silver buttons with anchors on them, long turned-back skirts. The smallclothes were in better shape, maybe. The hat was much too different though. It too was far from proper. Instead of having three upturned sides, there was only one, leaving the rest of the brim flat around the hat.
"Whit're ye?" The question seemed stupid the instant it was asked and Cameron blushed.
"Marine. Naiturally." Maccrae said flatly, as though he did not put much stock in the title. Well. That only made sense, didn't it? What did colonists know of what it meant to be a Marine? Clearly they had no notion of dressing like one! Green coats for Marines. Cameron shook his head.
"Bin at it long?"
The older Scotsman shrugged. " 'Listed a while sin. Dinnae 'zactly hou lang. Was anely richt. Standin' oop agin the Crown. 'Tis ivery man's duty tae defend his awn hame."
"E'en whan 'tis yer awn doin' there's ane need fer it?" Cameron couldn't understand that at all. The colonies had been peaceful enough until some loud-spoken men kicked up a fuss about having to do their own duties as citizens. He had been in Boston before the actual outbreak of war. If the colonists didn't live better than people back in England, he was a damn Frog.
" 'Tisn't anethin' ye'd unnerstand."
Cameron rolled his eyes. How many times had he heard that, from other Marines and from his own family, back home? He was barely eighteen but he wasn't a simpleton! What made people think he wouldn't understand anything beyond arms drill? "Nae? I ain't stupit. This's awl 'bout nae havin' t'do yer bits as cit'zens. Defyin' yer King for naethin' mair'n bein' axed t'do yer proper duty."
There was a scoff from Maccrae. "Tain't so simple, laddie. Ye don't ken half o' it." He breathed out a stream of fragrant smoke and shook his head. "Ye'd have tae live here tae ken it proper. This is a new laund. Grand an' open, for ane man wha'd want tae claim his patch. Yer King don't have power oot here. Ain't like auld Scotland, see. A lad c'n tend his awn farm an' nae worry 'bout bein' turned oot 'cause o' some royal bugger sayin' so."
Maybe the man was right. Maybe Cameron didn't truly understand it. Nor, he thought, did he really want to. It sounded like a load of fantastic rubbish to him. What use was all that fancy talk when the Yankee army couldn't win an outright battle? "S'awl talk," he said derisively.
"Is it?" Maccrae shrugged. "We'll see, laddie. Niver thought I'd see a clansman thinkin' like ye. S'a richt disgrace!"
To that, Cameron only snorted. A disgrace was it? Maccrae was a fine one to talk! He was only glossing over his treason. That's what it really came down to. Loyalty, or the lack of it. There was no escaping that reality. No matter how many pretty words Maccrae used. And to think he was Scottish!
"Guid luck t'ye, gettin' yer patch now," Cameron said after a moment. That was the funniest thing. All that fine talk and yet here Maccrae was, confined aboard a prison hulk anchored safely out of reach of land. There was a certain amount of pleasure to be drawn from, Cameron found. "Ye'll nae git off o' here, 'less 'tis in a hammock wi' a round shot sewn in."
There was a shrug from Maccrae. "Mebbe so. But I'll still have knowed freedom!" He snuffed out his pipe and tapped the used-up tobacco into his palm, which he tossed carelessly over the side. The pipe disappeared into his coat and without so much as a second glance, he ambled toward the forrard companion ladder. Cameron watched him go, feeling a mixture of relief and regret. Relief because he had not been far from cursing at the man for being stupid. Regret because he felt somehow that he had missed grasping something very important.
He turned slightly and looked toward the distant shoreline. Of that country, he had seen only a little. How much more to it was there? Was it truly like Maccrae claimed? No. Even if it was, what good was it without a familiar, established system to protect those who lived on the land? He shook his head slightly. It was the empty talk of a man who had nothing but foolish dreams to comfort him with. The sort of nonsense that all those so-called patriots blathered on about. It wasn't for Cameron. No sir. He knew his duty and he knew his loyalty. That counted for much more than some impossible fantasy.
Didn't it?