Dark of Night
Feb. 8th, 2012 08:25 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
barefoot_bardTitle: Dark of Night
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: The character Gabriel Cotton belongs tosharpiefan. The character James Balstrode belongs to sans nom. Joe Newbury is mine.
Summary: Show the Colours AU; While on picquet one night, Rifleman Cotton has an unexpected visitor. Portugal, 1810.
Author's Note: Written for a Kink meme. Prompt - As we're nearing Hallowe'en; a ghost story.
The late evening breeze had a particular chill in it that made him glad for his greatcoat. Having an extra layer of wool over his green jacket went a good way to keeping most of his body heat in. It was brisk tonight, which struck him as odd for Portugal. Even though it was autumn. Nothing so bad as the retreat two winters ago though, which was a blessing.
Cotton lifted a hand to tug his shako down a little more firmly on his head. Only a couple more hours until he would be relieved. Standing picquet was far from an interesting duty, and certainly not an exciting one at that. With nothing to see but the dark contours of the countryside, it was difficult to stay alert. Only the thought that the French were out there kept him on his guard.
A fresh ruffling wind swept across the slight hillside on which he stood, causing him to shiver. There were clouds drifting across the sky, obscuring what little moon there was. He glanced up and wondered if it might rain. That certainly wouldn’t help the chill at all. There was nothing quite so miserable as being wet and cold. Hopefully, if it did rain, he would be back in camp.
He would have difficulty recalling later what it was that made him look away to his left. The most likely reason was the feeling of being watched. But there was nothing obviously human visible out there in the shifting shadows. An animal, maybe? That dog who’d started following them last summer was still around, Cotton knew. It could be the dog nosing around out there. At the same time, he had a suspicion it wasn’t the dog.
Something like movement caught his eye but on looking toward whatever it was, Cotton saw nothing. It was not so dark that he could not make shapes, and there was nothing noticeably unusual anywhere within his field of view. Yet the sensation of being watched persisted. It wasn’t a notion he liked, being watched but not being able to see what might be observing him. His hand curled around the doghead. Just in case.
The hair on the back of his neck stood up on end and Cotton felt a sudden thrill of unease. There had been that unseen movement away to his left, but now the feeling of eyes on him was... behind him. He shivered and his right hand tightened around the doghead screw and very slowly began to draw it back. It was not in his nature to be jittery but there was something about this, whatever this was, that made him very nervous.
It was the instant before he began to turn around that he realised the wind had stopped. This made him pause. If there was suddenly, strangely, no more wind, why did... Cotton shivered again and shoved that thought away. He would not think himself into a fright. Instead, he turned round and peered into the darkness. There was nothing out there either. Was there? There was the distant glimmer of campfires, but those were to be expected. Nothing that shouldn’t be there, anyway.
Letting out a relieved sigh, Cotton turned back toward where he was supposed to be looking. That was when he saw the lantern. It was on the ground some yards to his front, with a guttering candle inside it. Where had that come from? No one out here had a lantern and he would have known it had someone gotten past him. What the hell was going on here? The feeling of unease was back threefold. There was something very wrong happening. He knew it.
Cotton pulled the flint back to full cock and stepped cautiously forward. If there was someone out there, he had to know who it was. It could very well be the French, trying something clever to distract the British picquets before an attack. He hoped that wasn’t what all this was about, though in the same heartbeat he wished for it to be just that. That would at least be something he’d understand.
The lantern’s feeble glow didn’t do much to illuminate the dark. In fact, it seemed to Cotton that the flickering light from the candle was not having any brightening effect on its immediate surroundings at all. He looked around for a moment before kneeling very slowly beside the lantern. It was a comfort to him that, should anything bad happen, he could give the alarm and have his mates come at the double to back him up.
He began to reach for the lantern, without looking at it directly so as not to harm his night-vision. His hand went past where he reckoned the handle to be and that gave him pause. When he glanced downward to check that he hadn’t missed it, he realised that his hand was... through the lantern. Cotton snatched his hand back and scrambled to his feet. What the hell was this about?
“Gabe!” A voice, sounding cheerful, came from his left, and Cotton spun round toward it. At first, he couldn’t see anyone, or even anything, then it dawned on him that whoever had spoken was kneeling. It was a Rifleman, for he noticed the red cuffs even in the dark, but it wasn’t his skirmish partner. That was Newbury, who was a little further down in the picquet line and who had no reason to be here anyway.
“All well here, Gabe?” The Rifleman asked and Cotton frowned. He knew that voice. But it was impossible. It had to be. He’d seen the man die two years ago.
Cotton became aware then that the lantern’s glow was only visible against the kneeling Rifleman’s body. A feeling very much like dread began seeping into the pit of his stomach. This was much too surreal for his liking. Was he dreaming? Or seeing things? No. That wasn’t possible either. He was perfectly awake and aware of his surroundings. Wasn’t he?
“Jem?” He kept his own voice low, as much to avoid being overheard by another picquet as to not give his position away. “Is... that you?”
The kneeling Rifleman laughed and got to his feet. “Of course it’s me. Who else would it be, then?”
That, Cotton thought with a shiver, was not really what he’d wanted to hear. “Um... you’re s’sposed to be dead.” Not even supposed to be, either. Jem Balstrode was dead. He had... seen it.
“Don’t be stupid,” Jem replied, bending down to pick up the lantern. “I’m standin’ here, ain’t I?”
It was that movement which made Cotton feel as though he had to be dreaming. Where his hand gone through the lantern, Jem’s curled around the ring-handle and lifted the lantern up. He wasn’t sure if he should be uneasy or amused, but the hairs on the back of his neck were still standing stiffly upright. No, this was definitely unnatural.
“But you can’t be.” This wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be. “I... you was shot, at Vimeiro.”
“Vimeiro? Where’s - ”
There was a rustle of movement away to the right, which made Cotton spin around, his finger slipping around the rifle’s trigger. “Who’s there?”
“Gabe?” This voice too was familiar, but much more comfortingly so. “Who’re you talkin’ to?”
Relief made Cotton sigh. It was only Newbury. He lowered the rifle’s flint and was glad he was not so green as to fire at mere shadows. Then he shuddered. Newbury had heard him. Oh Lord. He glanced over his shoulder toward where Jem was, and felt like the ground had dropped out from beneath his feet. Both Rifleman and lantern were gone. As if they’d never been there.
“Nobody,” he heard himself answer, though how he could have spoken with his mouth feeling so uncomfortably dry was beyond him.
Newbury peered at him, a frown obvious in his voice. “You a’right? Lookin’ like you seen a ghost or somethin’.”
Now that, Cotton thought unhappily, was probably truer than his mate knew. He shook his head, hoping the tremble in his hands couldn’t be seen in the dark. “I’m all right,” he said. “Just needed... the privy.”
It was a believable lie, at least. Newbury seemed to accept it and went away back to his own post without further questions, for which Cotton was grateful. He wasn’t sure he wanted to think about what had just happened. It was bad enough remembering how Jem had really died.
He became aware then that the wind had returned.
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: The character Gabriel Cotton belongs to
sharpiefan. The character James Balstrode belongs to sans nom. Joe Newbury is mine.Summary: Show the Colours AU; While on picquet one night, Rifleman Cotton has an unexpected visitor. Portugal, 1810.
Author's Note: Written for a Kink meme. Prompt - As we're nearing Hallowe'en; a ghost story.
The late evening breeze had a particular chill in it that made him glad for his greatcoat. Having an extra layer of wool over his green jacket went a good way to keeping most of his body heat in. It was brisk tonight, which struck him as odd for Portugal. Even though it was autumn. Nothing so bad as the retreat two winters ago though, which was a blessing.
Cotton lifted a hand to tug his shako down a little more firmly on his head. Only a couple more hours until he would be relieved. Standing picquet was far from an interesting duty, and certainly not an exciting one at that. With nothing to see but the dark contours of the countryside, it was difficult to stay alert. Only the thought that the French were out there kept him on his guard.
A fresh ruffling wind swept across the slight hillside on which he stood, causing him to shiver. There were clouds drifting across the sky, obscuring what little moon there was. He glanced up and wondered if it might rain. That certainly wouldn’t help the chill at all. There was nothing quite so miserable as being wet and cold. Hopefully, if it did rain, he would be back in camp.
He would have difficulty recalling later what it was that made him look away to his left. The most likely reason was the feeling of being watched. But there was nothing obviously human visible out there in the shifting shadows. An animal, maybe? That dog who’d started following them last summer was still around, Cotton knew. It could be the dog nosing around out there. At the same time, he had a suspicion it wasn’t the dog.
Something like movement caught his eye but on looking toward whatever it was, Cotton saw nothing. It was not so dark that he could not make shapes, and there was nothing noticeably unusual anywhere within his field of view. Yet the sensation of being watched persisted. It wasn’t a notion he liked, being watched but not being able to see what might be observing him. His hand curled around the doghead. Just in case.
The hair on the back of his neck stood up on end and Cotton felt a sudden thrill of unease. There had been that unseen movement away to his left, but now the feeling of eyes on him was... behind him. He shivered and his right hand tightened around the doghead screw and very slowly began to draw it back. It was not in his nature to be jittery but there was something about this, whatever this was, that made him very nervous.
It was the instant before he began to turn around that he realised the wind had stopped. This made him pause. If there was suddenly, strangely, no more wind, why did... Cotton shivered again and shoved that thought away. He would not think himself into a fright. Instead, he turned round and peered into the darkness. There was nothing out there either. Was there? There was the distant glimmer of campfires, but those were to be expected. Nothing that shouldn’t be there, anyway.
Letting out a relieved sigh, Cotton turned back toward where he was supposed to be looking. That was when he saw the lantern. It was on the ground some yards to his front, with a guttering candle inside it. Where had that come from? No one out here had a lantern and he would have known it had someone gotten past him. What the hell was going on here? The feeling of unease was back threefold. There was something very wrong happening. He knew it.
Cotton pulled the flint back to full cock and stepped cautiously forward. If there was someone out there, he had to know who it was. It could very well be the French, trying something clever to distract the British picquets before an attack. He hoped that wasn’t what all this was about, though in the same heartbeat he wished for it to be just that. That would at least be something he’d understand.
The lantern’s feeble glow didn’t do much to illuminate the dark. In fact, it seemed to Cotton that the flickering light from the candle was not having any brightening effect on its immediate surroundings at all. He looked around for a moment before kneeling very slowly beside the lantern. It was a comfort to him that, should anything bad happen, he could give the alarm and have his mates come at the double to back him up.
He began to reach for the lantern, without looking at it directly so as not to harm his night-vision. His hand went past where he reckoned the handle to be and that gave him pause. When he glanced downward to check that he hadn’t missed it, he realised that his hand was... through the lantern. Cotton snatched his hand back and scrambled to his feet. What the hell was this about?
“Gabe!” A voice, sounding cheerful, came from his left, and Cotton spun round toward it. At first, he couldn’t see anyone, or even anything, then it dawned on him that whoever had spoken was kneeling. It was a Rifleman, for he noticed the red cuffs even in the dark, but it wasn’t his skirmish partner. That was Newbury, who was a little further down in the picquet line and who had no reason to be here anyway.
“All well here, Gabe?” The Rifleman asked and Cotton frowned. He knew that voice. But it was impossible. It had to be. He’d seen the man die two years ago.
Cotton became aware then that the lantern’s glow was only visible against the kneeling Rifleman’s body. A feeling very much like dread began seeping into the pit of his stomach. This was much too surreal for his liking. Was he dreaming? Or seeing things? No. That wasn’t possible either. He was perfectly awake and aware of his surroundings. Wasn’t he?
“Jem?” He kept his own voice low, as much to avoid being overheard by another picquet as to not give his position away. “Is... that you?”
The kneeling Rifleman laughed and got to his feet. “Of course it’s me. Who else would it be, then?”
That, Cotton thought with a shiver, was not really what he’d wanted to hear. “Um... you’re s’sposed to be dead.” Not even supposed to be, either. Jem Balstrode was dead. He had... seen it.
“Don’t be stupid,” Jem replied, bending down to pick up the lantern. “I’m standin’ here, ain’t I?”
It was that movement which made Cotton feel as though he had to be dreaming. Where his hand gone through the lantern, Jem’s curled around the ring-handle and lifted the lantern up. He wasn’t sure if he should be uneasy or amused, but the hairs on the back of his neck were still standing stiffly upright. No, this was definitely unnatural.
“But you can’t be.” This wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be. “I... you was shot, at Vimeiro.”
“Vimeiro? Where’s - ”
There was a rustle of movement away to the right, which made Cotton spin around, his finger slipping around the rifle’s trigger. “Who’s there?”
“Gabe?” This voice too was familiar, but much more comfortingly so. “Who’re you talkin’ to?”
Relief made Cotton sigh. It was only Newbury. He lowered the rifle’s flint and was glad he was not so green as to fire at mere shadows. Then he shuddered. Newbury had heard him. Oh Lord. He glanced over his shoulder toward where Jem was, and felt like the ground had dropped out from beneath his feet. Both Rifleman and lantern were gone. As if they’d never been there.
“Nobody,” he heard himself answer, though how he could have spoken with his mouth feeling so uncomfortably dry was beyond him.
Newbury peered at him, a frown obvious in his voice. “You a’right? Lookin’ like you seen a ghost or somethin’.”
Now that, Cotton thought unhappily, was probably truer than his mate knew. He shook his head, hoping the tremble in his hands couldn’t be seen in the dark. “I’m all right,” he said. “Just needed... the privy.”
It was a believable lie, at least. Newbury seemed to accept it and went away back to his own post without further questions, for which Cotton was grateful. He wasn’t sure he wanted to think about what had just happened. It was bad enough remembering how Jem had really died.
He became aware then that the wind had returned.