The Game Of Petty Spirits, Part Four

[barefoot_bard]

Title: The Game Of Petty Spirits
Rating: M (Suitable for ages 16 and above)
Disclaimers: David Lakey is the creation of sharpiefan. Tom Carter, Billy Ivey, Dan Tisdale, and Nancy Owens are mine. Most characters who appear are actual historical figures. All other characters belong their respective creators. Neither The Incredible Journey of Mary Bryant nor Banished are mine. No profit is being made from this story.
Story summary: The line between good and bad is often blurred, but two Marines with the First Fleet learn just how easily that blurring happens. Australia, 1788.
Author's Note: There are going to be historical and canon goofs in this. Most of them are probably intentional. I apologise for those that aren't.


It was impossible not to view Carter with suspicion now. Not since the word had spread that the blacksmith was gone. The older Marine gave away no sign of guilt but neither did he show any regret. And that, as far as Lakey was concerned, was sufficient to convince him that he was involved with the convict's disappearance. He had thought little enough of it when Carter and Tisdale had gone out late in the evening but now, it seemed so starkly clear to him.

The governor's speech about the convict James Freeman being the guilty party held no water. It was only a case of the officers looking in the wrong direction, albeit with more than adequate reason, Lakey had to admit. But they didn't know what he knew. Little though that seemed on the face of it. He unfixed his bayonet on Sergeant Timmins' order and was hard-pressed to contain the urge to ask to speak to Mister Clark. He was no grass but he couldn't stomach the idea of serving alongside a murderer.

He watched Carter and Tisdale herd the washerwomen toward the river and tried to imagine how the pair had managed it. The blacksmith was too large a man to take on alone. He also lived in the convicts' huts so the two Marines would have needed to ambush him somehow away from there. Going in to drag him out would have caused too great a fuss for anyone to ignore. But they must have done it somehow, because the blacksmith was nowhere to be found.

"Private Lakey. Your duty today was with the tree-cutting parties?"

"Er, yes, sir," he managed not to salute too clumsily at Mister Clark's unexpected approach.

"You are now to join the search parties. Report to Corporal Macdonald. It is the governor's particular wish that we make some effort to find our escaped blacksmith."

"Yes, sir." It wasn't lost on him that Mister Clark had emphasised escaped. There was definitely doubt amongst the officers about the truth of that claim, then. Which meant that if he didn't say it now, he wouldn't ever. "Sir. I have... have a suspicion, sir. About the blacksmith."

The lieutenant started to turn away, then faced Lakey again. "Yes?"

Lakey steeled himself. "Private Carter, sir. He's been looking to get the blacksmith in trouble for somethin' since we got here, sir. Last night he and Private Tisdale... sir, they went out of the barracks well after dark, sir. They were gone a while, sir. I think they were up to trouble."

"Do you. What cause does Private Carter have for targetting the blacksmith?"

"I don't know, sir. But it started the night the convicts ran wild, sir. He's been watching the blacksmith close ever since, sir." He swallowed hard, torn between adding more and stopping himself before he said too much. But Mister Clark was gazing almost impatiently at him and he knew that to hold back what he knew simply could not answer. "There was some talk in the barracks last night, sir, about the blacksmith stealin' food from other convicts, sir. One of the lads had seen him at it but didn't say anythin', and Private Carter objected to that, sir."

Something indefinable in the officer's expression changed. "I see. Has he or Private Tisdale said anything about any evil intentions they might have had toward the blacksmith?"

He realised suddenly that he was in dangerous territory now. This had gone swifly beyond simply expressing a concern about wrongdoing. Now he was grassing - and that terrified him, more than did the prospect of letting Carter get away with what he'd done. He should not have opened his mouth but it was too late to take it back. Shit.

"I asked you a question, Private."

"Private Carter has, yes, sir," Lakey replied with reluctance. "The night of the convicts' riot, sir. He wanted to kill the blacksmith, sir. Then the mornin' after, he was right angry, sir, an' if he'd been on his own, he'd have shot the blacksmith, sir."

"I see. I will look into this, Private. Go report to Corporal Macdonald. Dismissed."

"Sir." Lakey saluted and made good his retreat, hoping that he had not just made the greatest mistake of his life. He about turned and doubled off to join the newly-minted corporal. If nothing else, being away from the camp with one of the search parties would mean he was nowhere around when Carter and Tisdale inevitably learned that he'd dropped them in it. If they could kill as fearsome a man as the blacksmith, there was no telling what they would do to him.

~

Supervising the washerwomen almost never involved approaching them close enough to converse. It certainly never involved deliberately strolling toward one and then crouching down in order to actually converse. If an officer or one of the sergeants were to spot him, he'd be in trouble. The risk, in Carter's estimation, was worth the potential reward. He needed a word with Nancy Owens and this was the best opportunity to have that word, ideally without any of her mates butting in.

This was possible in no small part because Tisdale was standing watchfully nearby, keeping any over-protective women from interrupting. Even if he did most of the actual talking, Carter was determined to take advantage of this chance. Accordingly, he crouched within arm's reach of his silent, suspicious, sister-in-law and said, "I gotta 'pologise, again, Nance. I shoulda shot that bastard an' took the hangin' for it."

She looked askance at him, wringing out a shirt before laying it carefully into an oval basket. "You've said that."

"Aye, an' I mean it." He shifted so he was marginally more comfortable. "Look, I told Poll I'd look after you. S'wot I mean to do. For long's you're here an' all."

"Poll made you promise, more like."

Carter shook his head. "We talked it over, her an' me, an' s'wot we bowff decided. You're family, Nance. I weren't not gonna muck in. 'Specially after those bastards strung George up."

Perhaps understandably, Nancy offered no immediate reply to that. She resumed her work, keeping her eyes downcast. He hadn't meant to remind her that she was a widow now, damn it, though it was hardly something one could forget, he supposed. It was a right bloody crime that George Owens had swung, when Carter knew he'd done nothing to deserve it. But nobody listened to a man accused of murder. Just like nobody listened to the Marine who'd been with that man before the supposed cirme took place. It was something Carter had thought about often, invariably with the 'what ifs' attached. He did know, however, that had he and George not parted ways after leaving The Monkey's Blood that evening, no ill would have happened.

"Did you do it?"

"Wozzat?"

Nancy glanced meaningfully at him. "Did you kill the blacksmith?"

Something very like a chuckle threatened to rise. "No. God, I wish I had, but it weren't me. Some bold bugger got to it 'fore me. If I ever finds out who, I'll get him a tot an' all."

"Would you'a done it?"

"For wot he done t'you? Aye." He glanced cautiously around to be sure nobody was coming near or watching too closely and lowered his voice. "If somebody else hadn't got 'im last night, I'd've done the job. Been bloody long 'nuff an' it needed doin' an' all. Tell you, Nance, I 'ope whoever did for him carved his bollocks off an' shoved 'em down his froat."

"He'll rot in Hell, anyway," she said fiercely, wringing out a pair of breeches with particular vigour. "It's the least he deserves."

"Aye." Impulsively, he reached out to touch her arm. "You... you doin' all right now? Nobody else been givin' you trouble?"

She looked sharply up at him. "How d'you mean?"

"Anybody tryin' his luck. I've heard talk that Sarn't Ryan's got an interest. Anuvver of the lads, too." Carter grimaced. "None of the decent ones, neiver."

"I'm not lookin' to have a Marine."

"An' I'm glad of that, but I ain't gonna let none of this lot 'ave a go. That just ain't on an' all. Hell, I'll say you's mine, if it'll stop 'em."

Her previously-guarded expression eased a little. "You won't, Tom. Polly'd have a fit. You know wot she's like in a temper."

"I do an' all. Christ." Carter grinned. "Fink she'd unnerstand, though. You'd tell me if anybody was - "

"Private Carter." The voice belonged to Sergeant Ryan, who, Carter realised upon springing to his feet and turning around, was flanked by two blanked-faced Marines with their muskets at the Port. Shit.

"Sergeant."

The washerwomen were all staring, their work halted. Carter stood at attention and did not so much as twitch when Ryan strode forward to grab his musket away. His bayonet was next to go and to his disgust, he caught a whiff of rum on Ryan's breath. "You're under arrest. Get him up to the brig."

Well. He thought he knew what this was about, even though it was still a damned shock. It hadn't been any secret in the company that he'd hated the blacksmith and wanted to drop him in it, but at the same time, for the officers to know and thus take action, somebody had to have turned rat. Carter thought of Buckley and his hands clenched into fists. If it'd been anyone, it'd have been him. That bastard.

The two expressionless Marines clicked the shackles around his wrists, then fell in on either side of him. With Sergeant Ryan leading the way, the grim little party set off, though Carter glanced at the wide-eyed Tisdale as he passed.

"Dan - "

"I got it, mate," came the prompt reply.

"The prisoner will be silent," snapped Sergeant Ryan. Carter obediently shut up but he'd said all he needed to. Tisdale would know what to do. Even if, God willing, he wouldn't need to go about that business without Carter being part of it too. The march to the brig itself was not long and Carter occupied himself with coming up with imaginative ways to make Buckley wish he'd never been so stupid as to go for a Marine, never mind stitch one up.

Despite being confident that he could beat whatever charges would be made against him, the heavy clang of the cell door slamming shut made him cringe. He'd never been locked up before and the experience was not one he found himself enjoying. So this, he mused ruefully, must be how it felt to be a convict.

~

"Lakey!"

It was embarrassing that the unexpected hail made him flinch. He turned to find Dan Tisdale trotting toward him, a grave expression on his face. "What's goin' on?"

"Carter's been chucked in the brig. Where's Ivey?"

"What? Er, last I saw him, he was on boat duty." But that had been hours ago, when the search parties had left. They'd only just gotten back, utterly empty handed. Lakey was exhausted from the hard going and wanted only to curl up on his cot, but the news about Carter roused his flagging spirits enough to make him follow Tisdale.

"Buckley stitched him up. So we're gonna find Buckley and have a chat with him. Go get Ivey."

Oh Lord. They thought Buckley was the grass? That could be a good thing but it could just as easily prove disastrous. Lakey swallowed hard and hastened off to find the ex-seaman Ivey. The last thing he wanted was to admit he was the informer. Yet if they found it out on their own, the outcome would be the same. He should have kept his mouth shut. Christ. Why hadn't he stayed quiet?

He headed down to the riverside, hoping Ivey might be found there. Maybe he could get out of the 'chat' with Buckley. While he had no great liking for the man, he had little doubt Tisdale planned bad things for him. The sorts of things Lakey himself would be faced with if it was known he was the grass. Oh damn. There was Ivey, just leaping gracefully from the longboat after it was run hard up the beach.

"Hulloa, Lakey!" Ivey called in greeting, grabbing his musket from the sternsheets before loping up the sand toward him. "What's got you lookin' glum? The glass droppin'?"

"Tisdale wants you. Up at the tent, I think. Carter's in the gaol. We got an informer in the company."

Ivey's cheerful demeanour evaporated. "D'you know who?"

Such was the swiftness of the young Marine's movement up the riverbank that Lakey had to jog to catch up. "Tisdale reckons it's Buckley."

"Aye, I'd have figured on him. We'll sort the lubber out. What's it they sayin' Tom's done?"

At that, Lakey could only shrug. "I don't know. Tisdale didn't say. I only know Carter's been locked up - "

"There's Dan. C'mon, cuffin, or we'll lose the chase."

It took a moment to realise what Ivey meant, which was that Tisdale had not only spotted Buckley but had guided him firmly back into their tent. Nothing but bad could come of this and Lakey looked around in the vain hope of spotting an officer or one of the sergeants. Or, hell, even Corporal Macdonald, since he knew that Corporal Gowen was, as ever, busy with his storekeeping duties.

He had to nearly run in order to stay close behind Ivey, who by now had reached the tent and gone straight inside. Happily, Tisdale had not opened his interrogation with violence but Lakey hardly wanted to think about how long that restraint might last. As it was, Buckley was backed up hard against the communal table, his hands braced against the table's edge and his eyes wide.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he was saying, leaning back over the table to get away from Tisdale's very obvious anger.

"The fuck you don't, you little slime. You're a grass, you are, an' it's you who went to the officers an' split on Tom Carter. You done it because he thumped you - an' not even properly, lemme tell you."

"I did not grass on anybody. You're completely mad." Buckley tried to shuffle sideways to escape, but Tisdale stopped that attempt cold with a double-fisted grip on the front of the younger Marine's coat. "So what he thumped me, I wouldn't grass on anybody just for that - "

"What in the bloody hell is going on in here? Release that man, Tisdale!"

It was Sergeant Timmins, arriving with exceptionally good timing. Everyone but Tisdale stamped to attention and it took a long moment before the former soldier let go of Buckley's coat with a short, deliberate shove. "This man is an informer, Sarn't."

"Is he. What is your proof?"

"Carter thumped him. Then the blacksmith escaped, an' this one saw a chance to get his own back, an' he grassed."

"I did not grass, Sarge," Buckley said, self-consicously tugging the front of his coat down straight.

"What does the blacksmith's disappearance have to do with Private Carter?"

At that, Tisdale frowned. Lakey wondered if he was loyal enough to Carter that he'd keep silent or if he'd drop the other Marine in it. But that was stupid. Tisdale's being involved at all was ample sign that he and Carter were thick as thieves. He did not dare to attact attention to himself by making even a peep, since he knew the slightest suspicion about his own trustworthiness would no doubt see him end up the same as the blacksmith.

"He hated the man, he did, with plenty good reason. But I ain't gonna break a confidence. If he wants things known, them things will come from his mouth, Sarn't, not mine."

Sergeant Timmins sighed. "That does not answer the question but very well. I will return to my previous question. What is your proof that Private Buckley has turned informer, when he has never done so before?"

"He's weaselly little snot, Sarn't. That poor lass you flogged? He's had her, but only because she was locked up. Carter had a go at him for that too. Why wouldn't a swine like him grass up a man who's told him just what sort of thing he is?"

"It is not like that at all - "

Timmins waved a hand and Buckley shut up. "Private Carter is under arrest and you, Private Tisdale, are a hair away from joining him. I do not want to hear that you have resumed this foolishness. If there is indeed an informer, you should know it is not Private Buckley. This business is over! Go about your duties. All of you!"

Only too happy to be out of there, Lakey lifted his musket and tried hard to not make his departure seem too willing. Ivey and Tisdale were several deliberate steps behind him and Buckley did not emerge from the tent at all. It was only a slight relief, Lakey realised, that Timmins had not actually said there was an informer at all. The information would do nothing to ease Tisdale's anger or make him give up the hunt. Which meant trouble was still in the offing should Lakey ever be found out.

"That bastard's done it, he has, whatever the sarn't says," Tisdale grumbled, turning to make his way toward the brig. "I'm goin' to see Tom. This'll have brought him low. You two comin'?"

"Aye, course. Him an' me's tie mates," said Ivey.

"I got fetchin' and carryin' to do for Corporal Macdonald." Lakey tried not to wince at how lame the lie sounded in his own ears. He had not said a word to the new corporal since the search parties had returned and in truth wanted little to do with the man anyway.

"That jumped-up little prat? Didn't take long for the rank to go to his head, it didn't, an' we'll all be doin' the work for him soon 'nuff." Tisdale shook his head. "Go on, lad. Better not keep him waitin'."

Relieved, Lakey nodded and made himself scarce. It might not take long before that particular mistruth was discovered but for now, it served to get him out of an awkward situation. He'd have to be very careful to avoid Tisdale from now on, though. The readiness with which he'd gone after Buckley made it clear that, if he was found out, he'd be in real hot trouble and the timely appearance of an NCO to save him would be unlikely. What a terrible thing to realise that he had to be wary of his fellow Marines, who were, it was proven, more dangerous than the convicts they were here to guard.

Christ. What had he gotten himself into?