The Game Of Petty Spirits, Part Five

[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.


The wrist irons had since come off but Carter thought this was a hollow blessing. He was still locked up and, except for the brief visit by Tisdale and Ivey, he had seen no one else. Well. No one aside from Sergeant Ryan. That fat drunken oaf had told him with obvious relish that the officers would see him when it pleased them, which could be that same evening or the following morning. Whichever suited their whims. Until then, didn't he enjoy his new accommodations?

Carter had answered those jabs with indifferent silence. He was certain of his own innocence and refused to let Ryan's narrow-minded spite rile him up. Eventually, the sergeant gave up and left him in peace. Such peace as it was, anyway. Being confined was soul-deadening. He'd only been in this cell for a few hours and he was already beginning to feel anxious and nervous. Keeping his unease hidden from Ryan's notice offered him a sure way to occupy his mind, but even that was tiresome.

On the upside, it was a relief to not have any duties or responsibilities. This was a chance to relax, so to speak. Relax and contemplate what to do if Sergeant Ryan really was trying to win Nancy over. Which Carter was eager to think about, sprawled as he was on the straw-littered floor with his coat carefully folded into a pillow. She'd never accept him, of course, being a stubborn lass. But that didn't mean much. Ryan was the sort who would bully his way into getting what he wanted. There weren't many good defences against men like him. If he didn't have rank, he'd be vastly easier to deal with.

Then there was Buckley. Who was damned lucky that other lads had been around, or he'd be in hospital. Carter grinned darkly. If it hadn't been for Sergeant Timmins, Buckley would be in hospital now. The filthy bastard informer. A new plan ahd been worked out between the three of them when Tisdale and Ivey had visited. Buckley would be easier to deal with than Sergeant Ryan, though. He was a small-minded turd who could be kept in line with careful watching. Ryan, on the other hand... if he was after Nancy, even though she'd said nothing about it, intervention from somebody with legitimate authority might be an option. If he was of a mind to let somebody else do his dirty work for him.

The noisy rattle of keys brought him out of his thoughts. Sergeant Ryan was just opening the brig's iron-barred door to admit Mister Clark, who did not look in his direction. "The prisoner is to be brought to the governor's house at once," the lieutenant said.

"Aye aye, sir."

The time had come for his reckoning, Carter thought wryly. Not that there was anything the officers could legitimately pin on him. Anyway, being summoned meant getting out of this Goddamned cell and that was something to be glad for. He got up and gave his coat a brisk shake before slipping it back on. Mister Clark had not waited around for Ryan or his prisoner. Great surprise as this was, really. Ryan himself did not bother to speak on the short march to the governor's house, but he'd made damn sure the shackles were on Carter's wrists before they left the brig.

All the officers were seated around the long table just in to the left of the door. Even, he noted with quickly-hidden surprise, the Reverend Johnson and his wife. The sudden hush that fell when Ryan and Carter came in suggested they'd been talking about him. Even though that could only be expected, it was still a little disconcerting. Carter stamped to attention - as best he could with his wrists bound in front of him - and waited.

"Private Carter," said Governor Phillip. "It has come to my attention that you had a feud with the blacksmith, Marston. A feud of some long standing, in fact. Is this true?"

"Aye, sir."

"What is the nature of this feud?"

Going right for the throat, weren't they? "He was a bastard, sir. There weren't anybody wot din't 'ate him, sir."

"But not everyone has been accused of killing him," the governor pointed out.

"S'that wot's happenin' here, sir?"

"We will ask the questions, Private Carter," Major Ross cut in. "What is happening here is your accounting for your grudge against the blacksmith."

"Aye sir."

"What is the nature of the feud between you and the blacksmith?" Phillip was watching Carter closely, he realised. It was the sort of intent study of a predator observing its prey. They knew something Carter did not. They had to. Which was absurd and alarming, when he had not actually had the chance to kill that bastard of a blacksmith.

"He raped a convict woman, sir. That night when they all ran riot an' nobody cared 'nuff to stop it, sir," was his reply.

"Don't be insolent, Carter," snapped Major Ross.

"What happened that night was inevitable, perhaps, but Marston was not the only one to have done such a despicable thing. That you have apparently singled him out tells me there is something personal about your dislike of the blacksmith. What is that something?"

Carter remained silent. He saw very little good coming out of his admitting that he was kin to one of the convicts, even only by marriage. Doing so might make Nancy a target, rather like Mary Bryant seemed to be for Mister Clark and Catherine McVitie was for Major Ross. He was not about to put Nancy through that same thing just because the officers demanded it of him.

"You will answer the question, Private Carter."

"I won't. Sir."

That response drew raised eyebrows from everyone around the table except for the Reverend Johnson. Open defiance from a sober Marine was uncommon and clearly none of them had expected it to come from him. There was a long, awkward silence before Major Ross cleared his throat.

"If you do not tell us what it is that has caused you to target the blacksmith, Private Carter, I shall have you flogged."

"Flog me then, sir. Ain't the first time I got a check shirt an' all."

Another silence followed that, though this one was shorter and was broken by the governor. "We will leave that question alone for now. Did you kill the blacksmith, Private Carter?"

That was much easier to answer. "I din't, sir."

"But you have wanted to."

"Aye, sir."

"In fact... you would have shot the blacksmith on that regrettable night, had it not been for Lieutenant Clark ordering you not to. The following morning, you tried to get your comrades to shoot Marston but they refused. Since then, you have watched him quite closely for an opportunity to do away with him. No opportunity presented itself until last night, when you and another soldier ventured out very late upon an unknown errand and did not return for some time. This morning, the blacksmith is discovered missing. Escaped, as it's been claimed. But we know better, I believe."

"Yet," added Major Ross with obvious disdain, "you claim to not have killed the blacksmith. I think it fair that we should not believe you."

"Mebbe so, sir, but s'the troof. I woulda done for the bugger if I'd got the chance, wouldn't I? But somebody else's got to it 'fore me an' all - an' I ain't sorry in the least that he's gone, sir."

"A lack of remorse hints at guilt, I think," offered Mister Clark.

"Or that I hated the bastard, sir, same's a lot of folks here."

"Yet you, alone of everyone else, stand here because of your previous conduct. Conduct which, I may add, includes the unprovoked attack on Private Buckley from which he was only saved by forcible intervention made by other soldiers."

Carter very nearly rolled his eyes at that. "P'mission to speak free, sir?" At Phillip's nod, he continued. "I gave Buckley a clout, but that was all. He deserved more. An' me bein' the only one 'cused of doin' the blacksmiff in? That ain't any sorta fact. There's that lad Freeman, sir. You had him all but doin' a hempen jig 'cause you reckoned he did the blacksmiff in, din't you? Then you let him go an' said the blacksmiff'd done a runner an' we had to go huntin' for him an' all. Now here'm I, wiv you sayin' I killed him just 'cause I wanted to do it 'fore now. Seems like you don't know wot 'appened or who to blame for it, sir, so you're playin' a guessin' game about it all."

"Even if we are," the governor replied slowly, "I hardly think we do so without cause."

"Finkin' a lad's done somefin' 'cause somebody's said he mighta done it ain't cause, sir," Carter told him. "I ain't scared of killin', sir. I done me own share of it an' all, in the war. Same's Major Ross an' Cap'n Collins, an' you too, I fink, sir. But I ain't done it now, sir, an' that's God's troof."

Phillip leaned back in his chair and considered this. The other officers did not seem so inclined to deliberation but they refrained from speech. None of them, Carter noted, looked at him. Except, again, for the Reverend Johnson. The thin-faced Scotsman was gazing thoughtfully at him, though he had yet to offer an opinion or question. Their conversation from a couple days ago came back to mind and Carter wondered if the reverend was thinking about that. Hopefully he wasn't going to change his mind about what they'd agreed on.

"Private Carter. If - if - you had killed the blacksmith, in what manner would you have done it?"

This had to be a trick question. A way to trap him. Carter was instinctively, instantly, suspicious of it. But, he realised, maybe it was a way to prove that he had not actually done this particular crime. "I'd have slit his froat wiv a bayonet, sir. It's a messy business an' ain't easy but it's possible. Knowed a lad wot done it in the war, don't I? I'd do it that way 'cause it ain't a slow deff an' I'd want the bastard to know he was dyin', an' why."

Judging by the expression on Missus Johnson's face, his answer was too descriptive. He hadn't intended to offend the poor woman's sensibilities. But Phillip had asked him. Though now with the answer given, Carter fell silent. Unless he was asked anything else, he had no more to say.

"In light of your remarks, I believe you to be a dangerous man, Private Carter. You are quick to visit violence on your colleagues and to encourage them to do the same on convicts. You are also carelessly insolent and, I think, too inclined toward independent thought than suits in a properly disciplined soldier. More than that, I believe that even if you did not actually kill the blacksmith, you may have helped whoever did. That shall not be a hanging crime here but it shall be a flogging crime. Major Ross. How many lashes for this man? A minimum of thirty and a maximum of two hundred."

"Fifty."

Phillip's gaze moved down the table. "Lieutenant Clark."

"Six dozen," said the lieutenant. Bastard, thought Carter.

"Captain Collins."

"Thirty."

"Reverend Johnson."

"Thirty."

Stone-faced, Carter stared at the far wall and waited. He had suffered the lash before on a rubbish charge, but that had only been an even dozen. Now he faced no less than thirty and, if the governor chose to agree with Mister Clark, more than seventy. Was there any mercy in the Navy officer? There was no way to tell, but he was about to let them all know, it seemed.

"Private Carter. You are sentenced to receive four dozen lashes, to be delivered tomorrow at noon - "

That served to get the reverend animated. "Tomorrow, sir? On the Lord's day? I cannot allow - "

"Tomorrow, Reverend. Forgive me for imposing on such a day but I feel it to be best. Tomorrow at noon, in front of the whole colony. I will not have justice be seen as only one-sided. Soldiers are just as subject to it as are the convicts. That point must be made. Sergeant Ryan. Return the prisoner to his cell."

"Aye aye, sir!"

Four dozen lashes. Jesus Christ. That was not justice. Justice would have been hanging the man who'd actually killed the blacksmith. This was the governor being a petty, fickle bastard, wasn't it? He couldn't follow through with ordering somebody hanged but sending somebody to the flogging post? Obviously that was piss easy. Disgusted and uncaring if he showed it, Carter about-turned and, at Sergeant Ryan's briskly given orders, marched out. Four dozen fucking lashes. If ever there was an unjust flogging ordered, this was it. And for what, really? A crime he was only suspected of having committed? They had said as much themselves.

So much for the bright and shining system of law in New South Wales.

~

Nobody in the tent spoke after Sergeant Timmins' announcement. There was to be a flogging tomorrow at noon. Tom Carter was to receive four dozen lashes for helping James Freeman kill the blacksmith. Only Buckley seemed pleased by this, though he quickly hid his grin. Timmins himself had gone over to his cot after passing on this bit of news and pointedly ignored the low oath and sudden thudding crash as Tisdale overturned a chair near the communal table.

"You'd best stay well to wind'ard in future, cully," Ivey said to Buckley.

"Get bent," was Buckley's response, though his bravado vanished in an instant when Tisdale turned sharply toward him.

"You put a hand on him, Tisdale, you'll be next to get your back laid open."

"Yes, Sarn't." The ex-soldier glowered at Buckley for a long moment before moving away to pick up the chair he'd knocked over.

Lakey waited until the hostility in the air seemed less thick, then stood up from his cot. He had little interest in hanging about here when there was so much obvious tension. Nobody said a word to him as he left the tent, musket in hand, though unseen behind him, Sergeant Timmins watched with silent interest.

Outside, the air was crackling with the neverending chatter of the native wildlife. There were hardly any convicts out at this hour, which was just as well. For a moment, Lakey considered going to see Carter in the brig, but that idea was foolish. Chances were that he'd give himself up as the informer without meaning to. Never mind that he doubted he could face the older Marine after what he'd done, whether Carter knew it or not. Nobody liked an informer. That was widely known. Considearbly less widely known was the fact that an informer did not much like himself either.

His feet were taking him to the chaplain's tent, he realised. The sudden awareness of his destination stopped him short. His father had been a devout man and many of his beliefs had been passed on to his children, yet Lakey felt himself quailing at the idea of burdening a man of God with confessions about his petty and cowardly behaviour. Yet, at the same time, in whom else could he possibly confide with any safety? Tisdale had been ready to give Buckley the beating of his life for being the suspected grass, which would have been easy enough anyway, since he didn't care for that pug-faced Marine. What would he then do to Lakey should suspicions turn to him, since the two were nominally mates?

"Is there something I can do for you?"

"Sir!" Lakey nearly knocked the hat from his head in his haste to reflexively salute, having been caught unawares by the reverend's appearance. "Yes. I mean, no, sir, there's nothin'. Sorry for disturbin' you, sir."

"It is no distruption, Private." The thin-framed Scotsman lifted his lantern and peered curiously at Lakey. "Were you coming to see me?"

Stopped in his fledgling escape, Lakey fidgeted. He dreaded making his actions known yet at the same time desired only to have some kind of relief from the crushing weight on his heart. "I'd thought about it, sir," he admitted. "But I - it isn't - I done somethin', sir, and if the lads find me out, I think they'll kill me for it."

Reverend Johnson regarded him closely. It was the sort of intent study that his father was so good at employing and it invariably gave Lakey the uncomfortable feeling that his very soul was being scrutinised.

"You had better come in, man, and tell me all."

~

The one biggest difference between a flogging on land and a flogging at sea was the lack of spirits. There was nothing to be snuck in to the poor sod who was bound for the grating and thereby make the whole thing easier for him to bear. And that, Carter supposed, was what he resented most now. There was nothing he could do about the reasons for his being flogged. He was an old enough hand to know that officers were seldom fair. But a couple tots of rum to help make the whole thing easier could not be too much to ask, surely?

Once it was over, though, it'd be over. That was just how things were. He'd be confined to barracks for a day or two, of course. Four dozen lashes was nothing to sneer at when you weren't a very big lad, but it could take more of a toll than being shot had. Well, perhaps it could. He'd been lucky when he'd taken that ball because the shot had come from close enough that it had gone clean through. The fever he'd developed after being wounded had been worse.

God willing, he wouldn't get a fever here. Down here in the ass-end of the world, where there was no proper hospital, fever would probably be the end of him. Carter supposed that was what he feared most. The end. Death. Not ever going home again. Not seeing Polly or the nippers again. He didn't fear much but the thought of never seeing his family again terrified him utterly. Funny how that worked, he supposed.

He gazed at the wood-beamed ceiling and wondered if the custom at sea would be observed here. That was, would the men wielding the cat be chnaged after every dozen strokes? Who would be flogging him, anyway? The sergeants or the drummers? Strange as that all was to ponder. A smile wormed its way onto his face. There were less pleasant things to think about, really.

"Visitors, Carter," Corporal Gowen informed him, easing the brig's door open to let Nancy Owens and Dan Tisdale enter. This was an odd enough pairing, all things considered, that Carter was at once suspicious. Never mind that she shouldn't be here. What if one of the officers saw and got too curious?

"Figured you'd need cheerin' up, mate," Tisdale informed him. "So I brought you a skirt."

Ah! He understood the game in an instant. Careful not to grin at Tisdale's cheek, Carter got to his feet. "A good skirt, by the look of it. So who're you, lass?"

"Nance. But you can call me whatever you likes, boss."

Christ it was hard not to smirk. She was good. But that was no surprise. Nancy Owens knew her business. "Nance is fine. Where you'd find her, mate?"

"The women's huts. Where else? Anyway, I got Ivey watchin' Buckley, but he ain't gone too far since earlier. For now he's no danger. I think Ivey'd enjoy givin' him a thrashin', he would, but he'd be welcome to it."

"Aye. So. Nance. Wot is it you fink you can do for a lad doomed to anuvver check shirt?"

Nancy favoured him with a saucy grin but directed her response to Corporal Gowen. "I don't work for an audience, boss. D'you mind...?"

"Leave a prisoner alone? Not likely, woman. I was hardly born yesterday. You can have a chat but that's it."

Damn it. Trust it to Gowen to be fly to any trickery. Well. He had a reputation as a no-nonsense type which on the whole meant his discretion could be trusted. Still. It was a pain that he couldn't have at least gone to the door and thus made it possible to converse with Nancy and Tisdale in something like privacy.

"No special attention for you then, I'm afraid," Tisdale said with a smirk. "Still, I tried!"

Carter slid his arms through the cell bars and let them hang almost bonelessly, as close to Nancy as he could innocently get. "Aye, well. S'pose a lad can dream an' all. D'you remember wot we talked 'bout wiv His Nibs?"

"Aye. Course."

"You told any of it t'her?" This was asked in a lowered voice. It was best to be careful, even with Gowens standing with his back to them.

"He's said some. That fat arse Sarn't Ryan has been sniffin' round. Showin' him off ain't easy," replied Nancy with a grimace. "But I dunno. I don't want a Marine, Tom, you knows that. Even one in dumb show."

"Aye, I know. It might need doin' though, if Ryan don't leave off, like. He ain't so easy to manage as Buckley - he's anuvver to watch out for, Nance. We can keep him in line our own selves if we knows he's up to trouble but Ryan... if we even touch him, we swing."

"We can't have that, can we?" She shook her head and slipped a hand round his. "You really gonna get flogged tomorrow, Tom? It ain't just idle talk?"

"S'troof. Four dozen, 'cause they fink I helped do for the blacksmiff. Reckon it din't help any I wouldn't tell 'em why I hated the bastard so much, but I wasn't gonna drop you in it, was I? End of it all, the governor said I was dangerous an' insolent an' all."

"S'pose that's a good thing, ain't it, 'cause there's no room for a soft-heart out here," Tisdale observed with a grin.

Nancy gave his hand a quick squeeze. "It's a family thing," she said in a low voice. "His wife's worse, mind."

"I'll be glad I ain't ever met her."

"Fanks," said Carter with a smirk, as he reached quickly up to tweak the end of Nancy's nose, which prompted her to swat at him. "But you gotta fink about it, Nance. Aye? Might come to us needin' some proper help to keep you outta trouble an' all. If we does... I 'ope you'll be agreeable to it."

"I won't be. Tom, I've no notion of marryin' again just for the sake of it. Even if wot-all you says is true. There's no doin' better than George for me an' you knows that."

Shoes scuffed heavily over the floorboards and Corporal Gowen said, "Visitin' time's over, I'm afraid. You'll have to clear off."

Already? Carter returned the hand-squeeze Nancy offered before she stepped away from the bars. He could understand her reluctance to go along with the plan. George Owens had been a good man. Surely she could see why it might become necessary, though? Out here, a person might easily find that drastic measures had to be taken in order to ensure peace and security.

"I'll see you tomorrow, boss," Nancy told him in a low drawl, sliding one hand through the bars so she could trace a finger down the bridge of his nose. "If you's fit 'nuff for it."

Clever girl, Nance. She really did know her business. Tisdale offered him a wink and a quick smirk as he followed her out, leaving a slightly bewildered Corporal Gowen to lock the brig's door behind them. "Now how did you land a catch like that, Carter?"

"S'this winnin' face I got, Corporal," Carter replied with a grin, before settling himself back down onto the dirty piles of straw on the floor. If that was Gowen's perception of the visit, so much the better. He'd talk and word would then spread. And, hopefully, the hint would be taken: Nancy Owens was already spoken for. It might not stop Sergeant Ryan but he knew for certain it would keep Buckley away. It wasn't the true desired result but it would do.

For now... he decided to lay back and contemplate what might happen after his flogging. He'd be laid up for at least a couple of days. Tisdale and Ivey would see that things were looked after but it was still a lot to ask of them. Well. At least the blacksmith was out of the picture. He was definitely happy for that. Even if, he thought with a rueful grin, he hadn't had anything to do with the man's death his own self. Maybe he should sneak James Freeman some rum or something and thank him for doing the job, despite the fact Carter was now in trouble for supposedly helping with it.

Tomorrow, after he had his back tended to, he'd see what he could do. It was only fair, after all. That thought made him chuckle. Fair. Out here? The word almost seemed absurd. There was nothing fair about this miserable shit of a colony. But, he mused, maybe that meant some measure of fairness, if not decency, was all the more precious. It was something to think about.