The Game Of Petty Spirits, Part Eight

[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 truth about what he was had gotten around. Fast. He was not even halfway back to the Marines' bivouac before he became aware of dark looks being directed at him. More tellingly, nobody so much as greeted him after he'd ducked into his barracks tent. Dan Stanfield rather pointedly departed as soon as he realised Lakey had come in. He was followed by Mulrooney and Buckley, which was just as well, really. Being left alone in the tent allowed him peace in which to think.

Lakey tossed his musket down onto his cot and stripped out of his crossbelts and coat. He flopped carelessly onto his cot, ignoring the quick stab of pain when the lock ground into his hip, and sighed. Mister Clark's lecture - rant, to be more precise - was still ringing in his ears. It was the lieutenant's particular opinion that Lakey had deliberately misled to him simply to drop Carter in it. The exact reasons for that piece of malicious dishonesty hardly mattered, because the core fact was that, true or not, Lakey had lied to an officer.

Except that in his own opinion, he hadn't. Or he didn't believe he had, until Mister Clark had so snappishly told him about what Carter had said when the officers questioned him about the blacksmith. The Londoner's preferred method for killing the convict was not the one which had actually caused Marston's death.

"He would have slit Marston's throat," said Mister Clark with a disgusted sniff. "With his bayonet, no less. A particularly unpleasant way to die I shouldn't wonder. And it's a telling mark of what sort of man Private Carter is that he considered that an appropriate means of disposing of the blacksmith!"

This should have been a relief to Lakey. But it wasn't. If anything, it reminded him of the violence Carter was capable of. A violence which was undoubtedly going to be visited on him in due course. He pressed both hands to his face and suppressed a sigh. If he thought of it like that, he could have no more than a couple hours more to live. Hardly a comforting thought but it was not meant to be comforting. It was the cold reality of his situation, wasn't it?

Such was the depth of his contemplations that he did not, at first, hear the entrance of a Marine to the tent. Corporal Macdonald had to clear his throat before Lakey realised he was there. "Private Lakey. Get up. You're on boat duty. The Corps is not paying you to lie around moping."

Piss off, thought Lakey, though he levered himself up into a sitting position. "Yes, Corporal."

Macdonald eyed him. "Why in the name of Christ did you do it?"

Did that even merit a reply? He didn't think so. Not considering the tone in which the question was asked. Lakey reached for his coat where it lay in a heap on the floor and did not answer. Boat duty was the most 'out-of-sight' duty and accordingly he wasn't surprised that he'd been given it. The officers didn't want him around.

"I asked you a question, Lakey."

"And I am ignoring it. Corporal." Lakey slipped his crossbelts on and buttoned his shoulder flaps into place over them.

"Which means you don't regret grassing up a mate, I take it."

"Oh aye, best thing I've ever done," Lakey snapped as he took up his musket. "Do you have anything smarter to say, Corporal, or can I be about my duties?"

"Do not be insolent - " Macdonald began, but Lakey was striding past him without so much as a glance. He was out of the tent before the corporal could even form the thought to finish the sentence.

To his dismay, he spotted Billy Ivey leaning against the side of the longboat, his air of impatience obvious even from a distance. Some way beyond him, the fishing boats and their crews were waiting with similar annoyance. Lakey felt little need to hurry, though. They were going to treat him like unwanted rubbish no matter what he did.

"Took your time," the ex-seaman said, tipping his hat back on his head and turning away to glance toward the waiting fishing crews. "Shove off, you lads - wait, the bloody hell's wrong with you, cully? Stand that man up on his feet!"

Lakey looked toward the fishing boats in time to see a convict slither bonelessly down onto the rocky sand, his face drained of colour. That something was not right with the man was obvious. That none of his comrades appeared willing to do as Ivey bade them was equally plain. He leaned his musket against the gunwale of the Marines' longboat and shifted his gaze to Ivey, who as the longboat's coxswain was in charge.

"Clear out yer lugs an' lissen, you lubbers," the former sailor snapped. "Get that poor beggar up. Do it, you filthy louse-ridden swabs - oh fuck's sake. Tisdale, bear a hand, mate!"

None of the other Marines made to follow Ivey or Tisdale, both of whom were moving swiftly toward the half-conscious convict. They shoved past the stone-faced convicts who stood unhelpfully between them and the downed man, and in a trice had the stricken fellow on his feet. Lakey was no surgeon but it seemed to him that the way the convict's head lolled forward and his needing to be held bodily upright could not mean anything good. Which was just about in keeping with how today had gone so far.

"Who let this'n turn out?" Ivey demanded. "He ain't fit for splicin' a halyard, never mind pullin' an oar."

Bryant the fisherman curled his lip. "You was the one said he had to be with his crew if we wanted to fish. So here he is."

"You're a damned fool, you are, chancin' your mate's life," snapped Tisdale, taking the semi-conscious convict's weight for Ivey, who advanced a step toward Bryant. There was obviously something between the two but Lakey was at a loss as to what. Not that it really mattered, he supposed.

"I am only doin' what this sodger told me to do," Bryant shot back. folding his arms across his chest.

"McCarthy, Lucas! Disperse this lot," Ivey barked out. "O'Brien. Help Tisdale get this bucket of bilge water to the sawbones. Now!"

The three Marines all but jumped to it, moving with a snap that suggested they were happy to do as bidden. That left Lakey on his own by the longboat. He had been deliberately ignored, he knew, and while that stung, he did not know what he could have done to help. Ivey seemed to have matters well in hand. If he wanted to be in charge of this little mess, Lakey was happy to let him be.

"You ain't doin' any fishin' today, cuffin," Ivey was saying to Bryant. "That'n is half-seas over an' you knew it, so you shoulda said. Just as you shoulda said when you had that other landsman in his place, the other day. Now take yer lads an' shove off."

McCarthy and Lucas hefted their muskets to the Port and advanced, herding the scowling fishermen before them in the direction of the male convicts' huts. The white-faced convict was carried off by Tisdale and O'Brien, his limp form slung between them like an over-long sack of grain. Only Bryant lingered, his glare fixed on Ivey. It was hateful enough in Lakey's opinion to suggest that Ivey should be cowed, but the ex-seaman did not appear intimidated in the slightest.

"You'll regret this, sodger," said Bryant.

To that, Ivey snorted a short laugh. "Sure I will." He turned away that, returning to the longboat with his effortless rolling gait. The scowling Bryant did not even get a backward glance. Only upon spotting Lakey, still standing by the longboat, did Ivey show a glimmer of annoyance. "The fuck you still standin' here for? Piss off. I reckon you seen 'nuff to run an' tell the officers, eh? Better go 'fore they think you ain't so great a rat."

His face reddened at the rude dismissal, but he said nothing. It was best not to. The last thing he wanted or needed was a fight. This was how it'd be from now on, though, wasn't it? Doing the right thing as he'd considered it had made him an enemy to all. It seemed impossible that he was the only one here with a firm set of morals, yet that was precisely the impression he was forming. It disappointed him just as much as it made him angry. But he saw no alternative but to endure it. With a sigh, Lakey hefted his musket and strode away.

~

The smoke from his pipe drifted lazily upward in thin curls that transformed into long feathery-grey streams when he breathed out. Above, the sun blazed relentlessly down from a nearly cloudless sky and the lack of a breeze made it feel as though a slab of butter could be melted immediately upon laying out in the sunlight. But the heat was familiar and even welcome. It reminded him of the West Indies and mostly happier times.

There weren't many other Marines in the bivouac. Blessedly. It was a relief all its own. Carter had little desire to share company with any of them. He had too much to turn over in his mind. What to do about Sergeant Ryan. What to do about Nance. How to get around this new problem set in their way by Governor Phillip. More than all else, though... he had to figure out what to do about David Lakey. God-damned David Lakey. Tisdale had already offered his opinion of the young Marine, using language even Carter had never heard before.

Were they anywhere else but here, dealing with Lakey could be done in the usual way. But in this place, there was nowhere to hide. Nowhere to retreat to for the dishing out of much-deserved justice. That was the foremost reason the slimy bastard was still breathing. Carter drew in another lungful of smoke and sat carefully back against the pile of logs outside his tent. There was no way to make Lakey disappear without his being missed. Neither could he be seen with any blemishes, or the officers would have the skin flayed clean off Carter's back, no questions asked.

The faint scuffing crunch of worn shoes over the bare dirt was accompanied after a very brief pause by the rustle of fabric as someone settled down to sit beside him. He didn't look up from the scattering of rocks near his feet he'd been vacantly staring at until Nancy said in an offhand tone, "I hear Sergeant Ryan's had a roastin'."

"Aye."

"You ain't happy 'bout it?"

Carter shrugged. "I am, but I dunno as it's a guarantee he'll leave 'nuff alone. An' I dunno wot t'do 'bout him 'cause of it."

"Mebbe you're worryin' too much over it," Nancy suggested.

"Mebbe." She might be right, but he wasn't convinced. What else could he do but try to tackle this mess? "You seen Dan?"

"Aye. He's how I know Ryan's been told off. But I ain't best pleased wiv you tryin' to marry me off, Tom. Haven't I said that - "

"Aye, you don't want a Marine."

"I don't. I wish you'd give up tryin'. Sure I don't need a Marine to look after me. 'Specially now."

He grimaced, guessing at what she really meant and not liking that meaning. "Nance - "

"I mean it, Tom. You've done your best an' I'm thankful for that, but you can't do what really needs doin', can you?"

"Killin' that fat toad? That ain't nuffin', I'll tell you."

Nancy shook her head. "I don't mean you ain't got the bottle, I mean you can't. He knows you're out for him an' so do the officers. If he was to turn up dead, everybody'd know who did it. But... a cull like him, he's easy to break. Trust me on that."

Now he was intrigued. What the hell did she mean by that? Carter took the pipe from his mouth, it having gone out, and absently knocked the burnt remnants of the bowl out onto the ground. "Course I do. Wot d'you mean, though?"

"Just leave it to me," she told him with a knowing smirk. There was a natural sort of pause then, while he tried to work out what she was planning. That she wouldn't tell him made him suspicious. And worried. It bothered him that she might run headlong into trouble without his knowing about it, never mind being able help her.

"Will wotever you're plannin' end wiv you on a free-legged stool?"

"It won't. I'll leave that sorta thing to you. But you gotta promise to let me handle this, Tom. I appreciate you lookin' out for me but if we want this mess to go away, I need to sort it on me own."

"You sure?" Carter grimaced. "I mean... he ain't easy to get at, Nance. He's a fuckin' sergeant. An' the officers know wot he's been up to."

"They know but they ain't done anything 'bout it, except rap his knuckles. If they gave a damn, they'd have stopped him," Nancy pointed out. "If even I can't convince him to leave me be, maybe you will have to kill him. Which'll mean the bastard governor will see you stretch. I'll tell you, Tom, I don't want to watch you swing."

He felt his face warm a little. "Wouldn't bawver me," he said dismissively.

"It would me. You came down here 'cause of me, and you'd hang for me, and... Christ, Tom, that's a lot to put on a person. Anyway, wot d'you reckon Polly would say when I made it home without you?"

"She'd 'ave you skinned, I fink."

She smiled and leaned against him, letting him after a moment put his arm round her shoulders. "Aye. At the least. And I will skin you if you don't let me handle Sergeant Ryan. Because neither of us want you hanging on account of him. And I know you, Tom. You'd slit his throat and grin doing it. Much's I wish you would... let's us not let that happen, aye?"

"All right," he said reluctantly. "But wotever you're plannin' had better work."

"It will. You ain't the only devious one in the family."

That made him chuckle. "If you're anyfin' like Polly..."

"I'm worse." Nancy grinned.

"So you gonna tell me your scheme?"

"No. You can't get in trouble if you don't know. Best that you worry about that conk in your mess."

Lakey. For a moment, he'd forgotten about him. "He'll get sorted," Carter promised.

"I got an idea about that, Tom," she told him after a thoughtful pause. "You'll have to be foxy about it, but it oughta work."

Foxy. He could do that. Carter considered it a second. His preferred approach was rather more direct but maybe a less overt vengeance would be better. Anyway... if he dealt out a beating, there was every chance he'd swing and David Lakey was not anyone Carter cared to go to the noose for.

"Let's hear it, Nance," he said.

~

The expression on Billy Ivey's face was one of utter disbelief. It stood in stark contrast to the thunderous fury stamped all too plainly on Mister Clark's face. From where he stood near the entrance flap of the lieutenant's tent, Lakey could see both of them as they faced off on either side of Mister Clark's small desk. It had scarcely been two minutes since Lakey had escorted Ivey here and already the air inside the tent was all but crackling.

"I am appalled at your temerity, Private Ivey," the lieutenant barked. "To presume to trade permission for Bryant's crews to fish for time with Mary Broad... I cannot comprehend the sheer cheek of it. I would have never expected such disgraceful behaviour from you. You are from this moment relieved of your responsibilities as coxswain of the duty boats, an office which, I feel obliged to point out, you conferred upon yourself. You will have nothing further to do with the fishing crews and certainly you shall no further contact with William Bryant or Mary Broad. Do I make myself clear?"

Ivey gasped out, "Yes, sir." He sounded as though was being strangled.

"It seems inescapably plain to me now that you have never outgrown the casual indiscipline characteristic of the foremast Jacks," Mister Clark went on in a biting tone. "You are not a sailor any longer, Private Ivey, you are a Marine! Very little may have been demanded of you in the way of decent behaviour on the lower deck, but that red coat upon your back requires a man to conduct himself with at least some degree of - "

"Sir, I didn't do -

Mister Clark's chair hit the dirt with a crash as he launched to his feet. "Do not interrupt! The report of your actions was very particular and beyond reproach. This is not the first time you have done this very thing but it shall be the last. Be assured of that!"

The ex-seaman swallowed, with an effort. "Who was it peached, sir?"

"I am astonished you have the nerve to ask such a thing," sneered Mister Clark. He did not miss the swift, deliberate flicker of Ivey's gaze toward Lakey and added, "It was not Private Lakey. He is not the only one who takes exception to the unsoldierly behaviour shown by you and your messmates."

Thanks, sir, thought Lakey with an internal sigh. That statement would not do much to help his cause with the rest of the company. If anything, it would give them more reason to view him with suspicion and disdain.

"If there is nothing else," the lieutenant went on in a tone that suggested he didn't much care if there was anything else. "You are dismissed."

Stone-faced now, Ivey saluted, about-turned, and departed. It was the first time Lakey had ever seen him march properly. Without being repeatedly told to, anyway. He saluted as well and made to leave, but Mister Clark stopped him with a curt, "Not so hastily, Private Lakey. I have a job for you, since you have shown yourself only willing to share what you know of your comrades' misdeeds."

His heart sank. Damn it. He had only done what he'd thought was right and now the officers felt he was happy to act as an informer. "I'm not a grass, sir."

"I hardly said you were. This job does not require you to be one. You merely need to be... observant."

Lakey shook his head. "No, sir. I won't. I am not a grass."

There was a pause while Mister Clark righted his overturned chair and sat back down. "I believe you will do this job, Private Lakey. You will do it and do it willingly."

"Sir?"

"You gave me information regarding a murder which had already happened," said the lieutenant. "Now you are to give me information that will prevent a murder."

Both his eyebrows went up. "Sir, what... I mean, I don't know anything about - "

"Close your mouth and open your ears, and I will explain." Mister Clark told him, and explain he did. When he was dismissed, Lakey left the tent feeling dazed and faintly ill. The job he had been given was not one he wanted but the way lieutenant had described the circumstances of it all left him with no real choice. It had to be done. That was obvious. Just as obvious was the fact that when he was found out - since there was no 'if' about that - he could expect nothing less than complete loathing from his fellow Marines. As if they did not already treat him that way. That was, of course, he did not get his throat cut in his sleep by one of them. Or by Tom Carter himself...

"Fuck," he said aloud and found it telling that he could not even muster a flicker of embarrassment for having sworn.