And you feel like you feelin' now And doin' things just to please your crowd. When I love you like the way I love you, And I suffer, but I ain't gonna cut you 'cause,
This ain't no place for no hero.
--Short Change Hero, The Heavy
Late Fall, 1776: The Frontier
It was far too fucking cold out.
Sure, it was slightly too warm for the occasional snow flurry to make it to the ground. Yet the biting chill of wind still sliced through Thomas’ layers of clothes. Forcing him to hunch down on his horse, he was thankful for thick, woolen, navy blue scarf wrapped about his neck. A useful gift sent over from London, by way of his youngest sister. Also, unlike the handful of gormless sods marching beside him, he was mounted. The horse taken from a redcoat officer they’d killed when they stumbled upon a British patrol a couple of days ago, it almost made the engagement worth it. Having first pick of war loot, he immediately went for the black gelding. It was, of course, the better of the two horses that remained. Such privileges were some of the few advantages he retained as the highest ranking officer of the current troop.
After the debacle with Washington, while he never went to trial, the cloud of suspicion tainted him like the stench of a day-old corpse. So Thomas wasn’t surprised he’d been relieved of his duties within the General’s Life Guard. In their supposed show of mercy, they allowed him to return to the Connecticut militia in their supposed mercy. At least the bloody dipshits hadn’t completely stripped him of his commission. Still, the fall from a Colonel down to a Major proved a solid shit show. Then again, he’d avoided a potential appointment with the hangman. Admittedly, Haytham had always been pretty dependable at patching over these sorts of things.
But now, he was essentially banished to guard duty on the frontier. The majority of his time spent escorting convoys, he swiftly deemed it a thoroughly unpleasant undertaking. His reduced pay barely made up for being able to skim supplies. A pity he couldn’t do it with this batch. Full of bandages, bear and beaver pelts, fine clothes and casks of liquor, it was easily worth over 15,000 pounds. Unfortunately, he’d heard far too many stories about their mysterious owner’s reputation for keeping a persistent eye on every cent of cargo he sent overland.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Thomas hissed as the flurries began turning into falling snow.
Well, at least the trail cutting through this part of the woods offered some protection. Mostly due to the shade of ancient trees overhead. However, that blessing could swiftly turn into a curse. For one, the dense woods that were perfect for an ambush from redcoats. Secondly, the escort patrolled a bit too close to Fort St. Mathieu for his liking. No matter that it remained under command of a Templar. Having received word from Haytham a few days ago, he now knew that the General Davenport was suspected overstepping his bounds. So Thomas instantly realized that he could not only be dealing with a shit ton of lobsterbacks at his heels, but likely, a turncoat to the Order.
No wonder his fucking senses were set on edge. After all, he hadn’t survived over twenty years in the army to not trust his intuition.
“You look peaked, mon ami,” Captain Moreau drawled, riding on his grey mare next to him. His rolling French accent cutting through the frigid air, it contained his usual combination of amusement and condescension.
“Shut ya dirty trap, Cap’n. Unless you be wantin’ me cut ya tongue out?” Thomas sent him a violent sneer of exasperation. Rubbing his hands together and flexing his cold fingers within his gloves, he added, “I’m a thinkin on things. Don’t much like how silent it be.’”
That was another thing; the litany forest noise that usually accompanied them remained eerily silent. The howl of the wolves, the twittering of the birds, the rolling grunts of moose and deer fighting and fucking. Hell, even the crackling tingle of the snow clumping together seemed to disappear. The sun beginning to dip below the horizon and painting the sky dusky mauve and azure signaled the nearing twilight as well. As perfect a time as any for the Brits to waylay the lot of them.
The rotund blonde shooting him an initial look of disbelief, Captain Moreau settled for a smirk. Giving Thomas a haphazard salute, he lazily replied, “As you wish, Major.” Spurring his horse forward, he rode to the front of the column. That left four men on foot near the rear with Thomas. Two more trotted ahead on their mounts, leaving the last two soldiers marching at the front. The troop totaled ten.
That Froggy fuck, Thomas snapped to himself. Yet, for all of Moreau’s constant disdain, he at least drilled discipline into the troop of the infantrymen. It certainly made his own job that much easier…
A volley of shots abruptly rang out, causing him the instinctively duck. Hearing the addled scream of the man marching beside him, he jerked his head downwards just in time to witness the poor bastard drop his kit and clutch at his thigh. Combined with the smell of smoke wrenching at his nose and Captain Moreau’s voice snarling for the men to hold fast, any idiot could tell they were under attack.
“Steady on, hold fast!” Thomas roared, unsheathing his sword and flintlock, “Take no quarter and give none, ya fiends!”
Eyes shifting and taking in the scene with ease, he could make out that the fight had begun forward and just to left. Which meant the troop still had the solid barricade of the wagons between them and the redcoats. Admittedly, the bastards got the drop on them. But judging by the ear-splitting sound of another cluster of shots being fired, they weren’t quite upon them yet. Spotting a lobsterback some yards ahead of them and dashing to his right, he sniffed, led his target and squeezed the trigger. The lobcock dropped with a squeal. One of the Patriot infantryman on horseback galloped by and stabbed downwards, presumably finishing him off.
Without warning, he suddenly felt his the haunches of his mount shudder and seize beneath his thighs. The animal let out a blood curdling screech, its eyes and wild and white as it stumbled forward. Careening to the side, it nearly threw him from his saddle. But years of field experience taught him what to expect when one had his horse shot out from under him. Slipping backwards and leaping clear of the animal, he nimbly avoided being crushed as it hit the ground.
He nearly fell over the injured Patriot with a bullet in his thigh. Thankfully, the soldier had collapsed behind his downed horse. At least it gave them a proper barricade. Crouching, Thomas’ hands went to the other man’s sash. Roughly stripping the soldier of it, he looped around his thigh, tightening it and ignoring the soldier’s screams of agony. Swiping his handkerchief from a pocket, he stuffed it into the Patriot’s mouth, effectively muffling his shrieks. “Better than bleedin’ out,” he snorted, “Now, shut yer yap and ya may survive this.” Not that he gave a shit, but their outpost was running thin on men. Fewer casualties meant more able bodies and in turn, less work for him.
His horse still letting out baleful whinnies, it nearly kicked him in the ankle. Jerking and trembling, its massive body heaved as it vainly tried to drag itself away. It was a lost cause, better to put it out of its misery. Doing so with a single shot, Thomas reloaded and marched closer to the front of the column.
Jesus Christ, it was plonking freezing. So much so, that when he attempted to draw his sword and run it through the lobsterback grenadier hauling ass towards him while expertly swinging a heavy ax, it jammed, nearly frozen within its sheath.
What a proper bit of shitty luck.
Thankfully, he’d just reloaded, allowing him to aim square. The bullet did its job, tearing through officer’s throat. He dropped like a bag of bricks. Stooping down and stepping on the body to anchor it, Hickey yanked the corpse’s sabre from its gold and leather scabbard. Making a mental note to loot it later, Thomas tested the weapon’s weight. Finding it would do for now, he spun on his heel to engage another British infantryman.
Within roughly ten minutes, it was maddeningly obvious that they were surrounded. Casting his gaze about the snowy field, he let out a curse. There were outnumbered nearly two to one. Down to six men out of ten, one of them was hemmed against a tree, another soldier stumbling forward as a redcoat viciously brought down his dagger into his back. Spectacular, now his troop contained but five. The bloody Brits were quickly realizing it too, their commander bellowing orders to rush the wagons again.
Oh, bollocks, he was not in the fucking mood to breathe his last today. Definitely not in this god-forsaken, frozen nightmare of a wasteland.
“Christ on a cracker, ya tosser,” Thomas muttered, snatching up a loaded pistol from a Patriot’s corpse. Squinting, he fired a shot at the British soldier who was about to eviscerate the git by tree. It struck him in the lower back, causing him stumble backwards with a howl of agony. Stalking over, he ignored the Patriot boy’s stammer of thanks, dropping to his knees and focusing on pistol whipping the redcoat until he gurgled up blood. A final blow, and the telltale crack of his skull splitting signaled he’d finished the job.
“Major Hickey,” the green boy stammered, shakily wiping his brow and forcing his gaze away from the redcoat’s bludgeoned face, “Ya…ya saved me life-”
“Best be on yer guard from ‘ere on out,” Thomas snarled at the little bastard, “And don’t go makin’ me do it a second time, you fuckin’ dunce. Here,” he tossed him the bloodied pistol, “Reload that and get to the wagons. Assumin’ ya can manage it,” he derisively snorted. Palming a dagger, a pouch of gunpowder and bag of bullets from the body beneath him, he kicked the dead redcoat away.
The other four surviving members of their party, including Captain Moreau, had planted themselves behind the trio of wagons. At least they contained modicum of sense. They’d managed to retain five muskets and a couple of pistols between them. As two fired, the remaining reloaded, speedily passing a succession of weapons back and forth between them.
Shoving the Patriot soldier forward, Thomas again snapped out an order to assist the others at the wagons. Mind reeling for a solution, he raced towards their make-shift barricade. Peeking around a corner only caused him to let out a huff of irritation as bullet whizzed way too god-damned close to his nose. From what he could gather, the lobsterbacks were down to seven. Better odds, sure. But still too fucking many for his liking.
Backing up and reloading, he raised his flintlock to fire. That was until he abruptly felt the cold, steel point of a bayonet unexpectedly pressed to the base of his skull.
“Bad idea, old chum,” a whiny, irritatingly refined voice sneered behind him. “Lower your weapon, you pillock,” the redcoat continued, “And tell your men to do the same.”
Well, shit on a stick, he’d been outflanked. He despised being out of options. Which was why contingencies were always of the utmost importance.
“Alrighty then, boy-o, don’t get too trigger happy, eh?” Thomas brightly replied. Slowly leaning down, he placed his weapon on the ground and shoved it away. “You be in luck, me good man,” he chortled, “For I ain’t in no mood to die today. I’m fuckin’ sure you ain’t either, yeah? I mean, who wants to find they selves proverbially shittin’ the bed out here in this god-damned wilderness?”
His fingers slowly inching upwards as he moved back to his feet, they found their way to the top of his boot. Along with the trusty throwing knife sheathed within. “All I find me self carin’ about nowadays be enough coin to get me by. I be a simple sort, ya see? Me needs go ‘n get met, so long as I can go buyin’ a beer ‘n a woman,” he purposely babbled on.
“Shut your bloody mouth, you son of a whore,” the redcoat snapped, clicking back the hammer on his musket.
Sighing, Thomas shook his head in disagreement. Still halfway crouched, he retorted, “See, that be ya soddin’ problem, lobsterback. Ya always too busy insultin’ ‘n bitchin’ at your alleged lessers to see what’s right in front of your eyes.”
Re: FILL: Short Change Heroes, Part 10/?
And doin' things just to please your crowd.
When I love you like the way I love you,
And I suffer, but I ain't gonna cut you 'cause,
This ain't no place for no hero.
--Short Change Hero, The Heavy
Late Fall, 1776: The Frontier
It was far too fucking cold out.
Sure, it was slightly too warm for the occasional snow flurry to make it to the ground. Yet the biting chill of wind still sliced through Thomas’ layers of clothes. Forcing him to hunch down on his horse, he was thankful for thick, woolen, navy blue scarf wrapped about his neck. A useful gift sent over from London, by way of his youngest sister. Also, unlike the handful of gormless sods marching beside him, he was mounted. The horse taken from a redcoat officer they’d killed when they stumbled upon a British patrol a couple of days ago, it almost made the engagement worth it. Having first pick of war loot, he immediately went for the black gelding. It was, of course, the better of the two horses that remained. Such privileges were some of the few advantages he retained as the highest ranking officer of the current troop.
After the debacle with Washington, while he never went to trial, the cloud of suspicion tainted him like the stench of a day-old corpse. So Thomas wasn’t surprised he’d been relieved of his duties within the General’s Life Guard. In their supposed show of mercy, they allowed him to return to the Connecticut militia in their supposed mercy. At least the bloody dipshits hadn’t completely stripped him of his commission. Still, the fall from a Colonel down to a Major proved a solid shit show. Then again, he’d avoided a potential appointment with the hangman. Admittedly, Haytham had always been pretty dependable at patching over these sorts of things.
But now, he was essentially banished to guard duty on the frontier. The majority of his time spent escorting convoys, he swiftly deemed it a thoroughly unpleasant undertaking. His reduced pay barely made up for being able to skim supplies. A pity he couldn’t do it with this batch. Full of bandages, bear and beaver pelts, fine clothes and casks of liquor, it was easily worth over 15,000 pounds. Unfortunately, he’d heard far too many stories about their mysterious owner’s reputation for keeping a persistent eye on every cent of cargo he sent overland.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Thomas hissed as the flurries began turning into falling snow.
Well, at least the trail cutting through this part of the woods offered some protection. Mostly due to the shade of ancient trees overhead. However, that blessing could swiftly turn into a curse. For one, the dense woods that were perfect for an ambush from redcoats. Secondly, the escort patrolled a bit too close to Fort St. Mathieu for his liking. No matter that it remained under command of a Templar. Having received word from Haytham a few days ago, he now knew that the General Davenport was suspected overstepping his bounds. So Thomas instantly realized that he could not only be dealing with a shit ton of lobsterbacks at his heels, but likely, a turncoat to the Order.
No wonder his fucking senses were set on edge. After all, he hadn’t survived over twenty years in the army to not trust his intuition.
“You look peaked, mon ami,” Captain Moreau drawled, riding on his grey mare next to him. His rolling French accent cutting through the frigid air, it contained his usual combination of amusement and condescension.
“Shut ya dirty trap, Cap’n. Unless you be wantin’ me cut ya tongue out?” Thomas sent him a violent sneer of exasperation. Rubbing his hands together and flexing his cold fingers within his gloves, he added, “I’m a thinkin on things. Don’t much like how silent it be.’”
That was another thing; the litany forest noise that usually accompanied them remained eerily silent. The howl of the wolves, the twittering of the birds, the rolling grunts of moose and deer fighting and fucking. Hell, even the crackling tingle of the snow clumping together seemed to disappear. The sun beginning to dip below the horizon and painting the sky dusky mauve and azure signaled the nearing twilight as well. As perfect a time as any for the Brits to waylay the lot of them.
The rotund blonde shooting him an initial look of disbelief, Captain Moreau settled for a smirk. Giving Thomas a haphazard salute, he lazily replied, “As you wish, Major.” Spurring his horse forward, he rode to the front of the column. That left four men on foot near the rear with Thomas. Two more trotted ahead on their mounts, leaving the last two soldiers marching at the front. The troop totaled ten.
That Froggy fuck, Thomas snapped to himself. Yet, for all of Moreau’s constant disdain, he at least drilled discipline into the troop of the infantrymen. It certainly made his own job that much easier…
A volley of shots abruptly rang out, causing him the instinctively duck. Hearing the addled scream of the man marching beside him, he jerked his head downwards just in time to witness the poor bastard drop his kit and clutch at his thigh. Combined with the smell of smoke wrenching at his nose and Captain Moreau’s voice snarling for the men to hold fast, any idiot could tell they were under attack.
“Steady on, hold fast!” Thomas roared, unsheathing his sword and flintlock, “Take no quarter and give none, ya fiends!”
Eyes shifting and taking in the scene with ease, he could make out that the fight had begun forward and just to left. Which meant the troop still had the solid barricade of the wagons between them and the redcoats. Admittedly, the bastards got the drop on them. But judging by the ear-splitting sound of another cluster of shots being fired, they weren’t quite upon them yet. Spotting a lobsterback some yards ahead of them and dashing to his right, he sniffed, led his target and squeezed the trigger. The lobcock dropped with a squeal. One of the Patriot infantryman on horseback galloped by and stabbed downwards, presumably finishing him off.
Without warning, he suddenly felt his the haunches of his mount shudder and seize beneath his thighs. The animal let out a blood curdling screech, its eyes and wild and white as it stumbled forward. Careening to the side, it nearly threw him from his saddle. But years of field experience taught him what to expect when one had his horse shot out from under him. Slipping backwards and leaping clear of the animal, he nimbly avoided being crushed as it hit the ground.
He nearly fell over the injured Patriot with a bullet in his thigh. Thankfully, the soldier had collapsed behind his downed horse. At least it gave them a proper barricade. Crouching, Thomas’ hands went to the other man’s sash. Roughly stripping the soldier of it, he looped around his thigh, tightening it and ignoring the soldier’s screams of agony. Swiping his handkerchief from a pocket, he stuffed it into the Patriot’s mouth, effectively muffling his shrieks. “Better than bleedin’ out,” he snorted, “Now, shut yer yap and ya may survive this.” Not that he gave a shit, but their outpost was running thin on men. Fewer casualties meant more able bodies and in turn, less work for him.
His horse still letting out baleful whinnies, it nearly kicked him in the ankle. Jerking and trembling, its massive body heaved as it vainly tried to drag itself away. It was a lost cause, better to put it out of its misery. Doing so with a single shot, Thomas reloaded and marched closer to the front of the column.
Jesus Christ, it was plonking freezing. So much so, that when he attempted to draw his sword and run it through the lobsterback grenadier hauling ass towards him while expertly swinging a heavy ax, it jammed, nearly frozen within its sheath.
What a proper bit of shitty luck.
Thankfully, he’d just reloaded, allowing him to aim square. The bullet did its job, tearing through officer’s throat. He dropped like a bag of bricks. Stooping down and stepping on the body to anchor it, Hickey yanked the corpse’s sabre from its gold and leather scabbard. Making a mental note to loot it later, Thomas tested the weapon’s weight. Finding it would do for now, he spun on his heel to engage another British infantryman.
Within roughly ten minutes, it was maddeningly obvious that they were surrounded. Casting his gaze about the snowy field, he let out a curse. There were outnumbered nearly two to one. Down to six men out of ten, one of them was hemmed against a tree, another soldier stumbling forward as a redcoat viciously brought down his dagger into his back. Spectacular, now his troop contained but five. The bloody Brits were quickly realizing it too, their commander bellowing orders to rush the wagons again.
Oh, bollocks, he was not in the fucking mood to breathe his last today. Definitely not in this god-forsaken, frozen nightmare of a wasteland.
“Christ on a cracker, ya tosser,” Thomas muttered, snatching up a loaded pistol from a Patriot’s corpse. Squinting, he fired a shot at the British soldier who was about to eviscerate the git by tree. It struck him in the lower back, causing him stumble backwards with a howl of agony. Stalking over, he ignored the Patriot boy’s stammer of thanks, dropping to his knees and focusing on pistol whipping the redcoat until he gurgled up blood. A final blow, and the telltale crack of his skull splitting signaled he’d finished the job.
“Major Hickey,” the green boy stammered, shakily wiping his brow and forcing his gaze away from the redcoat’s bludgeoned face, “Ya…ya saved me life-”
“Best be on yer guard from ‘ere on out,” Thomas snarled at the little bastard, “And don’t go makin’ me do it a second time, you fuckin’ dunce. Here,” he tossed him the bloodied pistol, “Reload that and get to the wagons. Assumin’ ya can manage it,” he derisively snorted. Palming a dagger, a pouch of gunpowder and bag of bullets from the body beneath him, he kicked the dead redcoat away.
The other four surviving members of their party, including Captain Moreau, had planted themselves behind the trio of wagons. At least they contained modicum of sense. They’d managed to retain five muskets and a couple of pistols between them. As two fired, the remaining reloaded, speedily passing a succession of weapons back and forth between them.
Shoving the Patriot soldier forward, Thomas again snapped out an order to assist the others at the wagons. Mind reeling for a solution, he raced towards their make-shift barricade. Peeking around a corner only caused him to let out a huff of irritation as bullet whizzed way too god-damned close to his nose. From what he could gather, the lobsterbacks were down to seven. Better odds, sure. But still too fucking many for his liking.
Backing up and reloading, he raised his flintlock to fire. That was until he abruptly felt the cold, steel point of a bayonet unexpectedly pressed to the base of his skull.
“Bad idea, old chum,” a whiny, irritatingly refined voice sneered behind him. “Lower your weapon, you pillock,” the redcoat continued, “And tell your men to do the same.”
Well, shit on a stick, he’d been outflanked. He despised being out of options. Which was why contingencies were always of the utmost importance.
“Alrighty then, boy-o, don’t get too trigger happy, eh?” Thomas brightly replied. Slowly leaning down, he placed his weapon on the ground and shoved it away. “You be in luck, me good man,” he chortled, “For I ain’t in no mood to die today. I’m fuckin’ sure you ain’t either, yeah? I mean, who wants to find they selves proverbially shittin’ the bed out here in this god-damned wilderness?”
His fingers slowly inching upwards as he moved back to his feet, they found their way to the top of his boot. Along with the trusty throwing knife sheathed within. “All I find me self carin’ about nowadays be enough coin to get me by. I be a simple sort, ya see? Me needs go ‘n get met, so long as I can go buyin’ a beer ‘n a woman,” he purposely babbled on.
“Shut your bloody mouth, you son of a whore,” the redcoat snapped, clicking back the hammer on his musket.
Sighing, Thomas shook his head in disagreement. Still halfway crouched, he retorted, “See, that be ya soddin’ problem, lobsterback. Ya always too busy insultin’ ‘n bitchin’ at your alleged lessers to see what’s right in front of your eyes.”
“Sod off, you traitorous piece of shi-”