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Authors: Traitorous Hearts
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snorts.
He glanced over at the captain, who was red-faced and nearly doubled over with
amusement.
If the enemy found it funny, well then he couldn't. It was that
simple. Cad straightened abruptly, fixing his face into severe lines. As soon
as Livingston saw Cad's serious expression, he sobered too. The captain and Cad
glared at each other, trying to impose the force of their wills.
And then the pig squealed again. The captain's mouth twitched.
Cad's eyebrows wiggled. Gales of irrepressible laughter bubbled up in them
both. Cad whooped. Livingston wiped watery eyes.
"Gawd, Livingston... you laugh... like a sick horse,"
Cad managed between guffaws.
"Me?" The captain struggled to gulp enough air.
"You... stop this right now, Jones. This... have to be... serious. This
is... a... military maneuver."
"I'm... serious." Cad snorted again.
"Not a military maneuver, Cap'n," Jon piped in happily,
still clutching the wiggling animal. "It's a party."
"A party." Captain Livingston quieted immediately and
looked speculatively around the common, taking in the assorted stands selling
sweets and treats, the peddlers and their varied stock of wares, the obviously
ample supplies of spirits. "A... festival, perhaps." It could be so
easy. "Jones, would you say you were having a festival?"
"Well..." Cad said doubtfully.
Livingston gave him a significant look. "My commanding
officer gave me orders to prevent any military action on the part of the
colonists. He never said you could not have a festival."
"Oh, a festival." Cad pursed his lips. It went against
his grain to compromise with a redcoat, to do anything but insist on their
freedom to drill. But a chance to avoid the issue? To avoid putting anyone in
danger? "Yes, certainly. A festival."
Livingston gave a relived sigh. "Good."
"But you know, if we had been having a 'military action,' we
would have trounced you soundly."
"You most certainly would not have."
"A shame we won't have a chance to find out."
The captain lifted his eyebrows. His only desire had been to get
out of the situation without bloodshed. But if there was the opportunity to gather
a bit of information along the way, he was not one to overlook it.
"Perhaps we could."
"Huh?"
"We could have a bit of a competition. That is, unless of
course, our last contest put you off wagers entirely."
"That was a fluke. How was I to know you had the biggest ox
around in your company? It had nothing to with skill or strategy, as a real
battle does." Cad stroked the barrel of his trusty musket. "What did
you have in mind?"
"Shooting. Knives. It matters little. I'm certain my men can
both shoot and throw straighter than yours. After all, we are professional
soldiers, not merely a collection of farmers who get together a few times a
year to play make believe."
Cad's eyes narrowed. "A contest it is, then."
"Agreed."
"Ah, Captain?" At the question, Cad and Livingston
turned to Jon. He was awkwardly struggling to his feet, sunk knee-deep in muck,
his right arm still wrapped around the chubby body of the pig. "Can I let
him go now?"
***
Waiting in line for his turn to shoot, Jon discreetly shook his
rump, trying to dislodge the clammy leggings sticking to his private parts.
After his disaster in the pig wallow, Sergeant Hitchcock, kind soul that he
was, had taken pity on him and dumped two buckets of water over his head. It
had washed away the worst of the mud, but it had left his clothes wet, clingy,
and distinctly uncomfortable.
What a mess. He should be satisfied. Poking the pig and setting it
on its wild run through the troops had been a last ditch effort to avert—or at
least postpone— disaster. It had worked even better than he'd imagined, but it
had made him, once again, look like a fool.
Why did it even matter? He'd always rather enjoyed his part, an
actor whose stage was the world, and for whom a bad review could mean death. It
had been a challenge, being continually on guard, fooling everyone, creating
the illusion
He glanced over at the captain, who was red-faced and nearly doubled over with
amusement.
If the enemy found it funny, well then he couldn't. It was that
simple. Cad straightened abruptly, fixing his face into severe lines. As soon
as Livingston saw Cad's serious expression, he sobered too. The captain and Cad
glared at each other, trying to impose the force of their wills.
And then the pig squealed again. The captain's mouth twitched.
Cad's eyebrows wiggled. Gales of irrepressible laughter bubbled up in them
both. Cad whooped. Livingston wiped watery eyes.
"Gawd, Livingston... you laugh... like a sick horse,"
Cad managed between guffaws.
"Me?" The captain struggled to gulp enough air.
"You... stop this right now, Jones. This... have to be... serious. This
is... a... military maneuver."
"I'm... serious." Cad snorted again.
"Not a military maneuver, Cap'n," Jon piped in happily,
still clutching the wiggling animal. "It's a party."
"A party." Captain Livingston quieted immediately and
looked speculatively around the common, taking in the assorted stands selling
sweets and treats, the peddlers and their varied stock of wares, the obviously
ample supplies of spirits. "A... festival, perhaps." It could be so
easy. "Jones, would you say you were having a festival?"
"Well..." Cad said doubtfully.
Livingston gave him a significant look. "My commanding
officer gave me orders to prevent any military action on the part of the
colonists. He never said you could not have a festival."
"Oh, a festival." Cad pursed his lips. It went against
his grain to compromise with a redcoat, to do anything but insist on their
freedom to drill. But a chance to avoid the issue? To avoid putting anyone in
danger? "Yes, certainly. A festival."
Livingston gave a relived sigh. "Good."
"But you know, if we had been having a 'military action,' we
would have trounced you soundly."
"You most certainly would not have."
"A shame we won't have a chance to find out."
The captain lifted his eyebrows. His only desire had been to get
out of the situation without bloodshed. But if there was the opportunity to gather
a bit of information along the way, he was not one to overlook it.
"Perhaps we could."
"Huh?"
"We could have a bit of a competition. That is, unless of
course, our last contest put you off wagers entirely."
"That was a fluke. How was I to know you had the biggest ox
around in your company? It had nothing to with skill or strategy, as a real
battle does." Cad stroked the barrel of his trusty musket. "What did
you have in mind?"
"Shooting. Knives. It matters little. I'm certain my men can
both shoot and throw straighter than yours. After all, we are professional
soldiers, not merely a collection of farmers who get together a few times a
year to play make believe."
Cad's eyes narrowed. "A contest it is, then."
"Agreed."
"Ah, Captain?" At the question, Cad and Livingston
turned to Jon. He was awkwardly struggling to his feet, sunk knee-deep in muck,
his right arm still wrapped around the chubby body of the pig. "Can I let
him go now?"
***
Waiting in line for his turn to shoot, Jon discreetly shook his
rump, trying to dislodge the clammy leggings sticking to his private parts.
After his disaster in the pig wallow, Sergeant Hitchcock, kind soul that he
was, had taken pity on him and dumped two buckets of water over his head. It
had washed away the worst of the mud, but it had left his clothes wet, clingy,
and distinctly uncomfortable.
What a mess. He should be satisfied. Poking the pig and setting it
on its wild run through the troops had been a last ditch effort to avert—or at
least postpone— disaster. It had worked even better than he'd imagined, but it
had made him, once again, look like a fool.
Why did it even matter? He'd always rather enjoyed his part, an
actor whose stage was the world, and for whom a bad review could mean death. It
had been a challenge, being continually on guard, fooling everyone, creating
the illusion
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