Don't Run In Town {Mutiny}

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Don't Run In Town {Mutiny}; On The Streets, Marines/Anyone
Topic Started: 13 Dec 2007, 11:59 PM (789 Views)
Royal Navy & Marines	13 Dec 2007, 11:59 PM Post #1
Master of Puppets Posts: 350 Group: Royal Navy Member #11 Joined: 7 December 2006	OOC - Open thread. The Second of Foot will be appearing within a post or two. IC - The streets and neighbourhoods in the lower-class parts of town were slowly beginning to stir to life. In the marketplace, shopkeepers and vendors were preparing for another day. Here and there on the streets, tradesmen headed toward their work-places. On the western side of town, a squad of marines tramped toward the Worcesters' roughly-constructed encampment. They were a little bit outside of their normal patrol route, but passing the encampment wasn't unknown. In nearly every respect, it was a typical morning. If anyone had looked closely at the marines, however, they would've noticed the tense, expectant expressions on their faces. They walked just a little too stiffly and held their muskets in white-knuckled grips, waiting for the agreed-upon signal. The bugle had called Rouse not long before, which meant the usual morning parade should be just about over. Any time now, the public declaration of change would be made... A single cannon boomed distantly. The squad's corporal let out a relieved breath. They hadn't been discovered at the last minute and thwarted. "C'mon, lads!" Corporal Dryden barked, breaking forward into a run. His marines followed him closely, bringing their muskets down from their shoulders as they went. The soldier barely had time to step out from his sentry box at the sound of many running feet, before Dryden was upon him, knocking him to the ground with the butt of his musket. Someone shouted a warning from within the camp and scarcely a moment later, a bugle was blaring the alarm. Dryden primed his musket and called, "Present, lads! Knock 'em down!" The marines had taken firing positions just inside the courtyard. Twelve muskets crackled and a few soldiers fell. In the soldiers' confused dashing around, no effective return fire was made. Dryden's marines made a second volley, then they were taking to their heels, retreating toward the centre of town. If they could draw the Worcesters out from their camp, they could corner them in the market-place and fight them down. The squad scattered as they ran, however, with several men detouring down side-streets and disappearing. Their immediate pursuers likewise scattered, chasing them doggedly despite the shouted orders from the sergeants to recall them. Though Dryden didn't know it, his plan to draw the entire company toward the market-place had already failed. Musket shots rang out sporadically as the individual marines fired at their pursuers and return fire from the soldiers whipped down the streets and alleys, striking mutineer and early-rising civilian alike, largely by accident. In this manner, the mood of the day was set.



Virginia	23 Dec 2007, 02:15 AM Post #2
NPC Posts: 13 Group: Civilians Member #10 Joined: 7 December 2006	Virginia had risen early, and was on her way to the market to quickly try and buy something that she could eat on her way to work. Work--that lovely thing that as a woman she felt herself very fortunate to get, especially now that there was no husband to care for her. Not that he did a great job providing, but that was all past history. Right now she needed to find something quick and cheap to eat, before she fainted and before she was due to show up at the Boar's Head Tavern, and start cleaning and looking after customers. She'd missed the sound of the canon firing that singaled the beginning of the mutiny, and was completely unaware that anything was going amiss. She was too busy trying to figure out how much she could afford to pay for the food, and what sort of sob story might be required to try and barter down the price. Maybe the one about having children to feed as well? On her way there, she was abruptly cut off by several men running by in red coats, she had just jumped out of the way, narrowly avoiding being toppled over. Furious at the soldiers' apparent inconsideration, she jumped after them shaking her fist and yelling rather crude epithets for a woman to be saying. Abruptly, a marine turned around, and pointed his musket in her direction. She stopped dead in her tracks, abruptly convinced that perhaps insulting the soldier to his face, well...back in this case, was not a good idea. Dropping her basket she screamed and covered her head with her hands, dropping down to the uneven muddy road, hoping that his shot would not find her. As the marine was about to fire, he was suddenly taken down by a shot from...somewhere behind her? Virginia went down to her stomach on the ground, and turner her head back to see where the shot had come from. It was one of those Army men, that she was quite sure of--she'd spend enough time staring at them in their enormously sexy red woolen coats, and their perfectly powdered hair, and their...huge muskets...that she'd practically been mistaken for a prostitute trying to find work pleasing one of them. Not that she would have minded doing that...and being paid to do that would have suited her fine, but she did have a reputation. And need of a husband. Not a one night stand...or one night lying down...or one night complete with irons and blindfolds and some serious fun. Realising that she was in the middle of a very bad spot and situation, she quickly crawled and scooted across the ground, nearly being hit, trying to make it to one of the alleys as quickly as she could. Bad. Bad. Bad. She crouched by the wall of a building, observing the quick skirmish, and trying to melt into the wall as best as she could. She knew that she needed to get out of here quick. Screw going to wait on men who were going to drink! She needed one of those damn drinks right now herself, and she sure as hell was not going to try and get to the tavern with this going on! She needed help.



Percy Kirke	25 Dec 2007, 03:08 PM Post #3
Deckhand Posts: 13 Group: Army Member #47 Joined: 26 November 2007	Post rated Mature for language. In general, the 2nd of Foot had been having an easy time of things in Port Royal. Beyond drill - of which the Brigadier was much too fond, in the opinions of several - and keeping watch, they had little else to do, and too much free time on their hands. Consequently they were up to plenty of hijinks in their encampment, involving theatres, dancing, grog, more grog, infractions of discipline, consequent punishment of said infractions, and more grog still. Infractions + punishment was a good recipe for even more drill to help take up their excess of free time, so matters were improving as far as order in the encampment went. Of course, that hardly meant they were satisfied with the assignment to Port Royal. As a matter of fact, most of them were highly dissatisfied, having come off of comfortable, most importantly healthy coast duty in England. The West Indies were a plague-nest, especially for soldiers. They harboured yellow-jack, fever 'n ague, gaol-fever, and scores of other diseases waiting in the wings. It was almost without competition the most unhealthy posting possible for a regiment, and gathered plenty of grumbling among the men of the 2nd. But it was, in some ways, better than Tangiers had been (since Tangiers had been almost equally unhealthy). For one thing, it was less verminous - though more heavily mosquito'ed, fleas and lice were not as prevalent, and since those were the primary antagonists of a soldier's comfort that was a significant improvement. For another, it wasn't half so hostile to their presence. In Morocco, their coats had symbolised the hated occupier. Here...half the women seemed to have a terrible case of 'scarlet fever.' That perk made the posting ever so much more bearable, reflected Sergeant Cotter Delling. A smart fellow in one of the dragoon flank companies had it even better. Therefore, Delling was in pretty good spirits that morning, as he tramped out with a half-dozen of the men in his company. None of them were on duty, so they were all in their grey undress uniforms, but what was a dragoon without a sabre at his waist, a pistol on his hip, and a swagger in his step? - A pretty poor figure of a man indeed. Without the scarlet coats of their full uniforms, they needed something else to catch the female eye. Consequently they were all kitted out appropriately. Delling knew his men were a little bored and restive, and given to raising a little Hell every now and then, witness what had transpired in the King's Shilling not too terribly long ago. But that sort of thing happened when you got a bunch of puffed-up popinjays like the East India Company men marching about as if they owned the world. They should have known better than to walk into a place like that. S'blood, what a pack of idiots! He'd heard, of course, what had been done to the Marines and Worcesters that had been involved, but fortunately the Lambs had gotten off with a bare handful of stripes to share between the lot of them. Not that they'd gone shouting the Brigadier's leniency around. That'd just have made a lot of bad feeling, and there was more than enough of that to go around. Particularly among the Marine garrison. Some bad rumours had been going around lately; discipline was crumbling over there in the fort, so he'd heard, and things were looking to be breaking down. The Marine regiment had been stationed here too long, pure and simple. Course it also had to do with that new Major of theirs; he was an unreasonable sort, so he'd heard, but stick a few hundred men on an unhealthy island posting for too long and even with the best officers in the world, they'd get run down into the ground eventually. Delling expected that soon the load of Marines currently there would be shipped out to sea and given new assignments somewhere else, and a new lot would be shipped back in. That was the way things usually went. If the 2nd were very, very lucky, perhaps they'd go with the returning Marines. Some more easy coast duty wouldn't go amiss. Delling was mulling over this hopeful prospect when the distant signal cannon boomed out. Like any seasoned veteran, he knew the sound perfectly well, but the firing of the salute at the fort was a regular occurrence, and at first none of them gave it much thought. Their lack of concern lasted until the sound of musket-fire cracked through the early morning air; the first volley sent a jolt through each of the little group, and they took off at a run towards the Worcester encampment, whence the firing had originated. They arrived by a different street shortly after Dryden's pack of marines had left by another, and found the whole encampment boiling like a kicked anthill. Not in the mood to wait around for a lengthy explanation, Delling collared a befuddled-looking private - the unfortunate fellow that Dryden had whacked on the bonce a scant couple of minutes earlier - just outside of the encampment and bellowed in his face. "What is going on here?" He would have thrown in a few profanities for good measure, but there wasn't really the time. The man he'd caught wasn't, from the looks of things, in full possession of his wits just yet, but he answered readily enough (if with a fuzzy uncertainty in his voice). "It were a bunch of them Marines, Sarge! They got me, then they just started shootin' at everythin'!" Delling prided himself on a ready mind, but this boggled him and set him back apace. There could be only one name for what was going on, but it was a hard name to lay hold on when you were talking about men who served His Britannic Majesty. Even if they were only Marines. He shook the fellow. "Zounds, man. Think what you're saying. Do you mean to tell me it's mutiny?" The sentry nodded furiously. "Mutiny, yes, mutiny!" "Where did the bastards go?" The sentry pointed mutely, and Delling let go of the lapels of his coat abruptly, sending the man staggering backwards. "I'll just borrow this," he told the sentry, snatching the musket from an unresisting grasp - the poor fellow was still too bemused to complain or argue. The sentry did let out a furious exclamation when Delling ripped his cartouche free from him, tearing his epaulette clean off and leaving a hole in his coat, but the dragoon sergeant had already pelted down the street, followed closely by the six men from his squad, in the approximate direction that the sentry had pointed out. Following the sounds of musket-fire, they caught up in time to catch a good side-view of an exchange between a single yellow-faced coat firing from behind a rack of barrels at one end of a square, and three or four white-faced coats holed up at the other end. Delling took one look and pulled his severely hooked nose back quick behind the shelter of the stone wall of the alley-way he and his squad had occupied. Just in time, too, because in front of him there was a crack, and splinters of stone went flying from the corner where his head had been a second ago. Back in relative safety, he drew back the hammer of his appropriated musket to half-cocked position, ripped open a cartridge with his teeth and poured the shot and powder down the barrel. Jamming the ram-rod down, he wedged it all in firmly, cocked the hammer, then, loaded and ready to go, made ready to poke his head out again. Before he did, though, time to take care of something else. "Kelledy, get your arse back to the barracks and rouse the Lambs!" he ordered one of the privates, who promptly took to his heels. Problem was, Kelledy might not make it, if one of the mutinying dogs decided to silence him before he could call in the regiment. "McGowan, Gumb, you get going as well." And just that quickly he was three men down, against God knew how many of the treacherous dogs. Course, his men had only sabres and pistols, which weren't going to be all that much use unless they got to close-quarters. Three or six, it didn't matter when you considered that. At that auspicious moment, a woman came pelting across the square and dropped down by the wall of the alley, right in front of Delling. Without much ceremony - in fact, without any ceremony at all, Sergeant Delling hoisted Virginia up by her arm and deposited her on the other side of the alleyway. "Stay there," he barked, and then stepped out quickly, taking sight down the barrel of the musket at the patch of red down where the Marines were holed up. There was already a haze of powder-smoke round that area, though, and he couldn't see after he'd fired if he'd hit anything at all. He wasn't going to stay looking and standing out there for them to take a few pot-shots at him, either. He dodged back into his alley, blinked his eyes against the stinging cloud that had popped out of his own musket, and loaded again. Glancing over at Virginia while he rammed the charge and ball down into the muzzle, he informed her in no uncertain (nor terribly polite) tones, "I'd recommend you haul your arse off some other place than here; ain't going to be a comfortable seat soon enough."



Benjamin Wingfield	25 Dec 2007, 07:01 PM Post #4
Deckhand Posts: 28 Group: Army Member #23 Joined: 22 November 2007	The why and how hadn't been explained to him, but the what was certainly plainly apparent. After the second volley had cut down another three men, Sergeant Lyons struck up his customary roar, marshalling his grenadiers. Wingfield had been among the first to rally, having been already fully kitted up before the ambush had been sprung. The sergeant barely waited for the platoon before dashing out through the gate after their assailants. Behind them was all chaos. The subalterns were shouting and trying to restore order, but the howls of the wounded and the obscenity-laden bellows of the sergeants and corporals were impeding their efforts. Wingfield, owing to his long legs, shortly outpaced Sergeant Lyons and bore down on the fleeing marines. Those blackguards had shot down one of his mates, he'd seen it with his own eyes. Corporal Strand, following as close behind the big grenadier as he could, was shouting that the marines were rising against the Catholics, which was the spark that fired Wingfield's temper the most. How dare those men threaten his faith? The brassy scum! Several marines separated from the main group and branched off down a side-street, apparently trying to escape. Wingfield followed them closely, ignoring the rest of his platoon as they thundered past the alley. There was a woman in the street, but the grenadier paid her no mind. One of the marines had stopped his flight and turned, his musket levelling on Wingfield to take a shot. The grenadier fired first and knocked the heretic onto his back. The other marines ducked for cover at the end of the street. Wingfield didn't bother moving toward cover, but stood in the middle of the street, reloading his musket as if he hadn't a care in the world. A lead ball whistled past his tall furred cap and that was the prompting he needed to drop down behind a cluster of barrels. No way was he going to let them put holes in his cap! He ran the musket through a gap between barrels and sighted carefully, waiting for a handful of seconds before firing. Without pausing to check that he'd hit anything, he drew the firelock back and reloaded again. How he wished for a string of grenades! One or two of those would put paid to those marines in short order. As he recovered from taking a third shot, he heard the pop of another musket, from off to his right. Were they hemming him in? His cover didn't protect him from a flank assault at all. Wingfield glanced quickly toward the source of the other shots and spotted several men in grey jackets. Their facings were green and they wore dragoon sabres, which meant they weren't marines. At least he hoped not. Only one of them had a musket however, which was good. Another shot came whining toward him and suddenly his cap was gone. Alarmed, Wingfield clapped one hand to the top of his head and felt only powdered hair. They'd shot his cap clean off his head! In his momentary distraction, he'd risen slightly from his couch and they'd shot his cap off. Those bastards! Furious, he dragged his bayonet from its scabbard and fixed it to his musket with a clatter. Nobody insulted a grenadier like that! Especially not fools who sought to bring down Catholicism! He grabbed his wounded cap and jammed it back onto his head, then stood up. Firing from behind cover was useless now. He'd charge into that rabble and lay them all out! A wordless roar came tearing from his lungs as he went forward, bayonet-tipped musket leading. One of the marines broke from his mates and fled, but the others held fast, hurriedly drawing and fixing their own bayonets. Wingfield fired while on the run, though his musket was held at waist height. The shot went wide of anything worth hitting, but he didn't care. They were going to pay for their offences now! ~ It was mostly due to his own nearly-obsessive need for constant readiness that Sergeant Kingsley's troop of dragoons was able to recover from the ambush and assume a formal pursuit. The grenadiers had already gone dashing off willy-nilly, leaving their lieutenant behind. The company's captain was not pleased, but there was little he could do about it. Kingsley and his dragoons were quickly mounted and armed, with orders to ride down any marine who fired on them. Two men were drawn out and given sealed orders, and told to ride hellbent for leather to Kingston, there to rouse the regiment. It was a good two days' ride, though, not including the time it would take for the regiment to strike its tents and get on the march. The company was on its own. The troop of dragoons rode out of camp, leaving the line infantrymen to secure the compound and despatch patrols as they saw fit. Once outside the gate, the troop split into three groups. Ensign Turner would be taking his men on a sweep of the streets on their way toward the docks, while Kingsley was to alert the Second of Foot's camp to the attack. Poor Corporal MacKenzie, though. He had the sorry task of taking his section through the heart of town, where ambushes could be made virtually at every corner. Kingsley was not overly pleased with his own task, but he would never speak of it. He said nothing as he and his five dragoons cantered toward the other regiment's camp. Their tasking didn't stay uneventful for long. A musket cracked from somewhere near their front, nearly creasing Private Dower's arm. At once, they had their sabres in hand, not bothering to unsling their carbines. Kingsley spied the would-be marksman and kicked his horse into a gallop, swapping his sabre to his left hand as he rode. The marine saw his danger and tried to flee, but the sergeant was upon him in a heartbeat, his sabre slashing down at the foolish and unlucky fellow. With the man lying nearly carved in half in the gutter, Kingsley wheeled his mount about and waved the bloody sabre at a pair of his men. "You two. Ride for the Second's camp. Pass the word, then get back to our barracks. The rest of you, with me. There'll be more where that bastard came from." The section split up and Kingsley led his three remaining dragoons down the alley that the dead marine had appeared from. Suitably alerted by the failed attack, they kept their sabres drawn and resting across their saddle bows, just in case.



Virginia	29 Dec 2007, 03:49 AM Post #5
NPC Posts: 13 Group: Civilians Member #10 Joined: 7 December 2006	Virginia squeaked as the dragoon moved her person around. How rude! He didn't even ask to move her! The inhumanity, the violation! How dare he touch her without any kind words first or so much as the courtesy to invite her to dinner! "You will pay attent--" she shrieked as the man continued on and went into, what Virginia was guessing was now the fray...where she had been. Oh, so he had to run off and be all macho and...go get himself killed instead of dropping everything he was doing then to listen to her. She crossed her arms and huffed. Fine, she thought, Go get yourself killed...some knight in shining armor. Bloody men. She heard a musket shot from where he was and she took at step closer to see if he was all right when he came back, and barely without any preamble, spoke, as he was...ramming his...metal...stick-thingy into the musket. Whatever that was... "I'd recommend you haul your arse off some other place than here; ain't going to be a comfortable seat soon enough." Virginia laughed, throwing her head back and then cursing when her head hit the back of the alley wall behind her. Damn, she'd forgotten it was there. Not her fault though...the man had a musket...a really big one. Bigger than the marines' ones...and...well, how was any woman supposed to keep her head when there were men with muskets around? "Ow," she said, reaching back to rub her head. Now she knew she was just looking like a complete idiot. She didn't even manage to say what it was that she was planning to say in response to his rather rude comment that she had felt warranted a laugh first. "Look," she said, pulling her hand back and looking at it, almost surprised to see it not coated in blood--it certainly smarted a lot, "I don't know who you are, Mister, I may not be the smartest woman 'round, but I know that if those men are marines, and they're firin' at people, it isn't good. So I'm not about to go wand'ring about Port Royal, not knowing what is going on. So like it or not--you're stuck with me for now. I promise I won't get in your way, and I may even be able to 'elp. I got eyes in the back of my 'ead. I can keep a lookout for you." Somewhere again a couple more shots rang out, and she started. "Or...I can stay behind you..." she said, wincing slightly.



Percy Kirke	3 Jan 2008, 06:53 PM Post #6
Deckhand Posts: 13 Group: Army Member #47 Joined: 26 November 2007	((OOC - Forewarning of foul language...)) Pistols and sabres looked all very well, but carbines were rather less fine. The three privates remaining with Delling were really regretting having left them off, now, though. They were even less accurate than a musket, of course, but better than a pistol for range. Delling, having already supplied himself with the sentry's weapon (which, by the way, was in fact much bigger than the marines' sea-service muskets...his had a 46'' barrel, and theirs were only 42''. Delling had several inches of length on the marines ), wasn't having so much trouble, though if he had taken a moment to stop and consider he would probably have shared their wish. More immediate concerns were on his mind. It was part of his job to protect the populace, and right now there was one of those populace right here requiring his protection. It was a lot easier to do that job, though, when they were behind walls and well out of the way, not in front of you demanding that you listen to them, and refusing to listen to your advice. She tossed her head indignantly, with a scornful laugh, but Delling wasn't there to receive it. He'd darted out from behind the corner again to take another potshot at the marines hiding up there. As soon as he came out into sight, he heard the crack of the muskets, but his blood was up; he heard the shrill whine of a musket-ball go past his ear. But this time, Delling's musket kicked back into him and he heard someone at the other end of the alley give a yell. He wasn't sure who he'd hit, or if he'd killed the bastard - it was still pretty damn hard to see, but he whooped and shook a fist in the air as he dodged back into his cover. Charge and ramrod and...the woman was still there. Hadn't he told her to get the hell out of here? She stared at him furiously and began a tirade; he stared back nonplussed. "Look, I don't know who you are, Mister, I may not be the smartest woman 'round, but I know that if those men are marines, and they're firin' at people, it isn't good. So I'm not about to go wand'ring about Port Royal, not knowing what is going on. So like it or not--you're stuck with me for now. I promise I won't get in your way, and I may even be able to 'elp. I got eyes in the back of my 'ead. I can keep a lookout for you." Like bloody hell he was stuck with her! Dragging a civilian woman around with him and acting as her baby-sitter in the middle of a firefight was not part of his job description. And he would be damned before he would count on her for tactical advice. She jumped like a rabbit when the men in the square fired again, and added, "Or...I can stay behind you..." Unfortunately, however, he wasn't sure exactly what else he was going to do with her, besides possibly stuff her headfirst into the first open window he came across (which he reserved for a future possibility). Delling conceded her point with a bad grace...he was stuck with her. "You can stay behind me, and you can keep quiet and out of the way, and you can bloody well not try to help at all, if you want me to keep you safe." A rough snarl broke out of his throat. "I do not - " But Delling was cut off by an animal roar arising from the street; he whipped around to see the fellow from the 29th...charging up the street like he thought himself a gods-be-damned hero. Delling had about two seconds to consider, and during that time the following passed rapidly through his head: the grenadier was as big as a bloody bull, he was a thrice-damned idiot, he was completely out of his mind, and suicidal, and Delling himself was nuts for even considering this. The grenadier was going to run right onto their bayonets where they'd readied themselves for him. And by the time that Delling got there, it would be too damned late. And there was no way the Lambs were going to be shown up by one of the 29th. All that occurred to him at once, just before he burst out from the alley's mouth with a hoarse yell, musket leveled and the long, shining point of the bayonet levelled at the marines. "Get the fucking bastards!" he roared to the men behind him, two of whom leapt out just behind him. They had no bayonets, but they flourished their sabres in the air and yelled like a pair of banshees as they charged. Privates Banning and Hightower had followed their sergeant's lead, but Grant, the youngest of them, stayed back with Virginia. He was a new recruit, barely seventeen years old, picked up in England during their coast-duty, and his hands shook as he clutched the walnut grip of his pistol. He had decided that it was his business to stay here and protect the woman, rather than go charging against cold steel and musket-balls and what amounted to certain death for at least one unlucky fellow. The sergeant had said they were going to keep her safe, didn't that mean that one of them should stay and make sure of that? Grant glanced at Virginia, then took one hand off the pistol and fumbled with the hilt of his sabre. He drew it out and flipped it towards her. It was a bad throw; the curved sword clattered on the ground in front of her and Grant winced at the sound. "Uhhhh...y-you might want to take that." --------------- Private Kelledy ran furiously, head-down and ready to mow down anything in his path. His bowed legs churned like short pistons, and he zigged and zagged back and forth in the hopes of not catching a stray musket-ball. Delling and his mates were back there, and the orders to run for the Lambs' camp and safety left a sour taste in his mouth, but an order was an order and he'd swing for it if he failed in his duty. The little dragoon's sabre was out in one hand, a cocked and loaded pistol in the other, and his grey-tinged moustachios flipped about with the venom in his voice as he spat an endless stream of curses. He rounded a corner, his short, stocky frame bent at a crazy angle with the ground with the speed of the turn, and skidded to a halt as a mounted man turned down towards him from the other end of the alley. The heels of Kelledy's jack-boots left long grooves in the dust on the street, and settling himself back on them he levelled his pistol at the leading man in the single-file troupe before catching sight of the colour of his facings. Yellow, for the 29th. Raising the barrel to point upwards, he hailed Kingsley. "Wot ho, friend! An 'orse, an 'orse, my kingdom for an 'orse!" He'd played Richard the Third in the play of the same name just last month.



Benjamin Wingfield	3 Jan 2008, 08:25 PM Post #7
Deckhand Posts: 28 Group: Army Member #23 Joined: 22 November 2007	A musket ball slashed past him, barely missing the top of his shoulder. He didn't even flinch as he ran. Another marine fired, just as Wingfield literally threw himself over the waiting bayonets. To the furious grenadier, the lead ball that struck him through the forearm was little more painful than an insect bite. One of the marines howled when Wingfield's bayonet speared him through the chest, then his mates sprang at the grenadier. A bayonet glanced off his musket barrel, knocked aside by a last-instant parry. He grabbed the unlucky marine by the throat and flung the man bodily across the narrow alley. That'd teach the idiot! Then he became aware that there were men charging from behind. Wingfield spun around, ready to meet the new enemy blade to blade. It was no enemy, however, but the men with green-faced coats. One of them carried a musket and the other two sabres. Wingfield bared his teeth in a grin and turned toward the one remaining mutineer, who was flying away down the alley. The coward! "After him!" The grenadier cried. "Blackguard shot me cap!" He was already running, not caring if the other men followed him. Their sabres marked them out as dragoons and that automatically made them superior beings - provided they had horses. Those men being dismounted lowered their status to Wingfield and he disregarded them as being no better than line infantry. ~ The four dragoons had just turned down an alley when a man came whipping around the corner at the opposite end, running like hell itself was chasing him. Kingsley lifted his sabre at once, taking note of the pistol that the man abruptly pointed at him. There was no danger, however. Whoever the man was, he just as abruptly lifted the pistol. "Wot ho, friend! An 'orse, an 'orse, my kingdom for an 'orse!" Dower laughed. "S'onea them fellas from the Second!" So it appeared. Kingsley lowered his sabre and shook his head. A dragoon without his horse wasn't much of dragoon. "Where're you bound in such a hurry, then?"



Royal Navy & Marines	13 Jan 2008, 05:25 AM Post #8
Master of Puppets Posts: 350 Group: Royal Navy Member #11 Joined: 7 December 2006	His nerves seemed about to tear themselves to shreds as he neared the street where the shouting and shooting were largely centred. He had no idea what he was about to get himself into, but he hoped it wasn't anything completely disastrous. Having managed to survive one group of soldiers by hiding, Turley wasn't prepared to blindly throw himself into a probably-fatal situation without knowing first what lay just round the corner. To his surprise, when he peeped around the alley corner, he spotted a woman and some bloke in a grey coat crouched close to where he himself stood. The grey-coat held a nasty-looking sword, which suggested to Turley that he was a soldier. That meant he was the enemy. He pulled back around the corner and rested his back against the wall, gaze lifted skyward. As much as he wanted to charge around the corner and take both soldier and woman captive, it was too likely that there were more soldiers close by, who would come back and shoot him dead without a second thought. It was better to play at being a loyalist and see how it went. Turley closed his eyes, counted to three, then ducked around the corner and dashed toward the soldier. "My bleedin' God, am I glad t'see a soldier-lad! They've all gone mad, my mates have, shootin' at each other like I dunno what! Just saw poor ol' Graham catch a ball right in his throat, an' a bayonet in his middle, both from his own corporal!" He flopped to his knees and peered at the soldier, hoping that he seemed terrified and confused. "What the hell's goin' on 'round here?"



Virginia	24 Feb 2008, 08:05 PM Post #9
NPC Posts: 13 Group: Civilians Member #10 Joined: 7 December 2006	(ooc--modded your soldier, a teeny tiny bit. If it's and issue I'll edit. Oh, and, the post sucks) Virginia was less than pleased to see the one soldier who had said that he would keep her safe, go charging off after another...soldier. Boy, were there a lot of soldiers. It was so difficult to keep track of them all! She could tell the difference between the marines and the Army, but asking her to keep track of more than that was like asking her to do some work, or research. Or know basic information about the army. And here she was stuck with a youngun Army lad, who didn't look all that old, like he would still be staring shyly at girls, unsure of what exactly they were for. Probably stuttered too. But he was young...probably had pretty good stamina, and that could be a good thing. Probably could keep up at it for a good long time. That wouldn't be so bad. "Uhhhh...y-you might want to take that." Virginia stared at the boy, giving him a 'you've got to be joking,' look, when he threw the sabre at her. She knew it was a sabre, she wasn't a complete idiot, she'd tried to learn how to swordfight. Before it had ended miserably with her nearly accidentally fatally stabbing the instructor, who swore that after his one act of charity, his one attempt to prove that women were equal to men some how, met with great failure, and that he was wrong and would never attempt it again. Of course, it wasn't her fault that he gave her a sword too heavy for her to use, small swords were just too heavy. What was in this boy's mind anyway that made him think that she would be able to handle a sword? Maybe he equated her and all of her kind with that idiotic daughter of the governor, Miss "Finely-made dresses aren't good enough for me, nor is having my pick of the men in town, so I have to go running out playing pirates" Swann. She shook her head and reached out to gingerly lift the sword. Thinking it might be funny to get a rise out of the boy (no, not that kind), she took the sword by the blade (what luck she had learned how to handle a swords without cutting herself up into bits), and held it up over her head like a club, with the blade angled towards him. "So I 'old it like this, yeah?" She said chuckling, lowering her arm to hold the sword properly. That was about all she could do now, so if they ran into people, they'd hopefully assume that she could use it properly as well. "My bleedin' God, am I glad t'see a soldier-lad! They've all gone mad, my mates have, shootin' at each other like I dunno what! Just saw poor ol' Graham catch a ball right in his throat, an' a bayonet in his middle, both from his own corporal! What the hell's goin' on 'round here?" Virginia turned quickly towards the noise, pointing her sword at it, noting that the lad had managed to react quicker than her. She looked at the boy again, quickly deciding that soldier or no, he was too young to take charge of this situation. "Oo're you?" she asked cautiously, lowering her weapon slowly.



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