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| Rousing the Second {Mutiny}; Outskirts, then moving through town; ope | |
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| Topic Started: 21 Feb 2008, 10:49 PM (220 Views) | |
| Percy Kirke | 21 Feb 2008, 10:49 PM Post #1 |
Deckhand
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(OOC – credit to Doc for much help with the drill-stuff, and for providing inner and outer dialogue for the drill-sergeant!) The Second of Foot were encamped outside the town, well away from everything. Parked in an abandoned plantation, they had cleared away the brush from the sugar fields and slung their tents. Some of them had been constructing a wooden barracks, and the shelters stretched in neat lines. Part of it was nearly finished, and already housed some of the soldiers. Off to one side, in a depressed area, the trenches dug that day for sewage lay open to the air, and under the hot stillness of the air, the stench was powerful. None of the men seemed to notice or really care about the miasma, however, and the mood was fairly cheerful. At this distance, the mutiny was outside of their notice. They’d heard the far-away signal cannon, but it aroused no particular concern. The sound of musketry in the town had dissipated long before it reached their encampment. The 2nd weren’t responsible for much about Port Royal at the moment. They did not patrol the town, and even when off-duty, Percy kept them mostly out of Port Royal, not intending to wear out his regiment’s welcome too quickly. They had only their own internal concerns to keep them busy, and had little curiosity about the state of the town. Colonel Selwyn had set half the regiment to practicing evolutions and maneuvers on the parade-ground. Following the example of a fugleman, the unlucky ‘awkward squad’ in one corner attempted to fumble their way through drill. They marched carefully at a slow pace, each one studying his feet to see that they were swung low enough and parallel to the ground. The two ranks were in extremely ragged lines, none of the men possessing the ability to watch both his feet and his position in line. The sergeant glowered at the lot of them, wondering just how he was supposed to make them at least look like soldiers. Somebody had been slack in drilling somewhere, which resulted in the slop that now stood before him. “I sure hope you girls at least know what dress off the right means!” the sergeant bawled. The squad halted. They didn’t. Some of them had an idea, and correctly reached their left arms out to their sides, while turning their heads to the right. These ones attempted to repair their disorder. However, two or three of them extended their right arms, while turning their heads to the left. The sergeant could almost have cried. The bumblers, after clashing arms with the ones who’d done it properly, hastily moved to copy the others, but now another fool decided to act. One of the men on the right, from whom the others should have taken their bearings, began shifting his feet, trying to edge himself into what he thought was a neater position. “Right markers…did I tell you to move yet? Wait for the command!” The idiot who’d twitched looked about to piss himself. He was suitably ignored once he stood still, while all the rest were looking a little more alert. Not much, but a little. “Right markers, stand fast. The rest of you, dress right, dress!” Elsewhere, the scene was a good deal more graceful. The companies moved in quick coordination – they had been drilling like this for months, and it was beyond second nature now – as they went through the maneuvers. Keeping time to the regular beat of the drummers, the battalion marched in line, the men precisely spaced, until the command came from the lieutenant-colonel. “Battalion will advance from the right by companies! By companies from the right, advance! Quick march!” The men to the left stood fast at first, while the company farthest to the right advanced forwards. The rest of the men wheeled by company to the right, pivoting in neat coordination as if all were some sort of massive creature differing entirely from the individual soldiers. As the left-hand company advanced, each company captain commanded his men to march forwards, and at measured intervals they advanced to take up a place behind the first company. By company, under the direction of their captains, as they arrived behind the first company, they wheeled back to the left and advanced. The open column grew in length, the distance between each company a precise square. Boynton’s horse danced underneath him, and he brought his kerchief up to wipe the sheen of dampness away from his brow. He frowned as the lace-edged white cloth came away with a brownish stain. The abominable heat meant that the ground was dry and dusty in the cleared space of the parade-ground. Nothing stayed clean in the encampment for long, and for the lieutenant-colonel, in whose eyes appearances were vital, it was a serious annoyance. Unlike Colonel Selwyn, he had not chosen to remain with the regiment. He had taken lodgings in town instead, as had Brigadier Kirke. To be here, today, in this oppressive heat – he did not care for it. |
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| Percy Kirke | 21 Feb 2008, 11:38 PM Post #2 |
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Deckhand
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At the same moment that Boynton bemoaned the heat, two dragoons in the yellow facings of the 29th had arrived, after a gallop that left their horses all a-lather, at the outskirts of the encampment. Corporal Chadwick called out to the sentry as soon as he was within shouting distance, “Mutiny! It’s a hell-fired mutiny in the port!” “Halt! Who comes there?” the sentry shouted back the traditional challenge, not quite sure he had heard rightly. Chadwick reined up next to the sentry and dismounted, handing him the reins. Uncertainly, the private obediently played groom, taking hold of the horse. “Corporal Chadwick of the 29th. It’s mutiny, man, the marines are rising. I’m here to pass the word.” The young sentry pointed towards the colonel’s tent, saying rather stupidly “You’ll want to talk to Colonel Selwyn.” The real meaning of what Chadwick had said hadn’t quite penetrated through his skull yet. The exchange sent Chadwick running like hell for Selwyn’s tent before the words were eve out of the sentry’s mouth. The colonel was in command while the Brigadier was in town. A hurried conversation with the guard outside Selwyn’s tent resulted in Selwyn, clearly overhearing the discussion between the two, appearing in the tent-flap pulling his waistcoat on over his shirt-sleeves. The elderly officer addressed Chadwick quite simply. “It’s mutiny? Where are the mutineers? How many of them are there?” “All over town, sir,” the corporal answered. “Can’t say much more than that. Seems like there’s an awful lot of the buggers. There’s smoke at the docks, and sounded like something blew up.” “Where are Lord Northfield and his men?” was Selwyn’s next question. Chadwick shook his head. “Don’t know where the Captain is, sir,” he answered honestly. “Most of the grenadiers went charging out after the encampment was attacked, and I’m not sure where they’ve gone. The dragoon troop’s been split into threes. Ensign Turner’s taken five to the docks, MacKenzie’s up in the center of the town, and Kingsley’s still in with three more.” Selwyn shook his head; he had almost no information here, and he didn’t like going in with no knowledge of his enemy’s strength or whereabouts. “All over town” and “an awful lot of the buggers” were neither of them promising tidbits of reconnaissance. He strode forwards. “Is there any indication to mark out the mutineers – a change to their uniform, anything?” he asked Chadwick. The corporal shook his head. “No, sir.” The adjutant, Sir Henry, appeared at Selwyn’s elbow and he quickly dispatched the man to rally the part of the regiment that were not already at the parade ground. “Rouse the men out and get them kitted up, Sir Henry. Phelps!” Selwyn bellowed at his manservant. “Saddle my horse and Sir Henry’s!” The roar came without warning. “Boynton!” The foppish lieutenant-colonel jerked slightly in the saddle as Selwyn’s voice rang out across the parade-ground. |
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| Percy Kirke | 22 Feb 2008, 02:31 AM Post #3 |
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Deckhand
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Selwyn had left Boynton behind to lead the men who weren’t set to go on the instant, the dragoons and the grenadiers. The infantry battalion from the parade-ground were already kitted up and ready to march, and within five minutes had streamed out of the encampment up the road to Port Royal, marching in open column just as neatly as they had marched in the drill. Chadwick and the other dragoon had left ahead of them, galloping back to the encampment of the 29th as they’d been ordered by Kingsley. The sharp ranks of the red-coated men moved along behind the mounted Selwyn, Major Lesley, and the adjutant. They were marching for about half an hour at the double, 180 steps a minute to the beat of the drummers and the skirl of the fifers. The men knew what was going on in the town; the news had spread like wildfire through the ranks, but now they were absolutely silent as they reached the outskirts of Port Royal. Colonel Selwyn reined up in front of them and raised his hand. “The battalion will halt!’ He knew he had a hell of a job in front of him. Even if not all the marines were mutinying, there were still likely to be not insignificant numbers, and the Jack Tars might have risen up as well. It was more than likely to be the case. He had ten companies - five hundred men, only half the strength of the regiment, though Boynton would arrive soon enough behind him. And he and his men had to fan out, search and secure every house before they moved on. But he’d had all the time during the ride to think about this and plan. The elderly man closed his eyes for a second, allowing himself to wish that he’d never taken this post. It had been a step up from his previous rank as Lieutenant-Colonel, and meant a great deal to his career. But he had never bargained on being sent into the Caribbean. Nor that his wife would insist on following him there. She was sick with a tropical fever, now, in the lodgings he had insisted she take in the town. At first she had set her feet and maintained her right to remain with him in the encampment, but now she was too ill to argue anymore. Selwyn himself had chosen to remain with his men, to keep a firm discipline over them, yet every minute that he was away he fretted himself into a temper about Elinor. Was she any safer now in the town than she would have been in the encampment, though? He was woolgathering. Harshly, he barked out his orders to the battalion. “Separate by platoon and fix bayonets. Advance by files in the street; search every house, business, and bloody outhouse for the mutineers. I want every inch of the town covered.” He'd see every last treacherous rat pulled out of his hole. |
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| Benjamin Wingfield | 1 Mar 2008, 09:30 PM Post #4 |
Deckhand
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It was not an easy task to run, even in light order. The increasing heat of the day, combined with the heavy wool of their coats and the furred leather of their caps, made even double-quick marching unpleasant. Their physical size only added to the discomfort. The seven grenadiers had since broken from any sort of real formation, trotting along the road in a loose cluster, their muskets held either at (port-arms) in both hands or at their sides in one-handed grips. They'd expended a substantial amount of energy in the charge at the market-place and shortly afterward, when they'd barely managed to avoid being caught up in an ambush near the market square. Roughly five minutes' worth of dead sprinting through the maze-like streets and alleys would make any man weary, even seven fit and healthy grenadiers. Ducking away from the phantom-like pursuit of the mutineers had taken more time than Corporal Wynn was happy with. An out-and-out fight would've been preferable, but the mutinying bastards had obviously lost their stomach for honest combat. Thus, the seven grenadiers were already winded before they even made it to the edge of town. Fortunately for them, the very regiment they'd been sent to summon was already closing in on the town, being only a handful of yards down the road leading toward Kingston. They were heard before they were seen, but Wynn was instantly grateful for whomever had saved him and his grenadiers from undertaking the long run to the Second's camp. “Separate by platoon and fix bayonets. Advance by files in the street; search every house, business, and bloody outhouse for the mutineers. I want every inch of the town covered.” Were he not already short of breath and beginning to feel light-headed, Wynn may well have cheered that officer until his lungs ached. He settled for stumbling to a halt near the man's horse and offering a wavering sort of salute with his musket as he strove to regulate his breathing. "Cor - al Wynn, sir. Bloody... blo... damned... glad... t'seeyou." The words came out in a tumble, punctuated at the end by a sudden wheeze. Wynn steadied himself by grounding his musket and reached up to push his tall cap back a bit on his head. "Sent to rouse... rouse you lot. Dunno... the rest of... comp'ny is, most likely... them bastards're all..." the grenadier corporal stopped and looked embarrassed. He probably sounded like a flapping idiot. His men were hardly in a better state, but none of them could give a report of affairs in his place. Stop and breathe, Wynn told himself, and obeyed his own command at once by sucking in a few great gulps of air. "Comp'ny's scattered, sir," the corporal said, once he had managed to regain a little bit of his wind. "Grenadier platoon's formed in... search patrols, all over town. Dragoons too. The line's..." again he trailed off, though this time he signalled his lack of knowledge with a helpless look and a half-hearted wave of his hand in the general direction of the Twenty-Ninth's camp. Where the infantry line was, he had no idea. "Took us by... surprise, sir... just after mornin' parade. Whole section of 'em... whacked down the sentry an'... formed line just past... the gate. Sharp little ambush... got four lads... 'fore they turned tail. Chased 'em down... an' put paid to some... dunno where all the rest are." He glanced toward his men and was dismayed to see that one of them had gone down, a victim of over-exertion, most likely. The other grenadiers were dragging him toward the shade at the edge of the road, which was a smart move. Still... it wasn't good that one of his lads had fallen out. He was close to such a point himself. "Have you any water... t'spare for me lads, sir? They ain't had... a drop since... reveille." |
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