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| Justice Served; Mutineers' execution; 2 July 1751 | |
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| Topic Started: 26 Apr 2008, 12:50 AM (337 Views) | |
| Royal Navy & Marines | 26 Apr 2008, 12:50 AM Post #1 |
Master of Puppets
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OOC - This is a closed thread. Other players are free to mention that their characters either knew of or attended the executions. This thread takes place after When Darkness Falls IC - It was a scene very similar to the funeral parade of two days before, with one striking exception. This day, there was no horse cart laden with coffins. There were instead three formations, arranged around the parade ground in an open square. A section of nine marines was standing in three ranks of three near a specially-constructed wall in the centre of the open ground, their muskets grounded smartly against the outsides of their right shoes. The first and middle ranks had their bayonets fixed, as was proper. This day, the majority of the remaining garrison was not overly displeased with being present for parade. Even the Navy officers were in attendance, their blue coats standing out against the predominance of long-tailed red dress coats. Present as well were the Kingston men, though of them the Port Royal marines wanted to have no part - especially after the events of the previous day. It was very difficult to avoid thinking about the strange darkness or its effect on the garrison, even though there was one last job for the Port Royal men to do. A blank expression on his young face, Andrew Shepherd began rolling a slow cadence on his drum, accompanied after a moment by the ordered stamp of feet. Sergeant Myles soon appeared, leading a single rank of prisoners from the guardhouse. No one dared to move even their eyes to look at the approaching prisoners, who were marching with their hands bound behind their backs with stout rope. The prisoners' attire was simple and designed to signal their shame; grey slop-trousers and grey unruffled shirts, without any marking that could suggest they were once marines. These were the men sentenced to death by summary court-martial, for the offence of mutiny. Twenty-one men, the unlucky group who were refused clemency on the basis of their roles in the rebellion. Captain Cartwright stood in front of the assembled garrison, both his first lieutenant and Colour-Sergeant Crawford beside him. It was clear that the two remaining officers were as uneasy with this parade as they had been two days past. For Corporal McIntyre, however, it was one thing to bury a third of the garrison. Assisting with the executions of those who had helped bring about the deaths of so many marines was something completely different. He had no regret or pity within him for any of the condemned. They had forfeited any right to sympathy when they made the choice to mutiny. Those traitors were getting more than what they deserved, in his estimation. McIntyre could not see what was going on around him owing to his position in the middle of the open ground, but he didn't need to see anything to know what was happening. He stood in the firing party, his musket double-shotted. There were eight other marines in the party with him. Aside from the four privates, there were four corporals - the bulk of the remaining non-commissioned leadership. It was a fact that weighed particularly heavily on the Irishman. In the space of only a few days, the garrison's command structure had been effectively shattered. The mutineers had done that aspect of their work all too well. At least Cartwright had been able wrest control of the executions from the Kingston marines. It wasn't much of a victory, but it was a victory nonetheless. "Prisoners by sections, as arranged," Cartwright called out, choosing - rightly, in McIntyre's mind - to assume responsibility for the parade himself. Myles led four men forward, the acknowledged leaders of the mutiny. It was all McIntyre could do not to sneer as the firing party primed their muskets at Cartwright's command. He watched silently as the four ring-leaders were placed against the wall and had blindfolds tied over their eyes. A grim sort of satisfaction flitted through him when he realised that Sergeant Devlin had been given over to him to shoot. It was just as well he'd double-shotted his musket. "In compliance with Article Nineteen of the Articles of War, you have been found guilty of the offence of mutiny by a court-martial of your superiors," Cartwright said. "Be it known that on this Second day of July in the year of our Lord, Seventeen Hundred Fifty-One, the sentence of death by firing squad shall be carried out." The firing squad advanced two paces and presented their muskets. McIntyre's expression was blank now, but every nerve was tingling in anticipation. They waited only for the word to fire. Lined up as they were against the wall, the condemned men stood unflinchingly, facing their last moments on earth with a resolution that even McIntyre had to grudgingly admire. "Quit dawdlin' an' get it done with!" Devlin cried, his stern expression never slipping. No one moved, however, until Captain Cartwright gave the command to fire. Six fingers tightened on triggers and six muskets fired. The four prisoners fell, making no sound. They had comported themselves bravely to the last, behaving like the marines they had once been. If McIntyre had been in the mood to feel any trace of respect for them, he would have admired their composure. Their task finished, the firing squad lifted their muskets and stepped back two paces, where they grounded their firelocks and reloaded. A six-man detail came forward with a pushed-cart and heaved the bodies into it without care or ceremony. As the cart rattled away toward the hospital, the next four prisoners were led forward. McIntyre allowed himself to sneer this time. It was a damned evil business, but those bastards had brought it all down on themselves. |
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| Royal Navy & Marines | 26 Apr 2008, 03:52 AM Post #2 |
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Master of Puppets
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     The bandage around his shoulder itched. Whether it was the warmth of the sun or his own mind having a go at him, it was impossible to say, but his shoulder itched like mad. If he wasn't standing in this damned formation, watching his mates marched up four at a time to get shot like dogs, he'd happily tear off every layer of linen and scratch his shoulder raw. Tadhg O'Doyle hadn't joined with his squad when they had participated in the mutiny but those marines were still his mates and they were still being put to death as if they were the lowest scum on earth. It was bloody madness. O'Doyle winced when the six muskets fired and the four men who'd been lined up fell bonelessly to the dirt. Those poor lads. Several marines away, Jeffry Gallagher was finding it difficult to hold back his disdain. Durham, that spineless traitor, was just being shoved against the wall alongside two other marines. It had been Durham who'd shot Matt Barrett in the back - Gallagher knew it. What he wouldn't give to be able to put Durham to death himself, and in the most painful way possible. A musket ball or two to the chest was much too quick and clean for the likes of that murdering pig. The Cambridge native very nearly shouted for the firing party to save their lead and put their bayonets into the four condemned men and in fact he was opening his mouth to yell just that when the muskets fired. Uselessly furious, he gritted his teeth together and was forced to content himself with the thought that Durham would rot in the deepest circle of hell for his crimes. Quiet, bitter tears were worming slowly down George McBride's cheeks. He had been one of the few mutineers to receive a pardon despite his role in the failed rising, and he detested it with all his being. Why should he be considered worthy of mercy when his mates, who had taken part in the same action, were not? It wasn't right, it wasn't fair. The young marine sucked at his lower lip and watched helplessly as his mate Alban - it had been McBride and Alban who were responsible for helping those two travellers in their attempt to shoot down Beckett - was placed against the wall for his turn facing down the firing squad. What made McBride so special that he was kept from standing there next to his mates, when he was just as guilty and just as proud of it? The six muskets fired and McBride felt his knees give way. Nobody moved to help him when he hit the ground - it was bad enough that one man had lost his bearing in the middle of a punishment parade, there was no need to make the spectacle worse by having any other men move as well. Feeling dazed, hopeless, and completely disgraced, McBride covered his face with his arm and cried into the dust. James Bell was hard-pressed not to cheer as, four at a time, the convicted mutineers were brought before the firing squad to meet their ends. He felt a firm sense of satisfaction every time he squeezed the trigger of his musket. There was no remorse, there was no pity. Nothing except grim jubilation. This was so much more than these scum deserved, but he had no qualms about double-shotting his musket each time he reloaded. Each shot was silently dedicated to the men of his squad who had been killed because these scum-suckers hadn't had the balls to make their grievances known in traditional ways - Bell had never known any officer to blatantly ignore discontent amongst his men if those men troubled themselves to express it. But, since that had not happened, it now fell to Bell and the other eight marines to put the bastards to death. It was only the second time in his life that James Bell took pleasure in shooting at another red-coat. This entire affair made his stomach churn. It was only by fierce arguing that he had managed to keep both the Kingston marines and the Second of Foot from handling the executions. He had won the right to allow his marines to be the ones responsible for carrying out the sentences of the court-martials, but the battle to gain that right only left him exhausted and even more bitter than before. Bad enough that he was no longer in command of Fort Charles' marine garrison; he couldn't fathom the indignity of being forced to allow the Army to interfere in a business that really only concerned the original Port Royal marine battalion. Of course, Cartwright grudgingly admitted, his pride - or what was left of it - would yet get him into difficulties if he insisted on crossing verbal swords with every officer who tried to take any more of his already-much-reduced authority. After the wild events of the day before - Cartwright was positive that he would never hear the end of the whining from the Kingston officers, with regard to how Cartwright's marines had behaved - it was a wonder that the Kingston marines dared to come within spitting distance of the Port Royal men. Truth be told, the Londoner was dead sick of all the bickering, resentment, and veiled insults. Perhaps their impending banishment to their ships would not wholly be a bad thing. Oh God. Sergeant Myles' face seemed to swim in and out of focus as the smartly-dressed marine approached. A whimper escaped from his lips as the sergeant's hand fell heavily onto his shoulder and pushed him forward. This was it. Despite fighting to keep his mind blissfully blank, William Sheridan found himself counting the steps toward the wall at which he'd be shot. Ten... eleven... twelve.Twelve. The number swirled around his brain in an endless refrain. Twelve. Sheridan wished he could swipe away the tears from his eyes, even though he was perfectly happy to be unable to see anything clearly. He didn't want to see the feral, gleeful smirks on the faces of his executioners, or the delighted expressions of the men standing in the formations all around. Hell he didn't want to be here, so close to death. The blindfold was tied over his eyes and suddenly he couldn't see anything at all - which only heightened his terror. He had few regrets for what he'd done but he simply could not understand why he now had to die for it. Twelve. The young marine let out another whimper when he heard the clatter of muskets being presented. It was hard... stay on your feet... so hard... twelve... oh God. Sheridan wanted to throw his bound hands into the air and scream out that he didn't want to be shot, that he wasn't ready to die. No, no, not today - Christ not any day! He couldn't quite swallow a desperate sob as the ominous sound of musket hammers clicking back reached his ears. This was it. Oh God. Twelve. Corporal Bowyer had met his fate without fear - what he would say if he were to see Sheridan quaking like a useless little girl? He found himself counting the seconds again... Twelve. |
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| Royal Navy & Marines | 26 Apr 2008, 04:51 PM Post #3 |
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Master of Puppets
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It was over. The firing party had grounded their muskets for the last time and the six-man burial detail had heaved the last bodies into the cart and hauled it away. McIntyre was relieved that it was over, because he was nearly out of cartridges. He allowed himself a short, quiet chuckle as Colour-Sergeant Crawford pointedly dismissed only the Port Royal marines. The firing party hefted their muskets, smoothly faced-right and, under Sergeant Myles' direction, marched off the parade ground. It gave McIntyre a particular pleasure to watch one of the Kingston sergeants quick-walk to the front of the remaining formation and dismiss it - the sergeant's expression was unmistakably furious which only made McIntyre want to laugh. Crawford's slight had been plainly given and was impossible to ignore. There would probably be a dozen lads offering to buy their Colour-Sergeant a drink after this. While the rest of the Port Royal men returned to the barracks, McIntyre and the others headed for the armoury to return their borrowed muskets. A few surly glares were exchanged with the Kingston corporal in charge of the armoury, then the now-weaponless marines filed back up the stairs. Their return above-ground coincided with an outbreak of shouting from the barracks and an explosion of glass as something burst through one of the first-floor windows. At once, the marines went sprinting forward, their coats' long-tails flapping wildly behind them. McIntyre was the first to reach the barracks door and he cursed when he saw two Kingston officers standing in the entry-way. Inside, it was nothing but a riot of shouting and near-chaos. There were Kingston marines scattered freely around the bunks, some manhandling sea-chests despite being beset by furious Port Royal men. They were being forced out of their own barracks - it was a measure of retribution for Crawford's public insult. The insolent bastards. Sergeant Myles bulled carelessly past the two officers and the momentarily-dumbstruck McIntyre, roaring at every man who chanced to get in his way. He clapped hands on the first Kingston man with a sea-chest that he came to and began hauling the blackguard away from his prize. A flying shoe bounced off Myles' shoulder and McIntyre stirred back into motion, recognising the danger that was swiftly growing. They were being turned out of their barracks by these bastards, but he would not tolerate a brawl over it - he cared not one bit of his lads beat the tar out of the Kingston men every morning, noon, and evening, but they were not going to do it just now! One of the marines standing close to the Kingston officers had a musket and McIntyre grabbed it from him. It was the work of a heartbeat to check the flint and cock the weapon, and another to give the trigger a quick tug. In the enclosed space of the barracks, the musket's sharp report was as loud as a cannon firing and an instant, almost painful silence fell. "What's all this rubbish, lads?" The corporal cried, reloading the musket as he glowered at the marines closest to him. "You Port Royal boys, what's the trouble?" Higgins pushed a Kingston man away and spat on the man's shoe. "They're takin' our bunks, Corporal, like we're nothin' but bleedin' scum on their shoes!" A chorus of angry agreement rumbled up from many throats. McIntyre pointed with the musket's ramrod at the nearest Kingston officer, fighting back the temptation to spear the stupid bastard with it. "Your lads. Out. Now." The officer looked apoplectic. "You can't give orders to - " "Stuff it an' get your lads out. Sir." McIntyre thumbed the musket's hammer back to half-cock and looked over the faces turned his way. "I'll shoot the next man who speaks stupid-like, I don't care who it is. Listen close, you fine Port Royal lads. Pull your kit together an' get it outta here. These bastards want us out, fine an' lovely. They ain't fit to shine our shoes an' you lot know it. I want every lad an' his sea-chest outta barracks by the time Tom Shepherd calls Parade, or they'll be left behind when the longboats shove off. Got it?" The Port Royal men nodded, most of them reluctantly. McIntyre tossed the borrowed musket back to its owner and added "Sarn't Myles, a word outside like?" Marines gave way for Myles, who looked as though he'd just won at cards. The two marines studiously ignored the bewildered Kingston officers and went outside, where Myles immediately fished out his trademark pouch of snuff. "Take a pinch, McIntyre, for a proper well done showin' up of them sods." "Aye, they been beggin' for it since they came. Reckon I just passed up gettin' a sash for meself though," the Irishman said, taking a generous pinch of snuff and tucking it into his cheek. "The cap'n ain't gonna be pleased." Myles shrugged. "What's it matter, that bastard Stevenson's sacked him anyway? Besides, the lads'll be ready for goin' aboard ship sooner than expected. I'm more wary 'bout what Crawford'll do when he hears you put a musket ball into the barracks ceiling." The two marines chuckled, but their amusement was short-lived when the Kingston marines started tramping out of the barracks. The officer that McIntyre had talked back to had a wicked expression on his face and when he spotted the Irishman, he snapped, "Place that man under arrest." Kingston marines were quick to surround the two Port Royal men. McIntyre rolled his eyes. "Reckon they didn't teach you lot how to stay outta another garrison's business, did they? Sure there ain't nothin' less to be expected from Chatham division. Gerroff, I know where the bleedin' brig's at." He unfastened his crossbelts and tossed them to Myles. "Make sure nobody loses me kit, Sarn't." Then he started toward the dungeon, half a pace ahead of the two Kingston men who had tried to drag him along. Fine way to end his service ashore, he thought. At least he'd gotten his licks in in a way that wouldn't be soon forgotten. Justice served in the way that only a Port Royal marine could manage... McIntyre started whistling a sea shanty around the snuff in his cheek and felt not even the smallest shred of regret for his boldness. OOC - Read the letter written by the Kingston officer Captain Stevenson here. McIntyre's inability to think before speaking finally gets the better of him and he reveals secrets and demons. Intrepid's marines begin charades of duty after returning to their sloop for good. |
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4:12 AM Jul 30
