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| Secrets and Demons; McIntyre's secret revealed; 2 July 1751 | |
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| Topic Started: 3 May 2008, 12:42 AM (771 Views) | |
| Brendan | 3 May 2008, 12:42 AM Post #1 |
A Legend. In regimentals. Pwn.
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Post rated Mature for language. OOC - Discussion thread here; this thread takes place after Justice Served. This thread begins on 2 July 1751 and runs through to 7 July 1751. IC - The cell reeked of things that he couldn't name. It had been a few hours since those Kingston bastards had dragged him down to the dungeon and the only thing that continued to attack his senses was the God-awful stench. McIntyre had settled into the corner of the cell, well away from the dirty, snaggle-toothed sod in the next cell, and was glad for his long-tailed coat. It was drafty in the dungeon and the tails helped keep him warm. He wasn't, however, quite as well pleased with his white parade gaiters, which had quickly gotten stained by dirt and whatever else. It grated on him endlessly that he'd been ordered off to be locked up without word being passed to Captain Cartwright about the entire affair. Sergeant Myles would have alerted the man straightaway, but McIntyre wouldn't put money on that blow-hard Captain Stevenson being honest in his own relation of what had happened. The bastard. McIntyre had served long enough to recognise officers who were out only for for themselves and a select group of others, and Stevenson fit easily into that category. What sort of blarney would he give to Cartwright? Probably more than enough to ensure that McIntyre lost his rank and got enough lashes to cripple him for life. He seemed to be that sort of bastard. The Irishman scowled at the empty corridor outside his cell. He wasn't normally the vengeful sort, but he would see to it that Stevenson and his bloody pack of interfering jack's arses had a miserable time living and working around the fort. His lads had probably already started the sabotage of their own accord, upon hearing of his fate. They were clever like that. Just as long as they didn't get caught up for it and tossed down into this cold, stinking Earth-bound version of hell. McIntyre didn't want any company if it meant that any of his marines had to get locked up too. Movement in the corridor caught his eye and he tipped his hat up just slightly from where he had tugged it down over his face. It was the Keymaster, formerly Corporal Grimes but now some idiot Kingston marine, and he was rattling the keys in the lock of McIntyre's cell. "Get up," the other corporal snarled once the heavy barred door was open. McIntyre pushed his hat all the way back onto his head and regarded the Kingston man blankly, as though he didn't understand. "Tá tú mall," he replied. "Ba mhaith liom suipéar." The Kingston marine stomped into the cell and dragged the smirking Irishman to his feet. "None of that shite you Irish heathen, you're going to see your sorry excuse for a captain." McIntyre let the insult pass unanswered, for he was already planning his revenge upon the flat-nosed Keymaster. Without bothering to reply, he shoved the other corporal away and made his own way up the stairs toward the courtyard. It was still daylight and to his surprise, there were a number of men in green-faced coats milling about on the parade ground. Their coats and kit marked them out as soldiers, which was enough to make McIntyre summarily ignore them. He had not met a soldier from either regiment in Port Royal that he really cared to know, not that he had ever bothered to try. "Hey!" At first, the summons passed his ears unheard, until it was repeated and a grinning soldier came trotting toward him. The Keymaster, who was trailing half a pace behind McIntyre, growled a warning that the soldier roundly ignored. "Hey! O'Daly!" McIntyre, distracted as he was by his careful planning of vengeful pranks, didn't fully register the danger as he stopped and turned toward the soldier. "Yeah, who's askin'?" "It is you. Bloody crickets, mate, if it ain't been years since I seen you." The soldier stuck his hand out, grinning broadly. "C'mon, doncha 'member me? It's Sullivan, from Cap'n Borley's company." His memory flashed back years and he returned Sullivan's handshake without thinking. "Oh aye! Greasy Jack, ain't it? Sure it's been years an' then some." The Keymaster was staring at him in open-mouthed surprise, which was the first sign that something was amiss. The second sign came in the form of Sergeant Myles, who had spotted the other two marines from the barracks. "They turned ya out already, McIntyre?" The sergeant called, oblivious to the evil he had just committed. Time and everything else seemed to freeze. McIntyre felt his brain seize up suddenly when the reality of what he had just done landed on him. A sensation of being thrust underwater came over him and he felt sluggish and deaf, as he looked from the Keymaster to Greasy Jack to Myles and back again. Greasy Jack's smile had faltered and he was now looking confused, the Keymaster was still gaping in surprise, and Myles was still blissfully unaware of the trouble he'd just gotten McIntyre into. It was Greasy Jack who broke the lengthening silence, though to McIntyre the puzzled soldier's voice sounded muddled and distant. "Joe? What's all this tripe?" Myles was now looking confused as well. "Joe? Who the bleedin' hell's Joe?" Oh shit, McIntyre thought dazedly. He'd really done it this time. His own inability to think before opening his gob had finally gotten him to reveal his one most dangerous secret... everything that he'd done and thought about his predicament following the blow-up in the barracks suddenly lost all significance in the face of what he had just revealed, albeit inadvertently. "Joe?" Greasy Jack asked again, glancing uncertainly at Sergeant Myles. McIntyre wanted to answer their queries and questioning looks, but his tongue felt as though it weighed more than a cannon and he couldn't form any words. All he could do was look dumbstruck and try to overcome the complete befuddlement that was casting his brain into chaos. Oh Lord but he was in it now. Translations: Tá tú mall - You are late (or slow) Ba mhaith liom suipéar - I would like supper |
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| Brendan | 6 May 2008, 10:42 PM Post #2 |
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A Legend. In regimentals. Pwn.
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  It seemed as though events whipped past like a gale-storm after the awkward scene in the courtyard. Greasy Jack Sullivan hadn't reacted well the revelation about the soldier he'd known as 'Joe O'Daly' and hadn't hesitated to tell everything he knew. The unpleasantness had gone up sharply after that. Needless to say, Captain Cartwright had not been pleased to hear any of it and the meeting that was originally meant to discuss McIntyre's conduct in the barracks changed swiftly to the topic of his past service history. To McIntyre's unending disgust, that insufferable bastard Stevenson had heard the shouting and come barging in to investigate, which only meant that word about the entire thing would spread that much faster. The worst of it was seeing the unmasked betrayal on the faces of both Myles and Cartwright. He had expected such reactions but seeing it displayed so plainly was chilling. It was no consolation that the secret was finally laid bare, because of the very nature of it. They knew of his offence and there was no recourse but to bring him to task for it. The news had quickly reached the ears of the garrison's fearsome colour-sergeant and when McIntyre was finally escorted out of the work-offices under guard, Crawford was waiting. Tellingly, the two Kingston marines didn't do much to keep the big Devonman from attempting to pound the bewildered McIntyre into the dirt. An intervention from Captain Cartwright spared McIntyre the indignity of being turned into a pulp, but the message had been delivered in the first blow. He was tossed unceremoniously back into his cell and left to nurse his wounded pride. There was little damage done to his face, excepting perhaps the swelling on his left cheek, but his coat was heavily covered with dust and there were long dirt stains on his white gaiters from where he had hit the ground. What stung the most was the reality that whatever good favour he'd enjoyed within the battalion was lost. Several of the lads had been loading their sea-chests into the back of the horse-cart, but they'd paused in their work to cast dark looks his way when his guards had dragged him past. Somebody had told them what had happened. Others, however, had shown some semblance of fellowship. Lachlan - who, McIntyre remembered, had taken part in the resistance action aboard Dauntless wearing his kilt - pushed his mates away when they tried to hold him back and went up to tuck a pouch of snuff into the pocket of McIntyre's coat. The Irishman turned that pouch of snuff over and over in his hands, distantly pondering the possible quality or lack of quality of the pouch's contents. It wouldn't be like Lachlan to give any man bad tobacco leaf, but it was always possible that he might be given a bad pouch by whoever he got his snuff from. McIntyre made a face and let the pouch drop from his fingers onto the dirty straw. Why was he thinking about the under-the-table barracks supply chain when he was facing a court-martial with only one possible sentence? Bloody hell but he'd dropped himself into it and good. Being hung for something he'd done years ago was not exactly the way he'd thought that he'd meet his end. An inglorious way to go, certainly. He picked up the snuff pouch and worked the strings loose. A careful sniff of the pouch's contents told him that it was good leaf, which was good. He dipped his fingers into the small pouch and took a pinch. With everything else that was going on, what could taking a little bit of snuff hurt? With the pinch tucked into the fold of his cheek, McIntyre leaned back against the grimy stone wall and tugged his hat down over his eyes. Being awake meant thinking and he'd never known a time when thinking in solitude did any good. Better to try catching some sleep and hope for some sort of reprieve from the circles that his mind was going in. Or not, he amended silently, when a bugle struck up, somewhere above-ground. Damned annoying thing, the bugle. "Oi, Corp'ral, 'eared ya got yerself stitched up some," a voice said cheerfully. McIntyre pushed his hat back and saw Higgins and another marine tramping toward his cell. A third marine, Ware, was keeping the Keymaster blocked in the small guard-room. Despite himself, McIntyre grinned slightly. "Lads." He greeted quietly, not moving from his spot against the wall. "Who's the wee one? And ain't you lads s'posed to be movin' your dunnage outta the barracks?" "Stuff all that. Sarn't Myles got us an extra day t'sort ourselves outta the barracks, like." Higgins scoffed. He stuck his hand through the bars and tossed a small flask into the cell. "This 'ere's Gray, from Intrepid. Said 'e wanted t'tag 'long. On'y Kingston marine what's any good." That so. McIntyre shrugged and shifted his position to retrieve the flask. Whatever might be said about him, his lads were the best sort. "Cheers," the Irishman said and took a swig from the flask. It was good stock, burning nicely down his throat. A nicer gift than the snuff, all things considered. "Shoulda been here before the Commodore got to be Commodore, Gray," he remarked dully. "Life was good then. Now... 'tis gettin' so a lad can't even do his usual thing without bein' interfered with. Have a swallow, Higgins," he added, tossing the flask back toward the bars. Whatever was in that flask was good but he didn't really want to get fuzzy-headed from it. Bad enough he was in trouble for other messes. |
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| James Gray | 7 May 2008, 12:49 AM Post #3 |
Luck just kissed you hello! When you're a boy
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News traveled really fast and news like this traveled faster than anything else, Corporal McIntyre almost didn’t make it into Cartwrights office before almost the whole fort knew what happened. It was something that nobody ever expected to hear about McIntyre. The marine was caught in a desertion that happened years ago after he had a bad luck encounter with someone who knew him from his old regiment. That was one of the worst crimes that anybody could be caught in and the men in the fort talked about McIntyre like his name was dirt. Jemmy knew that Crawford went for the man and tried to smash him flat when he came out of the captain’s office. Desertion probably stunk like cowardice to most of the men but Jemmy could hardly believe that they could forget McIntyre’s record that quick, Jemmy didn’t know Corporal McIntyre that well but anybody with an ear out for things like that knew that he served loyally and bravely in the marines for years. Shouldn’t it wipe out the black mark that happened years ago when none of these men even knew him. A crime that happened when he was just a boy, he was a young man now and it happened about six years ago which would mean that he wasn’t a lot more than a child. Whatever the corporal might have been before he was not the same person anymore. It seemed like there were not very many of the marines that had the same opinion though, all Jemmy heard was contempt and despise for the corporal. Some of them seemed like they looked forward to the end that was coming, a desertion that was proved and there wasn’t seemed to be any doubt about the proof had just one sentence, death by hanging. After the executions you would think they had a bellyfull. The men showed they could turn faster than a snake. Jemmy’s ears were sick of the talk that he heard about it all. The news about what was happening to McIntyre brought ugly thoughts home to Jemmy of what could be waiting for him one day if he just had a bit of bad luck, one little thing was all it took to let out a deadly secret and destroy something that was built out of years of work. It could so easily be Jemmy that was sitting down there in that cell right now despised by every man in the fort. He ran too in a time when he wasn’t strong enough. Jemmy was a deserter from the Sixth Regiment four years ago. Where was the difference between Jemmy and McIntyre except that Jemmy was older and should have known better, that and the second secret that Jemmy had to hide. If there was anything worse to be discovered about a man than desertion it might be the fact that he was no man at all. What would the contempt for him be if anyone knew about his lie? The idea of the corporal sitting down there in a cell with hardly a friend left in the fort left Jemmy saddened and guilty. He started looking around for something to bring down to the prison, just something to make the man’s final days a little bit easier in the bare cell. There wasn’t a lot of comfort out of anything when you had a certain trip to the gallows in front of you but he could do something, and that was why Jemmy brought the extra blanket from his bed in the barracks. The marines were issued one blanket each but if you had a little money you could buy another one and Jemmy was more careful with his pay than most of the men, he had a worn green wool one that usually helped to pad his bed a little bit. He brought that with him as well as some bread and cheese that he sort of borrowed from the kitchen. It wasn’t much but it was better than nothing and there wasn’t a lot of other things that he could give. Jemmy was on his way down to the cells when he ran into Higgins and Ware, the two men were heading in the same direction and there was a bit of suspicion between them and Jemmy at first but it didn’t take very long to figure out that they were all on a similar plan. So not all of the men were turning on the corporal…that was good to know, it left Jemmy with a bit of a warmer feeling, but that went away pretty fast on their way down. The smell of the prison cells that were very well used for the last few days for the mutineers was pretty bad. The keymaster tried to stop them but Ware moved to keep him back, he didn’t hit the man but he kept him confined while Jemmy and Higgins walked toward the cell that McIntyre was locked up in. He was slouching against the wall but when Higgins said "Oi, Corp'ral, 'eared ya got yerself stitched up some," he looked up and he gave a little kind of grin but he didn’t move beyond that. "Lads. Who's the wee one? And ain't you lads s'posed to be movin' your dunnage outta the barracks?" Jemmy grinned at him, it was pretty hard to smile but without that it was going to be pretty grim comfort that they had to offer McIntyre. He was the wee one of course, he was pretty short for a man. Higgins answered "Stuff all that. Sarn't Myles got us an extra day t'sort ourselves outta the barracks, like." Higgins stuffed a little bottle through the bars that probably had alcohol in it. "This 'ere's Gray, from Intrepid. Said 'e wanted t'tag 'long. On'y Kingston marine what's any good." Jemmy looked down at the floor when Higgins said that, it was something that Jemmy wondered about sometimes, which place the other marines saw him. It seemed like he was between them in neither. But he kept himself straight, if they wanted to call him a Kingston man they could but he chose his place for himself. He looked up again when he realized McIntyre was talking to him, "Shoulda been here before the Commodore got to be Commodore, Gray, Life was good then. Now... 'tis gettin' so a lad can't even do his usual thing without bein' interfered with. Have a swallow, Higgins," the corporal said with a dull voice. “Yeah I’ve seen better times as well” Jemmy remarked with a bit of a grin that was really the best that he could do. “It’s not been...” he shook his head with the grin dropping. What was he really doing here, what could he do to help a man who was going to be hanging soon. “I’m sorry Corporal” he tried saying. “If it counts for anything coming from someone as short as me I don’t think any of this is right.” He was looking at the bars of the cell. “What a man makes of himself is more important than what he did or what he was a few years ago isn’t it?” Jemmy knew he should let Higgins and Ware alone, he could keep the key master busy while they talked. McIntyre was their friend. Jemmy pushed the folded green blanket through the bars and held it out to McIntyre with the bread and cheese was wrapped in a linen sack on top of it. He didn’t want to let it fall down into the gunk on the cell floor. |
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| Brendan | 8 May 2008, 07:34 PM Post #4 |
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A Legend. In regimentals. Pwn.
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“Yeah I’ve seen better times as well,” Gray replied with a slight grin. “It’s not been... I’m sorry, Corporal.” McIntyre shrugged. There wasn't anything anybody could do, and he wouldn't have wanted it anyway. Higgins retrieved his flask and tucked it back into his coat, looking uneasily apologetic. Gray said, “If it counts for anything coming from someone as short as me I don’t think any of this is right. What a man makes of himself is more important than what he did or what he was a few years ago isn’t it?” If only that was true. McIntyre offered another, half-hearted shrug. In another profession, perhaps it might very well be true. If he had stayed in his father's smithy, he was sure the present situation would never have come about. Of course... thinking about what ifs got a man nowhere. "Only takes one bad turn to ruin years of good service," the Irishman said, surprised at philosophical he sounded. "Shite happens, Gray. Even to supposedly good lads." Higgins snorted. "Ain't that spot on. Least we got a good cap'n up top again. I 'eared 'e kept us from bein' sent right off fer England agin." "Ha." McIntyre shifted himself onto his feet and crossed the cell to accept the green blanket that Gray had shoved between the bars. If it was possible to take the measure of a man, he'd use his current predicament as the best indicator of a good lad. He took the small linen sack and rolled the already-folded blanket, then returned to his spot against the wall. "Cheers, Gray," he said quietly, trying to keep from thinking about the cheese he smelled within the linen sack. The bugle struck up, calling Fatigue. There would be Kingston marines crawling around the courtyard like mindless ants in a few minutes. McIntyre set the blanket and sack down on the straw next to him and picked at a clump of dirt on his white gaiter. "You lads oughta shift along, Shepherd'll be callin' Parade soon enough. Won't do to get the Colour-Sarn't after you." |
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| James Gray | 9 May 2008, 08:20 PM Post #5 |
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Luck just kissed you hello! When you're a boy
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Jemmy knew that what he said wasn’t going to do a lot to lift Mcintyre’s spirits but he wanted to have it said anyway. It was a kind of apology and plea for himself as much as it was trying to cheer McIntyre up a little bit and let him know that there were still a few around in the garrison that thought well about him. Because Jemmy was still seeing clear that it could be him in McIntyre’s place and if it happened, if he had the worst bad luck in the world and he ended up like this he wanted to believe that maybe someone else would do this for him too, that not everyone would turn away from him. “Only takes one bad turn to ruin years of good service, Shite happens, Gray. Even to supposedly good lads.” Whatever they were meant for McIntyre’s words hit home for Jemmy, they echoed exactly what he was thinking earlier. Leaving out the good part, what about supposed lads he wondered? It was like an answer to his thoughts when Higgins said “Ain’t that spot on.” Jemmy kept on holding the green blanket up for McIntyre but he looked down at it instead of at the other marines. “Least we got a good cap’n up top again. I ‘eared ‘e kept us from bein’ sent right off fer England agin.” Higgins was talking about Cartwright of course. Cartwright was alright, but it was bad comfort, there wasn’t a lot that he could do for them. That was already proved by the fact they were getting moved back to their ships. It could almost be better to be sent back to England compared to that. “Ha.” McIntyre said and Jemmy didn’t say anything. McIntyre rose and he took the blanket and the sack from Jemmy’s hands, he told him “Cheers, Gray,” and Jemmy nodded at him. He hoped it helped a bit. Nothing was going to help a lot when you were going to be hung but it might make his time easier. Then notes of music in the air came to them and Jemmy knew that it was Fatigue, it was time for them to get going before they caught a lot of bad attention. He stood up but stayed by the bars until McIntyre told them “You lads oughta shift along, Shepherd’ll be callin’ Parade soon enough. Won’t do to get the Colour-Sarn’t after you.” No it wouldn’t, Jemmy was willing to do what he could do to cheer up a man that was going to be dead soon but he wasn’t going to get himself in a lot of trouble with some kind of stupid symbolic act of defiance either. “Well” he said, “here’s wishing you the best of luck, corporal.” Suddenly one thing occurred to him that might actually be true. Some of the mutineers got off without a death sentence even after they committed the worst crime that could be done, far worse than a desertion six years ago as a young boy. There could be mercy for McIntyre after all. “You deserve it if anyone does” he said, probably McIntyre would think that he meant luck but Jemmy actually meant the pardon. McIntyre deserved it a lot more than the surviving mutineers did although he deserved some luck too. He turned ready to leave, he was just waiting for Higgins and Ware to go with him. |
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| Brendan | 11 May 2008, 09:41 PM Post #6 |
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A Legend. In regimentals. Pwn.
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OOC - Hurray for crap posts. I think this is a good spot to close the thread to other players, as it will be difficult to include anybody else in what is going to happen next. IC - “Well,” Gray said, “here’s wishing you the best of luck, Corporal. You deserve it if anyone does” Higgins forced a smile and doffed his hat. "Aye. Me an' Berty'll try to send some of the other boys down inna bit. Quintin ain't let nobody near 'im since 'e 'eared the news, an' them others are all a-feared o' showin' favour." The Somersetman shrugged, looking toward Ware. "Nobody's seen Jonesy 'round neither." "Prob'ly gone down to the graveyard agin," Ware said sadly. "That one'll not be the same ever." That was something McIntyre could understand. He hadn't lost any of his marines but he knew Jones well enough to know that the Welshman would take even a single loss directly to heart. The poor lad. Sighing, McIntyre said, "G'on, boys. Don't worry 'bout sending anybody down here to Hell, Higgins, ain't worth no disputes. Tell Davenport he's in charge too." The Irishman spat out the pinch of snuff he'd taken before the other marines had come. "An' make sure Lachlan keeps his kilt stowed safely away, I don't wanna hear 'bout him prancin' round in it again." Both Higgins and Ware chuckled. Offering a half-hearted smile, McIntyre added, "Be wary of that other corporal on Intrepid, Gray. Cob Southerland used to talk 'bout him. He needs careful watchin', that one. Now g'on an' back to your work, lads, or the smell down here'll never come outta your coats." With no other reason to delay, the three marines tramped off toward the stairs. McIntyre watched them go and tried to be glad that his lads had troubled themselves to visit. |
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| Brendan | 16 May 2008, 10:55 PM Post #7 |
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A Legend. In regimentals. Pwn.
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OOC - Crap post. Because I'm still high-speed like that. Hurrah! IC - It was a long wait until his trial. After Higgins and the others had left, there had been few visitors. Cartwright had come down with a smartly-dressed fellow who was apparently going to act as McIntyre's counsel. A resentful Sergeant Myles had briefly visited, long enough to fling some grey slops through the bars for McIntyre to change into. He'd left with McIntyre's uniform and the Irishman knew he'd never see his long-tailed coat or well-worn breeches again. To his surprise, Greasy Jack Sullivan had even made an appearance. Beyond that, however, he saw no friendly faces. The slops he'd been given to wear were too big for him, obliging him to wear a belt to keep the trousers from falling down, and they smelled terrible. He got no comfort from the Keymasters, either. Had it not been for a firmly-worded written order from Cartwright prohibiting anyone from interfering with McIntyre or the contents of his cell, it was almost a certainty that the few items within would have been swiftly removed. The blanket Gray had brought was the most useful, doubling as a mattress and a covering. The worst part was the near-endless quiet. The snaggle-toothed old man who had occupied the adjacent cell had been taken out not long after McIntyre's own imprisonment and hanged. What the man's crime was, he didn't want to know as he was perfectly glad for the fellow's absence. Except, with the man gone there were no other prisoners in the dungeon. The Kingston marines serving as Keymasters came and went as the watches changed and paid little to no attention to the solitary prisoner. McIntyre was left to his own thoughts, something that quickly lost any value or interest to him. Two days into his isolation, the florid-faced blowhard Colonel Trombley appeared with a small barnyard of lackeys trailing after him. McIntyre was made to stand at attention while the formal charges were read to him, a requirement he resented. As Trombley droned on through the legal rubbish, the corporal glanced toward the crowd of junior officers but didn't see any faces he recognised. Cartwright had been left out of the proceeding. More than Trombley's irritating wheezing, the absence of his captain annoyed McIntyre. When Trombley asked if the corporal had any questions, he enquired bluntly about Cartwright's whereabouts - a question that clearly had not been expected and one that Trombley had no good answer for. The blustering idiot and his lackeys had hastily left after McIntyre's question, which was just as well. If it were not for the bugle, he would have lost all track of the passage of time. He slept a lot or stared up at the grimy stone ceiling, trying not to contemplate what would happen at trial. On the fifth morning of his confinement, he was awakened by the bugle calling Rouse. The Irishman remembered the tonelessly-recited charges from days before and tried to go back to sleep, but the realisation that he was soon to be brought before a panel of his superiors kept him awake. Presently, a pair of Kingston men came to retrieve him. McIntyre hated every step he took, from his cell to the officers' mess. To his surprise, there were several Navy men seated on the other side of a long table. Sprinkled in with them were marine officers, though McIntyre recognised only Lieutenant Forster. And there were Army fellows, some with yellow facings and others with green, like Greasy Jack's were. It disgusted him to see the bastard Stevenson sitting in the middle of the table, looking smug. At least, the corporal discovered belatedly, Captain Cartwright was there. The smartly-dressed fellow was there too, already sitting at a shorter table across from the long one. Cartwright sat at the fellow's left, his parade dress freshly scrubbed and almost gleaming. McIntyre felt dirty and sloppy, seated at the same table with such neatly-turned out men. He'd only been able to wash and shave once since getting locked up, and it showed. Perhaps the oversight had been deliberate, to make him feel even more low than he already did. Then there was a sharp rap of a wooden mallet on the table and Stevenson's smug voice cut over the dying conversations. "The Court shall come to order." McIntyre cringed. |
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| Brendan | 8 Jul 2008, 03:40 AM Post #8 |
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A Legend. In regimentals. Pwn.
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The same men who'd escorted him to the makeshift court that morning were present again to take him back to the dungeon. Captain Stevenson had finally, after hours of legal and technical wrangling that McIntyre didn't understand in the slightest, declared that "the Court shall adjourn until the morrow". That meant he had to suffer the indignity of being hauled up from that damned uncomfortable chair and dragged out of the officers' mess in front of most of the officers in the fort. Worst of all, Captain Cartwright had been neatly prevented from accompanying the party by that sod Stevenson, who called after Cartwright as McIntyre's escort was forming. Disgusted by the Kingston officer's interference, McIntyre cursed and berated his escorts in Irish for the entire journey back to his cell. To say that he hated the Kingston marines might be understating it a little. His escorts bore his verbal harangue with admirable grace but gave in to their own feelings when the moment came to deliver McIntyre to his small cell. A pair of fists glanced off the Irishman's ribs and a hob-nailed shoe planted itself against his left knee. Unbalanced, he couldn't twist around to strike back and it was easy for his escorts to shove him into the cell. He tucked himself into a loose ball, cradling his injured knee, while the Kingston marines tramped away toward the stairs. Bastards. The lot of them. There was nothing but silence in the dungeon after the Kingston men left. Even the Keymaster appeared to be absent. That suited McIntyre just fine. He'd had enough of being around those Kingston sods that day. Grumbling to himself, he straightened his body out and rolled over onto his stomach. The blanket that Gray had brought was still rolled up where he'd left it and it was toward that blanket he moved. He was tired and his knee was aching fiercely. Sleep would be a boone in more than one way. As he was unrolling the blanket, he discovered a crumpled wad of paper lying amidst the straw. Intrigued, he picked the paper up and smoothed it out. I'll be down around midnight. And you so owe me for this. -"Zorro" What was this? McIntyre frowned at the scribbled note, not understanding its meaning. Who would be down around midnight? Why did he owe him for it, for that matter? He pondered possible meanings behind the note, until the scuff of a shoe on stone reminded him that he was not entirely alone in the dungeon. The note disappeared underneath the waistband of his trousers and he resumed the interrupted task of unfolding the blanket. Whoever had written the note would be down around midnight. McIntyre settled onto the dirty straw and shook the blanket out over himself. Let whoever it was come, then. He certainly wasn't going anywhere. |
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| James Norrington | 22 Jul 2008, 04:08 PM Post #9 |
Norrington, James Norrington
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Evans lay in his hammock, staring up at the deck above him, while the sounds of the ship around him lulled the other midshipmen in the berth to sleep--the gentle lapping of the waves in the harbour, the quiet creaks and groans of the vessel. He waited for the soft sound of the ship's bell calling the watches. It was nearly time for him to put his plan into action. A plan which, hopefully, would keep him from getting caught, and in trouble for what he was about to do. Honestly, what crime was there in meeting with a mate who was charged with desertion when you sat on the board that would decide his fate? He slipped out of hammock, quiet as to not wake up the other few midshipmen on the Intrepid. This was one instance where he was quite fortunate to be posted on a smaller vessel--they were right up against the docks which would facilitate his plan, unlike the Dauntless, who was moored further in the bay, and required the use of boats to board and reach the second rate. He quietly knelt down next to his seachest, and opened it, grabbing the clothing that he had left on top for just tonight. He quickly pulled his breeches on, fumbling a bit with the buttons in the dark, tucking his nightshirt into it, before moving onto the next article of clothing. A lot of planning had gone into this--he wanted to make sure that he'd be able to pull it off before leaving McIntyre the note saying that he would meet him tonight. He shrugged his coat on, and grabbed a wrapped package from his chest, before closing it, and slipping away from the berth and emerging on deck. He nodded to the officer of the watch as he approached him. "I have orders from Captain Gillette to bring this over to the fort. He..." Evans lowered his voice conspiratorially, "doesn't want St Montgomery to know that he's behind this, so this shouldn't be mentioned," the man nodded, and Evans took off, heading for the gangplank, which he scurried down quickly, before he took off. The nice thing about the location of the docks, especially the Navy one, was that right across Thames street was the Scarlet Lady. And fortunately several of the lasses there liked him quite a lot. He headed over and with a quick word, a smile, and swat on his bum, he had the room a room to quickly use for five minutes before he continued. He ripped open the package and pulled out a coat and a wig. It was a dark navy blue coat--not all that unlike his own, only the sleeves were a dull orange. It was an East India Company lieutenants coat--he would have preferred a captain's coat, but too many questions would be raised if a Company captain showed up at the fort requesting to speak to a prisoner. He traded coats, and spent two minutes fiddling with getting the blonde wig on properly before he realised that he better start moving, or Lyanne would have his hide for using her room for more than the five minutes she gave him. He came out and was about to shut the door when he felt a hand on his shoulder turn him around. It was Lyanne. She burst out into giggles as she looked at him. "Oh, 'oney, you don't look good as a blonde at all." Evans shook his head, "It wouldn't be much of a disguise it I used my own hair colour now would it?" She stopped giggling and pursed her lips, her left hand twirling her hair as her mind turned to something else. Whatever went through the minds of women, Evans didn't know, and was quite glad to keep it that way. It was bound not to be very rational. "Come with me," she said grabbing him and dragging him back into the room he had just left. "But I don't have time for this! I've got to meet someone--" Lyanne looked up at him, "who else are you seein'? Do I know 'er?" "What? I'm going to meet a mate of mine, just a mate--he's been locked up--" "Oh," she said, a look of comprehension on her face, "I should 'ave realised. The way you are with that O'Brien bloke, and then when you're with me...I should have realised it was a man, that explains a lot," she went to digging through a chest of her things and came out with a brush and some sort of powders that she dipped the brush in and then went at him. "Wait--what are you doing?" he said, taking a step back, the brush getting too close to his eyes for comfort. "Jus' makin' sure that your 'air will match your eyebrows is all," and she brushed the powder through them when Evans finally stilled, squeezing his eyes shut. After a couple seconds, Evans felt the brush draw away and he opened his eyes. "That it?" "Yes, now go see your friend and do whatever it is you boys get up to when you're alone," she said, pushing him out of her room. Evans looked at her strangely before shaking his head and walking towards the side door of the Scarlet Lady, before stopping abruptly. I should have realised it was a man, that explains a lot.... His eyes widened. Oh, no, no, no, no! That was definitely not--he was not like that. "I don't like men!" he yelled, turning around, ready to go set Lyanne straight on his preferences. "Oy! Keep it down, mate!" someone yelled from behind one of the doors. Next time. When he got back to reclaim his coat that he'd stashed under Lyanne's bed, he'd set her straight. He turned and made his way out and into the dark streets of Port Royale. ---- Getting inside the fort was slightly more difficult than he anticipated--the marines being as unhelpful as they possibly could to the man in the Company coat. Which, Evans reflected, he really should have anticipated. But he still got in, but as a consequence was running late, and it was probably a quarter past midnight. He made his way to the cells of the fort, swallowing. The marine guard in the cell would be a problem. And he'd have to get rid of him. Somehow. He hadn't planned that bit. "You, marine," he said, trying to speak with a lower voice, "I need to speak with this prisoner alone..." |
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| Brendan | 23 Jul 2008, 10:35 AM Post #10 |
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A Legend. In regimentals. Pwn.
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OOC - Sorry for the quick reply, but McIntyre was most insistent on having his say now. IC - His dream was, for once, somewhat pleasant. The dull ringing of a hammer pounding red-hot metal, the loud hiss of steam rising from the cooling trough, the pattering of bare feet over the worn wooden floor. His father's smithy, before McIntyre had lost his interest in the trade. All the noise was warm and familiar. So too was his father's patient instruction as he explained the complicated process of making tools. It was quite warm in the smithy but young McIntyre hardly cared, dressed as he was in old breeches and a too-large shirt. It was home. Somebody outside the smithy called out his name and with a smile, his father ended the lesson. McIntyre ran outside to join his mate but suddenly the watery sunlight of a Dublin afternoon melted away. In its place was the gloomy grey of stone and the reek of filth. The Irishman buried his face into the green blanket that he was cocooned in, embarrassed to feel dampness on his cheeks. Christ, was he no better than a pampered lass? It had only been a dream. He wiped his face dry with the blanket and cursed himself. That was not the first time he'd dreamt of home and why he was so childish about it now was beyond him. Footsteps on the stairs. McIntyre kept the blanket drawn up over his head and closed his eyes. It was probably the Kingston men, changing watches. He was not about to give any of them the chance to make any sharp cracks at him. "You, marine," somebody said. "I need to speak with this prisoner alone..." That was different. Who the hell would be down here to see him? The voice wasn't one he recognised and it wasn't likely that anyone he did know would venture down here unless forced. Most men had more sense than to waste time with a condemned man, after all. "Of course," the Keymaster replied after a long silence. More footsteps and the jangle of keys. "Get up, you. And show some snap, there's an officer to see you." McIntyre scowled under the cover of his blanket. Stupid bastard. Damn the officer too. It was probably one of the Kingston officers, come to needle the unfortunate prisoner for his own amusement. Whoever it was would be wise to not get too close. McIntyre had no problem with a scrap. What did it matter, he was going to die anyway. There wasn't a whole lot worse than that. "Get up and stand to attention," the Keymaster snarled. "If you got any respect left in your worthless bones." He'd show that blackguard "respect". The Irishman tossed his blanket aside, sprang up to his feet as if a cannon had gone off under him, and stamped his bare heels together. The sudden motion made the Keymaster start and reach instinctively for his sword, but McIntyre made no further move. He was at rigid attention, just like the snot-nosed twit had wanted. Of course, now that he was on his feet, he saw that the officer who'd come down was not really an officer at all. The harsh orange of the man's coat facings marked him out as an EITC toad. Well! Devil take the Keymaster for his stupid adherence to proper discipline, when it was not called for in any way. "Sir." The one word greeting was heavy with sarcasm. He'd be damned if he was genuinely polite to any of those Company sods. "No funny business, or it's the gallows first thing in the morning," the Keymaster warned, his self-important sense of purpose having returned. "Sing out if you need the bugger swatted down," he added, directing the comment to the Company man, before he turned and tramped off toward the stairs. |
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| James Norrington | 1 Aug 2008, 06:12 PM Post #11 |
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Norrington, James Norrington
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Evans tried to keep his face neutral and calm until he was left alone with the disgraced marine. He wanted to grin so badly--he'd planned for success, but he never thought that he might actually pull it all off this well. "I made good on my promise," he announced to McIntyre, "a bit late, but better that than never, eh?" He looked at the cell behind the Irishman. "Blimey, never actually seen what sort of accommodations they give. They're sure skimpin' aren't they? Bet on the food, too, oh, but that part I can address a bit. Figger you're up for a drink, yeah?" He reached into his coat and fumbled around for a bit before he pulled out his hand to reveal a tin flask. "Rum--purser will never notice that it's missing..." Evans paused, considering it, all right, he'll notice it missing, but he'll never guess it's me. Sent him a ransom note saying its from St Montgomery. He'll never report it to St Montgomery because he'll go mad on him and all. But it's good stuff." He held the flask out toe McIntyre. "I figger that while I'm dressed up as one of these effin' Company men, I might as well go start a row to get the Company pegged for it. Any man who up and joins the Company good as deserves any misfortune that becomes of him. "Oh, and I forgot--I really didn't want to be called to serve on that stupid, bloody court thing. Honestly--I never asked for it ever. Cap'n Gillette said I had to though, stupid bastard. And Stevenson's got it out for you. Never have I met a man who's more had his breeches ridin' up that high to be a pain than him...'cept maybe for St Montgomery." |
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| Brendan | 6 Aug 2008, 01:57 AM Post #12 |
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A Legend. In regimentals. Pwn.
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There was no recognition in his eyes when the Company man spoke. Not at first. He stared at a spot on the grimy stone wall across the corridor and said nothing, stonily determined that if that bastard in his ugly yellow-faced coat should take even one step forward he'd knock the man's nose fully into the back of his skull. Then his ears caught the shift in tone and his expression wavered. No officer talked quite like that, at least not a Company man! McIntyre realised that a tin flask was being held out to him and in an instant he knew the ruse. The mention of the purser and St Montgomery sealed it. He felt stupid for coming to it so slowly. "Shoulda figured you'd be the clever one to plot all this up, sir," he said after a moment. Leave it to Mister Evans... Relaxing from his rigid stance at once and accepting the flask with a grateful nod, the Irishman waved a hand blithely at the dirty, inhospitable cell. "You're welcome t'sit, sir. 'Fraid I ain't got a chair though." His attempt at humour sounded petty and hollow. A swallow of the rum helped wash away some of his embarrassed unease. "I didn't figger any lad got put on that board happily, except for Major Stevenson." McIntyre shrugged, took another pull from the flask. The rum felt good going down. "He's had me marked since I stood up to him in the barracks. Probably before then, even. Ain't nothin' to be sweatin' about now, anyway. 'Tis a done deal, ain't it?" It surprised him that he could be so openly accepting of his inevitable fate, especially to an officer. He offered the flask back. "Mighty kind for you to come an' see a lad 'fore he's told when he'll take his last long walk, sir." |
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| James Norrington | 6 Aug 2008, 06:09 PM Post #13 |
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Norrington, James Norrington
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"I didn't figger any lad got put on that board happily, except for Major Stevenson. He's had me marked since I stood up to him in the barracks. Probably before then, even. Ain't nothin' to be sweatin' about now, anyway." Evans sat down on the floor, brushing at it lightly to try to avoid making his breeches a mess. He didn't really like how McIntyre was taking this defeatist attitude already. While one could still draw breath, there was always a chance, and both of them were breathing, and two heads were better than one when it came to coming up with a solution. And while he would never say that McIntyre was as clever as he was, the Irishman had been the brains behind a fair share of amusing events and that tickled Evans. It was much better to pull pranks when one knew there wa another of like mind around who would appreciate it. 'Tis a done deal, ain't it?" Evans shook his head vehemently, "Not if I get anything to say 'bout it, and that's the reason I'm on there. I have to get a say!" Truth be told, it was his first time, and even though he'd been talked through the process he wasn't so sure when it came down to the final decision if it would all work out. McIntyre however...he was older, probably a bit wiser to these sorts of things, and perhaps more aware of the likelihood of his getting off. And if he wasn't optimistic at all... "Mighty kind for you to come an' see a lad 'fore he's told when he'll take his last long walk, sir." Evans accepted the flask back, and looked down at it, now more worried about the outcome when he had first set out this night. He'd imagined this visit being a visit of two kindred spirits just before the one who was in trouble got off the hook. Nothing to do with an execution at all... He swallowed, unsure of what to say. But there was still a chance. There had to be! He wouldn't just give up just because McIntyre was. He stood up. "All right then, who're your closest mates here? One or more of them have got to be willing to help spring you." |
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| Brendan | 8 Aug 2008, 06:12 PM Post #14 |
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A Legend. In regimentals. Pwn.
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The middie's eager optimism was apparent. McIntyre had never heard or seen the lad display anything different and it didn't surprise him to see it appear now. It was probably due to age, Mister Evans was still a boy and didn't know how these affairs always went. The Irishman dropped back down near his borrowed blanket and rubbed at a sore on his ankle where something had bitten him. "Dunno how much your say'll matter to Major Stevenson, sir." McIntyre shrugged. One favourable voice and vote wasn't going to count for much against four others and he knew that Lieutenant Forster would be no help at all, damn the man. Captain Cartwright would never confirm or even speak of such a thing, but he knew his captain was of a similar mind. Evans' unexpected movement to stand gave McIntyre a start and he rocked back slightly on his rump. Was the lad leaving already? Perhaps he had realised what a foolish errand he was on and, like the others, was making good his escape from the disgraced corporal's presence. McIntyre couldn't begrudge him that survivalist instinct. The midshipman's question caught him even more off-guard and he stared up at the lad for a long moment before the query sank in. "Mikey Quintin's one," he answered slowly. "An' Corporal Jones too. Jonesy's lost though, an' Quintin's stranded on Dauntless with the others." He didn't mention Cartwright, since the captain was already doing far more to help that McIntyre could ever have hoped. "I ain't desertin' again, neither, sir," he added mulishly. "The Corps's all I got." |
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| James Norrington | 11 Aug 2008, 12:26 AM Post #15 |
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Norrington, James Norrington
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Evans was hopeful when McIntyre named two friends--even though he'd have to contact Quintin and Jones, convince them to help, and manage how they'd all get together to pull this off...it was a challenge that he was looking forward to. Like a prank. A game. But it wasn't a game, and that still had to sink into him a bit. "I ain't desertin' again, neither, sir, the Corps's all I got." The smile faded from Evans face, his mind stopping its turning and mulling over how he could contact the marines and have a jailbreak. "But...but..." he swallowed and then spoke very softly, "you'll die." That was not a game, and that he understood. Even if he didn't understand why the Irishman was unwilling to run to save his life. He understood the loyalty one felt to one's comrades--though he wouldn't admit it, he'd be willing to die for any of his mates...but this was different. This was different than being ordered to do something that might result in your death during a battle. This was unfair. It was wrong. He may not be willing to admit that he'd hold little to no sway with the rest of his peers for the decision, but he knew a good outcome was unlikely in the extreme. "You can't just give up," he said, his voice hitching a bit, "you've got to leave. This isn't worth dying for! Not for some stupid court martial over desertion. It's not like you left like a coward! You've stood side by side with so many men here--you fought against the mutineers, you fought with us against the pirates, to defend Port Royale...there was no moral cowardice in what you've done! "You've faced more than most of those other bastard's'll ever see, ever dream of seeing, or even think is possible. What gives them the right to do this to you and why are you going to just abide by it?!" He shook his head vehemently, "I won't. They're not the same as the lot of us who've served here, and loyalty is with who you've served with. I'd trust you with my life, you and the rest of the Port Royale division. They have no right to come prancin' in and changin' all that. Or to try you for something that was years and years ago." |
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| Brendan | 20 Aug 2008, 09:05 PM Post #16 |
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A Legend. In regimentals. Pwn.
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McIntyre glanced up at Evans, touched by the midshipman's concern. Then he looked away again. The middie's concern was wasted. "I'd rather go out a marine," he replied. "More honour in it." Certainly the boy could understand that. Too much had happened for him to consider running away. His mates were here, even if most were now turned on him. "You can't just give up, you've got to leave. This isn't worth dying for! Not for some stupid court martial over desertion. It's not like you left like a coward! You've stood side by side with so many men here--you fought against the mutineers, you fought with us against the pirates, to defend Port Royale...there was no moral cowardice in what you've done!" A slight, grim smile crossed his face. Perhaps Mister Evans didn't understand after all. "So I have, sir. I stood 'gainst everythin' that threatened this here town, sure. Pirates, mutineers, an' everythin' there in b'tween. That's just why. Don't you see, sir? Sure I ain't a coward an' I ain't gonna give them blackguards no reason to say otherwise. It ain't about right or wrong, sir. Not no more." The Irishman shrugged. "I already disgraced me first true mate's name by desertin' under it. Ain't gonna do it again to me father's name!" To him, it was just that simple. He had no use for debating moralities or any other such rubbish. All that mattered to him was facing down his fate like a marine. "There's no point in runnin', sir. I got me place an' it's here." He finally lifted his gaze back up to Evans'. "Sorry you wasted a visit, sir, an' a clever guise, too. Wish I could pay it back some way." |
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| James Norrington | 24 Aug 2008, 07:07 PM Post #17 |
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Norrington, James Norrington
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"Don't you see, sir? Sure I ain't a coward an' I ain't gonna give them blackguards no reason to say otherwise. It ain't about right or wrong, sir. Not no more. I already disgraced me first true mate's name by desertin' under it. Ain't gonna do it again to me father's name!" Evans nodded, still unhappy with the outcome that he was sure was going to result. He didn't like the idea of giving in, just surrendering to it all, even if there was honour at stake here. Though in a way, he guess it did make a sick sort of sense. If McIntyre did run, he wouldn't be able to serve again--see his mates here. He'd have to run from the law, and know that he'd disgraced himself and proven them right. Why couldn't there be some magic spell that someone could cast that would just set everything right--back to the way it should be? None of those silly Kingston sots coming, or men in the Army, recognising McIntyre as a deserter. A nice magic, happy fairytale ending would be nice. But in real life there were never those, "and they lived happily ever afters." It seemed that there was always one thing or another going wrong, and everything just went to shite. "There's no point in runnin', sir. I got me place an' it's here." "Yeah," Evans said, his tone dejected. "Sorry you wasted a visit, sir, an' a clever guise, too. Wish I could pay it back some way." Evans shook his head, "It wasn't a waste...although I do need to make sure I straighten out a lass as to the true nature of our relationship," he said with a slight grimace, "Ain't that just like 'em women? Always jumpin' to the wrong conclusions? Assumin' that because you're sneaking off to see a mate in a costume that there's some sort of secret...affair goin' on. "Just um, don't mention that to anyone, will you? I'd rather it not known that she's question my...manliness, all right? Bad enough if you get propositions from superiors..." he cleared his throat, "yeah...there ain't no need to pay anything back anyway. Um, look, is there anything I can do for you? Messages, letters, what not?" |
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| Brendan | 28 Aug 2008, 01:13 AM Post #18 |
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A Legend. In regimentals. Pwn.
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He couldn't help but grin a bit at the midshipman's uncertainty. The boy would learn in time, God willing. There was a lot more to learn than what recruiting sergeants and officers told you. With luck, the lessons wouldn't be as painful for the lad as they had the potential to be. "No worries, sir, ain't like there's anybody to tell." McIntyre scratched at his ear and shrugged. He didn't have much that needed doing, since he was sure his sea-chest had been thoroughly rifled by lads on Dauntless by now. His parents in Dublin probably thought he was long since dead too. The only people that mattered to him anymore were his marines, and most of them had turned their backs as soon as they'd learned the truth about him. Perhaps it was just as well. "Only one thing I can think that's worth passing along, sir. See to it that Private Davenport gets his shoulder knot. Best lad for it, really. I'd not have my lads looked after by anybody who ain't fit an' he's more'n fit. Even if he is half-Dago." The Irishman grinned ruefully. "Besides... somebody's gotta be in charge of Dauntless's lads, 'cause I know poor Jonesy don't care anymore. That one's ruined, he is." The mutiny had broken men in more ways than simply physically, after all. McIntyre had seen it in the faces of the men who'd made it through. Jones was just unfortunate to have rank and therefore expected to bear the burden gracefully. Such a task was not within the Welshman's power. He looked down at his hands for a moment. Could he ask for what he really wanted, especially of this boy? His offer to act as courier was generous but McIntyre wasn't sure that his true request should be spoken of, at least not to the middie. He sighed and let the words die unvoiced. Some things could not be expressed to officers. "I reckon that's it, sir." |
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| Royal Navy & Marines | 5 Oct 2008, 07:20 AM Post #19 |
Master of Puppets
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Edit - Whoo! 8000th post! *dance* Elsewhere in the fort "I didn't want to do it, sir." Arthur Cartwright closed his eyes and tried not to sigh. That was the third time he'd heard that slightly-whining response and it was wearing on his already-frayed nerves. He knew very well that his first lieutenant had wanted no part of McIntyre's court-martial, but that didn't change the fact that Forster was now part of the process. Just as much as Cartwright himself was. "Tom..." he paused, realising how close to snapping irritably he was. It would do Forster no good if he lost his temper. "None of us want to do this, but we have to anyway. It's not for us, but for McIntyre." "But sir - " Cartwright set his glass down forcefully onto the desk, interrupting Forster before the man could get any further. "No. The trial is nearly finished. Good or ill, we're going to see it through. That means you, Lieutenant, will be present in the morning with the other Members and you will sit and listen, and afterwards make your own judgments about the entire affair. And you will stand by whatever judgement you decide upon, as if it were worth your life. Is that understood?" "Yes sir." Forster looked terrified. It couldn't be helped. The man would have to get a sense of fortitude somehow. Now was the best time possible. "Very well. I expect that I won't be disappointed. Go and get some rest, Tom. It's not going to be an easy day by any means." The dismissal was all too clear. Forster sprang up from his chair and fled, leaving his captain sitting alone. With a sigh, Cartwright reached for the decanter sitting on a stack of papers. He liked being part of the court-martial even less than Forster, but for very different reasons. "Morning" was not far off anyway, as it was well past midnight. He ought to rest a little himself, but his mind was far too crowded with worries and thoughts to allow for it. The morning would bring with it the last true chance McIntyre had. If Cartwright and the civilian barrister he had hired could not prevail, the corporal was lost. Sighing again, Cartwright tossed back the inch of brandy in his glass and went back to work, reading back over the sworn statement that had been given by Jack Sullivan, the soldier from the Second Regiment who had begun all this mess in the first place. He'd find some way to save his corporal. He had to. OOC - Have now replaced the Chinook Rescue post. Obviously. |
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| James Norrington | 15 Nov 2008, 07:57 PM Post #20 |
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Norrington, James Norrington
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"Only one thing I can think that's worth passing along, sir. See to it that Private Davenport gets his shoulder knot. Best lad for it, really. I'd not have my lads looked after by anybody who ain't fit an' he's more'n fit. Even if he is half-Dago." Evans smiled and nodded, "I give you my word," he said. "'Course...who really knows how thing's'll go now that...well...I'm sure it'll work out for Davenport." Even as it won't work out for you, Evans left those words unsaid. Suddenly the whole situation hit him hard, much harder than it did before, and he realised his eyes were watering. "Ehm," he said, trying to clear his throat, and wiping at his face with his sleeves. This was embarassing. How he was getting so emotional over the situation. Emotional just because this was his last chance to probably speak with McIntyre, because he was going to sit on the board that would convict him, and he'd see the noose for it. Even though it was something so stupid. And then he had to be stupid and nearly cry over it. "Besides... somebody's gotta be in charge of Dauntless's lads, 'cause I know poor Jonesy don't care anymore. That one's ruined, he is." Evans nodded vigourously, not entirely trusting his voice at this moment. Everything had all gone wrong lately. Just...everything. With that bastard St Montgomery in charge everything was getting ruined, the Company men were given practically free reign over the port city, and things were just...horrible. How could they have gone so wrong so quickly? "I um..." will really miss you, he wanted to say, "should be getting back. Get out of this despicable uniform." His voice cracked on the last word. He turned and fled quickly not giving McIntyre a chance to speak, hoping that no one would hinder him on his way out, for the last thing he needed was anyone to see him in this state. Either a mess emotionally, nor did he want to wear the stupid uniform for longer than he needed to. [exit] |
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4:15 AM Jul 30
