-= 152 =-
May 1784
HMS Reliance
"I don't quite follow you, Captain." For once, Anne Foster spoke the truth as she looked up. Captain Bristol had stormed in -
stormed in to the cabin and stood, veins visible along his temples, cheeks flushed.
"I believe you do, ma'am," Bristol replied curtly. "Whatever game you are at with General Heyward must end."
The only
game Foster was playing was being nice to him. "What is amiss?"
"He has been on my deck since dawn, ma'am, either so far removed as to be nigh on catatonic, or spouting prophecies. He is making the crew uneasy ma'am, and frankly me as well."
"And you think I have something to do with this?" she demanded. This wasn't good. If her prize snapped before she could get anything out of him... "Have you talked to the surgeon? Perhaps it is a fever."
"I did. He insists the general's wounds are mostly healed, no sign of infection whatsoever. Indeed, he congratulates himself on the man's quick recovery. He was fine until this morning."
Foster regarded him through narrowed eyes. She couldn't doubt the surgeon, though a bad wound could explain much. Stress? He certainly had reason to be stressed. That could work to her advantage... after all, once she had her information, who gave a damn what happened to him?
"I will talk to General Heyward," she said. "I cannot imagine what may have upset him, but if I may be of service..."
"Thank you," Bristol looked pathetically grateful and she smiled. "I will send him below."
"Good," she watched him leave. "And Captain? Knock next time, if you please."
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"Poor gent's run mad," whispered a sailor to his mate.
"He's gonna bring us trouble," agreed his partner.
On the quarterdeck, staring behind the ship at the foam wake on blue-green water, as straight as an arrow, Tom stood with hands clasped behind his back. He'd been silent this last half-hour.
Long may it remain so, Lieutenant Marshall thought, studying him covertly. He'd kept promising the end of the world and Armageddon like some fire and brimstone preacher. A bad day, Marshall judged. He was just melancholy with being away from home and having a bad day.
Tom's gaze flickered away as a midshipman approached, offered the captain's compliments, and Mrs. Foster sought him in the cabin. For a second he frowned at the boy, as if not quite understanding, then he nodded and walked away, but not before taking a last glance at the ship's wake as if looking for something.
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South Carolina
"They're coming!" Corporal Castor pulled sharply on his reins. The horse whinnied, turned its head, then stood there shaking. Around him the two privates sighed and got to their feet. Craig remained seated on a rock, sharpening his knife with renewed vigor.
John also sat on a rock and looked up. "How far?" The British had chased them out of Savannah, which he half expected. They'd chased him well into South Carolina, which was new. Their horses couldn't take much more of this.
"Half a mile, maybe a mile."
"God's blood." Obstinate bastards. John stood slowly. "Alright, we run for Beaufort."
"Respect, colonel, but I'm tired of running." Craig stood and sheathed his knife. "It's only 5 on 6. I say we kill the ______. They're in our turf now."
Preston nodded. He didn't like running either. "Anyone else?"
Castor didn't say anything, but it was clear he was scared. One of the privates, Halstein, half drew his pistol. "Let's finish this," he growled. His partner nodded.
"Alright. Castor, tie the horses nearby in case we have to leave. Everyone else, find cover." He did just this, crouching behind a shrub as Craig and Halstein shared a tree. The last private lay prone in some underbrush and they waited. After just a few minutes they heard horses trotting on the packed earth. John peeked out and saw crimson shapes moving through the trees. They rounded a sycamore.
"FIRE!" Preston roared. Five pistols fired into the British. No, four. Where in hell was Castor? John swiveled around. The son of a bitch had run! He could see the coward's back as he galloped away and drew his second pistol. No, he couldn't waste the shot. Not with...
One of the Redcoats was down, or more correctly his horse was and he lay trapped beneath the dead beast. One dismounted and ran for cover. His companions stayed on horseback. One, an officer perhaps, pointed and they fired. Private Halstein fell from his tree, quite dead.
5 on 3, and Craig pinned. The British reloaded. Craig realized his danger, threw his pistol at the officer and leapt from his tree as the second volley thundered. He landed hard and rolled onto his side, grabbing his ankle. 5 on 2.
"God damn, we're going to lose," John said to himself. They'd kill Craig, then it'd only be a matter of time before he found their last man. He had to protect them. How?
How else? Who else would they be after?
"Hallo, you maggot-faced puppies! Over here!" Preston stood and fired. One of the horses reared, throwing his rider. John dropped his pistol, drew his sword and freed his horse as he leapt on its back. The steed whinnied and bucked at the unexpected impact. "Move, God damn you!"
"That is the Colonel," an Englishman barked. "Ride him down!"
John's horse surged into life. He glanced behind him: One rider stayed behind to help his fallen friends. That left three. As he turned he heard a report, something hard slammed into his left shoulder. No pain. "Run!" Preston snarled at his horse, who seemed to understand for it did just that and miles of forest swept by.
How long this kept up he couldn't say. Presently he thought to look behind him, only two left. He must have lost one while jumping the ridge a mile or so back. The last Brits had drawn their swords though, and were certainly gaining. John's horse was tiring fast, he could feel it stumble and lurch with every gallop. Their horses couldn't be much better, but apparently good enough.
"Enough!" he cried, pulling on his bridle. Now his shoulder awakened, screaming at the sudden tug. Preston grit his teeth as his horse executed a smooth turn. The British responded by fanning out to flank him. Perfect. John continued turning, cutting his momentum as one of the horsemen came at him.
"Now!" He charged, and as his horse lurched forward once more his shoulder again shot red hot spears through his body. For a split second his mind wandered, wondering if this what what his horse felt like, then the two horsemen came together. The Brit slashed. John ducked under it and lunged.
A cavalry sabre is not built for thrusting or lunging, but in this event it served. He thrust into the Redcoat's vest and through. With a gurgling sigh he fell from his saddle. The horse fled.
One. Where was he? There, doubling back to find his companion. Preston's horse chose this moment to let him know it was done and sank to its knees, trembling and heaving violently. John leapt aside and into the brush, watching the last Redcoat. Where was he now? He crouched, instinct crying for him to attack this last Brit, shoulder telling him now was not the time.
The last soldier appeared, stared at his man and John's horse, glared around furiously. He looked tired, as did his horse. After a moment he slowly paced in the other direction, and Preston crept away.
Just when you think he’s beginning to show some intelligence he manages to completely misunderstand the situation, which I’m sure will have drastic consequences for everyone involved. I’m still not sure I understand why all this effort by the British to get their hands on Tom. But then that’s what you want isn’t it? 
