"Captain, you took a wrong turn." [OPEN]

[phrostphyre]

Alasdair marched at the head of his company, shoes hitting the ground hard as he led the column that was the 27th American Highland Regiment of Foot. Company A, or the Backcountry Skirmishers, was Alasdair’s company. He had managed to afford the Captain’s commission, but his father had refused to help with purchasing a horse, so Alasdair marched like his men. He fingered his slightly crooked nose, relic of a fist fight over a goose at the age of twelve. It had seemed important at the time, but ten years later, Alasdair couldn’t remember why he and Donald had fought, for the life of him.

However, as Alasdair was lost in thought, he took a wrong turn at a crossroads; instead of turning left, to take a shortcut, he took a right. Company B’s commander ignored Alasdair’s mistake, instead figuring it was job for their Colonel to fix, as he was their commander. Alasdair carried a rifle like his men, figuring you could never have too many rifles, in addition to sword and dirk. He called a halt and turned.

”I think we’re lost. I cannae hear the drums and pipes behind us, anymore. Lieutenants MacIver and MacKay, and Sergeants Donaldson, MacLoaghain, and McGregor, we need to talk.” The lieutenants and sergeants came forward, while the company began talking amongst themselves. ”Captain, you took a wrong turn.”

”Yes, I did. Our options are; we can turn around and try to rejoin at the end of the column, we can keep going and try to outmarch them, or we can try to join up with the Continental Army ourselves. I prefer the third option, because I know it’s vaguely in New York.”[/b]

MacIver objected to this, preferring to march back to the Regiment. Alasdair listened to his Sergeants mostly; they were among the men. The sergeants preferred to out do the rest of the regiment, and reach the Continental Army ahead of them.

”I believe that our glorious cause, that of freedom from a fat German King three thousand miles away, would best be served by reaching the Continental Army in New York ahead of the rest of the Regiment. Hopefully we’ll find someone who takes pity on us and gives us directions.”[/b] The war council adjourned, the Sergeants and the Lieutenants got the company moving again, and then the much smaller column, armed with swords, dirks, and rifles, was moving again, but east this time, not North.

[Kay]

The sound of marching boots was what she heard first, the little lass on the big horse. The girl looked quite tiny on the back of the massive spotted horse. But that was unimportant. She listened for a while to the sound of more marching boots, curiosity growing as she did so. "Hmm. C'mon lass pick up yer pace, will ya?" She said, tucking her heels into the mare's sides. The girl had long black hair that fell to the middle of her back, with a bunch of loose curls that bounced as she rode. Her pale skin and pale yellow-green eyes offset eachother in the midday sunlight. She pulled her mare to a stop though, at the sight of all the soldiers in a column. She was at a crossroads, having come from across a wide section of field from a sale she had just made. A sale, on might ask? She was a black-market dealer, having learned her trade from her father. The young woman stretched a bit, feeling the scars on her back tug a bit as she did so. "Wha're they doin? Daft buncha Scotties aren' they darlin?" She said, peering at the column as she patted her mare's neck. "'least they aren' redcoats, huh?" She patted her mare on the neck again, trying to calm the big horse down. She wasn't all that fond of men, and the big column of them marching around made the mare nervous. She raised an eyebrow as the men converged on one, apparently their Captain it would seem. She heard part of their conversation carry on the wind, and she smiled a bit in amusement. "Captain, you took a wrong turn......" She grew even more amused at the Captain's decision to keep marching and hope on finding someone to take pity on them. "Men. They never ask for directions, darlin." she said to the mare, running her hand down the horse's neck again. The girl, Elizabeth, shifted in her saddle, repositioning the bags attached to it. She rode side-saddle, a skill that was rather difficult to master she had to admit. She wanted to see a man try and ride a horse sideways. It was much easier when straddling the animal's back. 'Men always take the easy way out...' she thought. Attached to one boot was a knife, though that boot was amply hidden by her skirts, seeing as it was the leg that was supposed to be slung over the other side of the mare. On her saddle was a hidden sheath where a blade could be kept, and another had a holster where a pistol could be kept, both of which held their prize. She raised an eyebrow yet again at their movements east, but said nothing to her horse, kicking the beast into a canter. The mare picked up her heels, kicking up some dust as she did so, heading up the road she had been coming down. She was to hit the crossroads about a minute after some of the soldiers started passing it by, or with any luck, when they stopped to look around and try and get their bearings again.

[/blockquote]

[phrostphyre]

The column of blue, gray, black, brown, and green-coated men moved east at a steady pace. One joker, Scots-Irish by his accent, began singing.
”In Dublin's fair city,
Where the girls are so pretty,
I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone,
As she wheeled her wheel-barrow,
Through streets broad and narrow,
Crying, “Cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh!"

"Alive, alive, oh,
Alive, alive, oh",
Crying "Cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh".

She was a fishmonger,
But sure 'twas no wonder,
For so were her father and mother before,
And they each wheeled their barrow,
Through streets broad and narrow,
Crying, "Cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh!"

"Alive, alive, oh,
Alive, alive, oh",
Crying "Cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh".

She died of a fever,
And no one could save her,
And that was the end of sweet Molly Malone.
Now her ghost wheels her barrow,
Through streets broad and narrow,
Crying, "Cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh!"

"Alive, alive, oh,
Alive, alive, oh",
Crying "Cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh".” The rest of the company began singing, too. Alasdair looked flustered, but his men quickly launched into “Scots Wha Hae” Alasdair deemed it fitting that as they march to fight an English King, his Scotsman sing about Wallace and the Bruce.

The crackle of musket fire interrupted the singing as what appeared to be a Regular patrol set upon the company. Alasdair unslung his rifle from his shoulder as his men spread into a skirmish line at the chivying and bellowing of the sergeants. The two sub officers nearly flew, they fled so fast, and they were both shot as they ran. Alasdair moved to stand in the front of his men, coolly firing at any sign of a redcoat. His shots were aimed, unhurried, and his men took heart from his example. Their hats varied, from tricornes to Scottish bonnets, but all wore a tin badge with a lion holding a sword upon their hat, to distinguish them from a Regular Highland regiment.

The rifle and musket fire gradually slowed to nothing, leaving a pall of smoke obscuring the road and trees around it. ” Ten of ye, come with me. Reload now, and loosen your swords. Sergeants, reform the remaining men. If we have any dead, set a burial detail. The junior officers fled in cowardice; let the corbies eat at their eyes.” Alasdair’s orders were followed as he and his ten men continued forward, rifles held at the ready. Ten redcoat regulars lay scattered among the trees, where they had attempted to flee after Alasdair’s company had refused to shatter under pressure. The group of kilted milita men kicked the weapons out of the regulars’ hands, and then stabbed downwards with swords, ensuring death. They spread into the trees and checked for any more redcoats, but if there had been some, they were long since gone.

[Kay]

Elizabeth heard the crackle of musketfire, and her hand instantly went to her pistol. The hammer was drawn back and she rode towards the noise, a single redcoat busting through the trees. He was headed away from her but she wheeled the mare towards the man, grabbing the back of his coat and putting the pistol to his head. "Ye'd be wise t'stop and just come with me, aye?" She whispered in his ear, a bit of a malicious grin spreading across her face. He nodded, eyes worried as he did so. She slipped a pair of manacles from her bag, latching his hands together and slipping the key on the chain around her neck. "C'mon now lad, lighten up a bit will ya? I don't bite too hard." She laughed, attaching the chain to her saddle with a padlock. There was a iron loop off her saddle that was specially put there for such a purpose as riding with a slave, or in this case a prisoner, in tow. Normally there was another horse for them to sit on, but for now Elizabeth had to keep her mare at a slow pace. She rode back towards the regiment, where the soldiers had fired into the treeline. Little did Alasdair's men know, but the treeline only continued for a little while up until it hit another section of road, where Elizabeth had been passing through. There were no more redcoats that had come out of the section of forest but the one that Miss O'Keefe had comandeered. He carried no weapon on him, she had seen to that. Elizabeth came around the corner, looking at all the smoke. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph, lookit all tha smoke." She murmered to herself. Her big mare snorted, stomping a bit before she whinnined in frustration at the man that walked next to her. "Quiet now lass, can't be makin a ruckus." She said, patting the mare's neck. "Yer awfully quiet there, lad." She said, glancing down at the pale redcoat. He was mad, she could tell that much. "You'll pass for this, girl. Mark my words. When my commander finds out that you've subjected me to such humiliation, mark my words you'll be drowned in the river or set before a firing squad."

[/u] He said to her, trying to throw as much inflection into the words as possible. "A girl whats meant for hangin ain't likely t'drown, lad." She smirked as she spoke, taking his hat and popping it onto her head. "I like yer hat, lad. It suits me. Ye can get a new one. I never was one fer bonnets. Unflattering, the lot of em." The man was speechless. Never before had he met such a girl what would sit there and blatantly ignore his threats. Most women burst into tears at such a threat as drowning or a firing squad. She just grinned and stole his hat. Elizabeth rode past a few soldiers, dragging her redcoat along which eliceted a few laughs from some of the men. She did not, however, see Captain MacKenzie standing the few paces he was from her. The pistol she had was held in one hand, and she used only one hand to make her horse move. She nodded to a few soldiers as she passed them, tipping her hat like the cheeky little lass that she was. "Lass, you realize that's no negro you've got there. That's a redcoat!"[/u] One of the soldiers asked her with a bit of an amused grin. "Right ye are sir, nabbed him a ways up the road. Decided I didn' wanna see a redcoat runnin round like a chicken wi' his head cut off, so I put me gun to 'is 'ead and told 'im that he was comin wi'me." She said with a bit of a smile. "And I could hear you lads all the way up the road, singin about Miss Molly Malone." She continued past the soldier, kicking the redcoat in between the shoulderblades when he stopped. "Keep walkin scrap. I 'aven't decided what I'm t'do with ye yet, and if ye keep givin me trouble I'll give ye to one of these gentlemen. Yer lucky I might be takin ye to a Prisoner-of-war camp. If ye keep it up I'll jist put a bullet twixt yer eyes."[/size][/blockquote]

[phrostphyre]

Alasdair checked the load in his pistol, then his rifle. Both were loaded. His sergeants were making sure his company wasn’t loading their rifles with a half-powder charge, to save their shoulders the donkey kick the rifle caused after firing. Alasdair nodded approval, then grimaced at the sight of the girl on the horse. He swore softly, then issued more orders.
”Sergeant McGregor, you’re now my subaltern. Corporal MacRae, you’re now a Sergeant. Private Stewart, you’re now a Corporal. McGregor, take command. I need a platoon detached. We’re going to hunt for any runners. McRae, take another platoon and go on the left side of the road, and I’ll take right. McGregor, follow behind us on the road at twenty paces.[/b] The men Alasdair had ordered nodded, splitting off the two platoons of twenty men, leaving McGregor with eighty men. Alasdair split his men off into the wooded area along the road on the right hand side, shouldering their way past branches and saplings beneath mighty oaks and pines. They found a few scattered dead redcoats, shredded by the rifle fire that had missed, gone through, or clipped their fellow soldiers. The kilted minutemen stabbed downwards with their swords as Alasdair led them along the road, and MacRae’s platoon did the same. The screams of dying men ended as swords stabbed into throats and chests. Alasdair knew he was doing them a favor; if they did survive their wounds, which wasn’t likely, then what work could a cripple do? Few things, if any. And most of the soldiers were the dregs of British society; drunkards, criminals, and murderers, with nearly no skills, other than that of the criminal bent. Alasdair’s men were mainly farmers that worked for his father, and had “followed the laird’s fiery cross” to war. There was a smattering of fishermen and artisans, but they were really mainly farmers.

[Kay]

"C'mon." She growled at the redcoat, turning her horse around. "Screw takin ye t'Georgia or the Carolinas. I'm takin ye t'New York." She jerked on the cord, sending the man sprawling on his face. Without the use of his hands to break his fall, he landed on his face, breaking his nose in the process. He stumbled up, blood dripping down his face as he did so. 'Damned hellion she-cur! Your like some damned siren, can't trust any of you Irish girls.'

[/u] He spat at her, and she laughed. "Ye, sir, are jist bitter on account of I stole yer hat. Get over it, lad. Ye can get another tricorn. Besides, not like any of yer other soldiers survived. If they did, they lay on the ground to jist rot." She smirked as she said this to the man, having a bit too much fun in tormenting him. "And ye'll like the camps they have fer ye, lad. Full o' murderers, molesters, and madmen! The t'ree M's of prison. Mebbe ye'll be able t'work yer way out after a while." 'And after I do I'll come after you and slit your throat you Irish hellion.' Elizabeth laughed at this, getting her mare to move forward a bit. "Now there's the spark I wanted to see! It's fun when yer little Prisoners of War git fiesty!f" She laughed a bit, but had to hold onto the reins tightly after a second. Her mare spooked beneath her, sidestepping and bucking, half-rearing until she finally jerked sideways. The redcoat fell down on the ground and the mare reared, landing on his torso. She kept bucking and snorting, finally managing to toss Liz to the ground, where she banged her head off a rock in the road, her arm looking a bit funny from where she had thrown it out under her to try and land better. She was out for the moment, but the girl's mare came and stood over the lass, dragging the dying redcoat's bleeding corpse behind her. Whenever something came near, be it man or the friendly dog that followed the soldiers, she pinned back her ears and snapped at it; overly willing to take a chunk outta anything that wanted to get near her. 'Damned hellion, got what she deserves...'[/u] The man choked out, coughing once. 'Looks like a broken arm and a concussion. Serves her right, her and that damn horse.'[/u] Liz still had the pistol in her one hand, surprisingly given the fall she had. She stirred awake, enough to catch what the man said. She rolled her head a bit, not at all pleased with the sticky feeling that came with it. She aimed down the barrel and fired off a single shot, between the redcoat's eyes. Her mare was bombproof when it came to everything but men, a perfect warhorse....for a girl. Completely useless in a man's army. But the mare turned her head down, looking at the girl as she lay there. "Ye'd best git off me, darlin. I need t'get up." She said, sliding the pistol into a holster on her boot as she used the free hand to pat the mare's leg. She didn't move her left arm, however, knowing that it felt wrong; wrong to the point it made her sick to her stomach. She used her good arm to prop herself up, grabbing ahold of the saddle and a stirrup to get herself back on her feet. She half layed herself against her mare's stomach as she stood, the dizziness and sickness coming back. She shut her eyes, leaning her head against the mare's side until the dizziness subsided. She used one hand to put on the saddle horn, making an attempt to get back up in the saddle. She failed, miserably. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph, All I need to do is get back to New York, and I can't even get in a damned saddle." she cursed, leaning against the horse. "Might as well walk for that matter." She stumbled forward, half leaning on her mare to keep her stability. She didn't enjoy walking though, as it jostled her arm. In fact, after only four steps, she was in tears from the pain. She rolled her sleeve back, grimacing at the black and blue marbling on her forearm that went along with the bit of bone beneath the skin that you could see. "Jesus, Mary and Joesph that's nasty lookin."[/size][/blockquote]

[phrostphyre]

The two platoons eventually cleared the path for the rest of the company. They came upon another two redcoat platoons, lying in wait for the company. They opened fire early, while there was still foliage providing cover to Alasdair’s platoon. He continued forward, silently praying as the musket balls and rifle balls whizzed past his head. ”Captain, how do ye not piss yourself from fear? Alasdair nearly choked on his laughter. Grinning, he told the younger man who had asked: ”Willie, I’m scairt, too. Scairt near senseless, I am. We all feel fear. Brave men just let it get tae them twenty minutes after the fact. Now shoot the damned Sassenach bastards or they’ll steal your wife, home, and cattle![/color] The men let loose a ragged cry in Gaelic, Albanich, then charged, firing as they did so. The volley was more a ragged crackle, but it dropped most of the redcoats, and the charge carried the day, shattering the remainder of their line as Scottish Gaelic cries rose in the mid-day light, to the contrast of men screaming for their wives, lovers, or mothers. Alasdair fell upon a Lieutenant, sword gleaming in the light, then glinting a dull reflection as blood stained it.

His men, after finishing the redcoats, reformed themselves into a ragged line. Three lay dead. The men formed stretchers with rifles and the coats of the dead, then lay their plaids over them. Alasdair took the first stretcher himself, and then the other platoon merged with his. He led the half-company forward, to a spot in the road under some shade. He let them rest in it, as he began digging graves in the roadside. The dead men seemed to stare at him from under their plaids, as if they were silently accusing him of killing them. Alasdair silently conversed with them, answering their questions, then pleading for forgiveness from a God that seemed all too distant, as the red blood of good men that lay dead stained the ground.

Why’d we die, Captain? Jamie was only a lad o’ seventeen, and Fergus naught but eighteen! Both with young wives at home.[/b]
I didn’t mean for it to happen, Dougal. The damned redcoats…. God I’m sorry! Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen. Please, oh God, let these valiant young lions into your Kingdom. They died for a freedom you promised them. Please, oh Lord, forgive me for leading these young men into death, and please allow me to learn from this to become a better leader of men, and please, give this blessed cause of Freedom your Divine Providence and allow us the strength to carry on the battle for Freedom, even in dark days that may yet come.[/b][/color] He bitterly reflected then, that he may yet be pleading his own case to Saint Peter yet. If the war was lost to the rebels, Alasdair would be hanging as a criminal, if not hung, drawn, and then quartered. And then it wouldn’t matter what color coat he wore or blood he bled. He’d be dead as a traitor to a King not his own. ”Willie, lad, if Bonnie Prince Charlie, the damned drunken Italian sot, is our proper King, then how is it if this rebellion fails, we’ll be killed as traitors to a King not our own? [/color]

”It seems tae me, we’re rebelling against Geordie the Third, aye? Weel, if we do win, what if we elect Bonnie Geordie Washington King of America? Then go back tae the clan system, with the lairds electing the King?

”Seems tae me that Bonnie Geordie would be a far better King than Prince Charlie or Geordie the Third. If I wind up a delegate tae Congress, I’ll be sure tae bring it up.[/color] Alasdair continued digging, set slightly at ease. It was then he noticed the girl with the horse, coming up the road. He shrugged; it was war. People got displaced and moved around all the time. If she needed help, she’d ask. ”Captain! Lassie coming down the road. Do we need tae stop her?” Alasdair shook his head, then went back to grave-digging.

[Kay]

The lass heard the gunfire still, a bit of a laugh escaping her when she caught them in her sights again. "They're jist headed in circles, the bleedin' fools..." She mused softly as she kept up. One of the soldiers looked at her. "Ye needin any help lass?" He asked, looking at the way she held her arm at an awkward angle. "Yeah, help me up on this horse." She growled, giving him a bit of a dark look. She still had the redcoat's tricorn on, and she looked a bit like what one would assume as a pirate. But she didn't give a damn, honestly. The soldier gave her a bit of a strange look. "I'm not too sure ye should be ridin on that arm, lass. It looks broken..."

[/u] Elizabeth glared at him now. "And it damn well feels broken too, ye bleedin fool. Now help me up here." She let him help her, using her bad arm to grasp the reins a bit. "Where are you fools headed anyway?" She asked, looking at the regiment. "All ye've done is go in circles, unless yer goin nowhere." The soldier looked confused for a moment. "New York, lass. To meet up with the Continental."[/u] Elizabeth laughed a bit in amusement. "Well yer headed the wrong way, lad. New York is to the North. Not the West." She said, pointing up at the sky, where the sun was on it's way over towards the horizon, seeing as it was past noon. "You lads need some directions, or a guide as it were? I'm headed to New York myself."[/size][/blockquote]

[phrostphyre]

Alasdair continued his gruesome work, digging the three graves. Although slightly at ease, he still felt discomfited. At least his men knew if they died, he would dig their graves with his own hands. ”Aye, I think we could use a guide. But why are ye offering? We can manage well enough, I think.” His junior officer and sergeants stood, and then walked to where they stood behind him, presenting a united front, as it were, against this possible redcoat spy. Alasdair finished the first grave, at least four feet deep. He wiped the sweat from his brow, and then turned to the second man’s grave. The tartan patterns worn on kilt and plaid varied wildly among the men, but the most common were MacRae, or some variant thereof, and MacKenzie, and again, a variant of it. Technically, the tartans were regional, but they were known as MacKenzie and MacRae, because the MacKenzie’s and MacRae’s controlled the area the tartan originated from. Thus, the dyer, for reasons of simplicity, simply labeled the tartan as MacKenzie or MacRae, instead of “Dress Kintail”, or “Hunting Kintail, Variant Three”. The system worked, for the most part. It also explained why most of Alasdair’s company were MacKenzies, or their “shirt of mail”, the MacRaes: most of Alasdair’s men were the sons or grandsons of pardoned Jacobite rebels from MacKenzie or MacRae lands, that had been transported to America after the Rising of 1745.

[Kay]

Elizabeth looked at him, the expression on her face a bit more harsh than it needed to be. "Why not? I'm headed t'New York and wi' my arm like this, I can't do it alone. Not sayin I could nae handle a couple of highway robbers, but it would be difficult to say the least, lad." She waited for a look in her direction, making eye contanct. Unfortunatly, the expression in her yellow-green eyes wasn't anger or that of someone who was bold. No, it was fear. Fear and pain. She could talk it all she wanted, but at the moment, fear and pain won over. It wasn't fear of the soldiers so much as fear that something bad would happen on the road. The pain was rather self-explanatory. After all, she did land on that arm wrong, and it was looking pretty bad. The arm itself had turned a disturbing shade of violet and black where the break occured, and you could see the bone through the flesh. She hadn't bothered to set it, more focused on walking away. But now, it had a bit more of her attention as she tried not to jostle it too much, which grew more difficult as her horse took a couple steps sideways. "Dammit, lass, quit yer movin!" She growled, tugging at the reins a bit with her good hand. Her expression softened a bit as she lost all the irritation and frustration that had been building up. Now, she simply appeared exhausted. "It's a fairly good distance to New York. We need to get going as soon as possible..." She said softly, tapping her mare on the neck. The big spotted draft knelt down, laying on the ground for a moment so she could pick up her pistol by leaning over the side of the saddle. Into the holster on the side of the saddle it went, and the mare hopped back up after a moment. Elizabeth set to work on unattaching the irons that had been attached to the metal ring that was on her saddle, stowing them back in the bag. A glint of what looked like silver, or perhaps even a highly polished blade, came out of the bag when she opened it, and she hastily stowed the things out of sight, shutting it again. No need for anyone to the weaponry she had, lest they ask questions about it's origins or where a woman would come across such a thing.

[/blockquote]

[phrostphyre]

Alasdair turned, stopping his digging midway. ”Do ye see these men? They’ve just fought two skirmishes, driving the hated English back each time. You cannae tell me ye expect men that hae been marching all morning and fighting all afternoon tae march. In fact, I’m going to give them all an hour to loot the redcoat bodies, because I cannae pay them, and the cash box is with Colonel Graham. Go to it, lads.[/color] The Scottish-Americans stood, some slinging their rifles across their back, some cradling them, others slinging them onto a shoulder. The only form of common wear they wore was the tin badge upon their hats. Most tipped their hat to the girl as they passed. One of the sergeants stopped to set the arm, using the sheath to his dirk. ”Here ye, go lassie. The MacKenzie himself will be attending ye once the graves are dug. Captain MacKenzie turned back to the graves, pushing the stock of his rifle into the dirt harder. It made a poor substitute for a shovel, but it was all he had.

[Kay]

Elizabeth's face went a bit pale at this comment and she nodded a bit stiffly, using her good arm to resituate the tricorn on her head. She swallowed a bit as one of the sergants came to reset her arm. She nodded a little weakly as she braced herself for the pain that would come from fixing the offending limb. She let out a breath as he spoke, nodding to show she acknowledged his speech. She took ahold of her mare's reins again, steering the big spotted mare fifty or sixty yards up the road. Just far enough away to where she could pull the fabric of her skirts up to just above her knee, to examine the injury she had gained earlier in the week. A grimey and dark bandage was wrapped around an area just above her knee, the ends tied together and nearly fused together with dried blood. She pulled a small blade from her bag and used it to slice through the bandage, peeling it back.The blade had been a sgian dhub that had belonged to her grandfather on her mother's side, a man who had been a true Scotsman. She left the blade balanced on the saddle bag, taking the grimey bandage and stowing it in a small leather pouch. The injury itself consisted on four or five long, deep furrows through the flesh, as though some great beast had taken to raking her with it's claws. In truth, she had been at a man's home earlier in the week, delivering some things he had ordered through her. He had owned a rather large beast of a cat, one that was taller than her waist at it's back. A tawny cougar with a bad temper towards women it seemed. It had lashed out at her, digging it's claws into her leg before she shot it point blank. the man had been rather irritated by this, but got over it when she put the gun to his own head. She sighed, taking out another bandage to wrap around the injury. Out of all the things to not have, she didn't have a needle or thread to sew up these cuts. Now she'd gain some rather ropy scars from it. But she didn't care. She secured the knot, stowing everything in her bag again before she wheeled the mare around closer to where the men had been. She sighed, leaning against her mare's neck, all the fight having gone out of her. The big mare could easily handle her weight and she was tired. One pale hand brushed some hair away from her face, and her eyes shut as she waited for Captain MacKenzie to come speak to her, if he would do so at all.

CREDIT SAM !? of Confronting the Faceless. Don't remove the credit or I will find you. LYRICS brick by boring brick - paramore NOTES [None] WORD COUNT [don't really care how many words it is]

[/size][/blockquote][/blockquote]

[phrostphyre]

Alasdair’s men weren’t professional soldiers yet, but they had an hour to go over the redcoat bodies. They eventually figured out that most of them kept their cash in their shakoes, in the seams of their coats, or in their shoes. Every man made at least six shillings, and some more. They filed back to Alasdair grinning at their good fortune as they stored their new cash in sporrans, then sat back down as Alasdair put the finishing touches to the graves. Twelve men stood, with two loaded rifles, one from a friend. They formed into two lines by the graves as Alasdair laid the corpses of his men into the graves. Once finished, he climbed out and scraped dirt onto the men wrapped in their plaids. The twelve, by some unseen Sergeant, knew that now they fired one volley. The shattering bang disrupted what peace had fallen on the road, as a private stood to assist MacKenzie. After the two finished covering the dead men, another volley shattered the air, and then Alasdair’s men stood. Alasdair performed the service in Gaelic. ”These men died for freedom. Freedom is something that must be bought. Its price is the blood of gallant soldiers like these. We will all pay that price. But they did not in vain, as our children’s children are able to study poetry and the arts, as we study war and politics. But let us not grieve. Instead, let us avenge them, with the blood of English soldiers upon our swords and dirks and bullets. The Lord has allowed us to get this far. Let us go all the way, and remember and drink to our fallen brothers in arms.[/b][/color] Alasdair finished, scuffed his feet, and moved away from his men, to the girl. ”Ma’am, we’ll be marching in ten minutes. We hunt for our dinner, so I hope you won’t mind hare or deer.[/color]

[Kay]

Liz looked up whenever he came towards her, eyes opening a bit to take him in. "Ma’am, we’ll be marching in ten minutes. We hunt for our dinner, so I hope you won’t mind hare or deer" She smiled a tiny bit, shaking her head a little. "Not at all. I'm rather used to it." She said, patting her mare on the neck and sitting up. That's when she noticed the figure on the horse across the field. She mentally groaned, a sigh escaping her as it approached at a fairly good clip. The man sat astride a big black draft horse, a good match for the one that she rode. If one didn't know better, you'd say they were a matched team. He was large, with broad shoulders that had a good span to them. Dark eyes and dark hair tied back. He wore a good deal of leather and cotton, and had a hardened look to him. At his horse's heels, a black and white border collie trotter. She was mainly white, with black spashes here and there. Her face was nearly totally white, with one brown eye. The other eye, one that was an icy shade of blue, was under a black patch of fur. It came down from the top of her skull around her ear, and down her face much like a Phantom Of The Opera mask. The dog growled a bit and slipped up under the mare's legs. "Behave, lass." Liz said softly, watching as the dog settled a bit. The man on the other horse, however, had a dark expression on his face and had the smell of the ocean on him, like a permanant fixture. But underlying the scent of the ocean, was a faint odor of whiskey, a fondness of his."Elizabeth Arabella O'Keefe, where in the hell d'ye think yer goin?" He growled, grabbing the mare's reins and jerking the horse towards him. She pushed off her mare's neck a bit, supporting herself a bit under her own weight. "None of yer damn business, Johnathon. Leave me alone." She gave him a dark look, one that might freeze any man in his boots. But it did nothing to him."The hell its nae any of my business! Quit yer arguin, yer comin' home." He was clearly unhappy at this point in time, the irritation seeming to roll off of him. "No, Johnathon. I'll not be goin home. I'm goin t'New York, whether ye like it or not. YOU can go home and sleep off all the damned alcohol ye've had." She didn't see it before it hit her, the single blow the caused her to duck her head and stare at her hands in the saddle. "I said..." He paused for emphasis. "Yer goin to come home. Ye savvy, lass?" Liz swallowed once, blinking back the tears. His blow had rocked her head back and there was already a faint shadow of a bruise appearing from where the six foot four brute had hit her. "Da always said ye were a bully, John.....said he doesn't know where ye got it....wasn't him ye got it from, John......Why'd ye get so mean?" She said softly, her yellow-green eyes looking up at those of her older brother. She didn't exactly remember Captain MacKenzie standing there, given the unexpected arrival of her brother.

[/color][/b]: Eh, nobody cares
NOTES: Aren't they loving?~<3
TAGS: Alasdair MacKenzie
LYRICS: monster - professor green
CREDIT: GLEN COCO // CALLIE.
[/ul][/SIZE]

[phrostphyre]

Alasdair watched the man on the horse approach. He ignored Alasdair, instead riding to the girl. Alasdair went white with fury when he saw the man hit her, and then he was unslinging his rifle. He brought it to his shoulder, and set it to half-cock. ”I can hit a rabbit at four hundred yards. A man at ten is nothing. Now, sirrah, I demand that ye move back fifty yards. If you touch the Miss O’ Keefe, then as Alasdair MacKenzie, a private citizen, not Captain MacKenzie, I will shoot you in the head. It will explode like a melon, and then I shall let the corbies eat you. Now move back. Miss O’Keefe has kindly agreed to guide us to New York, to meet the Continental Army. I fully intend on paying her for her services, as said guide. Sergeant McRae, detail a guard. It seems we hae a prisoner. Miss O’Keefe, I apologize. This happened while you were under the company’s protection, and the company did not acquit itself admirably.[/color] Alasdair pulled the cock all the way back, to emphasize his words. The sergeant was even bigger than Alasdair, at six feet and eight inches, and hugely muscled. He followed his Captain’s orders, setting four riflemen to watch the prisoner like hawks. Their rifles were loaded, and dirks had been roped to them, to make makeshift bayonets. In their off time, the men had taken to recarving the rifle stocks to fit their shoulders and cheeks. Alasdair was considering buying them all muskets, too, to serve as a line unit if needed, instead of just skirmishers.

[Kay]

The collie at Elizabeth's feet growled a bit whenever the men surrounded Johnathon. She glanced up, eyes wide as she bit on her lower lip. "That's not necessary..." she said softly, blinking slowly. "He's always been a little rough. My brother meant no harm.....He was just worried is all." She chewed on her lower lip again, one hand working the reins a bit nervously. "There's no reason t'keep him, sir...Just let him go." Her voice was soft, holding none of the frustration and anger that it had only twenty minutes earlier. It was calm, but had an underlying tone to it. Fear? Yes, that was it. Fear. She feared her brother, and for good reason it seemed. From the way she flinched it was apparent that he hit her on a regular basis. "The lass is nae lying. Just let me leave. Ye've got no right t'keep me here." He growled, the big horse he sat astride getting restless. It stamped once or twice and tossed it's head, getting nervous from all the men standing around it. He was used to being around people, but being surrounded made the big horse nervous. Liz's gaze was scared, looking down at Alasdair with a pleading glance. "Please...just let him on his way." She worried her bottom lip, glancing up at her brother nervously. She knew very well what sort of weaponry the man carried with him, and wasn't very keen on having a shootout on a deserted road, one that would end with even more death. She cringed at the thought, getting a bit more lightheaded. She swayed a bit in the saddle, and she grasped at the horse a bit more to keep from sliding off the mare. One hand ran down the mare's neck, a comfort thing for the girl sitting astride her.

[/color][/b]: Eh, nobody cares
NOTES: Aren't they loving?~<3
TAGS: Alasdair MacKenzie
LYRICS: monster - professor green
CREDIT: GLEN COCO // CALLIE.
[/ul][/SIZE]

[phrostphyre]

Alasdair took the sling from his rifle and cut it into strips with his dirk, his face an inscrutable mask. The wind whistled through the air, and the blue ribbon in Alasdair’s hair snapped, letting his hair play in the wind. Sergeant McRae considered unhorsing the man, but decided against it. Alasdair gave the strips he had cut from his rifle sling to the sergeant, who then used them to tie up the prisoner. ”Right be damned. You have no right to hit a lassie, be she your wife, daughter, or sister. I have not often seen abuse, but seen it I have. I can recognize the signs; fear of the abuser, bruises, and many other things. The lassie is under the protection of myself as a man, an officer, and a gentleman. The lassie is under the protection of my company, my men, and the army we’re in. I can accept a master beating a slave for several reasons. I can accept a man beating his sons, to instill discipline into them. But for anyone to beat a lassie, slave or free, is not acceptable. As such, sir, you have five minutes to make a case as to why I should not shoot you here. If my Sergeants vote to leave you alive, we shall do so. If not, however, we’ll hang you as a spy.[/color] The rest of the men sat silently. Generally the Captain sat with them, joked and ate with them. He made light of his officer status, made light of shirking his education in Edinburgh, and made light of his father. They had seen him kill, fight, and shoot at men. But this was not a side they had seen before. This was a coldly calculating killer, gauging his chances of committing murder and getting away with it. And so far, Captain Alasdair MacKenzie had a very good chance of it, because possibly the only one to talk would be the girl. The men silently agreed that if it did end the way Alasdair had threatened, they would swear to having never heard of the man that might be about to hang.

[Kay]

Liz bit her lip as she watched him unsling her rifle. Her head turned down and she stared at her hands, not moving to even look at what was going on. But Johnathon wasn't happy. Alasdair's words rang in her ears and she didn't move in the least. Her brother on the other had was a different story. He had a calculating look on his face, and a bit of a smile came to him. "Why hang me? I hit her once in front of you. You don't even know who she is or what she can do. I can tell you that. Why kill me, when you can kill the little black market dealer herself? I'm a blacksmith, I can work for you, with you. What does she do? Show you the way to New York? I could do that. But is there any guarentee that she won't sell you out to any of her British clients?" Elizabeth's head jerked up and she stared at her brother, pale gaze unmoving. Did she hear that right? Did her own brother truly just sell her out? If anything, she could be hung for high treason. "Johnathon.....why would you say something like that.." Her voice barely able to be heard as she spoke. "Because it's the truth, Blackbird."

[/color][/b]: Eh, nobody cares
NOTES: Aren't they loving?~<3
TAGS: Alasdair MacKenzie
LYRICS: monster - professor green
CREDIT: GLEN COCO // CALLIE.
[/ul][/SIZE]

[phrostphyre]

Alasdair grinned, something deeply feral. It was a throw back to when Vikings ruled the seas, and Danelaw was an established factor in Scotland and England. The man thought he was calculating? Alasdair had played student politics in Edinburgh, where murder was an accepted tool. He nodded, but continued to hold his rifle cradled loosely in his arms. The four feet of wood and metal was a part of him, and Alasdair was accurate with it. ”All true. But would she have flinched that much if you didn’t abuse her? I doubt it. Now, the only thing keeping me from hanging you both is the fact that I can use you both. Have you seen the state of our equipment? Not many smiths will touch swords these days. And every man here has a sword and dirk, making you doubly useful. The lass, however, will lead us to New York. And if you accept the Congressional shilling, you’ll be marching with us. Since you claim she’s a black market dealer, she’ll be able to get things no one else can, through the blockade, such as fine British powder from India, wool from Scotland to make more kilts, and tea. I’d kill a man for a good cup of tea. If anyone should hang here, under British law, it’s me. I’m in an open state of rebellion against His Majesty King George the Third, making me a traitor. Now, you’ll both be coming with us, or you’ll both be hanging. And that, is as they say in London, that."[/color]