A soldier's stomach (open)

[Bog]

Boston. He'd heard plenty about the city from the others in his company but until now had not seen the place himself. His first impressions were mixed. It was a large enough city yet Starling quickly found little in the way of creature comforts available. Boston had given her best to her local militias, it seemed, and there was nothing left to travelling regiments from neighbouring states.

Worse was the fact that his past service in the Massachusetts Line seemed to count for nothing. He wore the uniform of a New Hampshire regiment and as such, the locals automatically shunned him. It was no end frustrating. In his disgust, the husky Vermonter absented himself from the warehouse in which his company were lodged and went for a wander.

His intentions were anything but innocent or even honourable. He was hungry and resentful. If Bostonians wouldn't willingly offer food or drink, then by God he'd take what he wanted by force. The first two houses Starling came to was abandoned and had already been thoroughly cleaned out. The third house, on the other hand, had not yet given up all of its prizes. Starling made his entrance through the servants' door, around the back, and went to work.

Within a half-hour, he was letting himself out again, now well-laden with everything he'd deemed worth carrying. His haversack was stuffed near to bursting with cheese, meat, wine, and bread. He carried what was left of a chicken pie and an as-yet-untouched apple tart. Funny how well off Bostonians were and yet they all pleaded poverty when hungry soldiers came around.

Now to find a quiet, safe spot where he could enjoy the ill-gotten fruits of his labour. Starling twitched his right shoulder upward, keeping his musket sling from sliding off, and headed toward a little park nearby. That looked good enough. It was unlikely he would be disturbed anyway, really. Who would want to bother a burly, wild-haired soldier, after all?

[Thomas Egerton]

He had aid his fare on the ship based on the understanding that he would arrive in Pennsylvania. It seemed that this journey had been arranged by a committee of imbeciles, because he had been told halfway across the Atlantic that, in fact, it would be much more favourable to a British merchant vessel if it arrived in Boston. Egerton had spent several hours trying to impress on the Captain the necessity of arriving in the sort of place where a British vessel would not be welcome, and had even attempted to bribe the old man to change his course again. But he seemed incorruptible, and now, as an unfortunate result, he was here in Boston. And it seemed full of British soldiers.

The bag containing all the possessions he had been able to bring with him was hung idly over his shoulder, but he retained a sense of his very British dignity. His back was firm and straight, as schooling had taught him it should be. Despite his political inclinations, it seemed impossible to overcome a lifetime of habit and throw of his old mannerisms. He thought like a Republican, and walked like a Prince.

In the presence of so many redcoats, Egerton felt rather uncomfortable. He knew that he would have to get out of Boston as soon as possible, in order to try and meet up with the Revolutionary Army. But he could not rush out now. He had to escape in a way which did not seem obvious. His accent would probably help him here, he would look every bit like a typical English gentleman. In the meantime he would attempt to keep a low profile.

The park seemed like the perfect place to rest and gather his thoughts. He would certainly need a plan, and he would need a good deal of time to carefully consider it. There was the worry of finding lodgings and then finding a way out of this place, without arousing the suspicion of the Army. Taking a seat underneath a spreading oak tree, he rested and placed his bag down. What to do now?

His thoughts, however, were interrupted by his sudden awareness of another presence. A presence dressed entirely in red. He seemed to be enjoying a veritable feast which would not have been part of army rations. Was he a thief? Egerton would probably have been best advised to avoid talking to him, but the soldier undoubtedly knew he was here, and so it made sense to make conversation in some way. Perhaps Egerton could get food out of him. Or advice. That would be even better. The soldier seemed too low-ranking to be anybody important.

“Quite the feast you've got there, good Sir.” said the Englishman, his heavily accented voice betraying the tell-tale signs of his expensive education. “Perhaps you might have enough to share some with a fellow servant of His Britannic Majesty?”

[Bog]

Starling had only just tucked in to the chicken pie when he was accosted by a man with a suspiciously refined voice. Upon glancing up, he saw the man was also nattily dressed. A city elder or some other rot, Starling thought. Then the man all but confessed to being British.

"His bleedin' Majesty's no master of mine," Starling grunted, eying this man with distinct distrust. "Who're you to go 'round 'ccusin' men of all that, anyway?"

If this man meant to rob Starling of his ill-gotten food, he was going about it in the most unusual way. Maybe that was his intention? It was somewhat confusing.