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Post by The Author. on Apr 28, 2012 17:56:28 GMT -5
Soren kept running, but slowed down quickly. He wasn't very good at running. He could still faintly hear Asher calling after him, but he ignored it. He wasn't going to talk to him for the rest of his life if he could help it.
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Post by Bog on May 3, 2012 7:58:55 GMT -5
Just a wee bit closer. These two had no sense at all. Starling's finger slipped around the trigger and he steadied his breathing, preparing for the shot. The musket was by its nature inaccurate at longer ranges but he had set himself up reasonably close to where this blundering idiot of a boy would shortly appear. This was down to pure chance as much as not, of course, yet Starling's woodsman's instincts were sharp enough to make some of his own luck.
There he was. The flash of a white shirt against the browns and greens of the underbrush. Starling did not make any move except to tighten his finger around the trigger. One second. Two seconds. Three. The flint snapped forward and struck against the frizzen, creating a spark that immediately ignited the powder in the pan. An instant later the musket fired with a sharp crack.
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Post by The Author. on May 3, 2012 18:06:20 GMT -5
There was a sharp crack, but not before Asher realized that Starling was there. They both screamed. Soren's was loud and shrill, sounding almost like a girl. Asher ran to his, slipping on the red-purple grass. Apparently, when there's blood on it, grass turns maroon. Weird, but neither of them had time to think about it.
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Post by Bog on May 14, 2012 8:30:21 GMT -5
Success. Starling drew the musket back a little, satisfied with his marksmanship. That would teach those little pukes to mind themselves. His right hand dipped back to his cartridge box so he could reload, but this ritual was delayed by the sudden thunder of fast-approaching hooves. It was only one horse by the sound of it, though one horse meant one rider and that was one too many.
"What in the name of God is going on out here?" A smartly-dressed cavalryman demanded, reining his mount to a sharp, dirt-scattering halt. The light blue epaulette on the man's shoulder told Starling all he needed to know about this newest unwelcome visitor and he groaned.
"Bit of an error," the husky Vermonter replied flatly, standing up. At his full height, he was tall enough to be able to reach up and grab the haughty-faced trooper by his throat, should he wish. He ignored the screaming boys and wished his aim had been true enough to kill the wounded one outright.
"Thought it were a deer."
The cavalryman frowned. "Certainly you are not much of a hunter, not knowing what a deer looks and sounds like. Give me your musket."
This was not a wise thing to ask of a man like Starling. The Vermonter set his feet and made no move to obey. " 'Fraid I can't. Got more huntin' left to do. The boys ain't goin' hungry tonight."
There was a rasp of steel as the trooper drew out his sabre. "That was not a request. Your musket."
Starling glared up at the man with unhidden resentment. But, with the sharp point of the sabre levelled at his face, he didn't have any other option. With deliberate, insolent slowness, he lifted the firelock and held it out so the cavalryman could take it. The weapon was gone from his hands in an instant, snatched away with more strength than Starling had expected.
"Now pass me that lad. Gently."
Starling narrowed his eyes at the boy who lay bleeding on the ground. He had to touch the little turd? Perfect...
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Post by The Author. on May 16, 2012 7:29:01 GMT -5
By now, Asher was about ready to shoot STARLING. But he couldn't because he didn't know how to use a gun, and he didn't have one. He still felt like hurting him. Although, that was a VERY bad idea.... Soren curled up, trying to avoid Starling even going near him, but he couldn't really do much.
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Post by Bog on May 26, 2012 17:45:04 GMT -5
"Get on with it, Private," Sergeant Flowers snapped, impatient with the husky soldier's dithering. This was no time at all to play at being unwilling, for God's sake! The dragoon slung the musket across his back, thereby freeing one of his hands, and held that hand out for the badly-bleeding boy, now that the idiot soldier had gotten round to doing as he'd been ordered.
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Post by The Author. on May 27, 2012 17:02:01 GMT -5
Soren tried not to make any noise as he was picked up, but Starling didn't really bother to be very careful, and his arm HURT. He made a soft noise of quiet protest and pain, but fell silent when Asher gave him a look that said to please be quiet because it wasn't helping. Asher stood, silent and suddenly afraid, even though he WAS a patriot. He had suddenly realized that they weren't magic, that life wasn't supposed to just... GIVE him things, he had to earn them, and that even people who believed in the same thing could still hurt you.
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Post by Bog on May 31, 2012 18:45:35 GMT -5
The wounded boy was passed up to him, none too gently, and Flowers took care to take a firm yet gentle hold on him with his free arm. It was imperative to get the lad to a surgeon. The closest surgeon he knew of was with a regiment presently doing duty guarding the Post Road, but that was probably this man's regiment. It could not be helped. A surgeon was a surgeon, regardless of regiment.
"Thank you," Flowers said flatly, sheathing his sabre and then gathering up the reins with his right hand. "You, lad. Clamber up here quickly, and take a good hold."
As soon as the second lad was up behind him, he would be off, and to the devil with this cod-headed private soldier!
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Post by The Author. on Jun 3, 2012 14:08:31 GMT -5
Asher climbed up on the horse behind Flowers, pale and nervous. He looked at Soren, but the sight of blood made him slightly dizzy, so he looked away.
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Post by Bog on Jun 6, 2012 8:05:04 GMT -5
That was it. Without a backward glance, Flowers reined his horse around and touched his heels sharply back, spurring the animal straight into a canter. It would occur to him later that he should have taken the soldier's name, so he could report the fool to his superiors. But perhaps the man's officers would know him by description. It was something Flowers hoped for.
It did not take long, at a brisk canter, to arrive at the First New Hampshire's camp, which sprawled a trifle untidily on either side of the Post Road. The picquets were not swift enough to react to the fast-moving horse, but Flowers reined sharply in, nearly causing his horse to buck, and cried, "Surgeon! You there, fetch your surgeon!"
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