(no subject)
Title: Dice
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: Names given in this story are fictional and any relation to actual persons, living or dead, is purely incidental.
Original pen-date: 29 January 2011
Summary: A British prisoner gambles with the enemy. February 1778.
Author's Note: This is a response to a prompt solicited from lipton-tea.
It was warmer with his coat buttoned across and his cuffs turned down. Not as warm as he might have liked, but it was better than letting the brisk February wind cut through his thin shirt by way of his open coat front. Having his hat still would make the cold even more bearable. The barn into which they had been herded was drafty and did little to keep out the winter chill. Their rebel captors offered nothing in the way of aid, either. It was enough, they said, to have given the redcoat prisoners a place with an intact roof where they could pass the night. Accordingly, the shivering men were obliged to huddle together for warmth and the hope of a little sleep.
The journey on the frozen roads was hardest perhaps for him, having given up his shoes in a moment of brotherly sympathy. Rebel or not, it had hardly been right to let that poor fellow suffer with only thin rags on his feet. His kindess now meant that he himself was obliged to go without anything to protect his feet. The rough conditions were taking their toll. His stockings had long since worn through and were nothing more than useless tatters flapping about from underneath his short gaiters. All the same, he had refused the offer of replacement shoes. The newer pair had been taken from the body of one of the men from the 55th, who had at last died of his fever. The notion of taking anything off a dead man for his own personal comfort had troubled him deeply.
"Here, Will," one of his mates said, after their Yankee guards had gone away following a change of guard. "Bit of bread an' old cheese, 'f yer hungry."
Will lifted his head from where he'd been resting it on his upraised knees and blinked sleepily. "Eh? Nah, fella, I ain't hungry. Thank'ee, though."
Old George shrugged and stuffed the offered scraps into his own cheek. Far be it from him to make any such offer twice. He was a hardened campaigner, Old George was. He never passed up an opportunity to make himself more comfortable, even if it was only by a little. 'Man's gotta look after his own self, ain't he?' was one of his favourite sayings. Certainly it was a saying he lived by.
"You ain't bin hungry in days, Will," Sergeant Jenkin observed, his words punctuated by a gravelly-sounding cough. "Not givin' up on us, are you? Don't recall givin' you permission to do that, I don't."
"Ain't givin' up, Sergeant," Will replied with a tired grin. "Just ain't hungry."
The sergeant shook his head but didn't press the point. It was just as well. The truth was that Will earned the odd coin or two from their guards in dice games. There were determined gamblers in every station of life, it seemed, and Will had identified the worst ones amongst their guards. Besting them at dice was seldom difficult, once he had figured out how to stack the odds in his favour without overtly cheating. The scraps Old Georve and the others traded amongst themselves were provided, indirectly, by Will's nightly dice games. But that was something the lads didn't need to be knowing about.
With a yawn, he slouched back against the pile of dirty straw and tucked a hand under the buttoned-over flap of coat. His precious dice were kept safely in the bag pocket sewn inside his coat lining. Them and several other trinkets. The dice were the most special, though. They had been made for him by one of the guards at the camp near Princeton, where Will and the others had stayed for a short time. They were carved from light-hued wood and stained in wine, and had the patterns of dimples on each side coloured in with blacklead. A handsome pair of dice indeed. Will guarded them closely.
"Any you lads got a bit of water? I think Buck's goin'."
There was a shift in the crowd of shadows as men felt about their persons for a canteen or a hidden flask. Buck was going. A shame. Will himself had nothing to offer and felt embarrassed by this lack. He didn't know John Buck well despite the man being in his company. Voices murmured gently as Buck's mates gathered around, offering what they could for comfort. Will stayed where he was, arms folded tightly across his chest. Death did not bother him, for he had seen his share of it, but it wouldn't be right to intrude on the passing of a man he did not know.
The barn's door groaned as it was dragged open. A lantern's harsh glare cast dim shafts of light into the otherwise-unlit barn. All wisps of conversation ceased instantly. Any sudden appearance of their guards was something to regard with suspicion. The Yankee carrying the lantern stepped boldly into the barn, heedless of the withering glares turned his way. Four paces in, he stopped and looked slowly around. His eyes were hidden by shadow, the result of the lantern's uneven illumination, but it was plain he was looking at every man in turn.
"You," he said abruptly, pointing sharply at Will. "On your feet."
Will unfolded himself slowly, trying to place the rough voice with a face and name. Since being marched away from Princeton, he had gotten to know all of their guards by sight and many of them by name. He didn't recognise this man. Behind the lantern-bearer was a face he did recognise, however. It was one of the Yanks he regularly threw dice with. This must be all right then.
"Let's go," the lantern-bearer went on sharply. "Move it."
"What's this about?" Sergeant Jenkin demanded, likewise coming to his feet. He, of the others in the barn, was the least tolerant of their Yankee jailers.
The lantern-bearer gestured with his free hand and the second guard lifted his musket. "Step back. You there. Move it along. I ain't got time for your damned dawdling."
Will, being on his feet by now, lifted a hand in Sergeant Jenkin's direction. "It's a'right, Sergeant. Mebbe they got a shoemaker ready, jus' for me."
"Let's go," the lantern-bearer snapped, as his companion grabbed hold of Will's coat sleeve. Without another word, the odd trio was gone and the barn's door dragged shut again. Nothing was said until they neared the farmhouse, where the main body of their guards were lodging for the night. It was warm and comfortable inside, Will noted immediately. A marked improvement over that damn barn.
"Sit down," barked the Yankee with the musket, who'd all but dragged Will along after him. Only too willing to oblige, Will sat. He stretched his legs out at once, angling his icy bare feet toward the fireplace. Maybe he could steal a pair of shoes from one of these stupid oafs before they moved out the following morning. Or a dipper of brandy, for John Buck.
"So this'll be the usual?" He asked, glancing around the other men in the room. "Bit of throwin' for a bit of ol' beef an' a drop of wine? Or mebbe some good leather for a lad's feet?"
There was a silence, then one of the Yankees smirked and levered his chair closer to the table. "Course it is. C'mon then. Let's have them dice out and we'll see who wins what."
With a grin, Will slipped a hand under the buttoned-over flap of his coat and fetched out the dice. He rattled them loosely in his hand a moment before giving a slight flick of his wrist and sending the two hand-carved dice clattering onto the table top. "Gather 'round, you brave souls. We'll let these two wee blocks decide who's the better."
Four other Yankees settled around the table. The man who'd carried the lantern was not amongst them. Will noted peripherally that this man stayed by the door, having set his lantern aside. He now watched the game as it began with hawklike interest, one hand skimming slowly up and down the butt of a pistol shoved through his belt.
"Tuppence to start," Will declared, fishing out the requisite amount from inside his coat. The blue-coated sods around the table were likewise fumbling with purses or digging in pockets. Coins appeared on the table and, nodding, Will swept up the dice. His was the first throw. It was important to make it a good one. The dice clattered over the table as they left his hand. A three and a five. Not bad. The mark to beat, anyway.
For close to two hours, as near as Will could judge, the game went on. Each man had and lost his share of coin, including Will. As the fire burned lower, however, it became clear that the night would end with Will holding out as the luckiest of the men at the table. His winnings this evening looked to be enough to enable him to purchase food for his mates tomorrow, and perhaps the day after.
"That'll do for me this evenin', if you lads don't mind." It was best to end on a high note. Tomorrow night might see a dip in his luck, which was something he wasn't willing to risk tonight. There were weary nods from the others at the table and one of them took note of the time with a half-dismayed grunt. It was indeed time to end for the night. Will plucked up his winnings and his precious dice and was just tucking them into the large pocket inside his coat when the Yankee by the door spoke up.
"Let's us see those dice again."
"What for?" Will closed his hand into a fist, protectively clutching the dice.
The Yankee's voice was a harsh drawl. "I've a thought you got special dice. The sort that don't roll fair."
Oh hell. This bugger was trying to accuse him of cheating? Will scowled but didn't withdraw his hand from his coat. He knew how dice were examined and he was of no mind to lose these in such a way. They'd been a gift. More than that, they were how he helped out his fellow prisoners. "They ain't nothin' special, more'n they was made up for me by one of your own kind."
"Course they was. Let's see 'em then, so we knows for sure."
Will shook his head adamantly, uncomfortably aware of the close stares from the Yankees he'd just bested. "I'll not give them up, fella. I ain't played you lot wrong any time 'fore now. No good sense in me startin' to do now, is there?"
The man scoffed. "You lobsters don't stay honest long, if ever you are to start. Get his hands, Nat!"
"Gerroff!" Will launched to his feet, opening his fist up and letting the coins and dice drop safely into the bag pocket. He ducked away from the first Yankee who attempted to grab him but was collared by a second. With a bellowed curse, he swung his elbow flush into the man's face and was rewarded by the satisfying crunch as the man's nose broke. His collar was immediately released by the wounded man. The first Yankee landed a glancing blow to Will's cheek, which was followed by a more solid one to his chin, but the two punches put the man off-balance. Will was able to shove this assailant back over the table and, at last pulling his hand out from under his coat, he broke for the door.
This exit was blocked by the man who'd challenged him, who now had his pistol in hand and cocked. Will gave him no time to aim. The room burst with the roar of exploding powder but the ball passed clear of its mark, barely. He felt the buzzing whine of the ball fanning past his head. Too close, that one. A headlong rush, helped by a sharp knocking together of foreheads, helped Will edge past this last obstacle, then he was outside in the shocking cold again in an instant. The headbutt he'd delivered had dazed him and the sudden reintroduction to the frigid night air stole the breath from his lungs, but he forced his legs to stretch out. The barn. If he made it back to the barn, he'd be safe. Sergeant Jenkin would set the whole body of prisoners to fighting against their captors in the name of protecting one.
"Prisoner escaping!"
Somebody was shouting from ahead of him, it seemed. Will couldn't be sure of the direction. He was only concerned with reaching that bloody barn. "Sergeant!" He cried, forcing the word out despite the vice-like squeeze around his lungs. There was shouting all around, making it difficult to be sure where the guards were. Ahead of him was the barn, though. He was close. Get to the barn. The barn was safety. It never occurred to him to make a run for the woodline, where the enveloping darkness of the trees might better help conceal him. The barn was all that mattered.
The sound of the shot brought a sharp end to the confused clash of voices. Lanterns bobbed toward where the thin figure with the tattered red coat lay in the snow. The man who'd issued the challenge which had caused such commotion was the first on the scene. While his companions stood by, watching in angry curiosity, the man shoved his hand under the buttoned-over coat flap. A few seconds' blind searching yielded the prize. Coins, dice, and a few spare buttons. The buttons were immediately discarded, the coins pocketed, and the dice kept in hand.
"Now here, you boys," the man said as he stood up again, "is what happens when you get friendly with these bastards. Cheated. Took for all you're worth." He tugged a folding knife from his own coat and opened it. It was easy work to slash the two dice in half. The fact that both were solid and not loaded did not matter, at least not to him. With a dismissive snort, he tossed the ruined bits of wood away. "Leave the fool where he lies," were his last words before tramping back toward the farmhouse.
Gradually, the others drifted away, most likewise returning to the farmhouse. Nobody troubled themselves with the redcoated body sprawled in the snow, nor with the shouting, protesting prisoners inside the barn. It would be the last time anyone would dare solicit a game of dice.
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: Names given in this story are fictional and any relation to actual persons, living or dead, is purely incidental.
Original pen-date: 29 January 2011
Summary: A British prisoner gambles with the enemy. February 1778.
Author's Note: This is a response to a prompt solicited from lipton-tea.
It was warmer with his coat buttoned across and his cuffs turned down. Not as warm as he might have liked, but it was better than letting the brisk February wind cut through his thin shirt by way of his open coat front. Having his hat still would make the cold even more bearable. The barn into which they had been herded was drafty and did little to keep out the winter chill. Their rebel captors offered nothing in the way of aid, either. It was enough, they said, to have given the redcoat prisoners a place with an intact roof where they could pass the night. Accordingly, the shivering men were obliged to huddle together for warmth and the hope of a little sleep.
The journey on the frozen roads was hardest perhaps for him, having given up his shoes in a moment of brotherly sympathy. Rebel or not, it had hardly been right to let that poor fellow suffer with only thin rags on his feet. His kindess now meant that he himself was obliged to go without anything to protect his feet. The rough conditions were taking their toll. His stockings had long since worn through and were nothing more than useless tatters flapping about from underneath his short gaiters. All the same, he had refused the offer of replacement shoes. The newer pair had been taken from the body of one of the men from the 55th, who had at last died of his fever. The notion of taking anything off a dead man for his own personal comfort had troubled him deeply.
"Here, Will," one of his mates said, after their Yankee guards had gone away following a change of guard. "Bit of bread an' old cheese, 'f yer hungry."
Will lifted his head from where he'd been resting it on his upraised knees and blinked sleepily. "Eh? Nah, fella, I ain't hungry. Thank'ee, though."
Old George shrugged and stuffed the offered scraps into his own cheek. Far be it from him to make any such offer twice. He was a hardened campaigner, Old George was. He never passed up an opportunity to make himself more comfortable, even if it was only by a little. 'Man's gotta look after his own self, ain't he?' was one of his favourite sayings. Certainly it was a saying he lived by.
"You ain't bin hungry in days, Will," Sergeant Jenkin observed, his words punctuated by a gravelly-sounding cough. "Not givin' up on us, are you? Don't recall givin' you permission to do that, I don't."
"Ain't givin' up, Sergeant," Will replied with a tired grin. "Just ain't hungry."
The sergeant shook his head but didn't press the point. It was just as well. The truth was that Will earned the odd coin or two from their guards in dice games. There were determined gamblers in every station of life, it seemed, and Will had identified the worst ones amongst their guards. Besting them at dice was seldom difficult, once he had figured out how to stack the odds in his favour without overtly cheating. The scraps Old Georve and the others traded amongst themselves were provided, indirectly, by Will's nightly dice games. But that was something the lads didn't need to be knowing about.
With a yawn, he slouched back against the pile of dirty straw and tucked a hand under the buttoned-over flap of coat. His precious dice were kept safely in the bag pocket sewn inside his coat lining. Them and several other trinkets. The dice were the most special, though. They had been made for him by one of the guards at the camp near Princeton, where Will and the others had stayed for a short time. They were carved from light-hued wood and stained in wine, and had the patterns of dimples on each side coloured in with blacklead. A handsome pair of dice indeed. Will guarded them closely.
"Any you lads got a bit of water? I think Buck's goin'."
There was a shift in the crowd of shadows as men felt about their persons for a canteen or a hidden flask. Buck was going. A shame. Will himself had nothing to offer and felt embarrassed by this lack. He didn't know John Buck well despite the man being in his company. Voices murmured gently as Buck's mates gathered around, offering what they could for comfort. Will stayed where he was, arms folded tightly across his chest. Death did not bother him, for he had seen his share of it, but it wouldn't be right to intrude on the passing of a man he did not know.
The barn's door groaned as it was dragged open. A lantern's harsh glare cast dim shafts of light into the otherwise-unlit barn. All wisps of conversation ceased instantly. Any sudden appearance of their guards was something to regard with suspicion. The Yankee carrying the lantern stepped boldly into the barn, heedless of the withering glares turned his way. Four paces in, he stopped and looked slowly around. His eyes were hidden by shadow, the result of the lantern's uneven illumination, but it was plain he was looking at every man in turn.
"You," he said abruptly, pointing sharply at Will. "On your feet."
Will unfolded himself slowly, trying to place the rough voice with a face and name. Since being marched away from Princeton, he had gotten to know all of their guards by sight and many of them by name. He didn't recognise this man. Behind the lantern-bearer was a face he did recognise, however. It was one of the Yanks he regularly threw dice with. This must be all right then.
"Let's go," the lantern-bearer went on sharply. "Move it."
"What's this about?" Sergeant Jenkin demanded, likewise coming to his feet. He, of the others in the barn, was the least tolerant of their Yankee jailers.
The lantern-bearer gestured with his free hand and the second guard lifted his musket. "Step back. You there. Move it along. I ain't got time for your damned dawdling."
Will, being on his feet by now, lifted a hand in Sergeant Jenkin's direction. "It's a'right, Sergeant. Mebbe they got a shoemaker ready, jus' for me."
"Let's go," the lantern-bearer snapped, as his companion grabbed hold of Will's coat sleeve. Without another word, the odd trio was gone and the barn's door dragged shut again. Nothing was said until they neared the farmhouse, where the main body of their guards were lodging for the night. It was warm and comfortable inside, Will noted immediately. A marked improvement over that damn barn.
"Sit down," barked the Yankee with the musket, who'd all but dragged Will along after him. Only too willing to oblige, Will sat. He stretched his legs out at once, angling his icy bare feet toward the fireplace. Maybe he could steal a pair of shoes from one of these stupid oafs before they moved out the following morning. Or a dipper of brandy, for John Buck.
"So this'll be the usual?" He asked, glancing around the other men in the room. "Bit of throwin' for a bit of ol' beef an' a drop of wine? Or mebbe some good leather for a lad's feet?"
There was a silence, then one of the Yankees smirked and levered his chair closer to the table. "Course it is. C'mon then. Let's have them dice out and we'll see who wins what."
With a grin, Will slipped a hand under the buttoned-over flap of his coat and fetched out the dice. He rattled them loosely in his hand a moment before giving a slight flick of his wrist and sending the two hand-carved dice clattering onto the table top. "Gather 'round, you brave souls. We'll let these two wee blocks decide who's the better."
Four other Yankees settled around the table. The man who'd carried the lantern was not amongst them. Will noted peripherally that this man stayed by the door, having set his lantern aside. He now watched the game as it began with hawklike interest, one hand skimming slowly up and down the butt of a pistol shoved through his belt.
"Tuppence to start," Will declared, fishing out the requisite amount from inside his coat. The blue-coated sods around the table were likewise fumbling with purses or digging in pockets. Coins appeared on the table and, nodding, Will swept up the dice. His was the first throw. It was important to make it a good one. The dice clattered over the table as they left his hand. A three and a five. Not bad. The mark to beat, anyway.
For close to two hours, as near as Will could judge, the game went on. Each man had and lost his share of coin, including Will. As the fire burned lower, however, it became clear that the night would end with Will holding out as the luckiest of the men at the table. His winnings this evening looked to be enough to enable him to purchase food for his mates tomorrow, and perhaps the day after.
"That'll do for me this evenin', if you lads don't mind." It was best to end on a high note. Tomorrow night might see a dip in his luck, which was something he wasn't willing to risk tonight. There were weary nods from the others at the table and one of them took note of the time with a half-dismayed grunt. It was indeed time to end for the night. Will plucked up his winnings and his precious dice and was just tucking them into the large pocket inside his coat when the Yankee by the door spoke up.
"Let's us see those dice again."
"What for?" Will closed his hand into a fist, protectively clutching the dice.
The Yankee's voice was a harsh drawl. "I've a thought you got special dice. The sort that don't roll fair."
Oh hell. This bugger was trying to accuse him of cheating? Will scowled but didn't withdraw his hand from his coat. He knew how dice were examined and he was of no mind to lose these in such a way. They'd been a gift. More than that, they were how he helped out his fellow prisoners. "They ain't nothin' special, more'n they was made up for me by one of your own kind."
"Course they was. Let's see 'em then, so we knows for sure."
Will shook his head adamantly, uncomfortably aware of the close stares from the Yankees he'd just bested. "I'll not give them up, fella. I ain't played you lot wrong any time 'fore now. No good sense in me startin' to do now, is there?"
The man scoffed. "You lobsters don't stay honest long, if ever you are to start. Get his hands, Nat!"
"Gerroff!" Will launched to his feet, opening his fist up and letting the coins and dice drop safely into the bag pocket. He ducked away from the first Yankee who attempted to grab him but was collared by a second. With a bellowed curse, he swung his elbow flush into the man's face and was rewarded by the satisfying crunch as the man's nose broke. His collar was immediately released by the wounded man. The first Yankee landed a glancing blow to Will's cheek, which was followed by a more solid one to his chin, but the two punches put the man off-balance. Will was able to shove this assailant back over the table and, at last pulling his hand out from under his coat, he broke for the door.
This exit was blocked by the man who'd challenged him, who now had his pistol in hand and cocked. Will gave him no time to aim. The room burst with the roar of exploding powder but the ball passed clear of its mark, barely. He felt the buzzing whine of the ball fanning past his head. Too close, that one. A headlong rush, helped by a sharp knocking together of foreheads, helped Will edge past this last obstacle, then he was outside in the shocking cold again in an instant. The headbutt he'd delivered had dazed him and the sudden reintroduction to the frigid night air stole the breath from his lungs, but he forced his legs to stretch out. The barn. If he made it back to the barn, he'd be safe. Sergeant Jenkin would set the whole body of prisoners to fighting against their captors in the name of protecting one.
"Prisoner escaping!"
Somebody was shouting from ahead of him, it seemed. Will couldn't be sure of the direction. He was only concerned with reaching that bloody barn. "Sergeant!" He cried, forcing the word out despite the vice-like squeeze around his lungs. There was shouting all around, making it difficult to be sure where the guards were. Ahead of him was the barn, though. He was close. Get to the barn. The barn was safety. It never occurred to him to make a run for the woodline, where the enveloping darkness of the trees might better help conceal him. The barn was all that mattered.
The sound of the shot brought a sharp end to the confused clash of voices. Lanterns bobbed toward where the thin figure with the tattered red coat lay in the snow. The man who'd issued the challenge which had caused such commotion was the first on the scene. While his companions stood by, watching in angry curiosity, the man shoved his hand under the buttoned-over coat flap. A few seconds' blind searching yielded the prize. Coins, dice, and a few spare buttons. The buttons were immediately discarded, the coins pocketed, and the dice kept in hand.
"Now here, you boys," the man said as he stood up again, "is what happens when you get friendly with these bastards. Cheated. Took for all you're worth." He tugged a folding knife from his own coat and opened it. It was easy work to slash the two dice in half. The fact that both were solid and not loaded did not matter, at least not to him. With a dismissive snort, he tossed the ruined bits of wood away. "Leave the fool where he lies," were his last words before tramping back toward the farmhouse.
Gradually, the others drifted away, most likewise returning to the farmhouse. Nobody troubled themselves with the redcoated body sprawled in the snow, nor with the shouting, protesting prisoners inside the barn. It would be the last time anyone would dare solicit a game of dice.