“Get back!” The warning sounded just as a cannonball whistled over their heads. The percussion knocked Connor Reid back. A boulder stopped his momentum with painful clarity. Strong spasms racked his chest as each inhalation constricted like a vise around his ribs. Tears pricked his eyes. Connor choked on the already thick swamp air, now filled sulfuric smoke. He held his breath and heard…nothing. He snapped his fingers by his ears but silence resounded.
Chaos surrounded him as he watched fellow militia men clamor to find cover and take aim. A flash of light followed a plume of smoke, soaring towards them. The team’s soundless mouths contorted in fear.
With tentative fingers he probed his scalp. Finding a large knot, he winced. He looked at his hands expecting blood but there was none. I am a sitting duck in this pluff mud. Must…move.
He tried to sit but blackness tunneled his vision. Can’t let the Yankees get me.
He rolled on his side, pushing with his feet and moved along, crawling, half on his belly. He soon found himself behind the boulder. He squeezed his eyes shut, picturing Arthur Delaney. Would he understand? Would he forgive?
A low buzz sounded, muffled shouts resuming. His battle mates retreated. He was alone. His eyes watered from the shifting smoke. Or was it tears? Through the haze, a figure approached. Closer. Was it friend or foe? Connor reached for his musket, but, of course, it was gone. He inched his hand slowly to his boot, hoping the knife hadn’t been lost as well. Just as he reached the handle, the figure loomed over him.
“Boy, stand up.”
Connor, stunned, just shook his head. The man bent forward and large hands hauled him to his feet. The blackness threatened again, his stomach rolled. If you vomit, you’ll look weak. Keep yourself together, Con.
“Aye, you are a lighter lad than I thought. You surely are aged only 15 years, at the most.” Connor could only stare back. The disdain in the man’s voice hardened Connor’s resolve.
“Well, can you speak?”
“I’m nineteen, Redcoat.”
“Sure you are. Silas, John. Take the boy with the other prisoners.”
Connor realized he was captured, but fire stirred within. One of the captor’s hands was within sight, restraining him. He bit, hard. As he was released, he lost his balance but spun around to the right, evading recapture. He brought up his foot, against the other man’s shin.
“Willem, we’ve got a feisty one here.” Their comments about him as if he were not there only heightened his ire.
“Nevermind that. He’s a boy. How much fight can a boy have against two men?” Oh, if they only knew.
Connor’s eyes met the man called Willem and saw a will as strong as his own. The dulled glaze of his men showed nothing.
“I’ll do it myself.” He’ll do what?
Willem bent towards him. Connor reached down for the knife but a sudden hard pressure in his wrist doubled him over in pain. His arm was held in Willem’s firm hand.
“Now you come quietly. We intend no harm.”
Connor struggled to break free, but was no match for Willem’s strength.
“Be still, or suffer the consequences–”
Connor stilled with the threat. It wasn’t just a reprimand. This was war.
“Bring me some rope–”
Connor thrashed, fear spurring him to break away.
“I’m not going to hang you. Come with me.”
Realizing he’d not escape, Connor clenched his jaw. Clarity dawned and he decided to face this like a man. Ha! Like a man.
#
Willem McCotry knew war. He understood the fervor. Not necessarily the cause. They trod out of the swamps. Willem trailed the boy behind him, hands bound, tethered to his waist. He said a silent prayer for whomever the young man was fighting, and leaving behind. Those were the ones hurt the most.
What would make a boy take up arms? Surely he was too naïve to understand the implications of what the colonists called a rebellion. He chanced a look back at the boy. Something else flitted across his young face. Too young. But he also saw the passion still in his eyes. The bright hazel stare became glassy. He looked as if he were about to cry. He wouldn’t harm the child. But he didn’t trust him, either.
At the edge of the King’s Tree, Willem found his horse and tossed his captive into the saddle. There was no room in the wagon where the still forms lay. Before mounting the horse, Willem followed the gaze of the prisoner to the wagon.
Silence. Only the clopping of hooves in the dirt rattled in Willem’s ears. It gave him time to think. About war. About prisoners. About his prisoner. The lad was so unyielding sitting in front of him. Had not slumped even once. Probably trying to be brave. There’s nothing heroic in fighting a losing battle.
Willem trailed the horse behind the cart. The better to instill fear and obedience from the site of the wounded. At least, he hoped they were only wounded. They were still and silent.
Conner stared straight ahead. Why he was on the horse with the one they called Willem, he’d never know. It was a precarious position and not the least bit comfortable. He dared not turn around and face him.
As it was, the heat from him reached through the thin shirt and bindings. Sitting rigid on a moving animal did not lend to comfort. Connor’s tender rump was surely red. He felt every jolt in each vertebra.
But he didn’t dare moan, whine or complain. Wouldn’t give this Redcoat the satisfaction. This redcoat didn’t wear a redcoat. In fact, he was dressed similarly to a farmer.
Hours later, the smell of salt water was a sweet tang in Connor’s nose. That scent was a part of his childhood left behind. He’d know it anywhere. Would he see shopkeepers he’s known? What if they recognized him? The clothing would surely hide his identity. He’d come here often enough with Papa selling rice, but not like this. If only he could keep the secret from his captors. He’d worry about the town later.
“We’re almost there. Son, you are much too young for the prison ship. I am inclined to find your Mama, and pack you up home.”
Connor felt the breath tickle his neck and suppressed a shudder.
“Don’t call me ‘Son,’ and I have no mother.” He silently cursed himself for returning dialog.
“Sorry to hear that, young sir. What shall I call you, then?”
He craned his neck around to look Willem in the eye but all he saw was shoulder. Damned horse.
“Are we becoming acquainted, Whig? I’ll not give you my name.”
“Don’t have to know your name to hang ya, boy.” A gruff voice grumbled from in front of the horse.
Connor turned his head back. The other prisoners looked warily back. Not dead after all. He couldn’t tell who said the hurtful remark.
“No one’s going to the gallows. You may call me Mr. McCotrey.” The squared shoulders stiffened. “Or Willem if you’d like.” Connor sniffed.
“Boy, you are going to talk at some point.” Being called boy in such a manner was galling. Indignation rose in Connor‘s chest. He couldn’t stop himself. He whipped his head around again, surprising Willem, if his widened eyes and fast tug on the reins were any indication. But recomposing himself, all Connor spat out was,
“We’ll see about that.”
Connor slapped his hands over his mouth, he’d been baited. Willem just chuckled. Connor fought the twitch to punch him for laughing. Control yourself, Con.
“Silas, take the others to the ship. I’m going into town for supplies. After that, you two are done for the night.”                      Connor held his breath listening as Willem instructed his subordinates.
“Where’ll you be, sir?” John or Silas answered. He couldn’t care who was whom.
“The Hangman’s Noose.” Did he hear right? He was growing weary. But Willem seemed to read his mind because the next sensation was like a spider crawling by his ear as Willem whispered, “It’s a tavern, Son.”
The wagon continued to the docks. Connor watched as his friends-well, acquaintances-faded in the distance. None really knew him. He’d made sure of that, being alone as much as possible. Didn’t want to give anyone a chance to find out what he’d done.
“If I take these bindings from your wrists, will you behave?”
Connor only nodded. Behave. Mr. McCotrey really did think he was a child. Hmph.
Willem dismounted, leaving a hand on Connor’s knee. The change in support was both a relief and startling.                           Connor let out the pent up breath he’d been holding. Then he looked the long way down from the horse and felt dizzy. With little to hold, he began to sway. The knock to his head was harder than he thought.
“Steady there,” then “oomph” as Connor’s momentum propelled him earthward. His back landed with a solid thwack on Willem’s chest.
“Let go of me, you big oaf” Connor squirmed and made an awkward attempt at standing with bound wrists. Willem stood up and pulled his knife from his belt.
“You‘re going to gut me for landing on you? It was an accident, and I am your prisoner. I have rights.”
“Quiet, boy, I’m going to unbind you.” His barking words chafed Connor’s raw nerves.
As Willem removed the coarse rope, Connor tried to still his trembling but the harder the fight to maintain composure, the more tremulous he became.
“Let’s go inside, I’ll make a man of you yet.” Connor mutely followed Willem in.
The change in light made Connor squint. He looked up at his captor. Willem was scanning the room. Seats were available near the back door.
The back door. He dared not breath. Should he even try? A plan formed and Connor knew he might not get another chance.
“The privy?” His voice cracked and he looked down, quickly.
“Aye. I’ll order you a pint. Hurry up.” Connor watched Willem find a seat. With rapid steps Connor moved towards the rear. As he reached the door, he gave one last glance toward McCotrey. Still seated and enjoying his rum.
The air was cool on his face as he reached the privacy of the stall. The door creaked as it opened but it was light. He closed the door and locked it. A latrine never felt so lovely. Could he escape? He took his hat off and hung it on the hook, surprised there was one. Strands of chestnut hair of varying lengths fell to his shoulders. It was uneven and unkempt. Connor swatted at the pieces floating in his eyes.
Not wanting to miss an opportunity, he let down his pants and sat. Then winced. That was a long ride. As he stood to finish his ministrations the door ripped open. Connor rushed to cover himself, but too late.
Connor read the surprise in Willem’s wide eyes. Heat flooded Connor’s face, but covering it would mean removing hands from a more delicate site. Shock froze him in place, so turning to hide was no option.
Willem just stood there. When he didn’t speak Connor finally breathed. The plan had failed. A rational person would have run.
Willem gaped at the boy. Strands of hair framed the young face. Out of its queue, it softened the features. His eyes followed down where slender hands tried to hide the soft curls. What he didn’t see was…well.
This was no boy.

I hope you enjoyed this, please feel free to let me know. And don’t forget to check out the other stories by clicking the link in the first line or this link to the UK Trail Head

One such tool is wordle. I had a new scene I wanted to play with. A rather intriguing development I didn’t expect. So I copy and pasted part of it into the application.

Hester. She’s a villain, of sorts. I’m actually trying NOT to like her. She’s being written after someone who deserves to be written harshly. But she’s coming off to be pitied. Interestingly enough, if I apply that sentiment to the real person, it makes total sense. My frustration with the real Hester aside, she should be pitied. So, I take a deep breath and my fingers are poised over the keys…what will hester do next, or will a pretty thing like Wordle distract me again?

Voila! (just click on the image to view in larger detail)

In doing so, I reinforced knowledge I already had, and gained further insight to the men of that time. Having done this ‘research,’ as I watched the rest of the series, save the last episode, I found the series very close in line with what I’ve read, even down to the quotes from certain figures, namely, King George III. Although it’s History, the story draws me in. It’s so encompassing to ‘witness’ the events, as it were, and take them into my psyche.

I don’t know if I could ever convey the conviction I feel for the Nation. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a laid back gal, but I love being an American. I love how this came to be. And adding to this emotion, this passion, is the conviction of those who began it.

So much interesting trivia among those pages, and those episodes. Pay close attention, I gathered more information for my next scavenger hunt. (One such fact relates to the question of date of death for Adams and Jefferson. Did you know another president from that time died on the same date five years later?)

Anyhoo, I’ve spilled my guts and brain on this topic. How does this pertain to my writing. Well, it could come in handy. I mean, the whole series is before during or soon thereafter the events depicted. And I liked doing that research.

Now, to research for the sweet scenes. ha ha. Lucky Mr. G. Royals.

None the less, I still have pride in my work. Am I proud of writing something that years later is making me cringe for just a second? No. I’m proud of the fact that I can recognize the growth that occurred since it was created.

That is why in my recent contest, I included a signed copy of it in the prize package. I hope that the cuteness of the story makes the reader enjoy it; I pray they forgive me of the grammatical and spelling errors still present that neither myself nor the editor saw the first few times before it was set in internet stone.

Most of all, I hope that it isn’t as cringe-worthy as I no longer think it is because I want readers to want more. I promise I’ve improved. And I’ll show you.

How do any of you feel about your former writing?

And speaking of telling. I have GOT to stop doing that. Bad writer, Bad, bad. I know to use my senses. And I’m improving, but, still a lot of polishing to do. I decided at my halfway word count goal (151 pages so far out of a hopeful 300, at least) to start editing now. Because if I go on without editing, that might mean massive, and I mean ginormous rewrites. My tired little brain can’t wrap around that. I’d feel much better if I got things honed now and moved forward from there.

I even devised a clever little scheme. In the work in total so far I color coded the segments in pink for her, purple for him and brown for other scenes. After I did that I reordered some of them and didn’t color code what I haven’t transfered yet. What I have is started the book in a different spot, much later than I had earlier. This way, you drop right in the middle of ACTION baby, instead of waiting for it to happen. I know this is a smart move. Besides, all of the flotsam and jetsam is political or inconsequential. Further proof that it will NOT move the story.

I just hope that despite the fact that the H/h do not meet within those first 27 pages isn’t going to hurt my chances. At least they’re both introduced to the reader… We’ll see. I’m awaiting feedback from my good buddies. Come on people, pretty please and thank you, I have a deadline.