by Arnie
Shaking his head, he brought his attention back to the parcel and started unwrapping it. He was not going to allow that moron's behaviour to ruin one of his mother's parcels.
As he hoped, there were a whole pile of letters included and he smiled as he picked up the one from his mother. She was a prolific writer at the best of times, (a brief note from her consisted of at least two large pages of very small writing), and from the size of the envelope, she'd outdone herself this time. Ignoring the parcel and its contents which were begging to be explored, he settled himself down to read the letter from the finest woman he'd ever known.
The bulk of the letter involved news from home, and Garrison smiled, sighed, frowned and laughed as the family events that he'd missed were narrated with loving detail. His cousin's wedding had been a major event, and Garrison wished he'd been able to be there. However, as the events of the day unfolded and he read about the stray goat who'd wandered into the church and had refused to leave until the bride's bouquet was eaten and the vicar was knocked into the font, he couldn't find it in himself to be sorry he'd missed it. His younger cousin, with a determined belief in her big cousin's abilities, would have expected him to be able to deal with the goat in a dignified and expedient manner, and as the whole churchful of people had had trouble herding the goat back out in a seemly manner, Garrison was positive his efforts would not have helped at all. Briefly, he wondered if his mention of 'Gorillas' had led her to believe that he was used to dealing with livestock and he made a mental note to disabuse her of that notion in his next letter.
Finally, his mother wound up her long letter with some news about a project she'd been undertaking. One of Craig's great-uncles had died, leaving everything he'd possessed to Craig's father - including a whole stash of journals written by a military ancestor of his. Gregory Garrison had been an officer during the War of Independence and he'd meticulously kept a journal for every day that he was alive...and conscious. Fortunately for him, he'd only been injured twice, (Craig envied him), and both times they'd been minor injuries.
"Seeing as you can't be here for the fourth of July celebrations, Craig, I thought you might like to read about one of your ancestors - he really sounds a lot like you! - who fought in the original war."
Garrison sighed as he read her plea to keep himself safe. An officer's wife and an officer's mother, she knew the dangers he faced, and she rarely allowed one hint of her fears or worries to slip through. Carefully he folded the letter and tucked it safely into his breast pocket. He'd keep it there until he answered it.
Frowning as he realised his coffee was cold, he fetched himself another cup and picked up the transcript. He would have preferred to be home celebrating the fourth of July with his family and friends, instead of over in England fighting alongside his country's former enemies. Glancing at the transcript before he started to read, he hoped that his great-great-great Grandfather hadn't been too scathing about the British.
~~~
May 24th, 1775.
It's been two weeks since we captured Fort Ticonderoga, and ten days since I was sent out with orders to flush out any enemy soldiers who might still be hiding nearby. I cannot help but feel that this is a waste of time - any able-bodied British soldier with any sense will be long gone - however, orders are orders and I always obey orders.
Today MacKenzie thought he saw a British soldier. He took a shot at him and fortunately missed as it turned out to be some children playing with a soldier's hat. MacKenzie was very shaken up by the incident, especially as he has children of that age himself. However, there was no harm done - except to the hat, of course, as it now has another hole in it.
May 25th, 1775.
We have captured a British soldier and are making our way back to the fort. He claims that he was injured a week ago, which explains why he did not withdraw with the rest of the forces, but his leg is healing and there is a risk that he might try to escape. I doubt if he would manage to get far, however, and he is certainly safer with me than taking his chances alone. I suspect that he is exaggerating how badly his leg is still hurting, perhaps to lull us into allowing our guard to drop.
I asked for his name and rank and he laughed. "You can call me Rodney!" he told me. The hat, as it turns out, is his. He is very indignant about the extra hole, and was not at all pleased when I pointed out that the hat is in such a state that the hole hardly makes any difference. He retorted that as it is "me only 'at, the 'ole makes a 'ell of a lot of difference". I hope his attitude improves before we reach the fort as he is liable to be shot if he behaves this way to the colonel.
His accent is atrocious. He claims to be from London but I have never heard anyone speak the way he does. I am not convinced that he is a soldier. While I believe that he is British, he has no idea of how to behave towards a superior officer and he is nothing at all like the other British soldiers I have seen. His vocabulary is colorful in the extreme and I have trouble understanding more than half of what he says.
He cheats at cards, lies with ease and managed to pick my pocket while I was checking his bindings, but in spite of everything, I find myself liking him. His cheerful attitude, even when I confronted him about picking my pocket, is unfailing. He retorted that he had to keep his hand in. I told him that he was welcome to keep his hand in - as long as it was not in my pocket.
On reflection, that was a mistake as I suspect he will take it as a carte blanche to pick everyone else's pockets.
May 26th 1775.
I was right. Although Rodney was confined to the guard tent last night, he managed to pick at least seven soldiers' pockets. He handed over his 'swag', as he called it, but there was a gleam of pride in his eye. I would very much like to know how he managed to steal all the buttons from Sergeant Carter's uniform, but I do not intend to encourage him by asking.
We will arrive at the fort tomorrow and I hope that Rodney will co-operate when he is interrogated. He admits quite cheerfully that he is not a brave man. He claims that his only interest is in surviving, however while I may believe that he does not know enough to be of interest, he is a British soldier and therefore he will be interrogated.
May 27th 1775.
As I expected the colonel does not know what to make of our captured British soldier. During his 'interrogation' he was talkative and friendly. Major Bayliss, his interrogator, is now complaining that he has mislaid various items - nothing important, his pen, his watch, some money. I would tell the good major where his belongings are, but I believe that he would have Rodney executed on the spot.
For a captured enemy soldier, Rodney is unfailingly cheerful. I cannot but think that in his place I would be tempted to give in to despair. Instead, I find myself playing cards with him, although never for money, and talking about my home and family, and I am not the only one to confide in the British man. More than one of his jailers can be found in Rodney's cell seeking a friendly face and a happy word. I believe that even the colonel is not immune to his impudent friendliness, although I am sure Rodney has not the slightest idea of how forward he is being. Yet another one of his odd charms.
I managed to have a few words with him myself today. I swear it is easier to get in to see the colonel than it is to see Rodney! He claims that he is not at all anxious to return to England as the Bow Street Runners are too familiar with his name and appearance. I asked him if it was due to his unfailing habit of acquiring other people's possessions, but he laughed and asked me why I'd think that. I must suppose that I am naturally cynical.
May 28th 1775.
I awoke to bedlam this morning; Rodney had escaped. I must confess, I had a difficult time keeping my face straight. The colonel is furious and I cannot blame him, however, I wish the thief luck in his escape.
~~~
Taking a gulp of his stone-cold coffee, Garrison lowered the transcript to his desk and stared, almost blindly, at the door. For a minute he sat there, the cup in his hand, a blank look on his face, then he slowly shook his head. It couldn't be. Could it?
THE END
