The title means "Lead the Revolution!" in French. Review, please.
August 2nd, 1778, Goodridge Plantation, near Boston, Massachusetts
Dean craned his neck to see the French. They were covered in blue, a spot on the horizon. Goodridge stood beside him, his eyes guarded.
"What do you think the French will be like?" Dean asked. The title means "Lead the Revolution!" in French.
"They say the French be our allies. That doesn't keep me from suspectin'." Goodridge scowled. "The French and British have had such a rivalry. Any fool worth his land knows that the French and Brits have dirty tricks up their sleeves. I've seen enough horrors to know."
"Well, that's true," Dean said. "I believe that Washington once made a mistake with going to ally with one group of Indians. They say the chief slaughtered all the French that they had ambushed."
Goodridge nodded. "That be true. They say Washington was horrified at what he saw. The Injuns took the scalps, and folks say that the Injuns still have them, and they shake 'em to put fear in the hearts of whoever visits them."
"I'm just waiting for the war to end. You know, Collen's been kicking up a storm about the British." Dean shook his head.
"Ya, and Collen's also a damn fool. The Revolutionary War, I've heard a lady call it. First the damn Tea Party, now the damned French are comin' on our shores." Goodridge rolled his aged shoulders. "People be sayin' that that'll make history. The brave ones will get a name in the books. I suspect that I won't be there. A forgotten soldier."
"Aw, Goodridge, your forty-year-old ass will. Just wait- we'll be looking down from above, and lo and behold our names!"
"Boy, you've got a heart. But you're a mere thirty, and I'm ten years older. What other war experience you got?"
"I was in the French war years back. My father was too, bastard that he was." Dean remembered a dark night in the Ohio country, where wind whistled and everything seemed dark enough to swallow him whole. John was drunk, and he had earlier swung a broken gun barrel at Dean.
"That's nice." Goodridge hummed. He started to sing a lullaby. "If ponies rode men, and grass ate the cows...If the cat was chased into holes by the mouse...If spring were summer and the other way 'round, then all the world would be upside down!"
"What?" Dean asked.
Goodridge smiled, which was a rare thing. But it was dark and sinister, a fake grin. "It's a song sung by the redcoats' children. It's the 'World Turned Upside Down'. I doubt that they would be very thrilled to learn that the song has more of a meaning to them. What do you think of the war, Winchester?"
"I think that we probably could have gone about it better. This is the second war I've been in, and now it's going to be a world war. I just know it. It'll be just like the French war. The British against the French, all over again."
"Look, the French are almost here," Goodridge smirked. "Nice to see the cavalry has arrived. I think we better introduce ourselves. After all, Winchester, you are our leader."
"What?" Dean's arm was grabbed in a tight grip, and Goodridge dragged him to the front of the crowd. "Move it!"
Collen was stumbling drunk. Dean strongly suspected he was responsible for the missing whiskey from Goodridge's stores.
"What-what? The Fre-" Collen hiccuped, then took a dark bottle from his pocket. He took a long sip. "The Frenchies are here? Oh, my, my, my. Whatever are we going to do-do-do?"
Dean's fingers itched to give Collen a nice large bruise on the side of his face.
"The bloody redcoats will never win!" Brother Jonathan, a spokesperson, started a rousing speech. "We, the Americans, will put down those dogs! They taxed us without reason, they disturbed our peace! And what did we get for our troubles? Our petitions were not received! We gave Britain every chance to redeem themselves, and they scoffed. Now is our time to take back what is ours!"
"Take back what is yours, I presume?" A smooth voice interrupted. The crowd turned toward a middle-aged man. "That is the purpose of this war, I believe? The war of ideas, it is called in France."
"Yes!" Brother Jonathan yelled. "Yes!"
"So why are you insulting the British?" The man posed the question like it was something to disturb the Brother's snowy soul.
"Because, good sir, the men need their inspiration. And true it is because false hopes bring only heartache and lies and strife!" The Brother gestured around. "We have good men, and we are good soldiers."
"I...see." The Frenchman smirked. "I suppose then that you have no drunks, no men that commit sins even in the light of day? You have no men that..." He coughed delicately. "...Disturb the women in ways that no one can forgive?"
"No, we do not! We take only the best of men, and we have priests to forgive, we have God to help us here!" Jonathan smiled at the Frenchman, despite the fact that he was sneering. "Do not forget god, sir, for he is always with you. Even in your Darkest Moment, God will help you through!"
Jonathan shook his fist in the air. Several men repeated the action. The Frenchman, however, was unamused and not inspired in the slightest. His voice took on a tone that suggested that the Brother was wrong.
"Where is your leader?" The Frenchman asked. Dean stepped forward.
"I am." Dean felt slightly out of whack.
"What is your name and...group?" The man gestured toward the crowd.
"Dean Winchester, Massachusetts Militia, Sixteenth Regiment." Dean nodded toward Goodridge. "John Goodridge there is our cook and fellow strategy man. He is also our generous host."
"Pleased to meet you Frenchmen. I expect you have accommodations? If not, my wife and I have plenty to spare." Goodridge gestured back at Dean. "Winchester there is one of the best strategists we have here. He fought in the French war, and he has been a part of this since the beginning."
"Good." The Frenchman looked back at Dean. "Please join me in my tent. We have much to discuss if we are to defeat General Crowley."
XXXXX
August 2nd, 1778, Sam Winchester's House, Boston
Sam shook slightly, reading the letter. Jess sat beside him, looking angry at him. "Sam! What are you shaking for?"
"It's Dean. Said he had a soldier with a bullet wound. He's fine, but his men are going mad." Sam stood up. "Jess, what am I supposed to do? Let Dean go ahead? The Congress is doing nothing about the war!"
"Sam," Jess rubbed his shoulders. She kissed his forehead. "Stop worrying. Missouri!"
Miss Moseley walked slowly down the hallway, her bones aching. "Miss Jess?"
"Can you get Sam some hot water? I believe he needs a warm bath." Jess started to sneer but she stopped herself in favor of grabbing a glass. "I'll be in the kitchen if you need me."
Missouri scowled slightly. "Sam, what is that girl to you?"
"She's the love of my life," Sam said, unsure of why Missouri was being pessimistic. The last year had been quite tense, with the French being indecisive and Jess getting more and more nasty towards the various people she met, especially the Negroes.
"She nearly slapped Cassie the other day," she said, looking sorrowful. "Last week, she cursed out Victor for 'ruining the butter'. Sam, I worry."
"But Jess...she's lovely..."
"I know," Missouri sighed. Sam was stabbed with a blade of emotion, anger, sadness, and fear mixing. She turned toward the doorway, suddenly all business. "I'll get your bath now, Mr. Winchester."
Sam saw Jess in the doorway, smiling unpleasantly. She switched easily to sweet and simpering. "Missouri, dear, why haven't you made his bath yet? His joints must be aching, and I see that he has darkness under his eyes. VICTOR, CASSIE!"
The two ran in, Cassie looking everywhere but Jess, Victor angry and tense. "Yes, Miss Jess," they said in unison, their monotone voices creating a false harmony in the room for an instant.
"Cassie, will you make Sam some tea? Victor, will you build up the fire?" Jess swept her arms elegantly, her dress billowing.
"Yes, Miss Jess," they said in that dead tone that grated on Sam's bones. Jess left, telling Sam that she would "be back by twilight!"
Cassie set herself to work, busily taking the bucket of water to the community well. Victor jerkily put the wood on the fire. Sam interrupted both of them in their work.
"What on earth is the matter?" he inquired. "I have no need for tea, Miss Robinson, do sit down. Mr. Hendriksen, the fire is built well, thank you."
Cassie let out a relieved breath and put down the kettle. Victor sat down on the couch with a grunt. Sam walked to Missouri, who was trying to boil water. He gently took the water away and bade her sit down.
The three were facing him, each with a different expression. Missouri was skeptical, Victor was scowling, and Cassie was relieved.
"So, Winchester," Victor growled, "How's the fiancee?"
"She's...alright?" Sam said, unsure.
"Well, she's been trying her damn best to get us into hell," Cassie spoke up. They all turned to look at her, and she blushed before continuing. "She well near killed me with that look of hers, and she's been sneaking out every night. What is god's name could she be doing?"
"You said you were from west of the Appalachians?" Missouri asked, her accent making the words seem strange. "You speak well for one of the back countries."
"Yes. My mother and father always favored education above all else." Cassie stared straight at Missouri.
"That's damn foolish," Victor spoke up then. "What's education gonna do when the redcoats come to play? What's education when half the Continental Army's starving to death, with no food, water, or even clothes?"
"Education is what enlightens us. Without knowledge and learning, how would we know that the British were tyrants? How would we know that the taxes were unfair? We would be sitting in the dark!" Cassie crossed her arms.
"Education is fine if you are well-off, but what is it to soldiers?"
"It is everything once the war is over."
Victor scowled again. "It means nothing to us."
XXXXX
August 2nd, 1778, French Encampment, Goodridge Plantation
The evening light lent an eerie glow to the canvas tents as Dean and the Frenchman walked. Dean noted that the French had numerous luxuries, such as indentured servants to help them have the best of times.
The Frenchman out an arm across Dean's chest and motioned to keep silent. The British have a spy here, he mouthed. They might overhear us. Is there a private area?
Dean nodded and walked toward the cellar. The Frenchman pulled up the trap door and lit a match. They climbed down the steps slowly.
The Frenchman sighed in the near total darkness. He pulled off his coat. Dean inhaled the musty air and held it for a minute.
"Forgive me," The Frenchman introduced himself. "I am Castiel Collins."
Dean Winchester." Dean held out his hand. Castiel shook it, flicking his eyes toward the ceiling.
"So, Dean, what do you think of the General Crowley? He defeated you several times, has he not?" Castiel's smirk revealed a certain level of amusement toward this. Dean cleared his throat and glared.
"I also had several big victories, didn't I? Easily enough, I could say."
"And you would lead yourself to believe that they were given to you easily? You are a fool, Dean Winchester, that much is evident," Castiel sneered. Dean noted that the Frenchman dropped all pretense of politeness and decorum once in the darkness of the cellar.
"And you frogs are any better? Wearing your perfume that cloaks the senses? What are you to insult me in my own country? You are an outsider here, Castiel Collins." Dean spat.
"And what good friends do you have? A drunk? A priest that speaks false words and slithers like a snake into lies? A poor man?" Castiel jeered. He pushed past Dean without a thought. "You are devoid of friendship, Dean Winchester."
Castiel climbed the steps, leaving Dean in the dark.
XXXXX
August 2nd, 1778, British Residence, near Boston
Crowley lounged on the chair, his stomach bulging out as he slouched. A head of blond hair knelt in front of him, her dress spreading in a circle.
"So, Millie," he said, using her chosen spy name, "what have you found?"
She smirked, darting her eyes to meet Crowley's. "Samuel Winchester shall soon be taken care of." She held up a small bottle, filled to the brim with a dark liquid.
"And how many drops will that take?" Crowley asked, a small smile dancing at the corners of his lips.
"Two," she replied, "and it is enough to kill even the strongest of men."
"Excellent," he took the bottle from her, spinning it around in his fingers. A doctor for the army stepped forward. "General, if I may..."
"Ah, yes, Alastair," Crowley grinned, baring his teeth. "Do inspect this poison. Make sure Miss Millie here has not deceived us."
Alastair took the bottle and uncorked it. He sniffed for a mere moment. Smelling nothing but almonds, he took a rat from its scurrying group along the floor. It squirmed in his grip. "Where did you say you got this? A tavern?"
She smiled slowly. "Harvelle's tavern. Said I had a rat problem and asked for the cyanide."
Alastair forced open the rat's jaws and poured three drops of the poison into the rat's throat. He dropped the rat on the ground, and he watched as it started to twitch.
"Can you get more, possibly?" he asked again.
"Yes, and it will be easy."
The rat fell to the ground, white foam escaping its lips. It vomited once, twice, before letting out a final shriek in its death throes. It lay still, body jerking.