Chapter* 2

"Fire!"

"Wh-what?" Malcolm said, but he knew enough to keep his head down.

"Fire!"

There was a thunderous sound as guns and cannon went off. There was smelly smoke everywhere.

He looked up for a second. He was – what? He was outside. That in itself made no sense whatsoever. "Get down, Lieutenant!" cried a man next to him. The fellow had a British accent, just like Malcolm.

He would have answered, but instinct took over, and he ducked as a cannonball whizzed by his head.

"Get up!" yelled a different voice.

"Yes, sir," said the first man, the one who'd just told Malcolm the opposite. He helped Malcolm up, and helped adjust a pack on Malcolm's back that he had not noticed before.

"Now," said the other man, who appeared to be their commanding officer, "you are soldiers of the king! You are not to be hiding like some illiterate rebels!"

A shot was fired behind him and he ducked, just like the rest of them. Malcolm knew enough not to laugh at that.

"Lieutenant Colonel Smith, sir!" asked a man near Malcolm, "Have we reinforcements?"

"Brigadier General Percy should be on his way," Smith said, "but I still want you out there. You are the finest of the king's army! You will not allow unshod farmers to take this colony!"

Malcolm was bewildered but two things were obvious – Smith was in command and it was dangerous out there. After that, he was lost. The man next to him was dirty, as if he'd hit the dirt a few times already that morning. Malcolm could not look up much to reconnoiter himself, but he did notice that the jackets they were wearing were a bright red, and he was carrying, what? It was an ancient firearm.

"Lieutenant! Have you something to say?" Smith asked sharply.

"No, sir," Malcolm said, knowing fully well to never, ever volunteer.

"Lennox! Have you what to add?"

"No, sir," said the man next to Malcolm. He looked at Malcolm and said quietly, "You looked faint before. It's unexpected, isn't it, all the smoke and noise?"

"I'm all right," Malcolm said, "uh…?"

"Robert Lennox." They shook hands quickly.

There were more shots fired. Their source was coming closer. The company retreated to a bridge, and crossed it as more shots rang out.

"We should take cover, sir," Malcolm said, indicating a stand of trees to Smith.

"That's not the way a British soldier fights! And you, an officer, even! What are they teaching you in school these days? We stand and fight, man!" Smith lined up the troops as well as possible, even as shots were fired. It seemed to be madness.

Malcolm was only slightly better oriented. The only person who seemed to be at all sane was Lennox. Malcolm looked down at the gun he was carrying. It was a Brown Bess Land Pattern musket, an antique. That much he recognized. After that, he was lost.

Another bullet whizzed by, but this one found its mark and struck Lennox in the shoulder, near the neck. The man fell. "Sir!" Malcolm called out, "this man needs care!" Smith could barely hear him, as the battle was in full swing.

Malcolm fired his weapon in the direction of the mist and smoke and gunshots. He couldn't even tell if he had hit anything, and strongly suspected that he hadn't.

"Reload!" yelled Smith. Everyone around Malcolm was pounding powder and shot into gun barrels. He was thoroughly unsure of what to do. He'd seen something like that in a museum, once, he recalled. Powder horn, ramrod, what? Those were antiques, not proper instruments of war. He fumbled around with articles attached to his belt and tentatively tried to reload but ended up ducking again in the confusion.

He felt a sting in his left elbow. He, too, had been hit. At least it was an excuse to stay down, which seemed to be the only sensible thing to do. Lennox wasn't doing so well, drifting in and out of consciousness, mostly out.

"Retreat!" yelled Smith.

"Sir!" Malcolm yelled back, "we shall have to carry Lennox."

"Oh, damnation," said Smith, looking at the badly injured man. "And you've been struck as well." He motioned to two foot soldiers to pick up Lennox. "Mind his head," Smith said.

"Right, sir," replied one of them, who could not have been older than eighteen or so. Another one grabbed Lennox's feet. That soldier, too, was somewhere in his teenaged years.

"He needs proper medical care," Malcolm said as they moved along, in a retreat. At least they were no longer being actively fired upon. The bridge was wooden beneath their tramping feet. They sounded like a herd of elephants.

"I bloody well know that!" exclaimed Smith, "And this one cannot die. They'll have my command and more, if he dies," he added wearily.

"Soldiers die, sir," said one of the fellows carrying Lennox.

"Not members of the Royal Family," Smith said, "Mind that fellow you're holding. He's King George's nephew, is who he is. The Duke of Richmond and all that, no lie! A pity the surgeon also got hit. He's already gone to the Great Beyond. I bet by the end of this I'll be wishing the same had happened to me. They are gonna court martial me if he dies!"

"Sir," Malcolm said, incredulous that Smith was thinking more of his career than of Lennox's life, "perhaps there is a doctor in a nearby village."

"You really think the rebels will care for him properly?"

"We can try," Malcolm said, "and I could use a bandage myself. I could watch, make sure the physician was at least not actively trying to harm Lennox."

There was a crudely carved sign ahead. "We could go there," said one of the men carrying Lennox. The sign said Concord.

=/\=

They retreated into Concord as the villagers stared. Some others ran into houses or stables or public houses. Women, in long dresses, shawls and lacy caps, were shooed into homes, as far away from the soldiers as possible.

A bold boy, a child of perhaps seven, spat at them. His mother grabbed him quickly and took him with her, rushing him into what appeared to be a Congregational church.

"What is this place?" asked one of the teenaged soldiers carrying Lennox.

"This is Concord, in the Massachusetts Bay Colony," said Smith, "April nineteenth, 1775. The flower of colonial civilization! I suppose if you want more of a proper city, you'll need to head south to Boston. This isn't much more than a few cow pastures and a village green." He sneered disapprovingly.

But he was right. The place was tiny. Malcolm held his bleeding elbow, willing the pain away and adjusting his pack a bit to the other side. He knew where he was, more or less, and the when of it meant that this was, insanely, the American War of Independence. But that part could not possibly be so. Military history was a hobby of his. It seemed as if he had somehow stumbled into a reenactment. And everyone in the reenactment was mightily concerned with staying in character.

"We need to get to a doctor," he said, "get scans done, and see about stasis for Lennox."

"Scans? Stasis? What are you on about?" Smith asked, looking at him strangely. He thought for a second, making a decision. "You must've been hit worse than it appears. A bit of madness you have there, I think." He left the company and yelled at the townspeople, "I have wounded men! They need a surgeon! Have you hayseeds got a surgeon?"

The townspeople all just stared, bowled over by Smith's rudeness. "Please," Malcolm appealed to the villagers, "this man is gravely injured."

"You don't ask for permission!" Smith insisted. "Really, Lieutenant, these are colonials! The Crown can have what it needs without some niceties like you might use with the ladies!"

"I hardly think your method is working," Malcolm said, a bit indignant. Then he added, sarcastically, "Sir."

The villagers just stared, as if it were a town composed entirely of mutes.

"He's fading, sir," said one of the teenagers carrying Lennox, a worried tone to his voice.

"Bloody hell!" Smith shook his head, "There are farm houses 'round here. Let's get him to one of those."

"And then what?" Malcolm asked, "Sir?"

Smith just shook his head and Malcolm got the distinct impression that his commanding officer could only handle one decision at a time.

=/\=

They were outside the village proper, in more of its outskirts. Farm houses were close enough that a person could see the neighbors, but probably not hear them. The grounds were thawed and small shoots were coming up in fields everywhere. "Go, and get into that one," Smith indicated to Malcolm. "Take whatever you need and then we'll move on."

Malcolm approached the front door and knocked. "You bloody well don't have to knock!" yelled Smith, barreling over. "I shall do it myself!" He motioned over a few strong young soldiers and they forced the door.

It was just a woman and her servant, an elderly man of African descent. She looked at them in alarm. "The militia will be back any minute now!" she said, "They'll surround the house and you'll be trapped!" She clutched the elbow of her servant's coat. It was frayed, as if this were a house that had once been grander, or the family had fallen on hard times.

"I am Lieutenant Colonel Francis Smith. You will accept these wounded of the troops of His Majesty the King, George the Third," Smith commanded, indicating Malcolm and the still prone Lennox, "It is your duty as a citizen of the Crown."

"I am a citizen of the Massachusetts Bay Colony," she replied, "And the quartering of troops is against the rights of man."

"Then 'tis a good thing that you are a woman," replied Smith, "and your slave has no rights."

"Benjamin is no slave!" she exclaimed, her eyes darting from one face to another.

Malcolm spoke, "My apologies, madam. This man is very gravely injured." He looked into her eyes for the first time, and noticed that they were an impossibly light blue, very nearly white. He could not help himself, and stared a little.

She broke their shared gaze first. "I am sorry that he is so badly hurt, but I cannot have you here."

"You have no choice," said Smith, "you will provide quartering for these two injured men. You will provide care for both of them. Any attempts to harm either of them will result in trouble. You," he said to Benjamin, "fetch the town's surgeon."

Benjamin looked at her. "Miz Hayes?" he inquired.

"The surgeon is gone, he has joined the rebellion," she replied.

"Then it shall be but the two of you who will provide care," Smith said, "Your militia may be returning, but they will not win this war. And then when it is done, you will be rewarded handsomely. Enough to," he indicated the house, which was a little shabby, "make all repairs as you need to, and reclaim your land. The king will reward you handsomely if you treat his nephew well."

"Can we put him down?" asked one of the teenaged soldiers.

There was a table in the foyer, with two small unlit candelabra on it. Benjamin moved the candelabra away and the teenaged soldiers put Lennox down. The woman stood over him, "This is indeed grave. He has lost a great deal of blood." A furrow of concern appeared on her brow.

"Can you help him?" Malcolm asked gently.

"I don't know. I am not skilled in such matters." She said, "It would be such a shame. He is so young."

"Can you assist the Lieutenant here?" Smith asked, a little calmer now.

She looked at Malcolm's arm. "I think so. It does not mean I am agreeing to this. It is under protest."

"Understood," Malcolm said under his breath.

"We shall have to depart now," Smith said. He looked intently at Malcolm, "You can get a message through, to Boston, if there are complications. If Lennox dies, I shall need to know as soon as possible."

Malcolm nodded.

"He cannot stay on the table," the woman said, "here, at least get him upstairs. Benjamin will show you where." The teenagers picked up Lennox again and followed the elderly man. Once they had gone, she said to Malcolm, "There are several bedrooms in this house. You will repose in one of the smaller ones. When you are well, I expect you to pull your weight. Benjamin is not to be ordered about by you."

"I agree to your terms."

The teenagers came down with Benjamin. "He is in the yellow room, Miz Hayes," said the servant.

"Thank you," she said.

"Return when you are able," Smith said to Malcolm. He then turned to the teenagers. "Get back into ranks and turn south, to Boston." They departed.

=/\=

Malcolm stood in the foyer with Benjamin and the woman. He finally spoke. "I wish to apologize for this. It is not my idea." His arm was painful, and he knew he couldn't go untreated, but it seemed the height of arrogance to push his own welfare when Lennox was so much worse off than he.

"Take off your jacket," she said. "Go on, remove it. I cannot see the extent of your wound so long as you have it on. And while you are in my home, even as an unwilling guest, you will not appear as a redcoat. Is that clear?"

"Crystal."

"Benjamin, please boil some water for tea. And extra, for I shall need to clean these men's wounds. And then we need bandages for him, and for the one upstairs."

"Yes, ma'am."

Alone, she said to Malcolm, "I am Mrs. Hayes. My husband is a Major in the colonial militia. You may very well have shot at him today, or his musket ball may have hit your arm, or hit that man upstairs."

"It's certainly possible. Mrs. Hayes," Malcolm said, "I thank you for whatever you can do."

"You will need to roll up your sleeve as well," she said, "I shall check in on the man upstairs."

"His name is Lennox," Malcolm said.

She departed for a second, and Malcolm was left to speculate. Was it a reenactment with overly committed actors? A time shift of some sort? Collective madness? A hallucination?

There was a whistling sound, and Benjamin came in with the kettle and a trivet. He set them down and said to Malcolm, "I am watching, you know. I will not let you harm her."

"I won't. You have my word," Malcolm said. There was a bit of a sound of moaning from upstairs.

She called down. "Mister Lennox needs my care far more than you do. Can you staunch your own bleeding for the moment?" Malcolm nodded and Benjamin went upstairs, as quickly as he could.

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