The Measure of a Man
Chapter Four
Taking Stock
"The leader who exercises power with honor will work from the inside out, starting with himself." Blaine Lee
Nomar, too, bowed to Denethor and then followed the Captain General into the hallway. "My Lord?"
"You said that your heart belonged to the House of Húrin," he reminded the Scribe. "Does that include me?"
"My word is my bond." Then he smiled wryly. "I was not always a scribe, General, and I know how to follow orders."
Boromir smiled and clasped the man on the shoulder. "Good, that is exactly what I wanted to hear. Now here is my plan."
Leading the scribe down the hallway, Boromir fired off questions in rapid succession, pleased to find each answered swiftly and succinctly by the scribe. Nodding his head in satisfaction he gave his orders to Nomar and turned to pay a personal visit to the quartermaster. While he walked he began mentally compiling a list of supplies he planned to requisition for Henneth Annûn.
To a casual observer, the young captain general appeared to be making a peaceful stroll to begin his morning. In truth, Boromir was livid. That the rangers were so under-supplied was criminal. These brave men were Gondor's first line of defense, doing their job unheralded and in the most perilous of conditions, often buying time for the regular forces of Gondor to react to threats with their lives.
By the time he reached the quartermaster's office, he was resolved to do whatever it took to make sure a supply was sent this very day, for he intended to lead it himself. Boromir slammed opened the thick wooden door to the small, chilly office. The noise of it striking the wall behind reverberated off the walls. "On your feet, man," he snapped.
The startled man inside came quickly, if clumsily, to his feet, tugging on his wrinkled jacked in a vain attempt to force buttons to actually reach the holes. The yeoman to the quartermaster had held this post for the past forty years, and the kindest thing one might say about his appearance was that he had gone to seed. Boromir stepped around the paper littered desk to take in the man's appearance, from the dusty, scuffed boots to the balding head. Rumey eyes seemed to rest atop a bulbous nose as he blinked nervously. His tunic was clean, Boromir supposed, but so dingy as to be gray. The uniform jacket, which he had given up attempting to button across the much expanded and sagging waist line, must once have been proudly worn. Lastly, the captain general's eyes were drawn to the withered arm that now hung limply at the man's side.
Boromir took a calming breath. This was no line officer and could definitely not be treated as such. "Your name?"
The poor man swallowed loudly, the prominent bulge in his throat bobbing up and down with the effort. "A-Aldamar, sir."
"Be at ease, Aldamar," replied Boromir. "Where is the quartermaster?"
Relaxing slightly, but clearly not at ease, Aldamar continued to regard his new commanding officer, while wishing fervently that he had worn the newer of his two old jackets. A veteran of many campaigns under Lords Denethor and Thorongil, Aldamar had been badly wounded in battle and unable to continue in his command. One of that rare breed known as career soldiers, Aldamar's life was the cavalry, for he had never married. Moved by the man's devotion, Denethor had appointed him to the post he now held, yeoman to the quartermaster. Aldamar knew that he was probably past the time when he should step down in favor of another, but the prospect of his life without the military was a bleak one. He now hung his head in shame as he realized that he had allowed his duty to slip as much as his appearance had. "The quartermaster is...is...away, sir."
Boromir bit back a sharp retort. He would take up that matter with the quartermaster and not his yeoman.
"May I offer you a seat, sir?" Aldamar bowed slightly indicating a dusty chair across from his desk. "I have a pot of hot water here as well," he said quickly. "I will make you some tea."
Boromir sized the man up and took the proffered seat. "Thank you. Aldamar...I remember my father speaking of an Aldamar that served under him. Would that be you?"
The quartermaster's small eyes lit up with pride. "The steward spoke of me?" Unconsciously, the stooped shoulders straightened. "He was a good commander, that one...a real man of honor. Proud to serve under him, I was." His voice trailed off to a sigh as he made the tea, lost in thoughts of the past.
Boromir smiled to himself. This was a man he could work with...one who had become lax, perhaps, with the passage of time, but not dishonest or worse, lacking in compassion for the troops. He reached to accept the steaming mug offered by the aging soldier. No, he would save his ire for the absent quartermaster.
"I am proud to have the Captain General share some tea with me, sir. How may I help you?"
Boromir took a sip of the weak tea, undoubtedly made with re-used leaves in an attempt to stretch their use, and looked at the general shabbiness of the man before him with new eyes. Was pay so low that a man who had devoted his life to the army should be forced to subsist in such a way? He mentally added this to the list of things to investigate. No one should be forced to work for a wage that was too low to support himself in a decent manner, especially one who had bled for Gondor.
"Aldamar, I received a troubling missive from the commander of the Ithilien Brigade this morning. They are dangerously low on supplies and many of the troop are falling ill. I know that I need not tell you of the importance of these men in the defense of Gondor."
"Aye, Sir," Aldamar replied, setting down his cracked mug. "I worry for them myself. Many of the supplies we send end up stolen or siphoned off before they reach the refuge. I remember the difficulties of serving in the field and how just so little as a warm meal could restore heart in a battered soul."
Boromir forced himself not to pounce on the man, but the phrase, "siphoned off" had raised an alarm. "You say the supplies are stolen, and than I can understand with the difficulty of the terrain, but please explain how they are siphoned off."
Aldamar reddened as he realized what he had said. "Er...well, sir..." His mind raced furiously as he tried to figure out how to remain loyal to his immediate supervisor and his commanding officer at the same time. His love for his fellow soldiers won out over any loyalty he felt towards the current quartermaster.
"You may speak freely," Boromir urged, "for I judge you to be a man of honor yourself."
Taking a deep breath, Aldamar proceeded. "The supplies are requisitioned, sir, but somehow they never seem to get there. Yet on any given night one may buy army grade blankets and socks at a discount in certain taverns on the lower levels. It is just a crying shame, sir, if I do say so, and I bitterly regret that I let fear for my own sorry skin keep me from speaking up about it sooner."
Boromir was very still, banking the fires of his anger until he could loose them on the proper party. He met Aldamar's eyes. "Requisition an ample supply of provisions for the rangers. I want them resupplied in every area. Can you have everything ready within the hour?"
"Yes, sir!" replied Aldamar, jumping to his feet. "I will not fail you, Lord Boromir."
Boromir clasped his shoulder fondly. "I know you will not. Use as many men as it takes, but have those supplies ready!"
O-o-O-o-O
Hadon's eyes narrowed as the looked more closely at Hamm, still shielding the crying child. One of those startlingly blue eyes was swollen nearly shut, and several cuts were oozing blood. Hadon was not one to limit his own anger, but he was salesman enough to realize the relative value of an unmarked slave verses one bearing obvious signs of misuse, therefore his anger was always tempered with that thought. Now he grew angry all over again that his slave might be permanently scarred.
"Shabib," he yelled.
The chief slaver approached quickly, bowing low. "How may I serve my master?" If one did not know better, it would be easy to mistake Shabib for one of his charges, so dirty and ragged were the robes he wore. Rather than a lack of funds, it was more a lack of effort at even the simplest hygiene that was his problem.
"Get these men under control. We will be here for weeks now while the slaves heal. They are no good to us dead or too marked up to sell well, especially the fair haired ones. Every moment's delay will come from your commission. Do you understand me?"
Shabib had begun wailing at Hadon's pronouncement. His love of money was well known, for even his own family had not been spared from his greed.
"Stop your slobbering and be gone," screamed Hadon, the veins of his neck protruding from his effort.
Disgustedly, he turned and kicked Hamm, who was rising awkwardly to his feet. "I said get that boy inside and stop his infernal crying." With that, he stalked off, too furious at the situation to trust himself not to beat both boys to death just to relieve some of his anger. That would not be prudent, he reminded himself, already thinking of the money he would make from this last batch. Hamm and the other white haired boy would be worth their weight in gold, for he had decided the time had come to part with Hamm for fear that he would become marred before Hadon could profit from him. The others, the girl and three boys taken from Gondor, should, once he fattened them back up a bit, prove to be valuable as well. The girl was comely, with her silky dark hair and gray eyes. While dark hair was the norm in Harad, the fair skin and light eyes were not. The other three boys were young and promised long years of service.
Hamm lifted Mykill so as not to jostle the boy's broken arm. It was difficult to walk in the sand, but he hurried as quickly as he could. His room was small and airless, opening off of Hadon's bed chamber, but it offered what the tent did not...precious privacy.
Laying Mykill as gently as he could onto the pallet on the floor, Hamm continually soothed the traumatized child. The arm was swelling even as Hamm began to feel of the position of the broken bone.
Mykill whimpered and attempted to bite back a sob as Hamm worked.
"I am sorry, little one, but I must fix your arm so that it does not set wrong and become useless. Hamm's examination reminded him of the spring boughs he used to play with as a child. They were too green to break easily, but would only split on one side. He should be able to simply pull it back into place and secure it. It would be painful, to be sure, but should heal properly, if it was as he thought.
"Mykill, I am going to reset your bone now. It will hurt, but not for long." Hamm's heart wrenched at the terrified look on the boy's face. "Would you like to hear what the warriors in the Éoreds do when they are wounded?"
The child nodded quickly, his breath coming in quick inhales.
"The warriors have been known to have entire limbs removed without even so much as crying out," lied Hamm, who was too young when he was taken to have been much around any of the Éoreds.
"They do?" breathed Mykill, intrigued by what his idol was saying.
"Um hum," continued Hamm, as he broke off a slat of wood from the side of the window and tore strips from his bedding. "They hold a piece of leather between their teeth," finished Hammock.
"Is it magic?" asked Mykill.
"No," replied Hamm softly, "it is the heart of Rohan." Having gathered everything, he paused to look into Mykill's eyes. "I do not have leather, but you can have part of this wood slat to put between your teeth. Bite down on it when you feel pain and you will be like a true warrior. Are you ready?"
Mykill took a shaky breath and placed the proffered bit of wood between his teeth. Then he turned trusting, if tearful, eyes to Hamm.
Immediately, Hamm pulled the arm into place and secured it against the wooden slat with the strips of cloth. Mykill never made a sound as the young man worked quickly. Never had Hamm been as proud.
O-o-O-o-O
The supplies readied, Boromir prepared to leave the troop down through the levels of the city. Overhead the clouds which had steadily been gathering were rent by a deep rumble. Oh joy, Boromir chuckled to himself. Likely he would be thoroughly soaked before reaching the refuge. He turned to glance back at the gathered group of cavalry, and saw then looking askance at their charge.
On four of the pack horses, wooden pens strapped to each side of them contained loudly squawking chickens. The noise was abominable. The captain general sighed. They would draw every orc for miles around at this rate. Well, it could not be helped and he had a sufficient troop with him to handle most contingencies. He was determined that the rangers would have a good meal. The troop would make decent time and be able to travel a good distance before nightfall. Boromir preferred not to be on the road during the hours of darkness, especially with so large a supply to be protected. They would reach Henneth Annûn tomorrow.
Glancing up, he saw that Denethor had come onto the balcony of his rooms, drawn, no doubt, by the cacophony of noisy fowl. Boromir cringed. Rather than the nice succulent roasted birds expected for tonight's state dinner, there would be a nice chicken stew, long on vegetables and short on chicken. With Nomar's aid, Boromir had thoughtfully left barely enough chickens for the stew. Even from this distance, he could see Denethor's eyebrow rise. Boromir saluted, winked, and turned his horse to begin the rather unusual procession. His plan was to wait until they were closer to the refuge before killing all the chickens so that there would be no chance of spoilage, not to mention keeping noise to a minimum as they traversed the hostile lands.
As the unusual procession wound it way down through the city, citizens drawn by the spectacle lined the way. Boromir had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing out loud at the looks on some of their faces as they realized it was the Steward's very own heir leading this mismatched procession of horses, donkeys, wains and chickens instead of the regular spit and polish cavalry wearing armor glossed to a shiny finish.
When he spied Faramir's horrified face among those of the other cadets hastily called out to stand at attention as the captain general rode by, he lost his battle. Boromir's guffaws could still be heard even has he rounded the curve down to the next level.
TBC