With the small group of soldiers Arthur gathered, they got into a dinghy in the dead of night and without a lantern to light their way, they paddled towards the Man-O-War with the tattered English Flag the admiral wanted them to investigate. Their goal was to approach the ship, climb up to the gallery's open port holes, and listen for any suspicious persons. Arthur knew that if they were discovered, they would be hard-pressed to get away alive, even with the admiral's suggestion of asking why they hoisted a flag that clearly needed repair.
The matter of it is that they were in a vulnerable position this way. If these are indeed just negligent English soldiers, then his time will have been wasted. If these were pirates, then there was no way they could get out of there alive if things turned ugly. They may get caught eventually, when the admiral realizes he's missing a handful of low-ranking officers, but by then, the murderers might very well get away.
Arthur only hoped that if the latter were true, that the admiral at least expected him to report back in the morning and would be suspicious if Arthur didn't come. He kept his fingers crossed in hopes that his commanding officer will do his due diligence on the matter.
God forbid that Braith be the one to represent the Kirkland family in future generations.
The closer they got to the suspicious ship, the more quietly they began to paddle, one man with an eyeglass trained on the ship to keep an eye out for lookouts that might spot them. If they were spotted, they could always pretend they're doing spot checks for the generals at the coast and if they're lucky and decent actors about it, they would get away with it.
Arthur only considered them safe (as safe as they can get) once they were adjacent to the ship, their dinghy floating just an arm's length away from it. With a few hand signals to convey to his partners what he intended to do, Arthur climbed up the ladder that hung on the side of the ship. He did so carefully so the rope or his boots wouldn't clang against the wooden sides of her belly, alerting the occupants of his presence. He climbed up slowly, aiming for a lit porthole that he could hang under and listen.
The closer he got, the more clearly he could hear voices. He couldn't quite distinguish what they were saying so he climbed a little higher, growing more cautious with every rung he rose until it dawned on him as he listened in.
"Mais il pense vraiment qu'elle l'attendait comme si qu'à l'avais rien d'mieux à faire, maudit bâtard," he heard one.
"Y'é-t-en amour, laisse-le faire," groaned another with a sigh.
Arthur's ears burned. He knew this certainly wasn't English and that these weren't English soldiers. He tried his damnedest to remember what language this was for his report to the admiral, but he was distracted by an odd clenching pain in his chest. Feeling unsafe, he climbed back down, trying to figure out why this language got this reaction from him. He couldn't remember feeling this sort of pain before.
Reaching the dinghy, he motioned for his companions to paddle back to shore. When they were a safe distance from the ship, he was able to calm himself enough to remember to tell the others that he would take care of it. He needed to recollect himself before he told anyone about his discovery. He sent the other boys back to the barracks to sleep, finally, promising them he'd tell the admiral in the morning.
Mainly, Arthur didn't want to alert them and cause a panic at the fortress, because when he calmed himself enough to breathe and think clearly, he recognized the foreign tongue to be some mangled form of the French he had learn to read growing up, and a British warship manned by a French crew spelled bad news for them on so many levels, Arthur didn't even know where to start. For one, he was sure now that it wasn't pirates as his admiral suspected, but French rebels wanting to overthrow their delicate hold on the fur trade business at the Bay.
Arthur considered how he was going to report this to his admiral as he walked down the harbour, needing to get back to the officer's quarters as soon as possible. He was deaf to the sounds of drunkards and dancers in the taverns along the coast, but he wasn't blind. He weaved his way around them deftly with a purposeful stride, his musket gripped tightly in his hand behind his back both to keep people from bumping into the butt of it and to feel safer, but his step faltered when he sidestepped two old drunks and came face to face with the one person he never thought he'd see again.
His chest clenched painfully again when he got caught in a gaze with clear blue eyes. Oh. Oh, no. What did this mean?
"Francis," he breathed before his mind even thought to recall his name.
The older blond almost seemed to grimace as recognition crossed his features, his eyes darkening as he glanced over Arthur's red coat. Only then did Arthur notice the heavy-chested blond that practically seemed coiled around Francis with legs and arms tangled into him. A prostitute, by the looks of her dress barely covering her pink nipples and her skirt hiked up high enough to reveal a garter, which Francis seemed to have been in the middle of sliding off her, his long finger squeezed into the band.
In the middle of the street.
Arthur's cheeks burned realizing what he was witnessing, embarrassed, but also feeling a tinge of something else, something foreign and dark he couldn't recall experiencing before.
Francis' eyes never left Arthur as he whispered something in the whore's ear. She grinned and redressed herself, walking away with an exaggerated gait.
"Have we met before?" he asked, whatever French accent he once had now gone and replaced with a bostonian accent.
Arthur's heart sank to his stomach. It was such an odd feeling, and he didn't know why he felt it. "What d'you mean? It's Arthur," he said, mentally scolding himself for sounding so childish. "We were friends when we were children, back in Boston. I moved back to London but we wrote to each other."
"Oh," said Francis curtly, his eyes growing dark. "Well. Like father like son, I suppose," he scoffed, his eyes trailing over the red uniform Arthur still wore since his shift on the watchtower.
Arthur frowned. "What, because I became a soldier? I didn't have a choice, and you know it," he snapped.
"Of course, just like I didn't have a choice but to become a hunter like my father," shrugged Francis, a bitterness reviving in him remembering the sight of their farmhouse desolate and abandoned with nowhere else to go.
"Y-you did?" asked Arthur, a little surprised. "I thought you wanted to be a baker. At least, that's what you told me in the letter you sent me."
"I said I lot of things in those letters," sighed Francis, turning to walk away and waving a hand for Arthur to follow. Compelled somehow (and a little disgusted with himself by how easily so), Arthur complied and walked a short distance behind Francis.
"How is your brother? The lumber trade must be tough in the winter," he said, trying to maintain a somewhat lively conversation with his old friend.
"Mathieu is dead," said Francis, his tone more cold and emotionless than Arthur remembered it being.
"Oh… I'm so sorry for your loss," he said sincerely.
"I fail to believe you but if it makes you feel any better," sighed Francis, entering a tavern and heading straight for a back table-evidently familiar with this establishment from all those years ago when his brother's death was still fresh in his mind. "And what brings you back to this wretched country?" asked Francis.
"My crew was stationed here for a little bit," he said, sitting across from Francis.
"For what?" he continued.
"I wish I knew," sighed Arthur. "Until I move up the ranks, it's not worth telling me why we're here. I just follow orders."
"Of course. Doesn't surprise me that you haven't changed a bit," snided Francis, remembering all too well how obedient Arthur had always been towards his father.
Arthur's cheeks burned. "Yes, well, after what happened to my brother, it's a good thing I was so obedient," he retorted.
"Oh? What happened?" asked Francis, suddenly curious.
"He ran away," Arthur said simply, not wanting to give away the details. "And Father disowned him. I'm now the eldest son."
"Your father abandoned his child for that?" scoffed Francis. "I have to admit, Arthur, that I'm with your brother on this one. If I were given a choice between having a family like yours or no family at all, I'd rather have no family."
"And that's exactly what you got, isn't it?" mumbled Arthur under his breath, immediately regretting his words when he noticed Francis' eyes darken again. "S-sorry… That was uncalled for."
Francis grunted, calling a server over to order some wine.
"What about you?" asked Arthur. "What brings you to this part of the country? Do you hunt in the north?"
"I used to," said Francis, realizing his slip up. "I just came here with old friends to let off some steam."
"Kind of far from Montreal, isn't it?" murmured Arthur.
"Kind of far from Boston, too," he replied.
Arthur bit his lip. "Why did you tell me you didn't want to be friends anymore in your last letter?" he asked suddenly, wishing he could know so he could finally have his closure.
"Because you're English," chuckled Francis.
"S-so?" stammered Arthur.
"So, your father is the reason my family was slaughtered, why my sisters disappeared and I can no longer find them and why my brother was put in a position to be killed by wild animals," said Francis, that new bitter tone creeping in, setting Arthur's nerves on fire.
Of course, Francis had always been a bit bitter about what happened to his family, but Arthur truly thought he had helped melt that animosity away.
The time apart clearly had been unkind to both of them.
"I'm sorry," murmured Arthur sincerely.
When the waitress came, Francis poured a glass for himself but none for Arthur.
His stomach grumbled again, but he didn't bring his money with him when he went to take his shift.
"Hm. It's not like you personally killed my family, and you're just a low-ranking officer," shrugged Francis. "If anyone should be apologizing, it's the Queen of England herself."
"As much as I feel for you, Francis, I don't think that goal is entirely realistic."
"Nor is single-handedly taking down the entire British Empire," chuckled Francis, being careful to keep his tone jovial as he let his dark ambitions to light.
Arthur faltered, an uneasy feeling creeping in. "And everyone in it?" he murmured.
"Nah. I'm sure many women and children were innocent," sighed Francis. "But the men are all bastards."
Even me, thought Arthur. "Well… I should be getting to the barracks," sighed Arthur, standing. "I have a report to give."
"Oh?"
"Some Frenchmen stole an English ship," he sighed, turning to leave. "What a bloody mess."
"Oh, you mean my ship," chuckled Francis. "Don't worry, they won't cause any trouble."
Arthur froze. For a moment, he felt his heart stop and his breath catch in his throat. "That's… your ship?"
"Yes, but we'll be gone by tomorrow," promised Francis. "The boys just wanted a night with their wives and children. Not here to cause trouble. Unless you cause us trouble," remarked Francis, his eyes lazily glancing over Arthur's figure.
Arthur gulped. "Right. If you're still there tomorrow evening… I'll report it," he said.
"That's a good lad," grinned Francis. "Come see me in the morning. We should grab a bite together when you're not wearing that ugly thing."
Arthur bit his lip, nodding. For the moment, everything seemed just like before between them and Arthur wanted to preserve it. He wanted his best friend back.
Even if it meant one tiny lie by omission.