In which James Wilkins lets stress from his duties get the better of him.

Inspired by this prompt: Imagine your favorite historical figure spilling ink over a letter that they have been writing for hours.

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Captain Wilkins was dead tired. He has been a dragoon officer for several months now, a participant in the hunt for the ghost. Or rather, a wild goose chase! For the culprit behind these attacks did not get this name for nothing; he vanishes every time... as if he were no more than a phantom. The attempts at capturing such a phantom was like trying to catch smoke. Like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands.

As time went by, the pressure mounted for Colonel Tavington to capture this ghost, which in turn mounted pressure on all of his men. So they rode longer, trained harder, and worked until their limits were almost passed. Now, Wilkins was not a weak man, far from it! And he valued service to his country more than his own life. However... how will Tavington's men be able to do anything for King and Country if they can barely even see straight? Even now in his tent Wilkins found no rest, for he had to complete one of his more unpleasant duties: paperwork!

So there he was, hunched over his desk, a frail quill in one fatigued hand scratching out the final paragraph of a letter designated to a lieutenant in another legion. He was almost done, but a loud and ungodly din from nearby made him jump out of his skin.

"Shit!"

The clamor turned out to be the barking of dogs; possibly the hounds baying after a squirrel. James shook his head and turned his attention back to what he was doing. Then he froze in shock and disbelief. For there on the desk sat an inkwell that he had struck with his elbow, now toppled over, its contents emptied and spilled out over the letter that had taken him over three hours to write. The breath that James didn't realize he had been holding in was released in the form of a vexed growl.

'Stay calm, stay calm, stay calm...'

He repeated this over and over in his mind, like a magical incantation of some form or another. Losing his temper will do no good, he attempted to reason. So with that he shut his eyes, took a deep breath in, held it... and roared with all the rage and ferocity that would give a dragon a run for his money.

Suddenly the exhausted giant was revived and energized with frustration; James leapt from his chair like a charging bull and terrorized all the furniture and objects he could get his hands on. He toppled over his desk, his chair, his cot. For extra measure, he tossed around the few books that he kept lying around and the several quills that he had broken while trying to write as well. The feathery end of one quill in particular kept floating in the wrong direction than where he wanted it, so James ended up batting at it as a cat would with a mouse. At this point, if one could witness the Captain's tirade, one would be more amused than frightened. Indeed no one saw it, per se, but the racket that Wilkins made has certainly drawn attention from the other dragoons and the camp followers. Even more so when the white cloth of the tent collapsed in a sagging heap over the wriggling officer.

After a while of struggle, James finally managed to pull the heavy fabric off of him... and was met with a crowd of shocked and amused faces.

James stood before the soldiers, the anger from only a few moments ago faded into embarrassment. There was no noise for only a moment, and then a spark from the back ignited a cacophony of laughter. James's face was blazing red and he watched Colonel Tavington with dread. The shorter man slowly stalked up to him and silenced the soldiers once again with but a simple order. He looked neither shocked or amused. At all. Tavington's wolfish eyes scrutinized the Colonial with distain. Yet he also smirked, just a trace, but it was enough to express his satisfaction. Not a single soul could argue that Wilkins was a bad soldier. He carried out his orders to the best of his ability, and he valued loyalty to the King more strongly than even some men who resided in England! Yet Tavington despised Wilkins. True, a trashed tent was hardly a cause for formal disciplinary action, but the Captain knew that Tavington was going to use this to his advantage one way or another.

"Captain."

James remained at attention, the only sign of any expression in his face was the sweat on his forehead and the panic in his cobalt eyes. He remained silent, the wise thing to do when confronted by Tavington. The Colonel silently eyed the collapsed tent, the belongings scattered about the ground, and the disheveled appearance of the larger man in a cool, even smug manner. He began to speak. He did not raise his voice or show any anger at all. He is already harsh... dangerous without having to do any of that.

"I can see that you have quite a temper. I wonder if we could make you a half-competent fighter if you used that anger on the battlefield instead of throwing childlike tantrums. This is hardly the conduct of a gentleman or a member of His Majesty's army. Clean this mess up, Wilkins. I expect this area to be spotless by the time I return from my audience with Cornwallis, is that clear?"

"Yes Colonel."

"Good. Bordon." He nodded towards his second before turning to leave.

Now, at first glance Tavington's reaction might seem like nothing, just a firm reprimand that a misbehaving child would receive from their parent. But Wilkins knew better. Tavington was simply storing away this moment as simply another thing to use against him. James already regretted losing his head as it drew so much attention. But he knew that he was going to pay for it even more later on. But how?