Bloody Red Flag

Alhaeron (formerly T.R.)

Disclaimer: Oh, I'm sure you all know by now. Don't own The Patriot, Tavington, anybody in it, blah blah blah blah blah. Blah. No profit.

A/N: Back again by popular demand. I wrote this in 2005 and I decided, because I have way too much free time, to re-post it. That being said, I have no electronic copies of it, only hard ones, so this could take a while. Also, due to the fact that I'm writing a real book, that takes precedence, so if I have to choose between working on this and UFS (the book), it'll be UFS. Anyway, like I said way back when, this is a time travel fic. It's not a Mary Sue. It's going to be edited a little bit, because I've gotten a lot better at writing since then and there are some things I wrote that I just can't stand to read now, so I'm not going to inflict them upon you.

Chapter Three: A Killer

After about a day of living in the woods, wild with grief and anger, I decided to call it quits. I couldn't catch food, and if I caught something, what would I do? Strangle it with my bare hands? So I pushed my anger deep into my mind. I could feel it permeating my being, even on such a minute level as my cells, and it was so hard to control I lost it several times. Eventually I achieved a tentative control, but I knew it wasn't permanent. If I were pushed too hard…

But I had to do something. This rage wasn't going to take care of itself, and I had no skills or weapons. While my original idea had been to confine it to the woods, I now realized I couldn't stay here. There were very few options in this time period for a girl my age. Some were too unseemly to think of. I could work as a housemaid or a servant of some sort, but I knew that my anger would never allow servitude. Not a nanny, either, for I hated kids anyway and I feared that I might kill one of my charges. So there was no place for me…as a girl. As a man, it was a brave new world.

My mind kept coming back to something Chris had said: "We have to join the Continentals…and figure out how to disguise ourselves as boys." I could never join the Continentals, not after what they'd done. Oh, the soldier who'd done it was probably dead already, victim of Tavington or one of his ilk, but on the off-chance… There was only one other side. I knew the Continentals would win the war eventually, and how much difference could one soldier on one side or the other make? It wasn't like I was a master warrior or anything; just a kid, really: eighteen years old, bereft of best friend, and with a serious rage problem. I had come across, in my wanderings, the Redcoat camp on the other side of the battlefield. So now I just needed to disguise myself.

I could do a pretty good British accent, or so I was told, though I'd never actually put it to the test against a native. But first, there was the simple matter of costume, props, and alibi, although the first two depended greatly upon the last, so we had better start with that one. When I walked into camp, what would I say, and who would I say it to? That was easily solved. I would probably be challenged by a sentry, and if not, a commanding officer. But how would I act? Officious? Proud? Cocky? Cold? Warm and gentle? Sweet and submissive? I ruled those last out. The British needed good fighters, not good target practice. If I wanted to have any chance at all, I'd need to prove myself.

Eventually, I decided that I was a Brit whose father had just come over hoping to make a life for himself, but our promised land grant had been raided and pillaged by the Continentals, and my family killed. I decided to join the British for revenge, but for king and country first and foremost… It was convincing enough. It would do. But now for the boy part…

I stole over to a nearby farmhouse and surveyed the scene. It was a tranquil day, a bunch of cows grazing in a paddock, chickens clucking around the yard, laundry drying on the washline, including a bunch of rags. While the inhabitants of the farm were absorbed in their many and various chores, I crept to the cow paddock and let them all out. Then I made a noise like a wolf on the hunt, and they bolted. I had to leap aside to avoid them trampling me to bits, but while the people were chasing after their cows and yelling, I snatched the rags off the clothesline and disappeared into the woods.

I spent the better part of an hour trying to figure out how to bind my chest convincingly, and tightly enough so that it would stay. It wasn't easy when one only has a running stream for a mirror, but I managed. Now all I needed was a costume… I returned to the farmhouse from whence I'd taken the rags, set the chickens loose this time, and stole what appeared to be boys' clothes. There were too many straps and buckles, and the tricorner hat was a damned nuisance, but when I was done I surveyed myself in the water. I looked well enough, if a little sloppy, but that'd have to do.

I marched into camp unhindered, much to my dismay. I'd rather been counting on being challenged, and thus being spared the tedious process of introducing myself. I was all right as soon as I'd been introduced, but at self-introductions I failed with astonishing regularity. Still, I held my head high as I headed to the main tent. The British had won that battle, so they were complacent and pleased. Sounds of celebration and clinking glasses issued from the tent that now loomed ahead of me. Still, not everyone was happy…

Someone stormed out of that tent in a fury, like a cannonball fired from a cannon. He seemed set to mow everyone in his path over, and I, unfortunately, was in his path. It was like being slammed by a freight train, and he wasn't sorry. "Watch where you're going!" he spat, as I tried to pick myself out of the ground. I managed a very weak "Sorry…" and looked up, into a pair of icy blue eyes and a very pronounced scowl. Tavington. "Sir," I added, gulping, and then ducked a bow that was half a curtsey because I'd forgotten my new gender. The colonel sniffed, taking in my clothes.

"You're not a soldier here. Who are you, and where are you from? And where's your escort?"

His officious manner drove the monster in me to a near boil, but I fought it down and said, "Sir, I don't have an escort and I'm not a soldier, but I plan to be one. Where do I sign up?" My tone managed to be both glacial and respectful, but I could see he cared nothing for it.

"Hmmph. I suppose you ought to go in there; someone will get you fitted out and assigned to an outfit." He pointed to a tent on his right, then eyed me suspiciously. Uh oh. At least the accent seemed to be holding up. "Where did you say you were from?"

"From England, sir. My father was a farmer here, with a grant from His Majesty—"

"I don't care." He waved off my explanation with a flick of his hand, and it was all I could do to keep from swinging at him. "Go in that tent; we lost a good many today, and we could use some reinforcement." And with that, he swept by me, leaving a chill air in his wake. Another man followed behind him, also in a Dragoon uniform, and gave me an apologetic glance, but hurried after his colonel double-time.

I opened the flap of the tent Tavington had indicated, and stepped inside. Racks stood along all of the "walls," holding equipment: hats, boots, uniforms, muskets, powder, ball. A bored-looking young man sat at a desk that looked like it had been through the wars, so to speak. He yawned as I came in, and then pulled a gigantic book and a quill towards him. An inkpot was imbedded in the right corner of the desk, and he dipped the quill in it, chewed on the feather end for a while, then droned, "Name?"

"Uh—ah—" My stupidity was not to be believed. Why in the hell had I not thought to make up a name? "Ah, Timothy—er—Stevenshire."

The soldier scribbled in his book, glanced at me fleetingly, and then instructed me over to the racks. He guided me through the process of picking out a uniform and gear—it really was all the same, he said, and the jacket and breeches were either going to be too long or too short. He showed me how to sling everything around myself and then said, "Look, don't expect this level of attention from anyone else in the army. I haven't had anyone in here for months; I'm so bored I've nearly gone insane. But come tomorrow, no one will care about you. You'll just be an ant in a vast army of ants. Officers is all that matters, them fancy gentlemen. Half of 'em have 'ad it all from day one, barely ever stepped foot on a battlefield. But it's really all the same. D company's got a vacancy. Report to them."

***

Training was molecular; basically another private showed me how to load and shoot my gun, and the rest would come naturally. Then there was the endless marching. They (my superiors) placed a gigantic load of emphasis on looking, acting, and marching the same. It got so very tedious that eventually I started provoking fights with those in the ranks around me just to break the boredom. When they snapped back at me or broke ranks to try and retaliate, our commanding officers wreaked havoc—on them. I kept my face studiously blank, and they passed me by without even seeing me.

The only lesson I learned from the drilling was that it went on forever and was without point. I mean, where was the sense in doing everything at the same time—marching, shooting, and even reloading? The only ointment in this was that I already knew how to shoot. The details of when and where I learned are irrelevant, and the weapons I had learned with were far different from the ones I had now, but I managed, and became quite accurate by the standards of the day, even if I was slow reloading. But then, so was everybody, and I practiced relentlessly in the common tent while my fellow soldiers played cards or told dirty jokes and anecdotes.

I was not interested in making friends. I had always been rather cold and aloof towards my tentmates, and they got more and more curious about me until my manner could fend them off no longer. Finally, one of them, a large man in good standing for a commission as a corporal, came over to me as I cleaned my musket. He stood there for a while, and I studiously ignored him, until he reached out and jabbed my shoulder not too lightly. When I didn't react, he said, "Think you're too good for us, eh?" I had plenty of things I wanted to say to that, but I held my tongue, albeit with some difficulty.

The man got more angry as I appeared to prove him right. "Think you're better than us, don't'cha? Too fine an' fancy to talk with the likes of us? Ah, I bet I know why. Fixin' on bein' one a them offi—" And then I had him against a post that was used to pitch the tent, my fingers wrapped tight around his throat. I wasted no time. I knew he was stronger than me, and if I gave him room to struggle, he'd get away and I'd have a fight on my hands. While I might not really mind one of those to work off the stress inspired by the interminable drilling, I would be pitted against all the others in my company and would be whipped soundly. That wasn't the lesson I wanted to teach, so I tightened my fingers around his windpipe until he was choking and gasping for breath. Then I spoke, for the first time of my own volition in a number of weeks.

"I would like to be left alone," I said, my voice deathly cold. "I am sure you are smart enough to understand that when I say it to you, but apparently too stupid to realize it flat out. When people make me angry, they come off the worse for it. I don't recommend it." I released his throat, and he collapsed, massaging it and gasping. "Well?" I demanded, resting one boot near him as though preparing to kick. He eventually choked out "Tha's all righ'…" He was whipped the next day for refusing to respond to a superior officer's query.

Despite my display, I did get into several fights, but I handled them all with efficiency and silence, until no one really cared to test me. Then, I was free to tackle the business of turning myself into a man. You could bind my chest, put me in breeches when everyone else was in petticoats, give me a musket and tell me to march, but there were some clear differences in the physical between men and women that I was never more aware of than now. In my favor, I had the height for it; I was taller than many of my companymates. My face could be called boyish. But there were also the mannerisms.

My fellow females seemed to have had a Feminine Behavior 101 class that I'd missed out on, so I had acquired few of the traits that seemed universal amongst them. But I did have a slight tendency to shriek at spiders, ticks and bees, which were in abundance here. Stopping that, I supposed, would have to come naturally, but there were some other things I didn't quite have the luxury of waiting for.

Like walking. Marching was all right. When we marched, everyone walked unnaturally, so I couldn't be told from Adam (or Eve). But walking, everyday, regular walking, proved to be a problem. I studied my fellow soldiers as they loafed, strutted, sidled, or ran, and reached conclusions that helped me amend my gait. Foremost, it was a more forward motion. One did not swing one's hips nearly as much. That was the hardest part. I practiced that for ages, pacing to and fro, but no one dared accost me on account of my infamous temper, rumor of which I encouraged heartily. There was also a certain set to the shoulders I saw in those who felt like they had some measure of authority. This set would be dropped as soon as one engaged in any sort of undignified activity like running or fighting, but in casual walking or even pacing it was present. I intended to have some measure of dignity, so I practiced that, too.

This was training, my real training I took upon myself. But that was not all war was.

***

My first battle, I didn't know what to expect. It wasn't a real battle, more of a skirmish, really, and would not be recorded in the annals of history. Even so, I feared that when I entered the fray, I would be stricken with a malady common among us soldiers: cowardice. But as it drew near, I felt a strange sensation swirling through my veins. It issued up from my stomach and made the blood in my veins boil. It made my senses, my vision, my nose, my ears, keener, but my sight was tinged red. I was seized with an urge to break, to burn, to kill. It could substitute for courage, this bloodlust, and I needed every inch of it I could get.

It was unreal. We lined up in rows and plugged two volleys of shots at each other. I was pleased to see that my two balls hit my targets, something a rare soldier could boast. The Continentals knew they were out-manned and out-classed, and they were ready to break at our second volley. And then…there was the charge. I leveled my bayonet at the fleeing back of some enemy and screamed, although it was more of a roar. I felt it plunge into his back with a sickening splutch and, lest I lose my musket, yanked it out immediately.

We had taken the field from minute one, but we were by no means done. The Dragoons charged in to mop everything up, and the Continentals, stuck between them (rock) and us (hard place), were forced to turn and fight. The noise was incredible: the screams of horses, the shrieks of the just-injured, the moans of the dying. It smelled like a meat blender, and that's really what it was. I lost my musket somewhere; I wasn't too worried about it except that it turned up in the hands of an opponent, who was using it to beat me. I reached around blindly on the ground between blows, among the bodies of the dead and dying, and seized the sword of a dead officer, not even drawn from its sheath. With a lightning-fast movement, I cut off my opponent's head, and would use the sword long after.

I was in one major battle and dozens of skirmishes, and my quick and ruthless efficiencies did not escape the notice of my superiors. I was promoted, ending up a sergeant after all was said and done. But nothing could, nothing would diminish my bloodlust, and with every emergence, it got harder and harder to fight down. But I did…for now. How could I stand it? Simple: the anger was so burning, so bright, destroying the human in me, and killing seemed the only way to exorcise the monster. It wicked away any feelings of guilt or remorse I might have had, leaving only a killer.

A/N: Yeah, pretty melodramatic in hindsight. I also trimmed a lot of the Sue-ish elements, because for all I protested that she wasn't a Sue, I'm not sure she would have passed one of the Sue tests. But whatever. I love Tim. Despite being in fanfic, she was my first real non-Sue OC. Next chapter: Tav!

Alhaeron