Thread: Asking for Directions {darkangel76 & Alan23}

If Lt Bristow had been impressed by Lt Bertram's military bearing, and that of his hand-picked troops... the same could not be said for Charles Marlowe Rennie Galvie McAuley. Sure, there was something - small as the factor might have been - to be said for discipline, the ability to charge as one body, to obey commands instantly, to strike psychological fear into one's foes by the sheer impetus and unity of their operations. But if all that were needed to win battles were power and momentum, why a tank could do as much, and far less wastefully. He'd seen whole squadrons of elite cavalry brought down by careful Gatling fire with a two-inch tap, or even well-directed infantry fire, during his own brief military service, when the Mexicans had been misguided enough to invade Her Majesty's province of Annesland. The 7th might be useful for making a brave sight on a parade ground, or supporting infantry and tanks on the march, but their military value was, in his opinion, somewhere between rainbows and puppies on the scale of usefulness. And get any one of them, one on one, against a man such as himself - a survivor, skilled in single combat, a crack shot and expert with a knife and kicking boots... But, clinging to his one small chance of survival, he said nothing, simply looked as hangdog as he could which, after more than six months in a military jail was, truth to tell, not too difficult and stood, with head bowed, as the Lieutenant harangued him, warned him that any sign of rebellion or truculence on the journey would be the source of much regret and not, in case he was in any doubt, to the Lieutenant, and that as scum he should be grateful he wasn't to be taken back to his homeland trussed up like a hard-shell crab for the boiling. It hadn't been all bad. He had, at least, been allowed to shower, had his hair trimmed, his beard shaved, and a few strategically aimed puffs of various powders guaranteed to kill, at least, most of the lice and crabs and other nasties that had been occupying the more hirsute portions of his lean body for some months, and had been plaguing him incessantly. And, he'd just learned, it was to be a long trip, conducted in secrecy. Who knew what might happen? He might, after all, have been Love, the way he was able to laugh at locksmiths. If a man with his abilities and resources could not find some way to slip the leash, escape from the sight and conjecture of this mob of mounted popinjays and get clear into the Western Badlands, then he wasn't the man he knew he was. Landsakes and Auntie Ivy , he thought to himself, if this mob of poseurs and chocolate soldiers are truly the best the Amerikan nation can offer, then seeking peace with Her Maggoty's Colony is the wisest move they ever made. Well, he'd see their chosen diplomat, soon. Some balding, late middle-aged, wheezy, overdressed, choleric statesman manque , no doubt, full of his own importance, and with a pot-belly standing proud before himself. Hey, with luck and a fair breeze, he might even get to hold the guy hostage, offer him his freedom in reply for use of his official seal and the contents of his strong-box. You could go a long way with a signed pass, even if it were forged! But he kept his thoughts to himself, offering a facade of humility, whining, ingratiating co-operation and defeat. No point, after all, in tipping one's hand too early. Not when one had a good set of lockpicks in the heel of one's left boot, and a collapsible knife tucked down the leg of the right!