Thread: Asking for Directions {darkangel76 & Alan23}

Diplomacy is the art of telling people to go to hell in such a way that they ask for directions - Winston Churchill. Lieutenant Lucian Pericles Wilkes Bertram, 7th Washington Colony Cavalry, could not resist a surge of pride as he entered the compound at the head of his troop. Dressed in his dark blue dress uniform, resplendent with frogging, lace and braid, mounted upon his mettlesome gray charger, and followed by the olive-clad troops, representing the best the military could offer, he knew the hand-picked escort from his regiment made a fine sight. Even the flag itself, New Glory, with its red, white and blue horizontal stripes, that flew atop the pole just inside the fort's gates, seemed to fly a little straighter at the appearance of the proud, crack men who were pledged to defend its honor. The Lieutenant barked out a crisp command, and as one, every man in the escort pulled their mount to an immediate halt, drew sabres, and raised them in salute. The ensign, holding the guidon high, trotted his horse to stand beside the Lieutenant. Lieutenant Cicero Ulysses Bradley Bristow, 84th Rhode Island Rifles, tried desperately and unsuccessfully to hide how impressed he was. Unlike Lt Bertram, he had never served in the field and, in truth, duty as prison garrison was hardly the stuff of which dreams were made. Nonetheless, he took comfort from the fact that one of the prisoners he guarded had a certain notoriety to his name, the casual dropping of which was a certainty to gain free drinks and the approval of any maiden naive enough to be impressed by such things. And now this one claim to fame was to be taken from him. His attempt not to show his resentment was as unsuccessful as his admiration for the discipline of the cavalry troop! I think you know why we're here, Lt Bertram said, an arrogant lilt to his voice. He stretched out a gauntleted hand, took the papers - signed by the President himself - and slapped them into Bristow's. Any questions? Lt Bristow made a show of studying the papers, trying not to work his lips behind his tobacco-stained beard. Literacy was not one of his strengths. I still don't understand, he whined. Surely the security risk - I mean, I have one of the most notorious assassins in history under my guard. Failed assassin, snapped Bertram. In case the information contained in the release is beyond your comprehension, this man is a vital bargaining chip. Charles Marlowe Rennie McAuley is to be handed over, for good diplomatic reasons, to the authorities of his own country. It may well be the final feather in the balance that prevents war. In any case, that is the president's signature, in case you - No, no, Bristow replied, cowed. The mention of war had unsettled him. He liked the parade aspect of military life - the prospect of having to actually fight was less appealing. He snapped his finger, and the private accompanying him snapped to a sloppy version of attention. Sullivan! Fetch the prisoner, he forced out, in as military tone as he could manage. Enjoy it, laughed Corporal Wilding. It's the last you'll get here. Charles Marlowe Rennie McAuley, known as Galvie to what few friends would still acknowledge him, looked with distaste upon the mess of beans and fat pork in his tin dish. They say a condemned man gets a decent last meal, he growled. It's almost worth being a victim of this crazy scheme, to get decent food, for a change. Pah, you got nothing to complain of, the Corporal replied. Being a political prisoner, you've had the best this hotel can offer. Clean straw every day, eggs for breakfast once every three days, change of clothes once a week, no hard labor. Yeah, easy to say, Galvie replied, if they ain't handing you over to a firing squad. His accent, the typical drawling version of British English typical of his birthplace, sounded almost courtly against the Colonel's more clipped, Northern tones. Sacrificial lamb, me. And I don't fancy riding no horse all that way, either. Horse, the Colonel laughed. Feller, you livin' in some fool's paradise. I seen what they got planned for you. Specially converted tank... with the front and rear replaced by bars, so they can keep a good eye on you. You'll be like a caged animal in a circus, my friend. And no better what you deserve. What? But that's - for shit's sake! I'm no animal - ain't there any rules at all, any more? Shoulda thought of that before ya tried killing the Duke, shouldn't ya? chuckled the Corporal. Now, eat up quick - I hear the steps of the guard detail comin' for ya. Been nice knowin' ya. Galvie deliberately lingered, making the four olive-clad infantrymen wait until he had finished every scrap and wiped the juice from his bowl with a piece of bread, before holding out his wrists for the handcuffs he'd wear until they reached New Orleans, the length of two full nations away.