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Post by Zachariah Sutton on Jun 6, 2014 2:38:14 GMT
Lexington and Concord. Bunker Hill. War. It had at long last come down to it. Rye was relieved. Years of sitting around and standing around and waiting. It grew old long ago. And he had been aching for something to do - anything to do. And now he would finally get his chance. He will finally be able to throw it back in those sorry fellows' faces for years of taunting and insults. They threw rocks at him the other day. One hit him on the shoulder causing a large black and green bruise. It still hurt to hold his musket up. But he could still hold it up. That was what mattered now that they were at war. At long last. War.
Rye was sitting on a sideways barrel just behind and a little ways down the street from the Customs House. He was off-duty and had considered going to the little nearby tavern for a drink. But instead - or perhaps first - he was making certain that his musket was in good working order. It wasn't that he was intending to use it - Boston was thoroughly under British control since the Rebels' defeat on Bunker Hill - but it was good for show.
He had it upside down. The stock was resting on the ground and he was looking down the barrel. Rye had been having some issues firing it lately and he was afraid of a crack or some worn bit or who knows what might have been going on.
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Post by George Braxton on Jun 6, 2014 23:35:40 GMT
He was off duty at long last and had a few wonderful moments to himself. Free time was quickly becoming rare and while most spent their leisure time drinking or sleeping (or both ... sometimes at once), George was not a heavy drinker. It wasn't from lack of desire. He simply rather keep the money. Of course, if he could get someone else to buy him a drink ... that was an entirely different story.
Before shots were first fired, he had found extra work at the rope walk. It was unpleasant - though not any worse he had experienced - and the pay was barely existent - particularly for a Redcoat. But it was well-appreciated bit of extra money. That money was intended to one day purchase a commission. It was the only thing on his mind - his only goal. His commission money - as he called it - was tucked up in an old pair of socks and tucked into the bottom of his bag. It wasn't the safest place for it but it was the only place.
He was on his way to the tavern now with the hopes of being able to con a drink off of someone else. As he turned a corner, he spotted one of his friends sitting on a barrel and looking down the barrel of his musket.
"Small wonder your aim is so poor," George said with a chuckle. "You've been using your musket wrong this whole time."
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Post by Zachariah Sutton on Jun 8, 2014 3:29:43 GMT
"My aim is poor?" Rye looked up from his work. "I can shoot better than you, that's for damn sure." He gestured to the musket. "It hasn't been firing right lately. And it's not my aim." He added the last bit fearing a smirk or a snarky answer from his friend.
George was like that. They had the type of friendship that involved a great deal of friendly insults, teasing remarks, and a general giving each other a hard time. He had known George for a good ten years. The two had enlisted a week apart and they had fought side by side through thick and thin. George was what made service bearable in the worst of times. He was a constant companion in the best of times. To put it simply, they had each other's backs.
"Going to the tavern?" He asked. George rarely went and when he usually did he never seemed to pay for his own drinks. Rye thought over the coins heavy in his pocket. He surely had enough for more than one drink. "Buy you a drink?" It was the one surefire way to get his friend inside. His musket was not going to be fixed anytime soon. Perhaps there wasn't even anything wrong with it. Maybe his aim was off. He pushed the thought to the back of his mind. He would never vocalize it.
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Post by George Braxton on Jun 10, 2014 2:11:28 GMT
"You're deluding yourself, Rye, if that's what you think," George said with a laugh. "Perhaps you've been sobering up and that's what's affecting your aim." He said it in a teasing manner but if Rye thought that there was something wrong with his musket and that was what was affecting his aim, then he was likely right. The man knew muskets. And his aim was fantastic for such an inaccurate weapon.
They went in the tavern and took seats at an empty table sitting tucked away in the corner of the room. It was a good spot for keeping an eye on the other patrons. George had rather have been in the center where it was less dark and less out of the way. But there were still plenty of rebels lurking about. It was necessary to be able to keep an eye on things while keeping their backs to the wall. Not that any Rebel would have the courage to do anything.
"One of these days I'll buy you a drink," George said. "So," he said, leaning across the table. "Predictions for the length of the war? I'm betting on less than a month. We'll be back in England by Christmas, mark my words."
(short post ... my apologies)
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