The King's Shilling

Login

Affiliated Resource

Bookmark Us

Ready to join our community and share your stories?

Create an Account

This story may contain adult content.

Written by Brendan Walsh
Wednesday, 26 March 2008

Last Updated ( Wednesday, 26 March 2008 )

Share this Story:

Stumble

Technorati

Digg

Thomas and Henry were both out of breath. They needed to rest. Both had been running at a dead sprint for what seemed to them like hours. Both boys threw themselves on the vegitated ground by a stream not saying a word to one another, only taking deep, rapid breaths.

Thomas walked over to the stream and stuck his head in the cool, murky water. Henry laid still in the bed of ferns that he had collapsed on.

“Do you think that we are far enough away?” Henry asked in his high pitched voice as beads of sweat ran down the side of his face.

“For now.” Thomas replied as he wiped all the access water from his face.

Thomas really had no idea if they had acheived a safe distance. The whole day had been chaos. The all night march from Boston, the militia gathering in the hundreds to out number the Regulars, Henry losing control and bayoneting a physically disabled townsmen in Concord. Then the horrible ambush. It was a blessing that the both of them escaped death as musket fire from both sides shot at them when they ran off into the forest.

“What do you have left?” Thomas asked.

“The uniform on my back. I let everything else go as we ran.” Henry sighed..

“So, you also left a trail then?”

“I couldn’t run with all that weight, Thomas! Besides it was your bright idea to desert in the first place!” Henry said.

“You stabbed that cripple! You made that choice! You were a dead man if we hadn't ran. Lt. Campbell had already ordered you to death by hanging in the Common. I’m putting myself in harms way to save your worthless life. Now get up and bury your jacket in the mud!” Thomas argued.

Henry, a short, slender boy with horrible acne. He was nineteen, but he looked more like he should be serving as a drummer boy. A lot of the other soldiers in his regiment would always tease him about his youthful look. Even worse was when the colonist would tease him. Thomas standing over six feet tall with a lean, hard look would always look after him. Once, a soldier from a rich family in London was chasing Henry around the sleeping quarters with a short sword when Thomas, drunk off a bottle of rum stumbled in and witnessed this incident. Thomas tossed the bottle, grabbed the short sword off of the rich boy and held him down on the floor with one hand while he carved the number one on his back with the other hand. One, standing for His Majesty’s First Foot Guard Regiment.

Thomas and Henry grew up together in Plymouth, England where both of their fathers were sailors together on a ship that set sail for Spain eight times a year.Unfortunately, both men had been slain by pirates off the coast of the Spanish city, Dijon They attended school together, and upon taking the “Kings Shilling”, the bonus paid by the crown for enlisting, both signed into the Army together for life. Both giving their lives to the king on a drunken morning outside of a run down tavern. When asked who’s idea it was to enlist, both boys would answer that it was the rum’s idea.

After both jackets were buried in the mud, they crossed the stream cautiously. Watching out for any colonist sniper of hunters that would rather kill a red coat than this weeks dinner. Henry bent over to take one last drink from the running water.

“Thomas, what are we going to do now?”

The March to Concord

The formation was perfectly dress right dress as they marched toward Concord on Colonel Smith’s “Secret mission”. To Thomas it didn’t seem like a big secret. Two O’clock in the morning and it seemed as though every town they marched through the townspeople were wide awake watching them from windows and doorways. He felt uneasy. Hell he didn’t even know what the secret mission was. He was ordered to prepare his uniform for a march. Preparing a uniform in the British Army took at least two hours. Halfway through waxing his hair with the remaining candle wax, his sergeant called everyone into formation. He shoes looked pathetic, his buttons not even shined properly. What did he care about his shoes, he’s already marched seven or eight miles and they were covered in mud.

Word was passed back that they were marching to Concord to search for two high ranking militiamen that had been causing trouble around Boston. He always hated to leave Boston, it always meant problems. He knew he could handle himself, he was just concerned about his friend Henry. He was always acting like he had something to prove. Whenever he tried to prove something it always turned around to bite him on the rear.

A few hours later the regiment came to a halt in Lexington. Thomas knew something was going on around the bend, but had no idea. Trouble, he knew it, he could sense it. When a sergeant walked to the rear of the formation, Thomas overheard him informing a Lieutenant Campbell of a bunch of armed militia blocking the road. The sergeant said this with a smirk on his face, like it was nothing to take too seriously. The young lieutenant sighed and shook his head as if he was annoyed by the whole event.

Thomas looked over at Henry, who looked eager to take his musket to the front. Both made eye contact and Henry stuck his tongue out and raised his “Brown Bess” musket in the air. As if he was ready to charge the town of Lexington all by himself.

A shot rang out, followed by a volley of musket fire. The volley so loud it startled Henry causing his musket to drop on his feet. The whole formation seemed to be crouching down, everyone wondering what had just happened. Random shots rang out, and every couple of seconds a musket ball could be heard whizzing through the trees from a high shot. Everyone stayed low, including the lieutenant, who had sent the sergeant up to the front for more information.

The front of the formation erupted in cheers and chants, and the order came to move forward.

“Run, like the cowards you are!” One chant could be heard in a southern English accent. To Thomas it sounded as a couple of early morning drunks decided to take a few shots at the regiment. And the Regiment responded with a furious volley of musket fire.

As the rear formation rounded the corner the came out to a field where several dead and wounded militia men lay outside of a tavern. One man in a British uniform could be seen weeping from a shoulder wound while his friend held a young lady at gunpoint, ordering her to find water and bandages. Other women sat by the corpses of the dead American, weeping and praying. One young girl held a body in her arms screaming “Daddy”, blood covering the little girls yellow dress. None of the women looked up at the superior British formation as they passed through town. What a sight Thomas thought.

Throughout the day more gunfire could be heard as the Marines who had just landed in Boston fought the local militias. The skirmishes were random, some lasting two minutes, others lasting twenty. The smell of gunpowder was in the air, an odor that Thomas hadn’t smelled since training back in England.

When the regiment entered Concord, the company was ordered to search several houses that possibly held a stolen British cannon. On the way to one farm, three militia men began to run for a stone wall. Thomas raised his lowered his musket from his shoulder and fired a unaimed shot, missing all of them completely. One Patriot fell to the ground after being shot in the leg and began to crawl but was gunned down by eighteen or so muskets. Henry was boasting to everyone that he had been the one who initially shot the man. Thomas highly doubted it, seeing that Henry hasn’t stopped shaking since the first shot of the morning.

After searching a few houses and farms the company rejoined the rest of the regiment in the center of Concord. Several of the houses, along with the courthouse were burning replacing the blue sky with black smoke. Henry ran into one of the houses that had not been set ablaze and forced an older women out by poking her in the buttocks with his bayonet. One young boy was punching him in the leg as he was doing this, but it didn’t seem to phase Henry. What has gotten into him this morning, Thomas thought as he ran toward the house. Outside the door the old women and the young boy stood staring into the house in disbelief. When Thomas entered the house Henry already had a bed on fire and was setting a fire to the roof in the front room.

Thomas shoved his the butt of his musket into Henry’s gut, knocking him to the floor.

“People live here, what’s gotten into you?” Thomas screamed as he began to put the weak ceiling flames out with a blanket that was sitting on the back of one of the chairs.

“Get out, get out now!” Thomas screamed again.

Thomas ran to the bedroom, but the flames and thick smoke sent him back, the house was going to burn and there was nothing he could do about it. He ran out the door, past the lady with the child and back into the formation where he found Henry.

“I had orders form Sergeant Rollins to torch the place, a stash of guns were found in the bedroom, the old lady wouldn’t comply with my orders. She asked me if I was old enough to carry a musket.” Henry tried to explain. He knew he was wrong as he kept looking from Thomas to the old lady and child. He had sorrow in his eyes and Thomas noticed it.

“I only hope God will forgive you, Henry.”

The retreat was given, they were to march back to Boston. More and more fighting erupted almost everywhere. To the front and to the rear there was a constant sound of musket fire. One ball passed through Henry’s backpack without Henry even noticing it. The soldier in front of him sure did as he dove for the ground screaming “sharpshooter!”

The regiment began to split due to the lack of the officer’s effort to keep the companies together. Thomas and Henry’s company so far had not seen a lot of the action. As they passed by one house a man missing an arm and a leg stood at his doorway and laughed loudly.

“Liberty is ours, do you hear that you British pigs, liberty is ours” The man started to yell. Most men paid no attention to the disabled man. Everyone seemed to be more concerned about the shadows in the forest that seemed to be moving with them. Henry couldn’t let it go though. He walked up to the old man’s home and told him to shut his mouth. In response the old man spat in Henry’s face. Some of the soldiers chuckled and made comments.

“He showed you, little boy” One comrade stated.

Before Thomas could pull him away from the man’s house, he slashed the man’s throat with his bayonet. Blood poured and squirted from the old man as he dropped to the ground, twitching.

“Who showed who?” Henry screamed at the dying man as Thomas pulled Henry away. The whole company came to a stop. Nobody said a word, everyone just stared at Henry and the now dead man.

“Private Wood, you will die for this. There was no reason for that man to be killed, especially in that awful manner. You will hang! Take his gun Sergeant, then get us moving!” Lieutenant Campbell barked.

Before the company got the order to march, two men came out from behind a woodpile next to the old man’s house shouting, running at the British formation like wild dogs. One had long rifle with a bayonet attached, the other had a hatchet. The man with the rifle fired while charging the ranks. A British soldier fell into the muddy road, his wound smoking from the close range shot. The man ran to the nearest British soldier and buried his hatchet into the front of his skull. The result was a morbid sight as the soldier ran towards a sergeant with the hatchet hanging loosely from his left temple. He collapsed at the feet of the sergeant, the hatchet dropping from his skull. The soldier was a new recruit whose nickname was “Little Red”. Nobody seemed to know his first name. Thomas came from the side and shot the man with the hatchet in the face. Lieutenant Campbell stuck his sword in the other mans chest. More militiamen opened fire from the forest, several moving in towards the road for better aim. The British seemed to be outnumbered but kept fighting.

Thomas ran over to Henry, took him by the collar and led him into the woods.

“Stay with me Henry and don’t stop!” Thomas screamed.

Lieutenant Campbell, seeing that both men where deserting fired a unaimed shot at them as they fled.

“I don’t know what we are going to do, I know you don’t want to hear that, but I have no idea.” Thomas said.

“I’m sorry I got you into this, Thomas. I guess I got a little overzealous today.” Henry said.

Thomas didn’t want to hear it. What happened today was the most sinful mania he had ever seen, most carried out by his childhood friend. He couldn’t understand what had made Henry do any of that. He knew that he didn’t resent the Americans, many times he spoke about how they deserved their freedom. They fled England to be left alone, he used to say. Thomas couldn’t have agreed more.

“Canada?” Henry asked seeming unsure.

“Henry, like I said, I don’t know, the only thing I do know is that if either the British or the militia find us, we are dead men.”

As they advanced through the dead forest they were running into militia everywhere. The roads and trails were impossible, even if they were only to cross them. It seemed as if every man strong enough to carry a weapon was chasing the British back to Boston. Most Patriots seemed to be excited and cheerful about the battles of today. Most men were laughing and slapping each other on the back. Insane, Thomas thought, most of these men will be dead before they even get close to the city. How could a bunch of farmers living outside of Boston think that they could successfully attack the British Army. On the other hand, he respected and even envied their stand for freedom.

Thomas and Henry stayed low behind a wobbly stone wall as they watched a group of five Patriots slowly walk down a trail. It was almost as if they were looking for someone. All the other groups that passed by seemed to be in a hurry. Not this bunch. As the group became closer he noticed that one of the men was actually a British prisoner, an officer.

“Stay low and don’t move” Thomas whispered to Henry. Thomas could feel his friend trembling next to him.

“Thomas, it’s Lieutenant Campbell. If he’s captured, we can return without anyone knowing of my hanging. Maybe we can even shoot him from here.” Henry said.

“What if Campbell's not the only survivor? Now shut your mouth before they here us!” Thomas replied in a whisper.

One Patriot stopped in his tracks and began to stare into the forest. Thomas figured he was looking for other militia. Henry began to squat down even lower behind the stone wall. As pushed his shoulder down the wall, two top stones shifted and fell to the ground. Two rifles sounded as Henry ran off into the dark woods.

“Henry don’t move! Get back here!” Thomas shouted as he dropped his musket and raised his hands in the air.

“Get back here!” He repeated. He watched his friend get shot in the arm as he ran away. He continued to run until he was out of sight. Thomas surrendered himself to the three militiamen. One greeted him with a butt stroke to the chest. He was hit so hard he knew a rib had been cracked.

As they got on the trail he realized Henry was right, the prisoner was in fact Lieutenant Campbell with a beaten, bloodied face.

“That’s the boy’s best friend who ran after murdering your father.” Lieutenant Campbell stated to the husky man who had butt stroked Thomas.

Thomas looked at the beast of a man who was not like the other cheerful young Patriots headed to fight the British. This man was an animal. All you could see through his bushy beard was madness in his bloodshot, yellowish eyes. He grabbed Thomas by the back of the neck and walked him to the center of the trail.

“On your knees!” the enraged man ordered.

Thomas could feel the guy breathing fast and shaking as hard as Henry had been shaking moments before. Henry was shaking with fear, this man was shaking with fury.

“You might want to come out and see this, you British bastard!” The man screamed out into the dark forest.

Thomas felt a sharp edge go to his throat. He then knew that the man was going to kill him the way the man’s father was killed by Henry. Before he could struggle to get away he felt the knife rip through his neck. The man pulled back on his hair to slice further as Thomas tried to grab for his throat. It was no use though, he was dead in seconds as his life rapidly passed before him like a dream.

Thomas' body was left on the trail while the men continued their search for Henry. Henry would eventually be captured by a British patrol along the Charles River two days after Thomas’ death. The truth was he watched his childhood friend’s murder from a distance and hadn’t stopped weeping until he was hanging from a pole with a noose around his neck.

Copyright 2008 Brendan Walsh

Tags: Historical Fiction War