Justric

The Orphan's Wedding

The Alderman frowned for a moment, taking a tentative sniff of the air. He found nothing strange or out of the ordinary, at least nothing that would elicit such delighted reaction from the young lady. Then it dawned on his not too overly taxed mind that she was from the city. She wouldn't used to the scents and smells of the land and well might be experiencing some of them for the first time. And there was only one over-powering fragrance that he could make out at the moment. With his red jovial face and wide grin, he chuckled. "Why, miss! That's manure! You know. Pig shit! Nothing for good crops like pig shit!"

***

Victor eased back in the old wooden chair upon his porch. His porch. He chuckled. It was still hard to believe! Two years ago he'd been discharged as no longer fit for service and not fit for one of those new fangled artificial limbs that were all the rage; cheaper to give him his half pay and get rid of him than spend the small fortune those damnable devices cost. His leg might be weak and tremble at the knee when overly tasked, but at least it was still his own! He sat back and smoked his briar pipe in ease as he watched the sun set. Soon he'd head in, clump over to the room he'd made for his bed, and turn in for the night. There was no point in staying up late and wasting the precious lamp oil, and the reek of the tallow-fat candles tickled his nose too much to bother with. But in that moment, he paused to reflect his good fortune in life.

Until the rumble of a horse cart disturbed his pleasure. Squinting down the lane that lead towards the village square, Victor could just make out old Brown at the reins, his wisp of a daughter Feather behind him. And someone else. Someone dressed in finery far too great for the farmlands of Abordale. The sight of her made him frown, memories of dandy ladies with all their fripperies laughing at soldiers returned from the front, brining men in the hospitals some small treat as though it were a great act of charity... The former soldier's ease was disturbed. In stony trepidation, he watched the comical show of the Alderman lowering himself out of the cart's driving bench (a sight sure to cure the worse of depressions) and ambled over towards the house. Victor said nothing as the old man approached.

"Vinegar! Glad to see you awake still! I know you're a true man of the land, for all that rifle carrying you done. Early to bed, early to rise, and all that. A proper farmer. Should have been among us years ago." Alderman Brown waited for a reply that was not forth coming. Nervously shifting on his feet, he gestured back towards the cart. "I... er.... I was wondering if you might do me, and the village, a bit of a favor, Vinegar? Young lady there. She come into town, nowhere else to go. Want to have one of them there... er... holidays! That's it. A holiday here among us. Only we've got no rooms for her, least none as fit for such gel. You with this big cottage, and I know you don't have use for the second floor of it what with your leg. So... I was hoping...?"

Victor still said nothing, although the scowl in his face said everything that needed saying.

"Oh, come now," pleaded the elder, "I knows your not fond of the city, but she's just a gel! My Feather will take care of her, you won't even know she's here! And she's for paying, tis not a charity we're asking!"

Closing his eyes for a moment, Victor fought the oncoming headache. Feather again. Chit of a girl, some sixteen or seventeen years old and in want of a husband that she wasn't somehow related to; that was the problem with small towns like this. Everyone ended up related to each other sooner or later. Brown had been trying to foist her off on Victor no more than a month after he'd purchased the orchard and lands, and this was no doubt another scheme of his to invest her into his home and thoughts. It didn't matter that he had no interest in the girl at all, even though she could arguably be called 'pretty.' She simply had no spine! No thoughts of her own! It wasn't that Feather was simple in the head, just... simple. No, if Victor were to ever marry, it would have to be a woman with strong will and determination, someone not afraid of work and full of life! It was tempting to utter a few scathing remarks to drive Brown and his flighty offspring off so they might leave him be.

The mention of coin changed his mind. He was far from wealthy, nor was he exactly wanting. Still, new coin would buy a better pump for the washhouse, maybe hire some lads in to help with the harvest; prideful enough he wanted the work to be all his, the throbbing in his knee brought some common sense. And how long a holiday could it be? He let the Alderman twist in the wind for several minutes before heaving a great sigh of annoyance.

"Fine," he agreed curtly. "Room and meals, morning and evening. She have to do for herself if she wants 'luncheon.' I'll trust to you to manage the coin, Alderman, and see me my fair share. But they both are to stay out of my way. I have enough trouble getting about without more underfoot."

The Bonny Black Hare

"Halloo! Halloo!" The horses' hooves made the earth tremble as they gave chase, the hounds having the scent of their prey. The huntsman and his whips curried the dogs along, giving chase on foot and horse as the rest of the hunting party followed forward. In red jackets and white breeches, they were the very sight of British aristocracy. Gentlemen and the few ladies as were not back at the manor all laughed in great sport as they ran the fox to ground, the field hounds baying and panting in their pack and horses bright with sweat. Was there anything more thrilling than the chase, the circling, the kill? And for weather it was near impossible to ask for any better a day! The sun was bright in the sky, itself clear of clouds but filled with a cooling breeze that had helped carry the quarry's scent to eager noses. James Rossmund, the lord of lands and Master of the Hunt, preened in self appreciation. If his guests thought this was anything of note, wait until they saw the late luncheon prepared for them!

The head of the fox was given over to his friend Charles Burgess, a Captain in the King's Royal Navy and his friend from early childhood. The brush, or tail, was presented to one Miss Elizabeth Provident, a young lady of Puritan extraction whose family as currently unaware of her whereabouts thanks to said Charles. James knew his maritime friend was on the hunt for more than just fox that day. He was determined to give Charles the best wind to his sails as he might, wishing him both victory and the spoils that would no doubt come with it. It was the perfect guise for Charles to court her. Joshua, having come into his inheritance upon the death of his uncle Ebeneezer Scrim (of whom little good anyone ever had to say), had every right to celebrate his new house and lands in the west country, and should a few of his guest find more pleasure in each other's company than in his? Well and good! Who was he to deny happiness to anyone on such a day?!

Content in his lot in life, he led his friends and guests on a slow trot back towards the manor house. The Master of the Fox, a cousin to the local Resident Magistrate whose name escaped James at the moment, brought his horse along side James' gelding. "A merry chase. A merry chase, indeed. Your uncle was never much for the hunt, you know. Never let us upon his lands. Plenty of game to be had here, I dare say, unchecked all these years. Still, a merry chase, sir!" the older gentleman rumbled. He brushed the sides of his waxed mustache with a deer-skin glove casually. "Minds me of the time my father near caught The Hare."

James raised an eyebrow. He was not given over to small talk, but something about the way the ancient had accented the words caught his ear. "The Hare, you say, sir?"

"Oh, aye, I do, sir!" the gentleman nodded. "Being new to these parts you probably haven't heard the tale! The Bonny Black Hare they call her. Most of the village folk down the lane from here will still tell tales of her. Fastest thing you'd ever seen! Outsmarted entire packs of dogs, even ones brought over from the Germanies! Supposedly been around these lands for generations, the same ebony haired coney that no one's ever caught."

Laughing at the delightful absurdity of it, James wondered at the gullibility of the common folk. "Come now, sirrah. You are making merry with me, surely!"

Shaking his head, the RM's cousin chuckled. "I did not believe it myself, Master Rossmund-"

"None of that now!" the younger man chided, bright blue eyes twinkling in the heady rush of camaraderie that the hunt brought. "We are friends here! You shall call me 'Rosie' like all my friends do, sir!"

"And you then, shall call me Earnest!" He shrugged. "Damn silly sort of name, I know, but father did so want to please my mother with it. But I tell you the truth, for I have seen it myself when I was a lad. A hare black as night and faster than any fox or hound I ever did see, who could leap over a man's head be he ever so tall and was cunning enough to run beneath a lady's skirts to hide." Sighing at the memory, it was obviously a recollection of mirth and awe that the older man savored. "Oh, to see that again. May God grant you such a sight upon your lands, Rosie!"

James doffed his riding hat to run slender fingers through his hair, dark and cut curled in the latest of fashions. An attractive if not overly handsome man, his mutton chops quite went to his jaw while leaving the rest of his face cleanly shaven and pink from exertion. He was a stark contrast to the heavier set man besides him, grey haired and well into his years. Though of different generations, James found himself taking quite a liking to their local Master of the Fox. "Earnest? Will you and your wife do me the honor of having dinner with me this Sunday next?"

Astonished by the offer, Earnest quickly accepted. He was only one of a handful of local gentry invited to the weekend's affairs, mostly out of courtesy. It was the done thing. Most of the others in attendance were James' companions from London and further afield. "Mrs. Abernathy will be well pleased, I should say. My wife is the sort who loves when someone else cooks!" he chuckles. "Best not to let her know you are, as they say, 'on the market.' She'll have a parade of local gels upon and down before your eyes to see you well married off, preferably to one her relations!"

Groaning in only partially mock horror, James shook his head. "Her and my honored mother, then. I'm not even in my thirties, only just come into my fortunes! Can I not have some time to enjoy the bachelor's life?"

"No woman likes to see a man unwed," Earnest sagely advised as they neared the house. "Makes them think they're not doing their job properly."

James laughed, wild and free at the jest. He would settle down in his own time, but for now these were his lands and his freedom.

The Bonny Black Hare

Family orientated fun!

Normally, I do not do character sheets or pictures of my characters, but this is a special case: James Rossmund

Part of my childhood involved watching 'The Irish RM', and the image of the actor who played Flurry Knox (Brian Murray) kept leaping into my head as I was writing.

The Orphan's Wedding

"Holiday, is it?" The old man's eyebrows shot up to his nearly nonexistent hair line. "Not many folks of quality like yourself come here for such! But as I said, you're welcome and I'll not be called a liar for it. I'm the Alderman here in Abordale, by Stone Brown I'm called. Only... we don't be having much room here. Not right sure where you'd stay. All I could offers is a stall of hay, and that wouldn't do! Not at all." He puffed on his pipe furiously as he tried to think of what to do with her. Pudgy fingers with gnarled knuckles ran through the remains of grey hair that still clung stubbornly to his head, his face a flushed rose hue. There was the Fitters family, young couple who might have a spare room but she was about due with their first; not the best of situations to place a lady of breeding in. Old Widow Nutt had a small room she might spare, yet her irascible nature made that option a last resort. Farmer Oak had too many of his acorns running about the place for anyone to relax. If only the Pearsons were still alive, them with that great big cottage and their orchard...

"There... there may be something we can do for you, miss. Not exactly in town, like, but a not too far a walk if you're up for it!" He glanced down at her fine boots, dainty little things next to his rough worn farmers brogans. Talking of walking while she was wearing those things seemed a might silly, suddenly. The Alderman hurried on. "There's a young man with an orchard down the lane a ways, former soldier who settled with us last year. Nice enough fellow. Victor... what was it again? Oh, aye. Victor Croil. We just calls him Vinegar. Makes the best short batch as I've ever tasted here a bouts! Doesn't talk much but always has a friendly nod and smile for us in the village proper. He's got a fine cottage with lots of rooms I don't think he uses. We can take a stroll... or maybe I should say, grab my cart and take a ride over to him, if you'd like. If you're both agreeable, I'll have my daughter Feather comes as chaperone and maid servant to you. How does that sound then?"

The Alderman was well aware she actually had little choice. The sun was setting, and it was doubtful there would be any other carriages along to whisk her away tonight. Or the next several days for that matter. Arbordale was scarcely on the beaten path for all that it was near the main road to the sea; it was a hamlet that travelers looked at and thought to themselves, 'Oh, how quaint' and then promptly forgot about it as they dealt with far more important matters. But Stone Brown was a kindly man, and the mercy within his heart wanted the young lady to feel as though she was selecting from a platter of options even if there was only one palatable one. She didn't seem that much older than his Feather for all that she was perfumed and scented. A paternal instinct tugged at his conscience, ensuring that he was of a mind to assist her.

The Orphan's Wedding

Alderman Brown watched from his porch as the carriage rolled into village. Seeing such transports pass through the village wasn't uncommon as the road passed by their homes and towards the more popular seaside towns. Seeing someone stop now? That was strange. Especially in the evening! The coaches would normally stop over in the larger town of Applefell, where they might gorge themselves on meats and brews of the finest until morning brought them to the road again. There was no inn or hostel here, Arbordale being too small to support such services or even a coach yard. So the sight of the pretty young woman stepping out and down upon the ground with a bewildered air was puzzling. Still. No need to make her feel unwelcome, he decided. Pushing his ancient and amble frame out of his chair, he ambled down towards the road with his pipe leaving a fine trail of plumed smoke behind him. Balding and aged, Brown was alderman because he had six sons to work his lands, the wealth to show for it, a genial everyman's common sense that passed for wisdom and for the fact that he was the oldest man in or around Arbordale.

"Good morrow, miss! Good morrow!" he huffed as he laboriously made his way up to her. "Not many travelers stop their stay here! Is there trouble with your coach or horses, then?" He braced himself for some acid response, the arrogance and surly attitude of even the lowest of the city dwellers well known even in this back-beyond. Yet the Alderman was of a mind that no one who passed or stopped in his village would find them lacking in manners or kindness, despite whatever passed for decency in the urban sprawls. "We've no inn here, but if you're parched or sickly we can open the public house early for you while you wait?"

The Highwayman Came Riding

It was not with some small disappointment that Robert watched bess head off out of sight and into the kitchens. He hadn't counted on the innkeeper being her father. It had been too many years since he had been in the countryside, ten at the least, but his first to actually visit the inn. Why bother when his own house was a just a goodly walk up the lane? While the men seemed not to hold his interest in the young woman against him, Robert still wanted to make a good showing of it.

"Robert Vaugh," he graciously answered the barman, "I have but recently returned to Grenmere Hall, it being in my family for several years. I find myself in need of relaxation and rest after my many travels and have decided to restore the manor to its former glory."

He shot a quick eye to Hammish before looking back Bess' father with a genuine smile. He raised his voice just enough to carry across the room to the one handed youth. "In fact, I am still in need of stout young men! The gardens and ground needs much tending, and if not that there is a plenty of labor and coin for those with a willing hand. They'll find me a fair master. I know a soldier's sins, God save me, have committed a few of them myself. Those without much more to lose would do well by me, especially those of strong constitution and brave countenance. The King, long may he reign, might give a man a handful of shillings for those who kiss the book. I would give a good crown to he who swears service to me. So an you know such a willing young man in need of work, send you him to me at my manor, and I'll see to his needs."

The beer was surprisingly good, bitter and dark stout that was far better than the German lagers he'd grown used to back in New York. The rum was... less so. No doubt watered so as to make it last, cut with spring water and bolstered by cider to hide the fact. He didn't hold it against the innkeeper, though. The taxes upon rum were outrageous, and had Robert been in command of a Navy ship instead of horses he would have done well to enter some small smuggling himself. As it was, however, he could scarcely complain as to his lot in life.

As late afternoon settled into early evening and more men entered the bar after their daily duties, it became clear to Vaughn he would not have a chance to get Bess to himself again that day. Her father kept the girl busy, most often at the other side of the room and away from his table. While this did not keep him from giving her amenable glances and smiles, his knees ached to have her upon it. He had to have her. He would have her! It would just be a matter of time and patience, a well planned campaign to mount his attacking guns against her and breech her breastworks! Oh, but for the damnable chaos of the battlefield that threw her father between them! Like any obstacle in war, Robert would find a way either through it or around it.

Clear that his first attempt would be for naught, Robert prepared to leave some four hours after the fact, paying what was owed and bidding the man to keep any change in thanks for such a brew as he'd not had in many a year. Stepping out into the evening air, the stars floating overhead and the moon just beginning its pale rise agains the darkening sky, Robert Vaughn began a thoughtful walk homeward.

The Orphan's Wedding

I don't think you got carried away at all! It gives her a background without saying anything explicitly, which I love!

Angel of Mud

"Anyone know where we are?"

"Virginia." There followed a wave of gruff laughter at the old joke.

The drummer boy was not to be so easily put off, however. "Yeah, but where? I thought we was headed for Richmond. Didn't that sign back there say something about Seven Pines? How far's that from Richmond?"

Dollinger sighed and leaned on his Springfield. Same questions, same answers, just different names. The siege at Yorktown hadn't been as bad as he'd feared, the 100th NY spending most of their time just sitting about in trench works and avoiding shells. After the Confederates had fled in the night, they had a rather easy time of it advancing further and further into Virginia. Williamsburg had been a bit tougher, but not by much. The rebels just kept up a fighting retreat without doing all that much fighting. While the Navy had been kind enough to float the Union troops up the wider portions of the York River, the heavy marching from West Point and down towards Richmond had left the men tired and worn. Dollinger himself was used to such a pace and distance, his youth having been a hoagie upon the Erie Canal. The march from West Point to here was nothing compared to the tow paths between Buffalo and Troy. Just less complaining.

Now dug into their earthworks, the 100th waited. Dollinger wasn't quite sure why they had dug into place instead of advancing onwards, but their own scouts reported that the opposing army was larger if somewhat uncoordinated. Everything was wet and soaked from the rains the day before, with the morning brining harsh winds that did little to bring any spring warmth to the cold and damp troops. With no word on what else to do, the men had decided to fall back on the army standard order: wait. Dollinger lit his pipe carefully and leaned back against the trench. It wasn't much of a life in the army, but it sure beat starving half the year while waiting for the Canal to thaw out! Still, he found he missed those cold months of freedom. April to November, his soul and body belonged to piloting barges from one side of New York to the other, from the Empire City to the Queen City, and getting drunk in between. When the war began and the reports of the devastation at BullRun came in, it didn't take long before units started to form up in preparation for the Union counteract the next year. Enlisting in Buffalo, Dollinger looked forward to three years of meals cooked by someone other than the hired whores who worked the barges as "cooks."

"What's that?" someone cried.

Dollinger raised his head. He could hear something on the wind from the west. Fife and drum? How close were they to the Confederate army? Had the rebels finally decided to make a stand at Richmond instead of continually retreating? The sergeants' cries of "Form up! Form up!" soon told him all he needed to know. The big man took a breath to steady his nerves, tapping out his freshly lit pipe upon the heel of his brogans before settling into place along the fire line. At a good six foot and some, Dollinger towered over the other men in his unit. Broad shoulders push aside other men for space in the earthworks as all checked percussion caps and leveled muskets towards the sound. It wasn't even much past noon yet, he thought. He could feel the tension in the air change as the unit filled in, the sound of the enemy's bandsmen getting louder down the road that led to their capital; the banter of boredom had become the silence of fear.

The rest was a blur. Rifles volleys thundering on both sides, men falling all about, black powder smoke choking and blinding the men of the 100th until they could no longer cry or see! Dollinger stood his ground as long as he dared, barely aware that a minie ball had blown the kepi off of his head to let his sandy hair blow in the winds. Fire, reload, aim, fire... it was a pattern drilled into him and all the men until they could do it without thinking. It wasn't helping. How much time had passed since the Rebel's first attack was anyone's guess at that point, just that it seemed a continuous hell that was rained down upon them. When the Rebel charge came, men started to bolt. Dollinger wondered if the sergeant had run as well, only to look and see the mustachioed veteran fall with ripe red spurt from chest and mouth. Grimly, shaking his head, the canaller kept his fire upon the advancing soldiers. The union line was falling, buckling under the weight of a force near twice its size. Then a soul wrenching yell came from the attackers and they were upon the blue coated troops with bayonets and fists.

"Rally!" Dollinger shouted as he smashed a white faced teenager in the face with the butt of his rifle. "Rally! Stand by Dollinger!" he roared. If they could hold the line, if they could repel the enemy then the reserves behind them could be brought up in time to save the day.

But it was far too late. Too many men of the 100th NY had already fallen or run, and the regiment was fully in rout. The second line of defense was behind at Seven Pines, and with their backs to the enemy's muzzles, they would get gunned down before they were halfway there. The big man would not give up though. Not out of bravery or courage, but out of the fierce refusal to die with his back to the enemy; a brawler who fought at every lock along Clinton's Folly, he simply could not back down from a fight. Four or five Rebel soldiers were laid out on the ground around him as others surged past to give chase to his fleeing fellows, and even as the stout wooden stock of his Springfield finally shattered against the skull of another, someone clubbed him from behind. The world reeled about him as his senses were disrupted. Staggering with the shock of it, he fell to the side and away from the rushing troops. Dollinger's eyes roved about as if on their own, trying to find something to focus on besides blood and earth.

Angel of Mud

Finally!

The Orphan's Wedding

No worries! Few things of quality were ever rushed.