2022-06-25 - The Midnight Message of Paul Revere

"I say, that bloke seems a tad daft." Words from the mouth of one man out for a midnight stroll, perhaps -- or maybe up to some mischief of his own. A fine man to look at, he is; silk stockings, and a bright blue frock coat trimmed with silk and the finest lace. The slender sword at his hip suggests that he might be quite capable of defending himself, and his tall leather boots have been polished to a sheen -- no doubt by some boy employed by the purpose. On his head, the fine curls of his powdered wig must employ another, simply for taking care of it.

The gentleman looks back for his companion -- and finds, somewhat to his surprise, that the quite bawdry young lady whose acquaintance he had quite hoped to make, has scarpered while his back was turned. He frowns. Yes, yes, there is something or other going on, what with the British gunship and whatnot, but since when should politics get in the way of good, honest fun? To his dismay, the tavern is closed and now the girl is gone.

The man sighs. And then looks around for somebody to complain at. He is Henry (actually, Henrik, but no one can pronounce it) Abildgaard, a younger son of a Danish count, with too much money and too little common sense, and somebody's going to bring him a beer and a pipe or by golly, this evening is going to the dogs.

It's safer to walk at night -- mostly safer. The threat of the redcoats and the large ship across the river has been enough to keep the opportunists off the road. What it has not done is kept one Sabrina Harrington from reading the news pamphlets which have reached her parents' farm on the outskirts of the town. The ship has also not convinced the redhead to stay home and continue darning socks or sweeping the dirt tracked in from the day's toils. Her younger sister can mind the chickens. Whether their mother likes it or not, they've both been taught by their father to load and wield a blackpowder gun.

Sabrina doesn't have a gun as she walks along the road. She has no lantern either -- just moonlight and a good memory for the ruts in the road leading into town. She does have Shep with her, a wooly shepherd mix with a dash of either coyote or something larger in his bloodline; it's likely larger given his shoulders nearly reach to her hip. Nothing has savaged their chickens because of good old Shep. The chickens will have to stay in the coop tonight because Shep couldn't bear to see this family member sneaking off without him -- what a good boy. Between Shep and her walking stick, a gnarled length of wood which has been in the family since...geez, her grandparents settled down, Sabrina is as safe as can be managed.

As such, she reaches the fringes of town and continues into the settlement proper. Lamps burn at eaves and cast their light. Her skirt is worn but sturdy, long enough to brush her shoes, and her long-sleeved jacket was probably stolen from her father. She might earn herself a whipping for that one. But a chance to snub those damned redcoats? Worth it. Shep sticks close to her side and doesn't want to be here, not truly, there's too many strangers and accompanying sounds and scents.

Stopping near to the tavern to get her bearings, the redhead with her hair done in a braid down her back hears the man muttering. He's got a horse too. Letter-master? Courier, yes, but an oddly intense one. Shep lifts his ears and Sabrina glances down at the dog. Very intense. But the man's attention is on the ship across the river and that sets Sabrina's heart to skipping a beat.

Something Is Up.

Why is it that all these enjoyable evenings go by so fast? It's just like you just entered the tavern before you're told you need to leave, as if no time at all has passed. Standing just outside the stables, a tall short-haired man stands. He does have a weapon with him, in case he needs to defend himself when he gets to head home at some point, but for now, James Cartwright is looking out to the ship moored across the river, unable to hold back a scowl as he studies it. "Bloody redcoats," he mutters to himself, spitting on the ground before he looks around at the various people present. There's a pause as he looks to Sabrina's dogs, studying it in quiet before his attention, like that of the others, is taken by the man muttering, raising an eyebrow as he watches him.

"Hmmm..." he mutters to himself, reaching for the small flask he has with him to take a sip. There's a brief moment of pause, as he seems to be considering moving towards the man, but he remains watching for now, expression a little curious.

It would seem that something is indeed rotten in the sta... in the Colony of Massachusetts.

Nothing is wrong in the stables. At least, nothing had better be, out here where it's not yet a state of anything except... excitement, let's say. Or not even that, what with all the waiting.

Or... maybe a little excitement among the stables-drinkers, the stables-gamblers: young Will makes a show of surprise, even confusion, pulling in winnings -- the smallest of paper notes, tobacco and the like -- without meeting Robert's eyes; ol' Robbie will need his cut, but it'll be the next day, when the losers aren't around to witness and realize the... collaboration.

Will rises; stretches; pockets the winnings and placates the group by handing over what's left in the bottle without even having a final go. He mutters something about having to take a piss (to general laughter, and speculation as to accidents if they'd gone another round) and, pausing only by the stalls to check each occupant with a knowing eye, makes his way out. Not a bootblack, nor a stable boy (if only a step or two up from that), Will's the lad you want to take your horse (ridden or with cart, or proper wagon) somewhere when you can't or won't do it yourself, for both-ways deliveries or even one-way trips that mean walking all the way back. He's soft on horses, our Will, and also a bit daft with the way he talks to them as though they'd talk back, but he's young and still beardless and doesn't eat much, and even the tetchiest types seem to like him likewise.

Now -- so many people about, this time of night. Will makes a show of yawning, puts a little light stagger into his step.

"Goodness!" The exclamation from the fine gentleman in his frock coat and powdered wig could identify him as a British lord but for the accent. Maybe young The Honourable Henry (Henrik) Abildgaard wishes he had his pistols ready. Maybe he wishes he was somewhere else. Maybe he just wishes somebody would tell him what's going on, and dear me indeed, aren't those colonies rowdy?

He's young and invulnerable in his confidence (and possibly just a little sheltered). The young man runs towards the crumpling rider and tries to turn him around to see how bad it is. It does not occur him that there might be a second musket and thus, a second bullet on its way, or that somebody might stick around to make certain their work is finished.

Because it is. Right? Somebody gets hit by a lead ball, they crumple up and die, possibly with a few heroic last words. Right?

"Don't try to talk!" he tells the man (and bemoans the fact that he's getting blood on his fine velvet coat). "By land or by --sea? Did you mean by sea? What's happening?"

Don't try to talk. Just tell me everything.

Does the silversmith realize he's collected an audience? Sabrina, at least, hears what appears to be parameters for something all the clearer on this particular iteration.

One if by land, two if by --

-- sudden chaos. It all happens so quickly as is the curse of such things: the rider goes down while the horse goes up. Shep, startled, barks at the horse in offense -- stop flailing, beastie! -- and tries to circle around to corral her from running off. Shepherd dogs gonna shepherd. Sabrina stifles the worst of her horrified cry behind her hands and immediately stoops along with Henry (Henrik) alongside the crumpled silversmith.

Her eyes are wide and glossy as she stares up at Henrik. Don't talk but tell them everything?

"The British," she starts quietly and then, more loudly continues for others to hear, "The British. It's -- he was supposed to -- something, to do something!"

Well, shit. This isn't supposed to happen yet. They've been careful, keeping their heads down, being of service such that neither side wants to bring bloodshed to the tavern. (No more than it ordinarily gets, anyhow, with one man casting aspersions on another's wife/mother/horse/nose/drink, enough excuse to butt heads and get all their friends involved -- to get some of that pent-up frustration where they can put their hands (fists) on it.)

But this isn't in the tavern, isn't in the stables even, and Will might walk right on by -- hurry on by, given an active shooter, something in the back of his mind recognizing that there's likely two -- but there's that mare and she's startled and screaming and...

...and Will jumps on in, ignoring the man and his would-be helpers, reaching for the mare's reins, to soothe her with his mind's touch before she can do herself damage. Peace. Herd-mate. Easy. He doesn't ignore the dog, though Shep's not his priority; there's a waft of that Easy spilling over from what the horse gets, but no more. He can't expect her to calm instantly, but if he can redirect her into something more stable (as it were), so much the better. He's here now. He'll see to it.

One moment he was okay just standing here watching, and then everything is happening around them. James ducks down a bit, looking around as if to see if there's someone just around them now. "What the..." he begins making his way over towards where people are moving for the crumpled silversmith. "How is he?" he asks, quietly. Carefully looking around, even if his gaze stops every now nd then on the man on the ground. But it's important to see if there's still someone coming for them.

"The British, huh?" He shakes his head a little, before he nods, "What was he supposed to do? We need to find out, and make sure it gets done." Another pause as he adds, "Bloody British..."

"Vand?" It takes Henry (Henrik) a few attempts to figure out what the fallen man is on about. The port he enjoyed earlier is not helping, and he really wishes he'd walked another way home -- and with another girl, one who knew better than to steer him in the direction of trouble. Bloody colonial tarts. "I think he wants water?"

His poor frock coat is getting smeared with blood. He frowns in displeasure -- while it is of course a perfect excuse to commission a new design, it's bloody hard to find a proper tailor in this part of the world, and one that's up to speed with Continental fashion at that. Life in the colonies really is dark and gritty.

So what Will does is lead her, going with that pull and then shaping it into his own route, talking softly all the while: let's just walk away from that little group. It's late, it's dark, let's take it easy; we don't have to stand still, we can move. Easy, easy. It's quieter now, the rider is being taken care of -- which could mean mugged, for all that Will knows, but at least they aren't loud about it -- and he, Will, knows what he's doing. He's making it stop. Just like she wanted. They're moving on.

Will isn't a horse thief yet; he's just coaxing the mare into ever-lengthening ovals that gradually get further and further from the little group.

Stealing a horse would be bad for business, and he doesn't know if this one's worth it, yet.

Shep responds well to the power of calm. Immediately, his ears lift and he ceases his controlling barking. Look at those big brown eyes, Will! Look at them! Okay, now look at his tail, his job is done, back to minding the eldest furless offspring.

The dog returns to Sabrina's side and distracts her from the inky spread of blood across the front of the silversmith's coat. Poor Henry (Henrik) and his coat, what a mess, nobody's saving that thing. Revere wheezes and the redhead looks up and between all present. "Wan. Wahn?" She looks in the direction of the distant lights on the moored ship. "Wan," she repeats more quietly and then jolts in realization. "One. He was saying...he was saying -- " Staring out at the lights helps her focus.

"One if by land, two if by sea. The British. One if by land?" Another jolt and she gasps. "The lights! One light! A signal!"

Blinking as he hears Henrik's words. "Water?" Well, that is reasonable too, of course. James nods a little to him, before he looks to the man on the ground. "Who are you, sir?" he asks, sounding a bit curious. Did he ask the dazed man on the ground or Henrik, or both? There's another pause as he hears listens to Sabrina as well, as he hears her deduction, looking out to the ship out there as well. "Signal? Wait... Wahn... Warn?" He looks to the man on the ground. "You were going to warn someone?"

"Warn, of course." Henry (Henrik) laughs a little. "Goodness, me, how silly of me. Right you are, warn somebody. Warn them of what? Warn who?"

We pause the narrative for a moment to put on display a remarkable visual effect. Please enjoy observing the slow realisation on the face of a not quite sober, Continental dandy.

Warn? Warn who? Of what?

And then, the slow turn of a face, towards the English warship on the river.

And then, the slow turn of a face, back towards the other people around the fallen silversmith.

And the very slow realisation, through vapors of good port and good tobacco: Holy shit, I'm surrounded by revolutionaries.

Thank you for watching one of nature's little miracles: The instant-sober effect of realising just how neck deep in trouble you are.

How good you are. Will praises the mare: good job. She's doing such a good job. Look at the way she carries herself, how collected, look at the arch of her neck. She deserves some rubs if she wants them, her jaw, her shoulder. If he can assess the quality of her saddle, the state of any saddlebags -- saddlebags would be so helpful to go through -- along the way, so much the better.

We'll just be right over here. Over yonder.

Not 'one', but 'warn'? Or maybe it is 'one' and warning someone of option one is the thing of it. She does note the blinking, the once and the twice, and has her mouth open to ask questions.

Bummer the silversmith passes out.

Sabrina makes a high-pitched sound of frustration regardless. "Someone get a physician, this man is going to bleed to death! Somebody get on the horse and start riding!" Shep barks because reasons, people! "He was warning about the ship!"

Frowning as he listens, as the silversmith passes out, and at the state of confusion it seems Henrik is in, James frowns, looking around. "Warning about the ship..." he repeats, frowning as he hears Sabrina's words. "Question is, where do we ride?" he asks, looking around for the horse he arrived with. "We need the physician," he calls out to any other being nearby, looking around once more. "And someone get us some water!" Because water helps for someone passed out, right?"

He looks to Sabrina again, "Any idea about where we need to ride, to warn them about the ship?"

Well, that's not particularly interesting. There's no big X with a nice drawing of treasure. Still, Will pockets the map, leaves the food and water alone for the moment, and leads the mare onward.

This time, he isn't circling anywhere near the group, especially not with that shouting. That shouting about riding. It's like he hasn't heard it at all. (Certainly he's too far away to hear everyone else.) He and his good buddy the mare are just going to round that corner, where it's nice and quiet, and then explore going for a little ride.

(Not the silversmith's kind of ride.)

Let's hope -- if you're Will -- there aren't any spies, or simply good not-so-honest men who see an opportunity, waiting for him.

"Goodness." Poor Henry (Henrik) is feeling very intellectually challenged here. Ride? But the horse is missing. What's he supposed to do, go buy another? At this hour? Where'd that boy go, with the horse? Maybe he rode off to warn -- whoever it is that somebody's supposed to warn?

There's a dim awareness in his port-infused mind that maybe warnings aren't actually good things. He's on the side of the English, after all. Isn't he? He's not sure. He came here on an English ship and he carries English money because these are bloody English colonies, aren't they? Everything is very confusing.

To hell with it. He can sort out the details later. Right now, he's going to use his lace handkerchief to try to stop the bleeding of this poor chap whose only crime appears to be -- eh, treason. Oh well. Look, nobody's perfect.

"There's got to be..."

Got to be what? Help? Hope? Answers? All of these? None of these? Sabrina makes another sharp sound of frustration and gets to her feet, only slightly dizzy for the speed of this and the amount of adrenaline.

"There was a horse." There was a horse, she remembers watching it throw the poor unconscious and wounded silversmith to the road. "Where's the horse?" Shep lifts his ears. Horse? The redhead's skirting spins as she does, looking for the creature. "Shep! Pony!" At her behest, the shepherd dog too spins and leads the way in the vague direction of Will's out-of-sight departure. Along the way, he pauses because...well...you know what, maybe it's an excellent idea to roll in -- "SHEP?!" Okay, no, the boss says no, moving on.

Will, in his infinite (curious) wisdom of calming the horse, is going to have to deal with Shep coming around the corner and barking because look, horse! Sabrina appears and immediately barks too: "Hey! What are you -- no! Come back here, we need that horse! That man had a job and I'm not letting some goddamn Redcoats march around and take my chickens!"

Because those are her family's chickens, yo.

Frowning as he looks around, James looks to the ship, studying it a bit carefully, then looking up the river. "Wait... I don't think a ship such as this can go any further than..." He trails off as he realizes something. "Oh dear..." A brief pause as he looks around. "I think I know where..." Trailing off, he pauses as he sees Sabrina head off after her dog, and he hurries in her direction, leaving poor Henrik with the wounded silversmith.

Turning the corner after the dog and woman, he blinks a bit as he sees poor Will and the horse. Keeping silent as he hears her words about needing the horse, the man had a job, and something about... chickens? "I think I know where we need to go..." Of course, a map would be better, but still, knowing the main direction to go is good, right?

Hey now.

Soothing the mare -- let's call her 'Star,' for the short little blaze on her forehead -- comes first, and Will solidifies that connection, even if that means his direct perception of other details isn't so sharp (see above, anyone lying in wait, though he won't turn down whatever Star might share).

"Easy," is over his shoulder and quite firm. "Haven't you spooked her enough already?" That's a reprimand. Will keeps walking, quite as though he's doing his job; walking, but also listening. If she or the dog starts running, he'll have to mount up, but until then...

...well, even Will can't miss soldiers who aren't so much lying in wait as trooping up towards him. Soldiers who ask questions out loud. Soldiers with guns. Stopping, mentally soothing, "Walking the mare, sir. She's testy. I work right over there," and he thumbs in the general direction of the tavern and its stable, which admittedly aren't as close as they used to be, what with the walking away and all. "Shh, Star. We're taking it easy."

Maybe the others are far enough back to turn back.

For once in his aristocratic life, Henry (Henrik) keeps his mouth shut at the right time. His is the talent of making too rich wagers, of betting on the wrong horse, and of seducing the wrong woman. He lives up to his reputation tonight as well -- because instead of acting like a sane Continental aristocrat and calling out for the redcoats, he decides to keep his head and the powdered wig on it down. Because honestly? Playing conspiracy with the Colonials sounds like so much more fun to his port-addled brain.

He's going to hate himself in the morning. Particularly if he wakes up in the stockades.

One problem at a time, though. He's not entirely certain what to actually do about a musket wound, but applying a lacy handkerchief like a tight bandage surely will help the man not die from bloodloss. Right?

"Ex-cuse me? You're the one walking off with her!" Sabrina shoots back at Will. Shep barks once, his tail wagging uncertainly. "That's not your saddle b -- "

Realizing what James has said, the redhead spins in place. Her skirting twirls and falls as she blinks at him. "Wait? You know where to go? Where the silversmith was going? Where is -- "

Talk about a prime interruption. Yet again, Sabrina spins in place and presses her hands against her collarbone, her eyes gone wide. Redcoats! Shit! Think fast, think fast, think --

"That's MY HORSE!" She points imperiously at Will. "Her name is Star and I'm trying to get home! The stablehand is confused and overly-helpful!"

Sabrina wishes she'd thought to tell the honorable (somewhat drunk) Henry (Henrik) about moving the injured silversmith before garnering the attention of the Redcoats. Her expression remains openly concerned nonetheless, but it doesn't matter overmuch at what precisely. Damn Redcoats!

"Yes, I kno..." James trails off as he hears the Redcoats, letting out a breath as he nods at Sabrina's words, pointing at the horse and Will. "She speaks the truth, sir. I saw the whole thing, and followed the two of them to see if I could do something to help." A brief pause, and he smiles to the redcoat leader. "Sorry for interrupting you in your important work," he offers, with a bit of a shrug. Resisting the urge to glance back at the corner now.

If he were already astride... but he's not. And they have muskets.

Will flips the girl a gesture that's remarkably uncouth, while James gets a likewise over-the-shoulder but even more accusing look. "Easy now," he murmurs. Easy, easy. He could incite Star to run off, a distraction, but...

"Sir," he says, at least half-apologetically. "You'll need to let my master know. About me, and the horse. He'll want a receipt." At least for the horse (and even if it isn't the tavernskeeper's either).

Paperwork.

Entitlement; literally, to have a title. Henry (Henrik) doesn't have one -- but his older brother does, and that's close enough when it comes to growing up to become a quite entitled person. The gentleman in the frock coat and the fine powdered wig stands up -- because his efforts aren't exactly useful here, and his shirt is getting quite ruined.

Ah, soldiers. Thank God for small mercies. Somebody to put this mess right.

"You, there! Lieutenant, sergeant, whatever you are! Come help me with this man! He has been shot!" Who can sound imperious (and heavily accented) if not this man?

Oh god. Not Mrs. Frampton.

Even that's enough to shake Sabrina out of her affronted glare at Will for that gesture. If she weren't raised to be a LADY --

"Yes, a receipt about my horse!" she continues to claim, wanting very badly for the Redcoats to be so busy dealing with mild chaos that they forget entirely to check those saddlebags. Thank god for Henry (Henrik) and his sudden demands. The redhead sidles to one side with a hand gripping the tattered leather collar around Shep's neck, the better to keep the dog from lunging at a stranger (specifically wearing red, of course). "You heard him!" A gesture at James. "It's my horse!"

James pauses as he hears the words from the leader of the redcoats, as he turns to watch the man carefully, as if considering how to get out of this. There's a brief pause as he hears Henrik's demands, looking over at the redcoats. "I think the man over there is some kind of higher dignitary from... Germany or something? Seems like a very important person," he offers to the redcoats, words kept relatively quiet, as if he doesn't want the foreigner to hear them. "He might be trying to stay out of the public eye, though." Sorry, Henrik. But someone need to get all the attention, right?

It's the captain's carriage, the way he speaks, what he says -- and then there's that screaming. Even before the man's done, Will slumps, with a distressed look over his shoulder.

And then... he can't just give Star up, but he has to give her up. "Just a moment," he mutters to the man coming for her reins. "I have to explain to her." Even as he holds them in reach, he looks up at the mare, touching her jaw with his free hand. Good job, Star. Go with the man. Easy, lovely, easy. It's out loud too. With as much reassurance as he can, he disentangles their connection and steps back, hands in pockets and shoulders hunched, looking distinctly unhappy but compliant.

No need to tie him up; he'll move along. Just as long as it's away from the screaming.

"Good lord, man, who do you think I am?" Henry (Henrik) Abildgaard looks at the captain in what can best be described as amazement. Sort what out? Can't the bastard see who he is? What kind of captain can't tell some manure-fisted Colonial from a European aristocrat?

An English captain, he supposes. The English are an uncultured lot. Denmark traditionally tends to side with the Scottish. There's probably a reason why. Also, the silly buggers really have it too easy with their colonies over here, so much land and so many riches. "Very well," he deigns to say and stands up. "I will go along, sir. But I rather expect an apology for the inconvenience from your commanding officer when this is over!"

"Enemy combatant?" Sabrina's not going quietly, apparently, inclined to see how much of the town around them she can rile up in the process. Color mounts high on her cheeks. "How dare you! I was trying to go home with my horse! You can't just take her! I have to get the medicine to my sister or she's not going to make it to the morning!"

It's actually not terribly hard to pull up some glistening eyes and then a tear track down one of her cheeks, not with the amount of fear in her mind right now. "Please! My little sister!" Shep has his ears pulled back as he stands beside his owner and looks generally confused.

Wait... Enemy combatants? There's a brief pause as he studies the captain carefully . "Maynods I ask about your name, Sir? So I know who to commend once this whole mess has been taken care of, of course." Sounds from his tone of voice that 'commend' might just as well mean 'blame', but James knows saying that straight out would be a good thing. As he hears Sabrina's words, he nods a bit slowly. "I hope your sister will survive even if she doesn't get the medicine thanks to these men not being able to deal with out current circumstances." A look to the others nearby as well, then back to the Captain.

Mid-eyeroll: oh. Oh no. There once was a little girl who liked the story of Paul Revere...

But it's nothing like Pompeii. (Nothing ever will be. Will it?)

Della awakens, her pockets full, smelling of horse and sweat. She's going to have to do laundry again. (But at least she didn't wreck more shoes.)

"Commend? There's nothing to commend! They're just going to let the silversmith -- "

Sabrina stops as Ariadne's own mind takes over and her face goes blank with horror before it all snaps back into reality. Sitting upright in bed, the redhead immediately looks around for Sam. He's on the end of the bed, curled up in a cockroach ball of legs, totally fine. She then puts her face in her hands and breathes until she can figure out what she wants to do.

Shower, yes, shower and then try to sleep again. What else is there to do?

What.

Ravn turns over in his bunk on the Vagabond and listens to the sounds of small waves slapping against the boat's hull. He stares at the ceiling for a bit. Then he has to laugh into his pillow, earning him a strange look from the self-proclaimed feline queen of Gray Harbor, Kitty Pryde.

No wonder the family annals don't mention Henry (Henrik). He probably got himself killed within a week of setting foot on American soil.