writing Fox and Heron

[Hawk Moth 390]

Foreword: This is a bit of fiction set in my steampunk universe. The story takes place roughly 200 years before the present, so stories I intend on posting later will be different in terms of how the world appears.
 
 

Fox and Heron

 

Chapter 1:

“Goddamn circus. All of it,” muttered a man as he marched along the dirt highway, his shako bobbing around upon his head as he tried to silently curse everything around him. Though he had tried in the past to keep the thing steady, the hat never sat securely upon his head, and every so often an angry pike or one his adjutants looking to make a name for himself would self-righteously tromp over and make adjustments to the leather chin strap, of course making sure to be as loud about the procedure as possible. Humiliation can go further than any man can march. And that’s why this soldier, hat a-wobbling, angrily trudged along regardless of the fact that every other soldier seemed to be marching properly, and just as well, this gait only made the hat wobble more erratically.
 
“3rd Spear, Singer!” 2nd Pike Goodforth trumpeted behind the soldier to his left, enunciating the lowest rank of “3rd” even though it was wholly unnecessary. “What loutry is this? Do you know what you look like right now? Stomping about with your helmet hopping around your bleeding head? You look like a damn toy soldier! You know that right, eh Singer? A silly little tin toy!”
 
3rd Spear Sev Singer continued to move forward in line with the other soldiers, staring forward, but now he quieted his mutterings and made an effort to actually march, now that the pike’s eye was on him and doubtlessly, the ears of every officer within a good stone’s throw.
 
“Oh, I see you there, Singer, trying to tighten yourself up now that I’ve caught you. You’ve got the posture of a rat, and now I can truly say you’ve got the courage of one too,” finished Goodforth. Unlike the spearmen of the Line, 2nd Pike Bell Goodforth did not march but merely walked so that he was parallel to the man on Sev’s left, screaming between the rows. Every man kept his eyes forward, not daring to look at either one of them, but they were listening— some mentally laughing at Sev’s expense while other cursed him for bringing attention to this sub-column of troops.

“It aint doing you any good you know! You’re out of step! Get those feet up and be smooth about it!” Goodforth’s voice sounded similar to the aforementioned rat, and though he was a tall man, he quite looked like a rat as well with his narrow face, little eyes, and exposed gums. Two small, circular discs of glass sat in front of his eyes, balanced upon his nose and held together with some thin, flimsy looking metal that also looped behind his ears and made him look ridiculous. The man’s eyes were bad, and somehow that thing on his face helped him not run into walls and trip over his own feet.

When the pikes and officers were clear of the sub-column, the men would have a nice laugh at Goodforth’s expense over the spectacles, and Goodforth knew it. He had never heard a single jeer from one of the spears, but he knew they all judged him for the obvious disability. He knew the officers did too, and that mark of weakness would surely keep him a 2nd Pike the rest of his career, hence he spared no expense in making the lives of his linemen miserable.

“So what are you going to do, Singer? Are you going to bobble your way all the way to Eastlyn or fix that DAMN strap!?” Somehow Goodforth had been made immediately angry, but it wasn’t something he reflected on. All he cared about was continuing this torture. In response, Sev began to fiddle with his shako’s chin strap, trying to operate the clasp and tighten the thing only to realize that he was already at the tightest belt hole.

“You’d better not drop that musket, 3rd Spear. You drop it, and I’ll have you hung.”

Sev made sure to keep Goodforth’s attention fixed on the musket, and as a result the pike didn’t notice when he pushed the clasp pin through the leather to make a new hole. Returning the musket to his shoulder, he took note of his neighbor’s footing to match it and resumed marching.
 
“That’s a good rat, Singer. A nice, good obedient little rat. You keep your eyes forward and tail clean, yeah?” Goodforth’s brief anger had returned to calm snideness, and with nothing more to yell at Sev about, he returned to his post to march beside the sub-column.

“You know, you boff us all with that shit, Sev,” whispered the soldier to Sev’s right.
 
“Eat a big one, Sam,” Sev replied, feeling like he might start stomping again.
 
“You get Goodforth on our asses, and soon the bleeding Kaptains will nestle on up for some fun too. Gonna get us all shot.”

“For what? A loose hat and a bit of bad footing?” Sev resisted the urge the wipe the sweat cascading down his face.

“They don’t much care, you idiot. They’s gotta shoot someone, and if we aint got no Midlanders to shoot at soon, they’ll need to scratch their fingers somehow.”

“Go shit worms, Sam. They aint shooting us over no hat.”

And then for the next hour or so, no whispers passed between them. The sub-column marched while every few minutes a Kaptain or a Pennant from further back in the column would ride his horse abreast with one of the lines, making sure everyone was in step. The sun was setting over the hill in front of them, making the linemen’s eyes sting, daring them to look away, but before the first twitches even began Adjutant Kaptain Wicks opened his mouth.

“Keep your sorry eyes open, you weak, little women!”

And thus the 12th sub-column of the 25th column of the 3rd Army lead the march towards Higgsby Hill over which they would reach the column’s camp and prepare for the next day’s bloodshed.

“Such a damn, bloody circus,” Sev said again, half a whisper and half in thought.