ACTION
Hey, strategy and tactics,” Aaron caught Wesley's arm the next morning as they passed each other. A Native encampment was much different than a British one. The natives had been up before the sun, preparing food, hunting and going about their chores; oblivious to the fact that Aaron burrowed his head under his pillow. He missed the days on the ship when his watch ended at dawn, and he could sleep until the afternoon. Mornings had never come easy to him, and on his pirate ship, he slept whenever he pleased, unless they were being attacked. He thought only people with insanity lingering got up before the sun rose, or before it was high in the sky. Wesley, however, never really seemed to sleep, and if he was tired, Aaron didn't notice a difference. Even drunk, his first mate's mind was always at work. “Can you go and explain the plan to the chief?”
“Why am I going alone?” Wesley asked defiantly. “Something like that is the job of the captain.”
“Wesley, I know you have a plan,” Aaron said. “And I know you are much better at defining it than I am. Enola will go with you, as soon as she appears, to translate.”
“I could,” Wesley said at last and Aaron raised his eyebrow.
“Did you fall out of bed this morning?” he prompted, reminding him that while their ranks weren't strict, a certain level of respect was expected. Wesley shook himself.
“Sorry,” he answered. “I just don't like being out here in the middle of nowhere.”
“We're often in the middle of nowhere on a ship,” Aaron said and Wesley shook his head.
“It's not the same,” he said. “A ship feels like a small city, there's always something to do, somewhere to be. You are never really done with your duty on the ship. But out here, some would call it peaceful. I think it's maddeningly quiet.”
“It reminds you of home,” Aaron picked up, and Wesley's eyes shot away.
“Where is she? Let's get this done as soon as we can, then.”
“I haven't seen her yet,” Aaron replied. “But she is always one for rising at dawn, so I doubt she will be long.”
Enola knew it was dawn, and she could hear them speaking her name through the tent walls. She knew she should get up, but the bed was warm and Holde was still sleeping.
She watched his chest rise and fall evenly, and his eyelids flutter, dreaming of something pleasant, based on the smile on his face. He was relaxed now, which was something she didn't often see during the day. The idea of sliding out of bed and possibly disturbing him was not appealing to her at the moment.
She hadn't expected to feel so comfortable, simply sleeping beside him. True to his word, he had not touched her; not attempted anything that a normal husband would do. He had not rolled over to cuddle with her, and somehow in his sleep always kept an inch between them.
She appreciated that he respected her boundaries, for she knew many men in his position likely would not. However, Holde was different than most men; that much was clear.
She knew she had to get up when she heard her name for the second time. Jacob was up now, and his Michif seemed to have returned in full bloom, a few feet from her tent. She was happy that if nothing else, Jacob was accepted still. So much had changed, but the acceptance of the British boy who had grown up being nothing but kind and loyal still remained engraved in their hearts.
She threw off the covers and put her feet onto the cold grass. She shivered, her feet instantly wet with dew, and rose.
“Mmm,” Patrick rolled over right away, sprawling out to take over the whole bed, and she laughed.
“Were you just waiting for me to leave?” she teased him softly as she retrieved her overcoat.
“No,” he said. “But now that you are getting up.”
“My ears are burning,” she responded. “I hear them talking about me, so I should probably see what the commotion is about.”
“Doesn't sound like commotion,” he cracked his eyes open, watching her blearily. “Just sounds like planning.”
“Well, I should probably tend to that. And you should too,” she said and took a long look at him. His face was still a bit red and blotchy, but he looked much better than he had the previous night. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I was poisoned and my insides came out, but better now,” he said, yawning. “Did you sleep well?”
“I did,” she said truthfully. “And you?”
“Like a dead man,” he replied and she rolled her eyes.
“I'll get you some breakfast, if you are hungry?”
“Mmm.” He sat up, and his stomach growled on cue. “Perhaps?”
“Just...move slowly,” she warned him. “I'll be back in a moment.”
She didn't want to leave him, but she knew it was necessary. She tore her gaze away and opened the tent flap, ducking out into the camp.
The familiar smells hit her; Michif words all around her. She was home, but she felt so homesick, so lost.
“Alright, what is it you need me for?” she asked as she approached the men. All of them watched her come out of Major Holde's tent with raised eyebrows. She chose to ignore them, keeping her chin held high. She was married to him, and she had spent most of the night feeling his chest rise and fall. There was no shame in that. “Quickly now.”
“Wesley will explain the tactics to your father, but he may need your translation,” Aaron said, after a moment. “Can you do that?”
She raised an eyebrow. “My father is not a fan of tactics being explained to him,” she replied. “He is one who likes to do the explaining.”
“I'm sure Wesley would be open to some suggestions, wouldn't you?” Aaron asked Wesley, who only glared at him.
“Be open to suggestions,” Enola told him. “Or he won't listen at all.”
“I will do what is necessary to win the war,” Wesley said, which didn't really give her an answer. Nevertheless, she took that as an agreement and started across the field.
Her father was awake, being served breakfast. He had his war paint on, symbolizing to all who came and went from his tent that he was ready to fight. When he saw Enola, he remained seated, eating without inviting either of them.
“Father...” Enola started carefully. “This is Wesley. He plans strategy and tactics for the whole army. He will...let you know how he thinks the attack should go. Do you understand?”
She didn't particularly feel like translating this early in the morning. Luckily for her, her father nodded. However, he didn't look impressed with this boy in front of him who was several years his junior.
“How long?” he asked. “How long do you plan?”
“Ten years,” Wesley answered, shifting so his feet were slightly wider apart. He was standing strong, but Enola knew that her father could make anybody nervous if he asked the right question.
“So young. No wife?”
And there was the right question, Enola thought.
“No,” Wesley answered, surprising her. She was about to let it go, figuring that if he wanted to lie about it, it was none of her business.
There was a long pause, and she thought perhaps her father was considering the translation for what he wanted to ask next. She was going to suggest something when he held up his hand to her.
He got up, crossing the grass until he stood nearly inches from Wesley. He was taller than him, stronger than him, his black eyes locking gazes with the Irish Lord. Moving very slowly, he picked up his left hand.
Wesley was so pale by nature that the indent of a wedding ring, the tan line, was still burned into his skin. Moreover, Enola was surprised to see, it was recent.
“No wife?” her father asked again.
Wesley pulled back, caught. “We are apart,” he said plainly. “No more.”
He turned to Enola, shaking his head. “No,” he said.
“No?” Enola asked. “No what?”
“No,” he spoke clearly, in English. “No, I do not trust a man who leaves his wife. I will not collaborate.”
Her eyes went wide in shock. “Father, it's just...” She looked to Wesley, who quivered in shock and anger. “No, I know his wife. I know her. She is a good woman, but they ....miss each other a lot. It's so hard. War is hard. They are opposites. Please.”
“Opposites?” he asked.
“She's an actress,” Enola said, hoping he would understand. “On the stage. Plays. Theatre.”
He understood that, shifting his gaze back to Wesley.
“Sir, I do not appreciate---” Wesley started, but Enola grabbed his wrist, glaring at him and shaking her head. Now was not the time for his temper to flare up. Wesley, to his credit, fell silent.
“You are of noble birth,” her father, ever observant, said.
“That's part of the problem,” Wesley said at last. “We are very different.”
Her father laughed. “Why not invite Americans to see a play?” he asked, sitting back down. The moment was broken. “And then, as they watched, mesmerized, boom.”
“Sir, with all due respect, that's...” Wesley suddenly stopped, his eyes on fire. “Actually...”
Enola's jaw hung open. “You can't be serious,” she said.
Wesley took a step forward, looking the chief in the eyes. “Would your people be willing to participate?”
“In war?” he asked. “Yes.”
“In a play?” Wesley asked. “My wife's theatre seats a thousand; it's the biggest theatre in the colonies. If we could slaughter them there, unexpectedly, unarmed and unaware, it would drastically reduce their numbers and lower their morale.”
Her father turned to Enola, who rapidly translated. The chief took a moment. “Now you are serious?” he asked at last.
“It's brilliant and it's better than dying on a battlefield. Contained, knowing our territory. We will suddenly have the advantage.”
She translated for the chief, not wanting a single word of it to be missed.
“This is better than your other plan?” HER father asked. Wesley cocked an eyebrow.
“Maybe?” he said. “It's a better chance of survival, at least.”
“Yes,” her father said. The silence had been so long that Enola was worried he was going to propose another sweat lodge. Clearly, he had decided last night was a bad enough omen. Everything was dangerous in this war. The war needed to end. “Yes.”
“Great,” Wesley answered.
“Can you...not to doubt your confidence, but can you do that?” Enola asked.
“The planning of such a surprise attack would not be hard,” Wesley answered. “The hard part will be convincing Lord....convincing Captain Halloway to agree.”
“Why would he not agree?”
“His best friend in the middle of yet another murder plot?” Wesley answered. “It'll be a never ending tale. Will your Major Holde agree?”
“So long as he doesn't have to eat raspberries and sing on stage,” she answered dryly.
This was not exactly the kind of help she had envisioned when she came to her father. However, if this was what Wesley determined was the best plan, she was determined to go along with it.
Somewhere in the middle of the night, she had found herself dreaming of a future that was after the war. A future of peace in the world. Moreover, in that future, she had found herself and Major Holde standing together in a field, their hands entwined, and dark-haired, light-skinned children around them.
She wasn't exactly sure if that was what she wanted. Nevertheless, she wanted the opportunity to find out.