by J. Y. Harris
* * * * *
The young man, unkempt as he was, staggered down the road toward Philadelphia, singing to himself and brandishing his flask.
“Hey there, mates,” he called to the two guards on duty. “How goes the war?”
One soldier nudged the other and sneered. “Look at ‘im. One of the colony’s finest. Bugger off, wastrel.”
“Where’d you come from anyway?” the other soldier inquired. He didn’t seem as dismissive as his buddy, and used his bayonet to keep the drunken lout at a distance.
“Here, I mean no harm!” the young degenerate protested. “I just been at me friend Jem’s house, celebrating the occasion.”
“Yeah? What occasion is that?”
“The occasion that we got our hands on some of the good stuff. It be Saturday, be’n’t it? That’s occasion enough. In these times o’ war, a body has to celebrate when he can.” The young man hiccupped and stumbled.
“Hey, what you soldiers a-doin’ out here anyway? Aren’t you s’posed to be protecting the city?”
“And what d’ye think we’re doin’?” came the belligerent reply. “We’re keepin’ drunken sots like you outta town.”
“What, you two?” The young man laughed and hiccupped again. “You think you can keep me out of the city? You and what army?” He laughed loudly at his own joke.
One of the soldiers—bayonet-man—advanced on him. “Aye, we can keep the likes of you out. You ain’t gettin’ past us to pollute the streets of Philadelphy.”
“I’ll just go by another road, then.”
“Not bloody likely. All roads into town is being guarded, and some of the other blokes ain’t as polite as we are.”
“Why you want to keep respec’ble people like me out of Philadelphia?”
“We’s doin’ our job. We been told to not let anyone in without a pass.”
“An’ how do you know I ain’t got one?”
“Ha! The likes o’ you?” The soldier snorted. “Even if ye got a pass—which I’m bettin’ you ain’t—we ‘as to take you to our cap’n for questioning, and we’ll see what ‘e has to say.”
“Why would I care what he has t’ say?”
The soldier got angry that the young lout was questioning him. “He’ll have some questions for you, right enough. Ye’ll have to tell ‘im where ye been, and what your business is here in town. And then he’ll decide if he believes you.”
“So--” the young man paused to belch—“you’re telling me that even if I got a pass, all right and tight and legal-like, I still have to be questioned and I’d be a suspect of some sort? Like some nefarious thief or spy or somethin’?”
Bayonet-man raised his weapon again. “Who said anything about spies? Why you mention that?”
“Well, you did, I expect. You mentioned it. Leastways, you’re talking about a body bein’ questioned as if they’re suspected of doin’ something wrong.”
“Ah, I ain’t wastin’ no more time on you, you buggerin’ sot. Get movin’ down the road, one way or t’other. You ain’t passing into town by us.”
The young man sneered. “Well, there’s more’n one way to skin a cat, so they say. Don’t you worry, mates, I’ll find my way in. I got a tankard of ale waitin’ for me at the Blue Anchor. And I’ll be sure to stop and say hello on my way out again.”
“Yeah, good luck to ye with that,” the soldier said. He turned his back and the dirty bumpkin turned down Germantown Road, shuffling unsteadily on his feet and singing as he went.