Mercy Leroux

(Please enjoy this scene from between chapters 9 & 10 of We Are Not Strangers!)

July sits heavy in gaol, summer souring every rancid odor and seemingly multiplying every rat and vermin in this blasted town. The door opens with a clang, letting in a gust of fresh air and blazing heat that has Cunningham yearning for hell.

“Provost Cunningham.”

William Cunningham glances up and sours all the more.

Today has already proven terribly tedious. Those damned doctors, Roberts and Whitworth, are reduced to performing amputations in the gaol, and they complain about it bitterly, as if he’s in charge of the conditions. He didn’t ask to inherit a gaol that wasn’t properly maintained. What is he supposed to do, free the prisoners while he cleans for them?

What exactly have they done to earn such privileges? These men won’t show mercy to them, so why return any? Lucky for this rich, pompous officer, he’s never faced a mob of liberty-lovers determined to destroy the liberty of one’s body.

“Lord Rawdon.” Cunningham knows to choose his words with care. A noble lordling deserves respect, apparently, just for title.

“I carry news of Mr. Cairn.” Rawdon’s light brown eyes glow as he pauses, just before the door that leads to the prisoners.

He’s savoring this, isn’t he?

Why?

Why is he so loyal to that nobody private soldier who lied to him? An omega, no less? Perhaps they are fucking.

Cunningham resents it, oh, but he has to respond. “What news?”

“Mr. Cairn has sworn an oath of loyalty, and Gage saw fit to release him. He is no longer in your hands.” Rawdon beams. There’s a lilt to his voice. He’s practically singing. “I’m sure this shall be most sweet news to your ears, seeing as you have such dangerous, dying criminals to contend with. Or is it their wounds that are dangerous? I cannot recall our sergeant’s report clearly.”

Cunningham stares at this impertinent, self-righteous fool. Just like the rebels. They reflect each other. 

He’d agreed with these so-called patriots for so long, and their betrayal – just one disagreement, and he was out.

He knows better than to disagree here. Don’t disagree, just obey. That is how the world works. He is like his prisoners, a nobody – but at least he knows it. At least he doesn’t try to pretend he’s so righteous he can join a rebellion and have it kissed by God. He cannot feign alpha status and be reprieved from treason and insubordination just because he’s a pretty face.

“Is something amiss? I could swear you wore some disappointment.” Rawdon oozes false concern. “Were you so fond of that rebel?”

Cunningham bites his tongue to blood. There’s nothing, nothing, in this fop’s words that he can complain about, but he hears it, the malicious rebuke all the same. “You know I wasn’t, sir. Not a one of them deserves half the mercy Gage has shown.”

“Gage’s mercy? Aye, I agree. We agree. Your mercy, on the other hand…” Rawdon purses his lips. “Well, I ought to be going. Good day, sir.”

He brushes past Cunningham, and that’s when Cunningham seizes. 

He muffles a scream, because oh, oh, that damned lieutenant had opened the door to the corridor of cells. 

The few prisoners who remain conscious stare at him. 

They’ve overheard.

Is this Rawdon’s plot, to have them all beg for mercy now that they’re caught, to take oaths of loyalty? Is he such a fool he thinks they’ll be sincere, or is Rawdon just aiming for more humiliation, because God forbid his unmanly whore be responsible for his own actions?

No, these men are too stubborn. Not all are as false as that alpha boy who really should have been an omega. Cunningham slams the door shut, certain there’s nothing to be gained here.

***

Peter Edes rubs his stubbled chin. What a development!

“Josiah wouldn’t,” whispers David Kemp. He’s confined to the cell across from Peter. Only seventeen, his beard is wispy at best, though now he’s the benefit of less lice than the rest of them. “Peter, he wouldn’t. We know him!” 

“He has,” Benjamin Wilson declares. Still nursing a broken leg, he shares a cell with David and seems to fancy himself stepfather to David and Peter. 

His own father’s voice echoes in Peter’s ears. Back when he was younger and asked Benjamin Edes why he was willing to keep printing when he faced accusations of treason.

There’s a voice inside me, telling me there’s more. You’ll learn to hear it too, someday. Father had wiped ink on Peter’s face then, and he’d laughed as he wondered if he ever would understand. 

Well, that voice speaks now. Perchance it is denial, or perchance it is real. Perchance it is Providence Himself. 

There is only one way to discern. 

Peter raises his voice. “Corporal Royal?”

“What is it?” The corporal is ever-weary. 

“Suppose I gave you money for liquor.” Peter tilts his head. “Might we have the truth regarding Josiah and Mr. Wilcox?” A redcoat grenadier thrown in gaol for saving Josiah; Josiah switching allegiances… they look nothing alike, but Peter must wonder if they’re cousins. 

“Thought you wanted to pay me for food for him.” Royal jerks his thumb towards the dying Amask Fisk.

“Both,” suggests Master Leach. “Next time my wife visits, I’ll ask her to bring rum. You’ve my word.”

“The word of damned spies,” Corporal Royal reminds Leach.

“I’m not,” he seethes, face flushing.

“This is food, of a sort,” Fisk mutters. “Find the truth, Peter. Josiah… we have to learn what happened. One less day means less pain, ha.” 

Corporal Royal swallows hard. 

“I meant my promise to Josiah.” Peter draws himself up. “So I must. Corporal Royal, please, what is your price?” 

“I’ll ask my wife to supply a few more coins as well,” says Master Lovell. “I for one, think Mr. Fisk deserves sustenance and we deserve answers. That is, assuming Corporal Royal knows. Perhaps he is ignorant.”

Royal’s jaw drops. “I was at his court-martial!”

“Were you?” Peter leans forward. “Mr. Wilcox’s, I presume?”

“Mr. Cairn certainly wasn’t in our army.” Royal turns to Fisk, and despite his harsh words, this corporal has always shuddered when looking upon dying men. “Very well, I accept. But you are in for a long tale.”

“Have we anywhere to go?” Peter settles back onto the rotting hay that marks the floor of his cell. “Speak away, Corporal.”

Author’s Note: Writing Cunningham’s perspective was so bitter, I had to take breaks! I see a lot of parallels with him and people nowadays who do or say something dumb, get relentlessly dogpiled by social media mobs, and then slide to the opposite perspective they once had. While Cunningham and everyone else is responsible for their own choices… it’d be nice if humanity learned from this. *stares wistfully out the window*