Driscol
The fact that he'd appeared before them on a wagon driven by a Negro instead of riding a horse didn't help any, of course.
Then again, maybe inspiration could be found up ahead. The president's mansion was only a short distance away.
"Fall in with us," Driscol commanded, pointing to the impressive-looking edifice. "Let's see if there's someone in command there who isn't a fool and a poltroon."
"He's a traitor, I tell you!" the sailor insisted. But he and his mates seemed to be relieved to find someone willing to take charge.
As the sailors started to take their positions, Driscol leaned over and bestowed a smile upon them.
"A lesson here, lads, which I've spent a lifetime learning. Never explain something on the grounds of wickedness, when simple stupidity will do the trick."
The sailors looked dubious. Driscol nodded his head firmly. "Oh, yes, it's quite true. Brigadier Scott even told me an ancient philosopher had proved it. Fellow by the name of Ockham."
He straightened up in the wagon seat. "The English, of course, being the exception that proves the rule."
"You know Brigadier Scott?" asked one of the sailors. For the first time, the expression on his face and that of his mates as they looked up at Driscol was not and who is this ragamuffin?
Before Driscol could answer, McParland piped up. The young private was sitting atop the foodstuffs stacked in the wagon bed.
"Sure does! He was the brigadier's master sergeant. Got a field promotion to lieutenant after he lost his arm at the Chippewa." Pride filled the youngster's voice. "He was in my regiment, the Twenty-second. I was right there when he got wounded. Sergeant Driscol never even flinched. Just had me bind up the wound while he kept shouting the firing orders."
Now they were genuinely impressed. That still wasn't the same thing as inspiration. But it was a start.
As his ragtag little army continued toward the president's house, Driscol turned his head, to give McParland a meaningful look. He'd learned by now that the seventeen-year-old boy was quick-witted, despite his rural ignorance. McParland took the hint, and slid off the wagon. He'd walk alongside the sailors the rest of
Then again, maybe inspiration could be found up ahead. The president's mansion was only a short distance away.
"Fall in with us," Driscol commanded, pointing to the impressive-looking edifice. "Let's see if there's someone in command there who isn't a fool and a poltroon."
"He's a traitor, I tell you!" the sailor insisted. But he and his mates seemed to be relieved to find someone willing to take charge.
As the sailors started to take their positions, Driscol leaned over and bestowed a smile upon them.
"A lesson here, lads, which I've spent a lifetime learning. Never explain something on the grounds of wickedness, when simple stupidity will do the trick."
The sailors looked dubious. Driscol nodded his head firmly. "Oh, yes, it's quite true. Brigadier Scott even told me an ancient philosopher had proved it. Fellow by the name of Ockham."
He straightened up in the wagon seat. "The English, of course, being the exception that proves the rule."
"You know Brigadier Scott?" asked one of the sailors. For the first time, the expression on his face and that of his mates as they looked up at Driscol was not and who is this ragamuffin?
Before Driscol could answer, McParland piped up. The young private was sitting atop the foodstuffs stacked in the wagon bed.
"Sure does! He was the brigadier's master sergeant. Got a field promotion to lieutenant after he lost his arm at the Chippewa." Pride filled the youngster's voice. "He was in my regiment, the Twenty-second. I was right there when he got wounded. Sergeant Driscol never even flinched. Just had me bind up the wound while he kept shouting the firing orders."
Now they were genuinely impressed. That still wasn't the same thing as inspiration. But it was a start.
As his ragtag little army continued toward the president's house, Driscol turned his head, to give McParland a meaningful look. He'd learned by now that the seventeen-year-old boy was quick-witted, despite his rural ignorance. McParland took the hint, and slid off the wagon. He'd walk alongside the sailors the rest of