Eric Niklisel was the pride and joy of his parents, so much so that his older sister was treated almost as an afterthought. But when he shrunk away from his duty to defend his people from the invading forces of Prince Jandl, she saw an opportunity to steal away with his honour and glory.

Bravery of the Nameless
by Arcie Emm

At the fence-line she stopped, staring at her home, and wondering if it was safe to return to the unhappy house. Were her parents still yelling at each other or had winter settled between the two? Would her return draw their glacial stares?

Probably.

And it was so unfair, she was not to blame. She was never to blame, just the easiest. As a female, despite being oldest, she was always judged, maybe not as worthless, but definitely as worth less than her brother. Eric the fair-haired angel to her mother, hope to her father, and sniveling, little weasel to her. Eric, who was so good at playing her mother against her father and vice versa, who always got his way despite the damage it did to everyone else, in particular her.

Or he had, until today. Today he had thrown mud upon their father’s hopes, who, as always, reacted with passion rather than thought. Despite the defense of their mother, Eric was lashed by their father’s tongue in a way he had never experienced. The man had even gone so far as to call his son a coward.

That was when she made her mistake. She smiled, a smile noticed by all, a smile that drew their wrath to her, causing her to beat a hasty retreat to the meadows around the house, while the more weightier matter of Eric was resolved. By now it must have been.

It was her turn. She dreaded returning, but with night coming she no longer had a choice. So she forced one foot to cross the boundary onto the carefully manicured lawn, then another, and another, until there was no need to force herself forward. Almost her pace grew normal before she slipped through the front door and into the silent, manor house. Yet it was not the frosty silence she had expected, it felt different, seemingly created more from emptiness than purpose. Confused, she forgot her planned stealth and called out. “Hello, I’m home.”

No answer. She moved deeper into the house, her previous worries being replaced by ones much worse. Though they lessened when she heard hurried steps coming towards her, soon bringing Heloise, the maid, into view. “You’ve returned then Miss?”

“Yes I have Heloise. Where are my parents?”

“They’re gone Miss.”

“Gone?”

“Aye Miss, young Master Eric took ill and it was necessary to take him to Verende. They left you a note in the dining room.”

Unmindful of the rudeness, she brushed past Heloise, anger blossoming once more at the realization that her brother had once more manipulated the situation in his favour. In the dining room she found a letter, scrawled in her mother’s hand. Ignoring most of the dire pronunciations about poor Eric’s health, she focused on the last paragraph where it explained that they were off to see Dr. Hoight in Verende and would be staying at her grandparent’s, her mother’s parents, house until Eric was better.

Infuriated that nobody had come looking for her, knowing how much she enjoyed visiting her grandparents, she ripped the note into tiny pieces, scattering them upon the table. Sitting in a chair, breathing heavily and staring at the paper sprinkled on the table, her eyes were drawn to a sheet of creamy parchment, still folded over despite its rich, red seal having been broken. It had been this letter that had led to the morning’s arguments and rage. Having been present at its start, during breakfast, she had an idea what was in the letter, but suddenly alone and with it sitting there in her sight, curiosity made her reach forth to take it in her hand. Fingering the letter, she studied the embossed boar that made up the seal, sundered in half by the slit her father had made in opening it, and despite her anger at him, felt a moment of pride that the great March of the Fenlands would send him a letter. Opening it, she read:

     Greeting Captain Niklisel,

     My father often spoke of your bravery and steadfastness while you served under his banner
     as he brought the Fenlands into the Empire. Thus I am honoured to learn that your son wishes
     to serve under me as I defend it from the cattle’s rebellion, stirred up by their so-called
     Countess, the whore Esmeralda, and the scum who fight under her rutting partner, Jandl of Melindon.

     However, I will not delay glory for him. So he should join me at my camp on the Plains of Disktra
     as soon as possible.

     Faithfully,
     Victor, March of the Fenlands.

Momentarily bemused that she had been left alone, surrounded only by the servants, whose people the letter referenced as cattle, her thoughts turned to the opportunity from which the cowardly weasel was shrinking away. Not only would it give him a chance to be recognized by a great man like the March, but it was also his duty to help the Empire hold, even expand, its territory during his life, just as had their father had done. But Eric had never been interested in those lessons from their father, unlike her. Providing her one way to monopolize her father’s time, listening to his story, asking him questions, being taught how to shoot and ride, even some fencing. No longer though, her encroaching womanhood had brought it to an end, confining her to her dresses and her mother’s silly lessons on how to snare a husband.

She found that throughout the rest of the evening that whenever she began to feel sorry for herself, at her abandonment, she would re-read the March’s letter. It seemed to rekindle her anger and wiped away her self-pity.

It was not until she was abed, alone on the upper floor reserved for her family, that both emotions were replaced by curiosity. Unable to stem it, she found herself rising and with candle in hand found herself creeping into her brother’s larger room. Not until she opened his third armoire did she find what she was looking for, his uniform. The letter had not caught Eric by surprise, their father, sure that his petition would be granted, had caused a uniform of the March’s regiments to be tailored. Apparently the earlier arrival of the uniform had given Eric ample time to prepare for this day. And now he would have no need to wear it, he was “sick”.

Taking off her nightgown, she removed the uniform from the closet, and put it on. It proved a decent fit, she and Eric being similar in size. Only in the hips and bottom was there any tightness, though not in the chest, for as her mother was quick to remind, she had not been blessed in that particular area. She even placed the shako upon her head before looking into a candle-lit mirror. She saw that her appearance was little different from Eric`s, seeing as how he was not the most masculine, nor she the most feminine.

She could almost believe that she could take his place. A thought that made her snort in laughter, though she doubted not that she would prove a better ensign than her brother. With that laughter the spell was broken, she shucked the uniform, returned it to its place, and returned herself to her bed.

But the next day those thoughts returned. Left alone by the servants and unburdened by her mother’s lessons, her idle mind proved fertile for thoughts of fancy. And the most fanciful of these was the idea of taking her brother’s place on the Plains of Disktra. She dreamed of the excitement it would add to her life, the honour she could bring to her family’s name, the worry it would cause her parents, and, most deliciously, the embarrassment that would be felt her brother. He would never live down the fact that she, a girl, took his place on the field of honour, while he shirked his duties playing sick.

Time and again common sense pulled her thoughts in another direction, only to allow them to drift back when it let down its guard. Unfettered by a calming outside influence, her fancies soon outgrew the control of common sense. Unsure at what point dream became desire, she found her thoughts turning to how to get to the March’s camp. Reason, subverted by those desires, began to plan.

Thus she found herself pleading weariness almost immediately after supper and made her way to her bed. There despite her excitement, her body took over and made her fall to sleep, as if preparing for what was to come. Yet it proved a willing accomplice when she awoke well before sunrise to a sleeping house. Instantaneously alert she rolled from her bed, removed her nightgown, and repeated the steps from the prior night, which took her to her brother’s room.

This time she was even quicker getting dressed, though she put on a second pair of socks to make Eric’s slightly large, riding boots fit more comfortably, though for now she left them off, worried the sound of their soles would wake someone. This time she even hung Eric`s hangar and flintlock pistol from the belt around her waist. Then scooping up the shako, boots and saddle-bags, which the prior night`s exploration had found to be already packed, probably by her father`s valet, she snuck down the stairs into the kitchen to fill left-over space in the bags with food and a full water skin. Having everything she needed, she let herself out the backdoor, pulled on the boots, and trotted towards the stables.

Her plan lead her to Hunter`s corral, Eric`s gelding, left behind while her family traveled to Verende by carriage. Her choice of Hunter was based upon a number of reasons. Most important was the fact that Hunter had the pace to get her to the plains in a day`s travel, unlike her mare Winny. Almost as important was her belief that the servants, knowing when she had gone to bed and the tumultuous relationship she had with her brother, would assume that she had arisen before anybody and seized the opportunity to take Eric`s prized mount for a ride. She hoped this would lead nobody to think anything of her absence until the evening, which would provide her more than an adequate head start, particularly if the only thing they did was to send a missive to her parents. In ways the servants would be correct, the final reason for her taking Hunter was because it would even further upset Eric.

Awkward with the sword and pistol at her waist, it was a struggle to saddle the large horse, restless from inactivity and being awoken so early, yet she finally succeeded. Taking Hunter by the bridle and talking to him in a soothing voice, she led him from the stable and across the yard towards the lane leading from her families manor to the main road. Reaching the lane, she finally mounted and made good her escape.

Used to riding, she quickly settled into a comfortable seat as Hunter began to eat up the miles. It was not until she crossed Muddy Creek that she dismounted, to give him a break, and to break her fast. She also took this opportunity to implement the final part of her disguise. Taking a sharp knife, useful for all sorts of things, from the saddle bag, she wrapped a hand around her long hair and sawed it off high up on her back. Then taking a string, she tied it in a short pony-tail at the nape of her neck, much like her father wore his hair.

Once more she found herself on the road, much of the time alone. Only as she came closer to the Plains of Disktra did traffic begin to increase as supply carts rolled to and from the March’s camp and troops of militia or regular marched to join the great army already established. Here she began to worry about her disguise, responding only with simple greetings when addressed, but with everybody busy about their tasks they paid little attention to her. Not until she reached the camp and was confronted by the sergeant-of-the-guard, at its main entrance, did her disguise truly come under scrutiny. However, he too barely looked, taking her for one of the many upper-class boys drawn to the army in the quest for glory.

It was an opinion shared by all whom she stopped, to gain additional directions, on her way to the March’s tent. Which proved to be a huge pavilion, around which a number of men waited to see the commander. Probably because she still led Hunter and held the letter received by her father from the March a harried aide took her for a messenger, had a guard take Hunter’s reins, and guided her inside where an older man, wearing a uniform with slightly different markings than her own, was talking to one of the men behind a table.

There were two of them sitting there, alike as only two of the same blood can be. She immediately knew them to be Victor and Wolter Danaan, the March of the Fenlands and his younger brother. She ignored what was being said, instead she studied the two brothers, handsome as was to be expected of anyone of their breeding and much moreso than any of the paintings that she had seen implied.

She found herself focusing on the younger of the two, who also ignored the conversation as he scribbled away on a piece of paper. Unlike his brother, who seemed to feel the weight of his responsibilities, the younger had a joy about him that made her wish she could see what he wrote. He was devilishly attractive and so intent was her study of the younger man, she barely noticed the older officer passing her on his hurried way from the pavilion. It taking a cough from the March to draw her embarrassed attention towards him.

“You have something for me?”

Blushing, she was caught in a quandary, unsure whether to curtsey, bow, or salute. Immediately discarding the first option, unsure of how to perform the last, she settled upon the middle before scurrying forward to set the letter before him, mumbling, “You sent this to my Father.”

“Ahh yes, I take it you would be Eric Niklisel?”

“Yes Milord.”

“Ahh, you appear younger than I would have guessed. Still now that you are here, I can make use of you.”

“My pleasure Milord.”

“Yes. Franzen, come here.”

The aide who had delivered her into the tent, marched forward with a immaculate bow and asked, “Milord?”

“See that someone delivers young Mr. Niklisel to Colonel Williams of my grenadiers, he is to replace Mr. Faulk.”

“Yes Milord. Come with me boy.”

Seeing the March turn towards his brother, she took another quick look in that direction, before turning to trot behind the aide. Quickly turned over to a corporal of the guard, she did not hear the discussion behind her.

“Victor, who was that pretty young man?”

“The son of one of Father’s officers, who fought under him during the conquest of the Fenlands. The old man had sent me a letter requesting a position for his son, perfectly timed to help me out of a bit of a bind.”

“A bind? Pray tell.” Wolter asked.

“Well just before his letter, I had received one from Lady Marissa requesting that I transfer her cousin Ensign Tasmund out of the grenadiers to my staff.”

“You mean that pear shaped oaf?”

“Aye, though you must admit that Lady Marissa took more than her fair share of her family’s beauty.” Victor sighed.

“Yes, even I can admit that. Though I would rather have that pretty boy, with the delectable bottom, running about headquarters, than pear-boy waddling about.”

“Well after we thrash the scum Jandl, I will see about transferring him to your staff. Though I do believe you will not find him the difficult conquest you enjoy.”

“I won`t?”

“Yes, he could not take his eyes off of you.”

“Well, well. Does that not lead a fellow’s mind down some merry pathways.”

Meanwhile the object of Wolter’s thoughts was leading Hunter along behind the corporal to whom she had been handed off. Preoccupied, by her meeting with the brothers, she asked him nothing as they crossed the bulk of the camp, stopping before a much plainer tent around which a number of large men sat talking. One of them, with great mutton chops, looked questioningly in their direction.

Suddenly second guessing her adventure, amongst these hard men, she allowed the corporal to answer. However, after a hurried explanation he hurried away, leaving her the focus of the man’s baleful gaze.

“How old are you boy? Twelve?”

Forgetting she was disguised as her brother, who was indeed twelve, she blurted, “No sir, I am fourteen.”

“You are? You hardly look old enough to be out of your nappies. What’s your name?”

This time she remember who she was to be and answered, “Eric Niklisel.”

“Eric Niklisel, eh? I served under a Captain Eric Niklisel when I was a Lieutenant. Any relation?”

“Yes sir, my father.”

“Then you may not be completely useless. Did he teach you any of his skills?”

“Yes sir.”

“Very well then. Hey Billy, who has a billet free for an ensign?”

One of the other men looked up from pouring a cup of coffee and laughingly said, “Second Company, Colonel.”

Another of the men, hearing this, roared, “No God damned way. I had to put up with that fat fellow. You’re not sticking me with another beardless wonder.”

“Calm down Eldrik, it`s someone else`s turn. Billy who else?”

“Fifth company.”

“Ramsy, what of it?”

“Sure thing Colonel, it only seems right since my own first ensign position was under with Captain Niklisel.”

“Excellent, young Eric, this is Ramsy Fellows, your new captain.”

Rising to his feet, she saw that, like the colonel, Captain Fellows was a tall man, something she soon learned to be a common trait amongst the March’s grenadiers, officer and soldier alike. Looking down at her, he said, “Come along then lad, I might as well get you settled in. That your horse?”

“Yes sir.”

“Nice lines. But you won’t get much of an opportunity to ride about camp. He will be pastured with the other officer’s horses.”

Nervous about losing touch of this link to home, possibly even her escape, she could not but agree and hand Hunter over to a soldier Captain Fellows summoned to lead away the horse. Then, with saddlebags over her shoulder, she trotted along behind the captain who wandered about looking for a Lieutenant Kelly, the commander of the 3rd platoon of his company. When they finally tracked him down, she found him to be young, fair-haired man, probably not out of his teens. But a pleasant sort, as he took her about introducing her to men of their platoon, most of whose names she quickly forgot.

“You don’t snore do you?”

Confused by this random question, she answered, “Not that I am aware of.”

“Excellent, you will be sharing my tent and I think this one night I could benefit from a good sleep.”

“Why is that Lieutenant?”

“Rumour has it that the March is going to bring Prince Genital to battle tomorrow, before his second corps joins up with him.”

Suddenly feeling incredibly nervous, she incredulously asked, “Tomorrow? So soon?”

“I suppose it is for you, but most of us have been here for weeks. We are looking forward to sending the dirty bastards home with their tales between their legs.”

“You’re confident in our victory?”

“Definitely, we outnumber them and from everything I have seen, they are common rabble.”

Since this discussion occurred while standing at the edge of camp, looking at their enemy’s smaller, disorganized camp, she believed him. It allowed her to turn her attention to something of greater immediate importance and ask, “Excuse me lieutenant, where may I find the privy?”

Snorting in laughter, he said, “Privy? I wish. No most of us use the trenches to the North, just follow your nose and you can’t miss it. Nah, forget that, I could use a visit myself, follow me.”

Suddenly very nervous, she followed the man in stunned silence, sure her ruse was about to be discovered. The stench of their destination hit her before she had a plan and she stared in dismay at a long row of public seats. Seeing that few were in use and deciding hesitation was her enemy, she scooped up a handful of leaves, from an available pile, and moved to a seat well away from anybody else, sighing with relief when Lieutenant Kelly also found his own space. Still she was quick about her business, crouching before barely pulling her trousers down only far enough. Finished and undiscovered, the scare left her with frayed nerves. So she found herself following the lieutenant about, rather numbly, until he discovered that she had been on the road since before dawn and sent her off to their tent to sleep. There, despite a sudden lightning of understanding at how incredibly stupid her fancy was proving to be, she fell asleep, unwashed and still dressed in Eric’s uniform.

Deep sleep that was harshly broken by the rattling of drums and the blaring of horns. Jerking upright, from her slumber upon the hard and uncomfortable ground, she glanced about in alarm, expecting to see a group of Esmeralda and Jandl`s troops come bursting into their tent. Noticing her confusion, Lieutenant Kelly said, “No worries Eric, just time to get up for breakfast.”

Somewhat calmed, she joined him and the rest of the company’s officers around a fire built up by their servants, enjoying a rough breakfast and basins of water for washing or shaving. Saying little, she observed excitement amongst the men as they speculated about the early breakfast. They talked quietly, almost as if they waited for something.

And then...

The drums and the horns started up once more. The men about the fire tossed their cups to the ground, rushing into tents to grab weapons and shakos, before scattering towards the tents of their platoons. Unsure of what to do, she trailed Kelly, saving her breath for keeping rather than asking questions. Arriving amongst their platoon they found that the sergeants had them already formed up and waiting for their arrival before moving out to join up with the rest of the company and regiment on the outskirts of the camp. Here there was a pause in the bustle, allowing her to ask what was happening.

“Were forming up for battle.”

“We are?”

“Yep. Apparently the March is going to force Prince Genital’s hands. Though likely the coward will skedaddle away, quicker than a lizard, when offered battle.”

“Hopefully.”

“Gah Eric, then we would have to chase him. Much better to whoop his ass now and then we can head home.”

“Yeah, that sounds good. So where are we going?”

Grinning, Kelly answered, “The grenadiers always have honour of place, we’re in the center.”

“Umm, what am I supposed to do.”

“Just stick by me for now. When we get in place, you will be at the left of the platoon while I am at the right. It’s our job to pass on commands from the Captain. Oh yeah, we are also to hold the lads steady and then lead them in the charge. Think you can handle that.”

Looking at the lads, each larger and older than her, she nodded her head and said, “Umm...yeah?”

“Good man. Good man. Hey ho, there’s the Colonel. No time for more talk, it’s off to the races we go.”

For them it was a short march to their place of pride and after forming up she found herself beside the taciturn lieutenant of 4th platoon, joining him in staring intently at their opponents camp. It too was bustling with action, Prince Jandl’s troops, hardly wearing any semblance of a uniform, forming up into their own lines. With a quickening of her heart and a sickening of her stomach she realized that the enemy was not going to run away. There would be battle.

What was she doing here? Why had she let her mind play tricks upon her, playing up the glory and the honour, while ignoring reality. Reality that consisted of being surround by large men, all desperately in need of a bath, waiting to kill or be killed by others. She silently cursed herself for an idiot.

But she was committed. She could not run, that would be the ultimate failure of her stupidity.

Instead, with shaking hands, she began to load her pistol. The finicky work serving to calm her, allowing her to focus on the task at hand rather than the men lining up on either side of the plains, preparing to do battle. Finished that task her hands once more began to shake and fearing accidentally firing the pistol, she returned it to the hook on her belt. And then she waited, fighting dark thoughts, trying to stop herself from breaking into prayer, as did some of those in the ranks to her sides.

“Skirmishers.”

Surprised to hear the 4th platoon lieutenant speak, she turned to him questioningly. Seeing her inquiry, he jutted his chin in the direction of the enemy. Turning to look, she saw a number of men break free of their lines, running forward in groups of two, stopping well short of musket range, kneeling down, and firing. Curiously she wondered what they hoped to hit. Then she heard shouts of pain amongst the March`s lines.

“Fuckin’ rifles.”

The lieutenant’s curse answered her question. Rifles could shoot further and more accurately than muskets, but they were more expensive, slow to load, and had not been needed during the last expansion of the Empire. Besides the skirmishers were few, no more than a mosquito to the body of their army.

Yet again and again the mosquito stung, as the March’s army continued to form its line. Causing men to shuffle nervously and her to begin to hate. Unbeknownst to her, she had pulled forth her hangar and was tapping it her hand, almost chanting along with the lieutenant beside her, “Steady! Steady all, it will soon be our turn. Steady.

“Steady lads...”

Across the field, amongst the skirmishers of Prince Jandl’s troops, Third Eye Malginisk having fired another of the shots that gave him his name began reloading his rifle, saying, “Got him.”

“Ahh Third Eye, he was just a kid.”

“Still a bastard officer Turkey. Rich fucker likely never missed a meal in his life, unlike us. He deserves some hardship, besides the little bugger looked like he knew what he was doing. Keeping the pansies in their fancy-ass outfits steady.”

“Yeah I guess.” Turkey agreed.

“And what the fuck are you complainin’ about. You was the one who shot that drummer boy in Donnigal.”

“Nah, the little fart was already dead when I took his drum. Man I miss that drum, why the fuck did that dickhead Eston go and break it?”

“Hold a second, rich fucker on a horse. To our left.” Kneeling once more, he took a shot over the head of the a line of troops at his target. Turkey not being as accurate, settled for once more shooting into the mass. “Mark where he fell Turkey, might have some good loot if nobody gets to him first. And Eston broke the drum cause you fuckin`sucked at playing it. If he hadn’t done it, someone else would have done it.”

“Marked. Damnit Third Eye, I was getting better, Humper would sit there and listen to me all day.”

“Fuck Turkey, you’re the only one to give that damned mutt any scraps. Course its going follow you around.”

“Still, it wasn’t right. Man there sure are some big fuckers over there.”

“Yeah, but they`re not the fire-eaters who took the Fenlands back in the days. All these soft fucks have ever done is beat their peons.”

“You think they’ll run Third Eye.”

“They’ll run.”

“That’s a nice looking camp they have, bet it has some nice stuff.”

“Likely, but Turkey don’t weigh yourself down with crap this time. What the fuck were you going to do with that big-assed mirror?”

“Fuck that was only one time Third Eye. Don’t keep harping on it. Think there’ll be any women?”

“Doubtful, the pansies are likely happy with each other. Hold.”

“Shit, that sucks.

Crack! Crack!

The sound of whistles caused the two men to turn around, seeing their lieutenant blowing his whistle and waving the skirmishers backwards. Each, who was still loaded, took one more shot before turning and trotting back to join the two lines of their comrades that had begun to move forward. It was time to quit dicking round. Hey-diddle-diddle, straight up the middle.

The End

Afterward

A few weeks back there was a blog wondering why so few female to male stories were posted. I wrote a response musing that my type of stories likely could fit such a transition quite easily; however, when I pressed submit the blog was gone. Still it perked my curiosity about writing such a story.

Percolating the concept led me to the idea of defending against invaders. Initially my thinking dwelt around a siege, but there are a number of true life stories of women, acting as women, being heroines in their city’s defense. Therefore, I moved to the idea of the musket line and when that happened, there was only one possible ending I could foresee. Sadly a bad one for our heroine.

However, I wondered if I was being being unfair to this character. I decided not, since like Star Trek, my stories are not always kind to the red-tunic ensigns that are part of the away crew. And this is the role that the heroine of this story found herself in.

The next question that occurred is whether I am being unfair to anyone who reads this story. To this I do not have as pat an answer. But I thought it very well might be the case, so I tried to mitigate attachment to the character by; not giving her a name, attempting to keep a distance in my language even while keeping her as the central figure, giving other smaller characters more personality traits, and by keeping the story rather short (though it ended up longer than my initial guess).

Still even with that, I would not be surprised if people do not like the ending And to them I apologize.

Arcie Emm