Coffee and Gunpowder

The stallion’s outcry rallied the other cleanly-dressed ponies, putting a few heads behind his back both literally and figuratively. The ones who didn’t rise simply scoffed and scowled at their scene of schismless squabble. But Kaff didn’t bother to look, he only did when the stallion had thrown a mug over his head with his telekinesis.

“Listen to me, outlander! Your little guise is over. Your fur is barely old enough to be in a suit of armor, but you claim to have served a far away noble’s army? I call you a liar; a stealer of valor. You don’t know what it’s like to be in a real battle!”

Kaff turned his back, picking up the spilled mug of beer lying on the floor. Curious, it had landed beside Lady Fire, who gave him a puzzled look of one eyebrow above the other. But none of that mattered. Kaff eyed the mug closely. Such a waste for what hop farmers had labored to land on others’ tables.

“Officer, you may not like me, but I need not to have an opinion that differs towards you. Simply put it, you will be treated as how you treat others, a lesson one of my masters had yearned for others to follow. You know not of the truth, nor the perspective of which I hold, and yet you berate and belittle one that had yet to speak their own name to the audience.”

Kaff placed the mug on a nearby table, sliding it to the middle; far from the edge. It appeared that he had garnered everyone’s attention.

“Officer, you say that I have yet to meet the fields of battle, but acting as an officer devoid of virtue and lacking of respect for others in command gave the clear image that neither have you. I do not know how it goes here, but where I came from, officers who graduated from the academy do not give their comrades words of sneering undervalue.

“Officer, you threw that simple mug over one that had not done anyone harm. You did that for show of power, to show that you possess both the bravery and the half-mindedness to defy your superior. A leader may lead others by force and fear, but a good leader leads by example; something you gave everyone in this room a very good illustration of what not to do.

“Officer, you challenge the wishes of your very Lord. Master Fancy’s choices are his own, without the ramblings of others under him to give influence. His decisions are final, and it is your duty to put his words to reality, not to dismay it. You served him for some time, but you cannot follow his orders out of the sheer ego that clouds your judgement.

“Why you little—!”

“Yes, I am little, I am new, and yet I know that you do not deserve that promotion. I may not always stand and take charge of pressing matters, but I will always defend my Master’s honor and wishes till the last drop of blood seeps out of my skin!”

Kaff had done this before. Some of the footmen in the estate had done things that had near-landed them in rotting cells below the manor’s basement, but it was in his interest make the Master’s life easier. So, he usually gave them ramblings that could burn ears and send threats that would put Ivan the Terrible to shame.

Though, some never took his words with earnest, even though Kaff had done it for their own well-being.

With the look of bloody murder, the stallion stared at him. Kaff was unamused, however. To him, it was all just a routine: One would cross the line, he’d tell them how it would go, and it would end with them giving back threats, before storming off to vent some steam.

“You keep talking, that’s the only thing your type can ever do. Without officers like me to actually run this place, this company would mean nothing. You remember that, Lieutenant.” Without another word, the stallion left, taking a few of his peers with him. Kaff was left with the mind-numbing silence and all’s eyes, filled with some sort of expectation from him.

Sigh… this was not going to be easy.

Smithley took a lungful of tobacco from his pipe smoke, its scent masking the charcoal smell of gunpowder that hung in the air. The cannon loaders next to him reeked of the stuff; practically bathing in it. The steed under him kept calm even with each passing volley that erupted from their iron artilleries. By now, the smoke that accumulated in the battery’s hilly fields was normal to the men’s lungs. He couldn’t say that it did wonders for their view of the enemy, however.

There were usually six to twelve cannons in a normal battery, but this team held fifteen. It was quite the task: Organizing the salvaged artillery pieces leftover from previous battles. What was harder was keeping it together. Unlike the men that filled the brunt of their force, the shortage of officers couldn’t be helped by the local villages. Smithley was only left with a single lieutenant, but that didn’t mean that he was not caring for their wellbeing. Lives were irreplaceable.

The men holding the muskets upfront may be taking the bigger casualties, but the cannons and the loaders’ wounds couldn’t be mended by local villages once it was harmed. It had to be shipped all the way from the thirteen colonies. Any man can easily be taught to bear a musket, but loading a cannon with both speed and accuracy took time and practise; things this brigade couldn’t afford. The Indian tribes made sure of that.

The attacks, both the Indians and their own, were long and drawn out. With every wave of musket fire, more of the Indian hordes came, outnumbering the very bullets whizzing through the air.

The cavalry, oh the Indian cavalry, they ambush at every angle, at every turn, but their numbers always by the hundreds. So many cannons had to be burned or outright abandoned, but so many more men were slaughtered by their roaring stampedes.

More were the sabotages they had planted throughout the British encampments. Rums poisoned, gunpowder lighted, and necks lacerated by their inhuman skills of infiltration. Like the spirits of their legends, they haunt each and every one of the colonial soldiers. Some of the men had nightmares.

“Lieutenant, could you perhaps keep these men in line? I need to check and rid our camp of any infiltrators,” Smithley asked the officer beside him, receiving a salute. “Good. Keep these men alive. Do not hesitate to withdraw if things went awry with the battle ahead of you.” With a pat on the officer’s shoulder, Smithley left the battery, and headed towards camp.

Men were in doubt, some outright refusing that it was the Indians who had done it all. Ambrose was such one. He denied the clear evidence that the local tribes were the source of their troubles. The wildlife did it all, he said. Yes; of course, the beavers, squirrels, and canaries were the ones who had claimed the lives and sanity of the men inside the camps.

Ambrose and Smithley may had different views on how this brigade should be run, but that greedy lizard only cared for profits than to see Britain and its men victorious. The bastard Ambrose even ordered some of the men to capture a bear to ‘trade in for supplies’, nearly killing them. The poor private that got maimed will be getting checks from Smithley’s own pockets if the lad ever got back to Britain safely.

Nevertheless, Ambrose was a decent officer, one that was better than anything the colonies could replace. If Smithley had the Academy's worth of officers in reserves however, he’d no doubt poison Ambrose’s tea himself.

Smithley sighed. Ambrose’s arrogance was one thing, but the lack of officers meant that the responsibility of planning and coordination were dropped onto him to bear through late at night with only his pipe smoke to keep company. Sometimes he despised being a good tactician. Whatever troubles that arose in battle kept his mind reeling with worry. Plans simply never survive contact, and he was the only one to really keep the men in formation. Just let this rebellion be over.

At least Claxton was there to keep him and Ambrose safe. That duelist never ceased to amaze him by what he could accomplish all by his lonesome. Such a surprise that that Kaffein fellow had managed to beat him in fencig without trickery. Then again, that valet never ran out of luck.

Down the path between the pine trees, Smithley could see Claxton in front of a campfire with a few medics by his side. A group of his personal guard stood at the ready with bayonet-plugged muskets behind him. Wait, why was Claxton so bruised and battered?

Kaff sat down with a long sigh, arms hanging lazily at his sides. A lone candle accompanied him on the table, washing away the darkness of the shop’s dining room. None but Kaff’s breathing flowed through the room.

After the mess of introductions earlier, not many words were spoken. Master Fancy simply guided him to his new office without any further exchanges. However, Kaff did notice the smile Fancy snuck in when leaving him to fill in paperwork.

At the moment, Kaff only wished for some peace, and perhaps a cup of coffee. It was rather late when Kaff entered the house, so Holds and Jace were likely to be asleep. They surely wouldn’t mind him brewing something for himself. He’d be sure to pay at a later date.

It may seem impractical to drink coffee before dropping off into sleep, but it was a habit that the East Indies had rubbed onto him. In Batavia, coffee was practically tea, so the locals there liked to sit out in their porch, blissfully gazing the starry skies with a glass of dark beans in their palms.

The cup laid still with boiling water filling its contents as a small sack of coffee beans rested inside. Filtering it shouldn’t take long.

Kaff collected the ingredients, putting them back in their places. As his legs stretched to reach the cupboards, a book below on the counter caught his attention. Making sure to tighten his newly acquired prosthesis to his leg, he couldn’t help but wonder why a lone book was left there. Well, if it was there out in the open, then nobody was going to stop him from viewing its contents.

‘Year 2672,’ was the only information the cover gave. Such a strange title. Then again, he hadn’t read it yet. He skipped right to the middle.

“...June, an overall bad month for the shop. Same as all the damned months before it. Stocks should be reduced in the future to avoid spoiling. Balance is exactly twenty Bits. Details are in the other journal. Next month is tax season.

Week one of July. Opened late for most of the days, but that won’t be affecting shit since customers only come at night. Things are looking the same as usual.

Week two of July. The only patrons that keep coming back are the loners that always have some sort of ‘tragic backstory’ for their alcoholism. I usually get along with those ones. Not that I ever actually talk to any of them. I had to wrestle a patron out of the shop the other night. Took me a bloody nose to do so, but he gave out. Now that’ll really draw more customers in.

Week three of July. Less customers, more mouths feed. A stranger appeared to stay, and basically became a deadweight since there’s no actual work for him to do. I’ll figure him out after gym practice tomorrow.

Week four of July. I can’t. I just can’t anymore.

Jace will be writing these from now on. If you’re reading this, Jace, you can make out just how bad of a situation we’re in right now. Please, kick that pegasus out. We barely can stay afloat as it is.”

Shut. Kaff nearly threw the book away. It didn’t come to him that this was not a published work till he had read that last paragraph.

No, it couldn’t be like this. It shouldn’t be. He knew that there weren’t many customers, he served some of them them himself, but was it really this bad?

With his new line of work with Master Fancy, a schedule won’t help. He needed to do something, anything, with Jace perhaps. But what? How will he manage to push this shop through tax season? At least, to his knowledge, tax collectors shouldn’t come knocking on their doors till the end of the month, so he would have his time, however little it was.

After he was within the bed’s covers, the sweet bliss of sleep never came, only the angering feel of being ignorant and the stress of what was to come clung to him. If he did manage to fall asleep, he could no longer recall it, as the birds had already chirped the morning welcome.

Few would ever sit with him through the morning breakfast, but Jace was one of those few. “Jace, if I may ask, how eligible is this house with claiming a bank loan?”

Jace stirred out of her half-asleep state, finally taking a bite out of the toast that had been in her hoof for so long. “Oh! Ah… I… don’t think those bank ponies are willing to give us any. Something about our credit score,” she said, mouth filled with bread, and accidentally spitting some out.

Well that idea went out the window. Financial institutions shouldn’t be trusted with debt anyways. Perhaps he could figure something out while he was still off work with his new occupation. At least it was nice of them to give saturdays and sundays off for the month.

“Say… why’d you ask? You iffin’ some Bits for something?”

Kaff slowly took a sip of his mug, painstakingly so. He took time in choosing between lying and the truth. He forgot that reading the book was technically a breach of privacy.

“Spit it out! And I ain’t talking about that coffee in your mouth!”

No use in lying if he was going to help her. “I read the shop’s journal last night, Jace. My curiosity presumed that it was a simple work of fiction, but I was wrong.”

“Sigh. Don’t worry your head about it. I was gonna tell you anyways.” She took a beat of silence, before saying, “You know any way we can scrounge up some bits before the end of the month? I know one way, but I think your input matters, Kaff.”

Putting the mug on the table, he pushed his coffee and doubts down his throat. “Business comes down to one thing, Jace. The people’s wants; it can blind their judgements to do the unbelievable. At least, that is how manipulation works. I believe the same principles could be applied to this shop.”

Jace blinked. “Okay, no more coffee for you today. Just tell me what that jumble of sentences from your mouth means.”

Kaff put his hoofs together in front of him, reclining back into his chair. “Let’s advertise.”

Coffee was something that almost anyone from any age could like. Though, sometimes one had to start small, so one could learn from their mistakes without the impact being too much to bear for the future. Kaff and Jace chose one specific group: Scholars. With long nights of study and exams right in the corner, it was caffeine’s job to help them trog through the nights of dreamless information cramming.

Kaff remembered the masters’ families who hired professional crammers to pass their tests at the very last seconds. Those nights were always the most hectic and caffeine induced.

“How’re we gonna do this, Kaff? We can’t just march in their universities and yell, ‘Come to our shop!’”

Kaff scanned the newspaper in his hooves, eyes landing on the journalist headquarters’ address. “I do believe someone owes me a favour. A particular someone who used personal information without my consent.”

“Oh? Who’s that? And how’re you gonna get them to help?”

“Oh, how? I will do what I do best, dear Jace. The use of words arranged in a threatening manner with the best intimidation a valet could offer.”

Chortle. “How are you gonna do that, Kaffein? You gonna park his carriage in a busy corner?”

“Who’s side are you on Jace? I’m trying my best to save your shop. For heaven’s sake, we haven’t even entered their office!”

“Oh, stop your whining. I’m sure you can do it. I was just imagining how intimidating you can be.”

...

Giggle.

Kaff looked looked between the newspaper and the address on the gated fence. Foal Free Press. He wondered why the place needed a wall to incircle itself with. The gate however, was unguarded with the exception a horizontal pole in its walkway.

As they made their way inside, many walked with them on the cobblestone road with strange metal boxes in their hooves. Inside the building, the first to greet them was the reception, a long line in front of it.

“Look, all I’m asking is to meet your chief editor. I’m carrying about fifty other ponies’ complaints with me, so this’ll actually make things easier for both of us if you let one pony see him instead of fifty.” A stallion at the ahead of the line waved a rather thick piece of dossiers in front of the the receptionist.

“And I’ve already told you, the chief isn’t going to see anypony today,” a mare on the other side of the counter said, patience wearing thin.

“So, when will he see anypony? I’ve been coming here everyday for the past three weeks, and every time it’s the same answer.”

“Like I haven’t noticed. Look, mister, I only do what the chief says. And the chief says that nopony is allowed to see him.” The mare stood from her seat, yelling to the line, “Everypony who’s here to meet the chief, you can go home. He wasn’t seeing anypony yesterday, he isn’t seeing anypony today, and you can bet that he won’t be seeing anypony tomorrow!”

With disgruntled murmurs and scowls, everyone left, clearing the line to the very end. They all moved passed Kaff as would a stream of water with stone, some colliding with his shoulders.

Well, that was... fortunate. He’d take whatever help Lady Luck was handing out. “Hello, we’d like to meet with one of your journalists.” Kaff smiled at the mare.

The mare looked through the numerous notes on her table, passing Kaff a glance. “Looking for Mister Daily, right? I’ll get him for you, Mister Kaff. Please teach that boy a thing or two about asking for permission.”