11th of Planting 383 ONT, Yalmona, Dusty Hat Inn, Omaru (Formally Glandora)
Constable Buck Frobisher looked around tired at the fifty or so bound and gagged mercenaries. The fight had been difficult and was far from finished. He stepped behind the bar grabbing the only bottle that had not been smashed in the fight and took a long drink form it before stepping out into the street. Already he could see the townspeople coming from their homes, curious at what had happened. He would need help, if these folks wished to avoid retribution he needed them to help him take the small camp about a mile out of town, there would be at least a hundred more men there. If they did not, the down would likely be burnt. He looked at the young women and elderly men who made up most it’s populace… they would need a stirring speech… something that would go down in the annals of time, that would rally their spirits to his call… he cleared his voice and stepped forward.
“They have called this day The Eleventh of Planting! And whom-so-ever of you gets through this day, unless you are shot in the head or somehow slain… you will stand at tiptoe… when e’er you hear the name again, and you will get excited!…At the name Planting The Eleventh! We happy few, we few, we band of brothers…our names will be as like…household names. And those who are not here, be they sleeping or… doing something else… They will feel themselves…sort of crappy. Because they are not here to…to join the fight. On this day, the Eleventh of Planting!”
The towns folk looked at him with confusion as he climbed into the saddle raising his musket over his head. “MOVE OUT” he said pushing Talisker into a light trot as he headed for the camp… the people of Yalmona shrugged at one another, some following the constable, others heading back into their homes.