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[url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qUyUEzhrD84]"-So list, bonnie laddie, n' come to war wi' me!"[/url] The tune rang out from the pub window gracefully, the picking of strings and the moving line of the standing bass. He of course hadn't had the pocket change to even reason going inside, the interior of the bar glowing orange and emanating cheers and jeers from all its patrons, while there he sat, to the wet curb. He glanced to his watch, its cheap, cracked glass partially obscuring the still-functioning hands as he struggled to make out the time. Half past ten.

He'd been at the docks until half an hour ago, a kid that had no business being there but still was offered a few pence to hard pack Bedfords and set riggings on cranes. He'd been too gangly and skinny to do the most of the heavy lifting, but he'd earned the few coins that rattled in his pocket. It was all you could find as a job nowadays, after all Glasgow was a trade city. Damn near depended on the River Clyde, and every canal and tributary that snaked out towards the North Atlantic.

He continued to jangle the change in his pocket as he sat upon the curb. The music from the bar had since stopped, but the patrons had become even more boisterous in the absence of entertainment. He looked around the street, his eyes well-adjusted to the darkness and dimmed street lamps. Adjusted enough to catch the silhouette of a figure darting through the alley across from him. Then two figures, and a third.

"Cameron! Al Cameron!" The harsh voice called from the shadows, an unmistakable shrill call. Three boys- that wasn't right, these were men, practically, with how built they were. They spoke and chattered in a tinged accent- was it Irish? They revealed themselves in clothes as ragged as his own, and two wielded clubs of wood, with the smallest one, which appeared to be the leader, clutching a straightbladed razor. Cameron looked on in fear as the three figures now surged the cobblestone street towards him. Every option flashed through his head, but the one that won out was simply to run.

Jumping up from the curb, Cameron turned to consider his options. An alley, to his left. Risk of a dead end. Open street to the right, his only chance would be that a policeman might be about at this time. Unlikely. He looked ahead, at the almost full-to-overflowing pub, and he dashed through the doors as a razor nearly met his back.

Within, he found the scene common all over Glasgow on any working night. The bar was packed full of stout working men, he'd recognized some of them. Dock workers, meat packers, steelworkers, everybody who had pence to spare on a brew. He glanced back, noting that his pursuers had not followed him inside. Now, only to hang about and avoid being noticed. He snaked his lanky self through the groupings of men, seeking out the backrooms. They were always such good places to hide. Full of cleaning supplies, yes, but you could be assured they wouldn't look there until last call.

Soon enough, a thick Scots voice called from almost across the bar. "Lad, laddie!" The warm voice beckoned, drawing Cameron's eyes to trace it. And sure enough, at the edge of the room, a table had been pulled aside, a man in a sharp uniform seated rigid at it, a feathered Highland bonnet atop his head. It was clear he'd called specifically out to Cameron. Cameron reluctantly considered his options, before trudging over towards the table which seemed to be devoid of all other people, almost as if they were [i]afraid[/i] of it.

"How old are ye, lad?" The man bore an elegant mustache and an air of authority around him, his voice carrying long across the room, even over the other patrons. Ah, he was a recruiting sergeant. Three chevrons upon his shoulder, and a bound notebook on the table in front of him.

"Seventeen, sir." Cameron stated.

"Ah, splendid, laddie. I'm frae the Firs' Battalion, 42nd Regiment, th' Black Watch. Crown's lookin' fer lads t' fill th' rankin's. 'S honest, twa shillin's a day." The recruiter continued, fidgeting with his pen in one hand.

Two shillings caught Cameron off guard. He'd always heard the Army didn't pay for shite, but two shillings wasn't nothing considering he walked home with forty pence a day at the docks. It wasn't a hard pass, but he did consider it a moment, inquiring.

"Territorial?"

"Nay, Regulars. Twa shillin's a day, twa more if they send ye off." The recruiter answered honestly.

His mind raced. The possibility of four shillings per day was insane. Tailors and shopkeeps might've had that to spare, but only the strongest and fastest of the dock workers got close to that on the daily. Certainly nothing he'd ever get on the outside.

"Think we'd be goin' off?" Cameron questioned earnestly, an ever-widening deadzone of people forming between the recruiting table and the bar's patrons.

"Not a chance, old Adolph's gettin' his outside the battlefield."

"Right, where d' I sign?" The recruiter smiled behind his mustache, pushing the book over and opening it to a contract. He offered the pen, which Cameron took and glided across the parchment, scratching out his horrific excuse for a signature.

The recruiter closed the book, binding it back with a leather strap. "Report t' Fort George barracks within' th' week. Army stipend'll cover th' train." The recruiter instructed, nodding. "N' what'd you say yer name was, laddie?"

"Alastair Cameron." He beamed.[/hider]