The Fox of France

Captain Edward Stafford had only shouted half of his command when the sound of a gunshot rang out. Quickly followed by another.

Amidst the gunfire, two British soldiers sunk beneath the murky waters. Their situation was dire. They were in the deepest part of the water, making movement difficult. They had become easy targets. Their stance wasn't suitable for precise shooting, and even if they managed to fire, their hurried shots would hardly hit their mark.

In addition, they faced a significant problem; they couldn't reload their firearms in this environment. Their rifles were rendered useless after a single shot, leaving them virtually defenseless. All they could do was assume the shooter was hiding behind the reeds, keeping their rifles aimed but not firing to maintain a threat, while quickly retreating or advancing.

Yet, in the chaos, the British soldiers failed to make the wisest decision. They fired their guns randomly in the direction of the reeds. The result of their blind shots was unclear. After some time, the reeds on the other side responded with more gunshots, and another British soldier fell. The British turned to face the threat, raised their rifles, but this time, no shots were fired. In the previous panic, they had exhausted all their ammunition. Now they had no means of reloading, effectively making them unarmed.

"Charge! Charge and use your bayonets to deal with them!" Captain Stanford shouted.

The British soldiers were resilient, and they advanced towards the enemy. The guerrilla fighters saw the Brits in distress and chose to stand out in the open, firing at them boldly. They reloaded their weapons right in front of the British soldiers' eyes, firing again and again.

Progressing through the water and mud was challenging with each step, but the guerrilla fighters were outnumbered. Despite suffering casualties at close range and some British soldiers sinking into the quagmire, the determined British Lobsters pressed on.

The British soldiers reached shallower waters, nearly making it to the shore. The shameless Irishmen fired their last shot and fled. The British chased them for a while, but in the distance, they spotted a small boat. Several Irish guerrillas were rowing away.

"Quick, reload your rifles and fire!" Captain Edward Stafford was exasperated.

But reloading took time. By the time they had clumsily reloaded, the boat had disappeared behind the reeds.

"Damn rebels..." After a string of expletives, Captain Edward Stafford had a problem to solve: what should they do next?

Continue forward? The water ahead was deeper and broader than what they had crossed. Take a detour? The location of the guerrillas in the swamp was unknown, and there was no clear path to take. Return? That would mean their comrades' lives had been sacrificed in vain.

Moreover, how would they return? Back the way they came? When they had charged forward, they hadn't noticed, but now they saw that five or six of their comrades were still bobbing in the water, shouting, "For the sake of the United Kingdom, help a brother out!" Returning the same way would only leave more men behind.

As Captain Edward Stafford grappled with his dilemma, shouts from behind reached his ears. "Captain... Captain Stafford..."

Captain Edward Stafford raised his spyglass to see a group of Black Paws, each carrying a bundle of reeds. They threw the reeds into the water and stepped on them to create a makeshift path, slowly making their way over.

Leading them was O'Kelly, who was shouting, "Captain, don't worry; we're here to save you!" This pushed Captain Stanford to the brink of madness.

The Black Paws spent nearly half an hour laying down the path. O'Kelly, huffing and puffing, ran up to Captain Edward Stafford, only to receive a slap across the face, nearly sending him sprawling.

"You scoundrel, tell me, where did you all go just now? Did you collude with the rebels to set us up intentionally?" Captain Stafford raged.

While berating O'Kelly, Captain Stanford drew his sword, pointing it at O'Kelly, so livid he could hardly speak. "You... your... conscience... is corrupt... corrupt! I..."

O'Kelly's legs gave way, and he fell to his knees. "Captain, I swear by my loyalty to the United Kingdom, may God be my witness! I pledge my soul to salvation. If I colluded with the rebels to harm you, may my whole family go to hell."

"You scoundrel! Then tell me, where did you go, and what were you doing? If you can't explain, I'll cut you down!"

"Captain, a short while ago, we encountered a few rebels over here. They fired at us, we fired back, and then they fled. We pursued them and reached... here," Captain O'Kelly pointed to the spot where the British soldiers had entered the water. "Captain, you see, those rebels are sly. They had a boat hidden over there. They got on the boat and quickly made their way here. Since the water is too deep here, we couldn't follow, so I thought of gathering some reeds we passed by earlier. We bundled them up to create a path. Captain, did the rebels go that way?"

"You dimwit, why were you so slow!" Stanford put away his sword and smacked O'Kelly once more.

"Yes, yes, Captain. I admit my men were too slow. Way too slow," O'Kelly said, bowing with a smile.

Then he looked over the wider expanse of water on the other side. "Captain, there's no boat, and we can't cross. How about we retreat for now, and return with a boat tomorrow?"

"Slap!" Angrily, Stanford gave O'Kelly another slap.

"Indeed, Captain, you're right. We mustn't retreat without wiping out the rebels," O'Kelly fervently declared.

As he spoke, he quickly adopted a cheerful expression. "But it will get dark soon, and the swamp can be bitterly cold. Catching a cold out here would be a problem. What if we return now and come back tomorrow to finish them off?"

"Hmm," Captain Stanford nodded, then whispered, "Retreat."

With that, Captain Stanford led the group of British soldiers back along the path. He could still hear O'Kelly's shout from behind: "For now, follow the Captain back. We'll return to finish off those rebels another day."

Meanwhile, those British soldiers who had cried for help, with only their heads above water, had all now sunk beneath the surface.

As Stanford walked back, he was filled with regret and anger. Today, he had taken the initiative, leading his troops into the swamp, hoping to achieve a significant victory. Yet, they had suffered losses—over twenty men and nearly forty dogs—but hadn't killed a single rebel. How would he explain this when he returned? Even if his family had some influence, they were still minor nobility. Stanford could already envision himself being forcibly retired, becoming a disgrace to his family.

"Captain, Captain..." O'Kelly approached with a smiling face.

"What is it?" Stanford was not in a good mood.

"Captain, today, you took the initiative and bravely killed over a hundred rebels. You're truly invincible," O'Kelly said flatteringly, his face unwavering.

"What did you say?" Stanford turned around, glaring at the Black Paw.

"Captain, this is something we all witnessed," O'Kelly said, maintaining his composure. Then he lowered his voice. "Captain, only by winning can we earn more rewards. It benefits everyone, doesn't it? We all came here for the rewards, after all."

Stanford stared at O'Kelly's eyes for a long time. After a while, he said, "Very well, you're quite clever."

Stanford wasn't worried that O'Kelly might use this situation to threaten him in the future. O'Kelly was a clever dog—an Irish one, to be exact. Regardless of what he barked at an English nobleman, nobody would believe him. Moreover, barking itself was a crime. Stanford believed that an intelligent dog like O'Kelly understood this.

As for the British soldiers under his command, they were just commoners. With some reward money, perhaps a little extra from Stanford, he should be able to keep their mouths shut.

"Where's the loot, though?" Stanford asked.

"Loot? I've got it right here, Captain," O'Kelly replied. "But, I also need your help with something..."