The cane mutiny

The Cane mutiny

Colonel Tom woke with a start as the sound of cannon fire boomed in the
distance, his eyes glistened in the bright morning sunlight that
sheared it's way through the crack in the tent door. He had survived
another night and he felt exactly the same as when he went to bed,
except not as tired. Yes, this was going to be another glorious
day.
He climbed out of bed and went over to the large oak chest that sat in
the far corner of his tent that acted as a dressing area. It was time
for his morning ritual. He enjoyed dressing in a way that few men could
enjoy such an everyday event.
He lifted the lid of the chest and looked at all his clothes. Leaning
in he picked out a red tunic and britches and a white shirt with a
ruffled collar and cuffs. He started to dress, feeling the silk of the
shirt slide over the rough skin of his arms. It was a true joy to wear
finely tailored clothes. He remembered the dark days when he couldn't
afford any clothes and had to make do with ill fitting rags. Now he had
every item in his wardrobe made to measure and everything fitted him
perfectly, his recent fame and the money his travels brought him were
enough to ensure that only the finest would do.
Once dressed he turned to the tall wooden coat stand that housed his
leather riding boots and umbrellas. Before deciding on which boots to
wear, he reached forward and lifted out his most prized possession, his
ebony cane.
Twenty six inches of the finest flawless ebony, polished and varnished
and polished again so you could see infinity in it's shaft. The handle
and tip were crafted from silver and engraved with his initials. This
was the mark of his success, this was proof of his fame.
He turned, as he did every morning, and looked at himself in the full
length mirror by his bunk, the cane held perfectly straight at his
side, he stood in his traditional pose, the one he used for the
photographers and portrait painters, and gazed at his reflection.
Then he saw it, he blinked several times to check he wasn't still
asleep as this was the one thing that had haunted his dreams for years,
his nightmare had finally come true. He couldn't believe it but, there
it was for all to see. He stood up to the mirror until his face was
touching the glass, his cane held tight to his side. There was no
escaping the truth. His heart fell and he dropped to his knees and
sobbed. He sobbed for a full ten minutes until the reality of his new
situation dawned on him like a serpent rearing for the fatal strike,
his life would be worthless, his future bleak. He would have to return
to the poverty and filth of his earlier existence and leave all his
finery and wealth behind with his reputation.
There was no alternative as far as the colonel could see. He staggered
to the chest, tears streaming from his eyes and leant right in to reach
the bottom. There, beneath the clothes and blankets, was his revolver.
He hadn't used it in years but now he had one more job for it to do. He
turned the barrel towards his head and, gripping the trigger with both
hands, he said his goodbyes to the cruellest of worlds and fired.
As he fell, he dropped the cane which clattered against the edge of the
chest scratching the ebony and knocking loose the silver tip, the two
tiny silver screws that normally held it onto the shaft now
missing.

The sound of the gunfire had everyone in the camp running to the
colonel's tent, everyone that is, except Tim. Tim just stood in the
yard and waited, he knew his day had finally come.
The air around him seemed to shake with excitement as the moment
descended on his shoulders in anticipation of his changing fortune.
Nobody would suspect little Tim. Tim the servent, Tim the clown. He had
spent years in the colonel's shadow, unnoticed and unexceptional. A
figure of fun, not of fame. The crown would fall to him and he knew it
would fit.
Several days after the death of the colonel Tim stood at the bottom of
a ladder, holding it for George, the odd job man.
"How's that Tim?" already he was being treated a little differently,
people were asking his opinion and letting him have his say, they knew
which side their bread was buttered and who now held the knife.
"That looks perfect" he shouted back, "it's been a long time coming."
He stood back and allowed George to climb down. He also stood back and
looked up at his work.
"Why d'you think the colonel killed himself Tim?"
"I don't know George" Tim lied, "probably the pressure of the fame and
all that"
"D'you think so?" George was surprised, "I'd have thought he'd have
learnt to handle all that by now, let's hope it doesn't affect you the
same eh?"
Tim said nothing, he just stood with his hands buried deep in his
pockets looking up at the newly painted sign. He rubbed his thumb over
the tiny screw hole that rested at the edge of exactly one inch of
polished ebony that sat, fat in his palm. There was no trace of the
colonel's name, where once it had read, "Colonel Tom Thumb" it now
read, "Tiny Tim, the world's smallest man" and in brackets underneath,
"Only 26 inches tall"
Tim looked up at George stood next to him, "Don't forget to add the
quarter inch, it makes a lot of difference" as he shuffled away he
looked at his tiny feet and smiled to himself, "never mind the fame,
I'd have thought he'd have learnt to use a tape measure like the rest
of us".