27th May; Campfires

(Kerr comes from here. )

The six Pioneers tramped back into their regiment's bivouac and almost immediately dispersed, each man going his own different way. They had been gathered on the fly and now that their duty had been discharged, were interested only in rejoining their separate mates.

Corporal Kerr settled himself beside his pack and gratefully accepted the mug of stolen brandy from his friend and fellow corporal, Braggins. It had been an interesting bit of business and no mistake.

"Who's the lad?" The big Scotsman asked, stretching his legs out toward the fire.

Braggins glances at the tousle-haired boy who was helping himself to the dozing Private Gower's brandy ration. "Dunno. S'pose it's some scamp Gower knows. That so, fella?"

Davy looked up guiltily at the question, and glanced to one side at the sleeping fellow. He was sure he didn't want to tick off the Pioneers; they were a rough-looking set of fellows, with those ferocious beards. "Tha' waad be reet," he muttered. Sort of. Gower knew him, after a fashion - said hello once in a while, and Lucy did his mending for him sometimes. That was close enough to friendship, right? "He's me marra." They'd not stopped him from downing the brandy - so he figured it was safe, more or less, being here. They weren't angry.

His confidence increased by this, and by the warm glow of the brandy in his belly, he stole a little closer to the fire. Davy fixed his eyes on the fellow who'd asked first. Kerr sounded almost like he could've come from home, though not quite. He spoke a bit better than their lot did, sorts like Davy and his kin, anyway. His way of speaking was somehow very familiar, though, all the same. "Weor are ye frem, man? Ye aren't frem the Toon?"

Sidelong, Davy eyeballed the stewpot over the fire, even as he reached his fingers to warm them at the flames. Couldn't really nick any of that easily, but maybe he could talk them into sharing a little.

A smirk came onto Kerr's face, though it was not easy to see through his beard. "The Toon, issit? Nah, laddie. I'll be from the mairches."

"And more's the pity," Braggins teased. "Couldn't be a normal sort, couldja?"

"Hush ye," said Kerr, after swallowing a great mouthful of brandy. "One of them lot, are ye, laddie?"

"Ah. Ye're man Jock," Davy said, nodding wisely to Kerr. He couldn't see the smile on the man's face, but he could hear it in his voice; Davy had sharp ears, and he knew this was a promising sign. Good thing Kerr wasn't a Mackem. "Aye, Ah'm frem the Toon, me."

He gave a sidelong look at the pot again, then back at Kerr, widening his eyes into a spaniel-like look. Davy hunkered low, in case it didn't work and the corporal took a swat at him instead, ready to dodge any such thing. "Gissies some scran then? Ah'm fair clemmin', mar."

So he'd said. Kerr drained the last of his brandy and swiped away a few stray droplets from his beard. "Mind yer wee fingers onnit, laddie," he cautioned with a nod toward the stewpot. The boy was free to use Gower's tinware, too, since Gower himself - that lazy swine - was still lightly snoring away. Englishmen, Kerr thought with a slight shake of his head. You couldn't do a bloody thing with 'em!

"Leave some for the resta us, too," Braggins added, scratching at the stubble on his chin with a grimace. He eyed Kerr's beard with apparent envy.

"Ye're geet canny ye leik." Davy immediately reached for the tin cup belonging to the snoring fellow, leaning over the pot and reaching in to dip out a hefty serving. Gower promptly lost his bread ration to Davy as well, who used a piece of the dry crust to fish out the solid part of the stew, and the remainder to sop up the broth. He ignored the scalding heat, wolfing it down as if the Pioneers might snatch it out of his hands any moment.

It was all he dared to take. Really, it was all he could have managed to eat in one sitting in any case - though after he was done, his own hunger sated, he looked guiltily down at the empty tin mug. He should have thought to bring something back for Lucy. For once he could have said where he'd got it, honest. But he hadn't thought of her in time, and he couldn't go off with the tin cup, anyways; not if they knew he'd taken it. Maybe, though, if they got on alright, he could bring Lucy to their fire on some other evening.

His free hand came up to test his own chin, in imitation of Braggins. Davy was a long way away even from peach fuzz, however. "Why dyer hev all that fur?" he asked. "An' what's yer nyems?"

"Ye bolts that much faster, ye'll be eatin' the tin, too," Kerr observed as he served out some stew for himself.

Braggins refilled his mug with more brandy and grinned. "Showin' he's smart, ain't it? Gettin' his bit in 'fore you tuck it all away."

The Pioneer didn't dignify that with a response, but instead used his fingers to scoop up some of the stew. His grenadier companion chuckled. "He's got all that, fella, 'cause it makes them Frogs run away scairt. Works, too." Braggins jerked a thumb toward the busily-eating Pioneer. "That's Kerr an' I'm Braggins. Or Jonny and Nate, if yer 'ticular thataway."

" 'Oo're ye?" Kerr asked, licking broth off his fingers.

Davy bet it did make the Frogs run. He wasn't as edgy around the Pioneers as he'd been earlier, now that they'd proven friendlier than they looked. He'd even sat down properly, crossing his legs and getting comfortable, instead of crouching like an animal about to run any moment. But they were big, burly men, and the beards made them look more than a little like wild ruffians.

"Ah just bet they de leg it as soon as they hev deeked ye lot!" he said, grinning. "Ah'm Davy. Davy Weaver."

"Course they does," Kerr replied, after picking a bit of stew meat from his beard. "Not that it spares 'em."

"Good to meetchyer," Braggins said. "One of our followers, eh?"

Kerr smirked. "Strong wee lad like him, I'd s'pose he was. Course ever'one knows us Inniskillins is the best in the army."

Davy thought it wasn't exactly politic to deny this and say that he was actually following the 33rd, so he nodded enthusiastically. They had fed him. He would have agreed if they said they were from the moon. "Whey aye! Ye're reet ganners." He stuck out one hand at Braggins and Kerr in turn.

The two men returned the offered handshakes cheerfully, though Kerr didn't think to wipe his fingers clean, having just taken another mouthful of stew.

"Ye'll have foun' the best mess in the regiment, here," the Scotsman told the boy. " 'Tween a coupla Pi'neers an' them two grenadiers, there, ye can't go fair wrong."

Davy was not one to cavil at matters of sanitation; his own fingers were grubby enough. A wide smile spread over his face at Kerr's answer, but to be quite certain he'd understood the man, he inquired "Ye biddin' me to come back agyen? Ye don't mind?"

"Aye," Kerr rumbled. "Better comp'ny than Gower yon."

Davy glanced at Gower when he was named. The grenadier was still sleeping soundly! "Bit of a lazy hoit?" he inquired. Then he recalled that he'd claimed Gower as a friend, and amended, "He's areet, but."

"Dyer play guessin'-stories?" he asked, wriggling closer to the warmth of the fire.

Gower. Braggins scoffed. "He's allus like that."

But guessing stories? Both men shook their heads. "Nope," Kerr replied, using his fingers to comb any bits of leftover stew from his whiskers.

Disappointment flitted over Davy's face as they turned down the suggestion of guessing-stories. That would have been fun. But maybe Pye would play it with him later, if he could find the rifleman, and badger him into it. "Ye divvent knaa what ye're missin'," he said. "Hoo aboot a game of rowly-powly or caads?"

Braggins looked confused. "What's guessin' stories?"

Davy gestured in the air, trying to explain. "Guessin'-stories is...puzzles. A rhyme tha' means summat, an' ye hev te guess it, leik." He drew a breath and recited one he knew well.

"Clink, clank doon the bank,
ten agyen fower,
splish splash in the dish,
til it run ower."

"It's a farmer milkin' his coo, see?" Davy held up his hands. "Ten agyen fower, fower teats."

Kerr chuckled, understanding the concept, while Braggins simply looked baffled. "But that don't make sense!"

Davy waved his hands at Braggins again, waggling all his fingers. "Clink, clank goes the dish fer the milk! Ten fingers on the farmer's hand agyen fower teats. An' splish, splash goes the milk frem the coo in the dish, til it run ower. It's a clivvor puzzle, leik."

Braggins still didn't get it, but Kerr was grinning broadly.

"Aye, that's right sly," he said. "Try us 'nother."

Now completely comfortable with the Pioneers, Davy leaned back and stretched out his feet towards the fire, his feet toasting nicely. "Ye dafty," he told Braggins companionably, then thought for a few moments before he tried,

"Divvent hev ne feet te dance,
ne arms nither ye see,
It hev ne leif te live or dee,
An' yet it de all three."

Davy thought the answer might be a little obvious - for Kerr, at least. It was right in front of them, after all. But he'd decided to give Braggins an easy one to make up for calling him a dafty.

"Fire," the Scotsman said and reached across to help himself to Braggins' mug of brandy.

The grenadier corporal scowled. "Dammit. I woulda had it, too!"

"Ye's got te be quicker," Davy said solemnly, "if ye wants te win. Yer turn Jonny." He leaned forward eagerly.

Kerr's brow crinkled with thought for a few seconds, then he nodded slowly. "A'reet," he said. "Have ye a go a'this:

"Come a riddle, come a riddle,
Come a rote-tote-tote;
A wee, wee man, in a red, red coat,
A staff in his hand, and a bone in his throat;
Come a riddle, come a riddle,
Come a rote-tote-tote."

They'd be clever to work that one out. Kerr had heard it from an old farmer's wife. It was one of the few things of interest that woman had ever said.