2 June; Not so good morning

It was just as well, McIntyre thought, that he carried the necessary implements for cooking in his pack instead of on a donkey. This made his pack a little heavier than it ought to be, but he was glad enough for it right then. Besides. If he couldn't bear a little extra weight on the march, he was better off being put out to pasture.

The old tin pot he used for making tea was beginning to steam, which meant the water was nearly ready. He used his bayonet to turn over the piece of pork that was sizzling in hot water in his trusty old iron pan. It wasn't much but a man needed something solid in his stomach before a day's long march.

It was time to rouse the grasshopper, he thought, or else this breakfast wouldn't be hot when it was time to eat it. He set the pan down away from the cherry-red embers and used his bayonet again to lift the tin pot up. This would use up the last of his tea leaves, which meant he would have to hunt down some more.

Presently, with his mug filled with piping hot tea, McIntyre moved toward the tent. "Mornin' time, sir," he said by way of announcing himself as he ducked under the flap.

Vickery blinked awake and groaned as he realised that, whatever else the night's sleep had done, it hadn't eradicated his headache. He thought things seemed clearer than they had yesterday, but his vision still wasn't normal. He hoped that whatever happened this morning, tea was somewhere on the agenda.

It seemed to be, from the scent and the annoyingly cheerful voice announcing the presence of his batman. He opened his eyes and looked up, to be confronted with a red coat. "You're not Cotton," he said stupidly, trying to recall the events of last night.

Of course it wasn't Cotton; his own servant had been captured by the French in that damnable skirmish. He dredged up a name from his vague recollections of the night before. It seemed to fit, somehow, and he tried it out. "McIntyre?"

"That's me, sir." He ignored the first remark and held out the mug. "Got a bit of pork and cheese if you're up for eatin', too."

"That sounds..." Vickery's stomach rumbled at that point, which made him smile ruefully. "That sounds good, actually. I don't suppose there's a cup of tea on offer as well, is there?"

There probably wasn't, of course. He began to sit up and collapsed back as the stitches in his side pulled. "Damn," he said mildly and tried again, being more careful.

"Naturally, sir." McIntyre held the mug out to him. "It ain't a proper mornin' without it."

There was a motion that Vickery presumed was McIntyre offering him a mug of tea. He reached to take it. Being unable to see clearly was growing more and more tiresome.

"Thank you," he said, blowing the fragrant steam off the liquid. It tasted the same as last night's tea had: strong and slightly bitter from the powder it had been stored with. There had probably been a cartridge leaking in the man's pouch at some point, and some of the powder had got mixed in with his tea-leaves.

"Pleasure, sir," McIntyre told him. "D'you want your breakfast directly, or s'it better to tidy up first?"

His own officer preferred tidying himself up first, but the grasshopper probably wanted to be fed as soon as possible.

"Breakfast, I think, thank you." He was wearing a borrowed shirt - probably borrowed from one of his men, in fact - and it wouldn't take him long to get his jacket on, even with the gash in his side restricting his movements.

Right then. "I'll fetch it off the pan then, sir." The pork should have cooled sufficiently to be safe to eat, hopefully. McIntyre touched a curled knuckle to his forehead out of long habit and moved outside again.

He had laid out his own mess gear, knowing the grasshopper had none of his own, and thus it was quick work to move the slab of pork from the pan onto the battered old tin plate. A couple wedges of cheese and a crust of bread completed the meal.

"Best I could do on short notice, sir," he confessed as he slipped back under the tent flap with the plate in hand.

Short notice or not, it smelt wonderful. "I hope you've got some breakfast of your own," he said,taking the plate that was offered to him.

Tea and a hot breakfast. The only thing wrong with it all was that it wasn't being served up by Cotton. He hoped that his man was being treated all right by the French, he and those taken prisoner with him.

"Oh aye, sir. Had some burgoo 'fore dawn." He fished a knife and fork from his trouser pocket, where he'd stuck them earlier. "Anythin' else you're needin' just now, sir?"

Burgoo? Wasn't that a Navy thing? He looked up at the redcoat, curiously, as he accepted the offered cutlery. It probably wouldn't do to pry, of course. Some men didn't take too kindly to an officer asking about their private lives.

"I don't think so, no. Thank you, though - I appreciate the help you've given me."

"S'no trouble, sir," the oldster replied with a smile. "Seems you're rather needin' it, if you don't mind me sayin' it, sir. 'Sides. Been a good few years since I seen anybody from the Royal Americans, anyways."

The 60th were still officially the Royal American Regiment, although Vickery had nobody of American stock in his company that would justify the use of the title. And since the war with America in the previous century, the title was a nonsense, although that didn't stop people using it. 'Royal American Rifles' sounded far better than just plain 'Rifle Regiment' in Vickery's opinion.

"I daresay the fellows you knew wore red coats rather than green jackets," he said, although they may have worn green: the Fifth Battalion had been raised in 1797, by combining two German units.

McIntyre grinned. "That's so, sir. They was on Saint Vincent. The Second Battalion if I 'members right. There was some lads on Antigua too but they was gone when I got there." He shrugged. "That was a right long time ago, though."

McIntyre's words didn't make a whole lot of sense to Vickery, or at least he couldn't work out what regiment the man might have been in to come into contact with the 2nd/60th 'a right long time ago' out in the Caribbean. He nodded and concentrated on eating his breakfast without making too much of a mess - something that was easier said than done without being able to focus properly.

"The Caribbean, eh?" he said eventually, thinking that the silence was stretching a little uncomfortably.

He glanced up from the work of examining the officer's jacket for any blemishes that might require immediate mending. "That's so, sir. Course, there was a few regiments posted out there, s'I recall. There was the 40th in Antigua with us though. Decent lot, them."

Vickery looked up. It took a moment to decipher the still-blurred scene in front of him, but he thought that it wasn't quite as blurred as it had been yesterday. It might just be wishful thinking, of course, but he hoped it wasn't.

"My own man is going to want his place back, you know," he said lightly, though he had no idea when - or even if - Cotton was likely to return to the British army. "So what regiment were you serving with in the Caribbean? I must admit that I can't recall if the 33rd have ever been out there or not."

They probably had, of course; most regiments had, at some point, apart from possibly the Guards. Nobody would risk the Guards losing most of their men to yellow fever, after all.

Despite himself, McIntyre grinned. "I'd not like to take up nobody's place, sir. But seems to me somebody's got to look after you, 'til he's back." He paused a moment to shake out the jacket, satisfied that it would keep until the evening, when he could clean it properly.

"I didn't come into the 33rd 'til 'Ninety-Four, sir. 'Fore that I were a Marine, back in the last war."

Vickery tried not to sigh. Of course, wounded he required more looking after than usual. And of course soldiers - or Marines - would think that all officers required looking after anyway.

"A Marine? And I hope you don't mind if I ask what made you join a regiment of Foot instead of re-enlisting in an honourable Corps such as His Majesty's Marines?

The Irishman shrugged slightly. "Tried, but I were a bit too old for the Corps. Makes sense though, don't it? Lad needs to be fit for that sorta life. 'Sides. It ain't so bad bein' stuck ashore all the time."

If he overlooked the fact that, when he went for a soldier, he'd given up his shoulder knot and entered a world he only barely understood - even now. But that was the price one paid, wasn't it?

"More tea, sir?"

Vickery would have thought that a man would need to be fitter to serve in the Army than in the Marines, but he wasn't going to say so and risk making McIntyre resentful of him. "If you don't mind," he said instead, holding out his empty mug. "Though don't go using up your stock on my account."

And it did not bode particularly well for anyone that McIntyre was in the 33rd. His men would have to try to look beyond a man's facings and regiment, though. There were good men as well as scoundrels in any regiment, after all, although Vickery privately thought that the good men far outnumbered the bad in his own regiment, or at least, in his battalion of it.

Maggie was just returning from the stream where she had given Vickery's shirt another rinse. She stopped with surprise to see a man from the 33rd emerging from the captain's tent, but then realized it must be the same fellow from the night before. What had his name been?

"McIntyre?" she said, slowing her approach.

"It's no worry, sir," McIntyre said lightly, taking the mug. "Ain't no trouble findin' fresh leaves."

He ducked out of the tent and heard his name spoken. It was the woman from the night before. "Aye?"

She smiled shyly, not knowing what to say now. "I couldn't rightly see you in the dark. I thought you were in the Guards, like Captain Blackwood."