30th May: Green, black and blue

Pye left the horse doctor with mixed feelings. He still dreaded the moment that he would have to face the other riflemen and was relieved to find his kit in a rather desolate place, with Cotton nowhere to be found, nor several of the Germans that he knew to have slept there.

He walked somewhat hunched, and tried to appear as invisible as he wished to be. he was no longer wearing the cape that the man had allowed him to borrow, and his own coat was gone so that he came in nothing but a rather poor looking shirt and trousers. He looked wildly around himself. Jerking his head back he dropped next to his kit. From the knapsack the chirping announced the chick has remained faithfully with his kit.

He had to retrieve that and then go beg Newbury to lend him his coat. Better to be found in a borrowed one than to admit his was....lost. Even if eventually he would have to do so.

Where on earth had Cotton got to? He had never wandered off before, not at this time of day - and he generally let Vickery know if he was going to be somewhere out of earshot, because he knew his duties and knew when he was likely to be wanted. And he was wanted every morning before parade simply because Vickery couldn't manage his sash on his own, not if he wanted it tied neatly, what with the whipcord ends the thing had due to the fact it was a Light Infantry style one, not the usual style worn by the redcoat officers.

He had eventually had to borrow Cavender to help him, something that the lad had managed capably if not efficiently, and with a slightly worried look on his face.

He had fastened his own sword-belt and raided Sergeant Fischer's mess for a cup of tea. Cotton's own fire was being tended by Roper, and he wasn't the only member of his mess missing. It was adding up to quite a puzzle, and Vickery had finished his tea and was watching the Riflemen kicking their fires out in preparation for marching before one of the missing men showed up, in shirtsleeves and not looking particularly happy.

Here was a chance to hopefully find out what had been going. He called the man's name. "Pye!"

Pye appeared for a moment to tense and look much like a hare caught in the middle of the road by a carriage fast on its way. Of all the people he had wished not to see , Vickery might have stood at the very top of the list. Perhaps, after he had obtained, if successful, a coat from Newbury's he would not worry as much about it, yet now the time was the worst possible.

Indeed he thought at first not to move and pretend that he had not heard the call, in hopes that the captain might decide he could do with another man or boy, who would do his bidding. But ,as he appeared to stand there, bent over his things, with the little bird silent again, he realised it would be most rude if not most improper to ignore the officer so very pointedly.

He turned where he stood, and uttered his best:" Yes, sir?" Hoping all help could be done at a distance, which might conceal his bruising, cuts and the injury to his hand. He was not thinking rationally , or else he might have realised that Vickery would learn of this anyway. Not from him perhaps, but certainly from the horse doctor. He slipped his bandaged hand hastly behind his back, pressing it against its lower part. There, hidden.

If Vickery wasn't sure he knew better, he might have said the young man was looking... guilty about something. But that couldn't be the case, surely, not this early in the morning. Not after everything else that had happened.

Though there was something wrong about the way he'd slipped his hand behind his back.

He wasn't coming over either, and that definitely wasn't right, not from Pye.

He crossed over to him, aware that some of the other Riflemen were looking at him curiously. After all, when an officer wanted you, you went to him and the officer did not come to you.

"Is everything all right, Pye?" he asked, as though he hadn't noticed anything wrong.

"Yes sir. M' sorry sir. Is' quite early." He lowered his gaze hoping that his lip would not show, nor the the mark that his attacker had left when he struck him across his face. "..m'was dreamin' still." He hastened to find reason to explain his slowness, but the more he dared speak the least pleased he was with the result. He ought to remember to say yes , sir. And stick with it.

"..Did you want me fer something, sir?" Well, add that, because the captain did call him.

"You do know that you're the one who is supposed to go to the officer?" Vickery said mildly, voicing his thoughts. It didn't matter all that much right now, of course. And now that he was closer to Pye, he could see that the lad really didn't look all that good after all.

"How are you getting on with the Riflemen?" he asked, as a preliminary. It looked as though Pye had been through the mill, but he couldn't think who he might have ended up fighting with - surely none of the other Riflemen would treat even a new recruit in such a fashion.

Displeasing an officer was bad enough, displeasing them at such a time was only worse. Pye paled a little, gulped and nodded. "Sorry, sir. " He averted his gaze and kept his eyes on the floor, his head low. "..I'm gettin' on splendid, sir.." Only, they would not think so once they came to see him. "They'm real fine men, and they have a ..a wealth o' knowle...knowings... of how things go." He had tried chewing on his lip in nervousness, but dropped that thought when the cut announced itself.

"..Sir." He began and then like a scared thing, which was not at all far from the truth, he shut up, standing stiff and motionless.

Vickery noted that fact that Pye had paled further and begun chewing his lip, only to stop a second later, probably because of the cut he could see that it had sustained.

"Knowledge," he supplied, and tried not to sigh; the lad was nervous enough already. "Pye, I hope I am a fair officer. I don't know what I have done that you seem to be terrified of me every time we end up talking. I don't think that you're a bad soldier - or even a bad man, not really. I think that perhaps you don't think sometimes, when you should do. Now. Is there something I ought to know, about what has happened this morning?" He glanced Pye over, indicating with his eyes the Rifleman's lack of a shirt and various cuts and bruises - which did seem to have been cleaned and treated, thankfully.

"Sir. You're an officer. Sir...which... which's reason..fer..respect." And fear, sometimes terror. Though Vickery was just as successful in calming that when he was in a good mood and a certain young rifleman was not just out of trouble.

"You've done nothing but good sir. Nothin' but excellent." He fought with the word for a moment before continuing. "T..there...wos.. Sir.. Arthur, who wishes to speak to you..'bout.. 'bout.." He was quiet for a long time. "M'fall, sir." Only a tumble, nothing more. He kept his arm furiously behind him and out of the view.

"Respect, yes. Abject terror is something else entirely," Vickery replied. His eyebrow shot up when Pye continued. Sir Arthur? He could think of only one man with the British Army who was named Arthur and boasted a knighthood. "Sir Arthur Wellesley? The General?" Now, why on earth could the General want to speak to him about a Rifleman tripping over? If, indeed, that was all it was.

"Is there something you are not telling me, Rifleman Pye?" he asked. "Such as, for instance, what has happened to your arm?" There was no escaping the fact that Pye had kept his arm behind his back throughout the interview, instead of standing to attention properly, as he should be doing.

"'s habit.. sir." Really, nothing good usually came from sergeants, nothing good possibly came from corporals, but how could anything good come from officers. Well, except John Vickery, the captain of the 60th rifles. He was an exception because he took Pye into his lines and made certain he did not return to the 33rd. Yet.

"Y..yes sir. Sir Arthur ..that man." He wished a battle would have just started so that he would need rushing against the enemy rather than answering the question to one of his side. "..N..nothing, sir." He stammered vaguely. " It..it.." If only it had been a different officer that he did not look up to , or swear to admire. He inched his hand forward even if he would have wanted to keep it behind him. Captain Vickery's gaze was enough. He ought to know atleast this some, before meeting with the General rather than being caught of guard. Correct?... Well, the boy did feel guilty anyway.

"Mister Broderick said it's going ter be aright very quick." He offered and sounded almost as if it pained him to say this at all.

"Mister Broderick, the horse-leech? Do I have to ask him what has happened to you, or will you tell me yourself. I don't mean what happened, but what injuries you have sustained."

And the hand that that the boy had hidden behind his back was his right hand, which probably meant that there was some damage to his trigger finger. "Let me see your hand - properly, now."

"Sir.." The boy frowned and held his hand out for Vickery's closer inspection. He turned it so that his bandaged fingers were in view. Vickery had given an order, and he obeyed even if he loathed to. "...I've got a bruising of my jaw and mouth...some bruising of my tor...upper part o' body..I don' think anythin' else is broken.. Mister Broderick did not think so.. n' he's real good at ..at takin' care o' things." He hesitated again. "Only bruisin' sir. ..and m' fingers... two.. two's broken. But nothing more. Jus' a little bit of markin'." Well, it was worse than that, but he did not want Vickery to think him a trouble maker. Not any more than he already was.

"Captain, sir. It's only a little crack 'ere. It'll heal fast."

No, it wasn't particularly good. "Hmm. Care to tell me how all that was done? Because I don't think that you did it on purpose. You might not go about things the right way, but I haven't seen any sign that you would willingly render yourself unfit for duty. And yes, with your trigger finger and middle finger broken, I don't see how it would be possible for you to load and fire your rifle."

From the details of the lad's injuries, Vickery didn't think he had merely fallen over. Someone had deliberately set upon him and beaten him. There was also the fact he was without his jacket, and Pye had been so proud of becoming a Rifleman that the fact he was in shirtsleeves and there was no sign of his green jacket was significant.

"Not on purpose sir. Never on purpose. I'd never." Pye swore earnestly. "I never would sir. " Had Vickery thought that he meant to render himself unfit for duty on purpose, so that he could remain with the wagons instead of in the first lines. No! If he believed that he was terribly wrong. He was very wrong, he was fully wrong. Pye breaths came fast, and he looked every inch a lad, who had just been done wrong.

"I...I..sir." He could not say it though. Vickery strictly told him that he was not to go get himself in trouble. He also did not know who attacked him, and pointing fingers without conviction would make him appear a poor character. If he was to admit he was in a fight, even if it was really very onesided, Vickery would not like it. It was not something the captain wanted to hear, again!

"...I...." He felt defeated as he looked at the floor. He mumbled something incoherent. it was probably a repeated statement from before though.

"Well, that's something, at least." He was pleased that he'd been right, that Pye wasn't the sort to let an order go in one ear and out the other. It did leave open the possibility - probability, indeed - that someone had deliberately sought Pye out and caused the injuries that Vickery had seen. The fact of the missing jacket only added to that probability. Pye would not have willingly lost his jacket, Vickery was certain of that.

He pulled his watch out and flipped open the lid to check the time. He needed to finish up here if he was going to have any chance of seeing the General before the Division got on its way again. He put his watch away and pulled out his Day Book and pencil.

"Right. I am going to take it in good faith that it was not deliberate, on your part anyway. You have been too proud of wearing the green for me to believe that you would have willingly lost your jacket or had any equipment come to harm. You will go down to the baggage and place yourself under the care of the surgeon there. And while you are there, you may draw another jacket from our stores. It will have to be paid for, however, so the cost will be stopped from your pay."

He wrote two notes before tearing the leaves from his Day Book, folding them and holding them out for the Rifleman to take. "This is for Sergeant Müller. It is his authority to issue you a new jacket. The other is for you, although you will need to show it to the Surgeon. It is your authority to be away from the Company. And you will be there until I receive word that you can use your hand again, is that understood?"

"Sir, yes sir. " He did want to fight and looked unhappy about the fact that he was told to stay behind with the baggage. He frowned and looked pleading, but did not say anything against that order. When given, it was one that he would obey. Like it, or not. He studied the two papers. A scribble on one was all the same to him as a scribble on the other. Give it a little time and he'd have it mixed up, without meaning to.

"M'....sorry sir." It could not have come any more from the heart as it did. He was ashamed that he had had his coat damaged, his rifle... his eyes widened at the realisation.. his rifle was gone. Gone! "..Sir.. per..permission to go ter t' river t' fill my canteen fore we leave?" He pleaded that the captain would allow it. He last saw his rifle there. If it was, he would be saved, if it was not. He did not dare think what he would do then. Even loosing a coat was bad, but loosing a rifle... no. He'd find it if it killed him.

"An'.. then I won't leave t' surgeon till I'm told to. " He nodded quickly to aknowledge that he would do his outmost to remain where he was meant to and not to stray from the place, unless he needed to relieve himself. And even then he would return swiftly and remain again there untill ordered to return to the ranks. "I'll heal as fast ..as i can, sir." He spoke eagerly.

"You will have to be quick, very quick," Vickery said. "Just show the outside of those notes to whichever person you see first, whether it's the surgeon or Sergeant Müller. He'll take the right one, never you fear." He sighed. "I can't keep you out of trouble on my own, Pye. You have to help as well, you know. Let's hope this is the last time this sort of thing happens to you, all right? I would far rather have a friendly chat over a cup of tea than have the sort of conversation that you and I seem to be having lately, and I am sure you would, too." He smiled. "Is there anything else you need to say - or want to say, for that matter?"

"A friendly chat over a cup o' tea.. with an officer, sir?" Pye was all eyes, and a mouth very much agape. He dropped his gaze ashamed and shook his head. Then he nodded and looked indecisive about what he wanted to say. It took him a moment longer, and by then he was apologetic for taking so long.

"Sir, I'll do m' best ter keep out o' trouble n'..ter make it so that you would not regret taking me, sir." He resembled a young pup, who wagged its tail, whined and hoped to show its master that it might be new, unlearned and had done something bad, but it was also trying his hardest and would try ever harder. The last event was not really his fault. He had not gone to look for trouble, but Vickery was not there to listen to excuses. A good rifleman would have seen the enemy coming and would have been the victor in the ordeal.

"...Mister Broderick will also speak to you, as upon the General's orders. " How could he have forgotten to say that? "..an'.. he was suppose to tell you this, but he gave me it in .. uh writtin, his ..report on my physical state is...*he searched his shirt and from it brought another leaflet. He could not read it and he had actually wished he could. "..this. It'll... be wot' the general will want to know." Which was so very strange. It made an insignificant boy, such as himself, feel ...well, certainly stunned. "Sir....I wont be..hung for..it will I? Sir Arthur doesn't mean to do that?"

Now, why did Vickery have the sudden urge to throw a stick and see if Pye would play 'fetch'?

"I told you the Rifles work differently to the Line regiments you are used to, Pye," he said, trying to clear that singular picture out of his head as he took the folded sheet of paper, unfolding it to scan Mister Broderick's report.

"I can only ask you to do your best, Pye. That is all any of us can do, after all. I just hope that in future, your best includes thinking about the consequences of your actions - what is likely to happen and what that will mean for you, for your friends and for me."

He folded the sheet up; no doubt the General would ask to see it. "Hanged. Pictures are hung, men are hanged. And I very much doubt that the General will want anything of the sort. You haven't killed anyone in our army, have you? Or looted anything, or threatened any civilians in any way? Because I believe that is the sort of thing for which the General will willingly hang men."

"I'd rather be hung than hanged then sir. Pictures are hung by their uh.. collars, while men by their necks." His smile broadened.

"No sir. I'd do no such thing." Well, loot he would, but only when he did not get caught for it. He did not threaten any civilians and did not intend to, unless he had a good reason to do so. Such as, if they would have thought to attack any of his friends or wanted them harm. He would only kill any man of their army if...

"Thank ...thank you immen'sly sir." He needed to run back to the river to see if his rifle was still there. Then he would inform Cotton of his whereabouts , wish him luck, get to the surgeon and wait for a while longer before he went to see what he could do about his coat. He felt some relief. Vickery did not mean to punish him, kick him out, have him flogged and... first and foremost, he was not disappointed and upset with him. Or that's what he believed to read from his expression.

"All right, Pye. If there's nothing else, you may go," Vickery replied, wondering how to best channel Pye's enthusiasm - and how on earth he had come to the General's attention. "And do try to keep out of trouble in the future, won't you?"

"I'm not lookin' fer it sir. I swear I'm not." Pye shook his head. The little chick crawled out into the open and peered curiously at Vickery. She chirped , ran up to Vickery's boot, all fluffed up and appearing as if she wanted to cause harm. Pye uttered a hasty. "Peggy, no!" But just as she was to peck at the boot she stopped, looked up cheekily and chirped.

"..Sorry, sir." The boy knelt to see his little chick return to him. He gently took her into his uninjured hand. "I'll keep out o' trouble if it kills me, sir." He said and ushered the chick back into her haversack. He saluted sharply, waited only for a nod of aknowledgment from Vickery before he would - after snatching the canteen awkwardly - run to have it supposedly filled. Damnit.. and he needed to find the kettle too!

"What the...?" Vickery said, and looked down. There was a ball of yellow fluff by his boot. It looked remarkably like a chick, but it couldn't be. And then Pye knelt and hastily scooped it up. Maybe it was, then. Well, Riflemen would be Riflemen, he supposed.

"No harm done, lad," he replied before returning Pye's salute, releasing him to go and fill his canteen.

A chick. Of all things, a chick. Well, that was interesting.

The little ball of fluff peered at Vickery attentively from under the light fabric. Her Pye though had turned tail and had gone first at a walk, then at a near run towards the river, pleading Lady Luck to have mercy on him and let him find his rifle in good state, unharmed, the kettle in one piece , without a bump on it, and perhaps if she was really generous, he would not mind finding his coat as well.

He ducked under a branch, moved past a bush, noticed more men who were packing or were already standing, ready to start walking the moment the marching orders were shouted. He glanced over his shoulder, and stumbled. Right, he could remember he had passed out from a blow to the head earlier. Doof. Running like the Devil was after him, was not the best choice when such an injury was concerned.