4 June; Salty

"It is quite astonishing how the price of a commission loses value when a regiment is warned for the West Indies." Or almost anywhere abroad, in fact, although there were those, who had exchanged into regiments that were going to Portugal. Vickery would have done so himself, had he not already been in the 5/60th.

While he wouldn't know anything about that himself, he could well imagine the truth of it.

"The downside of bein' an officer, is it, sir?" McIntyre asked lightly, turning his gaze back to the chore of dressing the rabbit.

"Something like that," Vickery said. There were downsides to being an officer, of course, as there were upsides. There were probably fewer downsides, of course, although living in bivouac after the comforts of home came as quite a shock to the system - and there were those who just couldn't cope with it. Officers had the choice to deal with it or not, of course, where the men didn't.

Along with the privileges there were duties, of course.

"Mind you, there are probably upsides to serving on land rather than at sea," he added, nodding at the rabbit. "Fresh food, a decreased chance of drowning."

"Drowning, sir?" McIntyre affected disbelief. "Smaller chance of that if you knows how to swim."

Which most sailors didn't, in point of fact. Ironically. He could not argue against the mention of fresh food, however. That was the best thing about having Flint around. The dog had a way of finding suitable material for the cook-fire.

"There's always fish, at sea," he added. Then he grinned. "And whatever's carried in the manger."

"Drowning," Vickery confirmed. "It is a generally accepted notion that ships float on the ocean, which is a large body of water. And if one falls overboard in a storm, even if one can swim, it is highly likely that one will drown."

Of course, men could drown even only yards from the beach - as had happened to some of those in the landings at Mondego Bay only the year before. It hadn't helped that they had been landed in heavy surf and the men had been wearing full equipment.

"I will grant you the fish, but surely there is only a limited number of livestock carried, and once they have been slaughtered, that's the end of them."

The oldster shook his head. "You're an optimist right enough, sir," he observed lightly.

Those things the greenjacket described could and did indeed happen, but they weren't all that figured in making life at sea what it was. McIntyre flicked a strip of useless rabbit fur aside. Then again, he supposed that, being an army officer, the grasshopper couldn't truly understand what made the sea such a marvellous calling.

"It's better than the alternative, McIntyre," Vickery replied, sitting back. "Perhaps that is why I joined the Army rather than the Navy." Still, those who did follow the sea seemed to have a capability and sense of self-assurance that Vickery had only ever come across in the Rifles, outside of the Navy.

The officer had a point, McIntyre allowed. "Perhaps, sir," he said. "S'pose life ashore ain't so bad, once a fellow gets used to it. Least a lad can carry everythin' he needs on his own back, anyway, 'stead of needin' a heavy sea-chest and all for it."

"People seem to have rather higher expectations of we officers," Vickery observed. "I need a mule to carry my possessions around, and therefore run a higher risk of losing everything should something happen to the baggage."

Which had happened very recently, McIntyre thought. "Reckon that means you've got too much baggage, sir," he remarked playfully.

Vickery chuckled. "I probably have, then. Light troops should travel light, eh?" He knew that Mister Sharpe only took what he could carry on his own back, but he had come from the ranks and likely didn't own much more than that.

"So I've heard anyway, sir," said McIntyre. He was too old for that sort of running about, which was perhaps a blessing. It simply seemed unnecessary to have more belongings than one could carry, when on the march. Light troops or otherwise!

There was meat cooking. At last. The dog perked up some, his interest in being fed overriding his willingness to be petted. It smelled happily like rabbit, which meant the Human with the Shoes was doing precisely what he was supposed to. Good. Some two-leggers could clearly be trained.

He got to his paws and shuffled toward the Hot Ground, sniffing his way cautiously to the source of that magnificent smell. If he was quick about it, perhaps, he might be able to snatch a piece straight from the pan...

"I think you may want to keep a close eye on your pan there," Vickery said, noticing the dog's keen interest in what was cooking. "Or offer him something before he tries taking it and burns his nose."

Oh? McIntyre glanced to the side and grinned. "Tempted to let him, maybe. Might teach him somethin'."

But he reached out to casually push the dog's searching muzzle away from the merrily-sizzling pan all the same.

"That's hardly fair on the poor dog," Vickery said, gingerly leaning forward to scratch the animal behind the ears. "Come on, boy, you don't want to be playing around with that - it's hot and you'll hurt yourself."

Maybe not, McIntyre allowed. He reached into the pan for a mostly-cooked strip of meat, which he held out to the dog. "He'll 'preciate this, though, I'll wager. Only fair anyway, since he caught the beast."

Vickery chuckled. "That's what I call a civilised dog. I don't believe I have ever come across an animal that preferred cooked meat to raw."

"This'n's right particular, so he is. He'll eat biscuit crumbs but bread's gotta be toasted. Catch meat but won't eat it 'less it's cooked. Seems he's got a taste for good French wine, too."

McIntyre shook his head as he watched the dog finish off the last bite of rabbit. It was a daft creature indeed, this dog.