July 24, 1809: The Morning after

"I haven't touched anyone's ink but my own in the past three days," Vickery said. "And all of mine has ended up on various pieces of paper and not, I can categorically state, decorating people's faces."

"I don't quite remember much from yesterday." Willoughby admitted. "Not even, how I have ended in your bed, and you outside, though I cannot complain about my part of the predicament." He sighed and rubbed at his temples again. "Does either of you have perhaps at least a smidgen of idea what lead us to this. .ornamental face paint?" He asked. He grinned at Vickery. "Can you be certain that you have not mistaken skin for paper though?" He teased, not meaning to accuse him of committing himself to this artistic endevour at all.

"I have a feeeling if Vickery had sleep-walked, we would be decorated with the latest reports and requisitions ..."

Torrington rubbed his fingertips together.

"I have ink stains on my fingers, too, but these are from writing reports yesterday. I seemed to have smeared the still wet painting in my face, but I can't say that I remember anything about it. Likewise, I have no clue why I decided to sleep by the fire."

"Are you sure we only drank one bottle between the three of us?" Vickery said. "Between headaches and not remembering the events of last night, it seems to me that we must have had more than a third of a bottle each."

He rubbed at his temples. "Fires are nice and warm and there was someone in your bed, Torrington. Unless you went out to check on something and fell asleep out there before you could come back in here?"

"I seem to have some on this hand, none much on the other." Willoughby studied his hand then held it up for inspection. "And obviously the whiskers on my face." What did not make sense was why he would have ink on his hands at all. He had not used it before, nor had he yet purchased an inkwell, though he would very quickly need to begin writing the papers that others could go without as troopers.

"....If we each drank a third of the bottle.. it must have been terribly strong or perhaps we have then gone and purchased more? And we do not remember that?...I know I could have pointed to the location of the wine at least, though I cannot tell you, if I had!"

"Unless I can't remember it - which is admittedly possible - I don't think I drank more than half a glass", Torrington objected.
"I seem to recall very vaguely putting Rottlaender to bed at some point, but after that ... I don't think I came back and drank more."

"Then that has to be some of strongest wine I have ever drunk," Vickery said decidedly, and winced.

"Well... it was good at least." Willoughby murmured softly. "But I will make certain not to have it but for an event that we all want a good night sleep for which he had trouble having before." He glanced at Torrington again then relaxed where he was.

"I think you must have drunk more, you've just not paid attention to it? " He looked thoughtfully at the ground and at his feet. "You woke outside, didn't you?.. So it stands to reason that you fell asleep out there at least in the very end. And you.." He looked at Vickery "Must have slept at that desk, which I hope has not 'broken' your back for today?"

The little chick chirped and looked at Vickery then hopped closer then turned to the place where more cookies were stored chirping again quite loudly. ".....And can someone tell me how that came into the tent?"

"I have a stiff neck for certain, but at least I have not ink on my face," Vickery said.

There was a scratching on the canvas, and a muffled voice announced that its owner had some hot water and lemons here, where were they wanted, sir?

"In here, please!", Torrington answered, remembering this time to moderate his voice.

"Peggy came in here in my breast pocket. And before you ask, I have no idea how she got in there."

Thinking that she would be better off away from their shaving gear, he emptied his writing desk, crumpled a bisquit into a handkerchief and put it in there, trying to lure Peggy into it.

Peggy looked at Torrington, chirped happily that he decided to pay attention to her again and then merrily hopped after the handkerchief full of crumpled biscuit. She could just as well have been chirping compliments to the man while she did that.

Willoughby grinned. "Well I do not know the best cure for a strained neck, but I do hope that what we've just gotten cures our inky predicaments!"

Torrington put the writing desk onto his bed and hoped that the sides would prevent Peggie from climbing out - or that the biscuit would keep her occupied long enough. She had become to big to simply close the lid over her.

"A hot towel drapped over the shoulders might do the trick - and can be provided. Let us hope that it will restore your neck into working order - and the lemons us."

The chick for the moment was happy in the drawer and pecked away merrily at her food. She marked Lord Torrington - this man - as a good food provider and worthy of defending against predators that might think to eat him. He also owned a very nice and warm coat she could tuck herself in. She of course did not consider the fact that her own 'master' Pye was going to look for her and probably by now, if he was awake, fret terribly about where she was!

+

"I hope you are right. I will need to appear soon before my troop...well.. in the regiment, at my new post and..." he looked thoughtful, flinched as that only increased his headache. "I can't wait for this day to end.

Cotton had brought the lemons in, looked in bemusement at the three officers and realised that Pye's chick - he thought it looked very like Pye's chick, anyway! - was pecking away at something on the table.

"Hot water, sir," he said, putting the bucket with that liquid in it on the grass out of the way. "An' lemons," he added, putting a net with several fat yellow lemons in it onto the table. "Shall I take her away with me?" he enquired, looking at the chick in bewilderment. How in the word had she got in here?

"She is pretty well behaved and contained at the moment, so it might be preferable if Pye collected her directly as soon as he finds it convenient", Torrington answered nonchalantly, taking out his wallet.

"What do I owe Mrs. Cotton?"

He had decided that the worst had already happened and he now only could play the following scenes as cooly and suavely as possible - as if stiff, headachy, painted and haunted by a chicken was a perfectly natural, comfortable and unexeptional state for any officer and gentleman to be in.

"It's no trouble for me to take her," Cotton said, and made a careful calculation; figuring being even more of a mystery to him than reading. "Uh, six at thrip'ny each... one an' six, I think, sir," he said and gave an apologetic half-shrug. "I know it was less'n a dollar, anyway," he added.

"I'll need to pay you back for some of them, Torrington." Willoughby murmured wincing again. He would not have minded if the chirping horror would have left the tent. Her insistent chirping and pecking was drilling a hole in his brain!

The chick on the other hand seemed perfectly content at her new place and seemed to want to make sure that there would not be a single crumb left when she was done

"I think my hospitality can stand the expenses of a couple of lemons. After all, it seems I allowed you to get ... decorated under my roof."

The engineer's brain immediately supplied "6 x 3d = 18d = 1s 6d", but was unable to determine whether threepence was a suitable price for a lemon or whether there were indeed six of them in the net. So when he found two shilling, he handed them over.

"Here ... please tell her to credit the change against my next purchases. Willoughby, will you do the honours first? Your fingers should provide a safe point to start."

Willoughby slowly stood from the bed. He wobbled over trying to walk more elegantly, but failing. He took one of the lemons from the net. Glanced about for something sharp enough to cut it open. He had ended up using his sabre, which he spotted first.

It was certainly not easiest to try and part the skin of a lemon with the blade, never the less he was successful enough. Not even trying to see if there was a better 'knife' he could have used he took one large slice of the lemon and applied it to his fingers, rubbing it vigurously against the dark patches on his tips.

"If this works, I may do your face, sir, and then you do mine. It will be easier than trying to balance a mirror somewhere." He looked at Cotton. "And.. thank you for the lemons."

"Oh Lord," Cotton muttered aloud, and fumbled in the pouch on his waist belt for his pocket knife, which he carefully opened and lay on the table. Even his own sword-bayonet would have been easier to use than that cavalry sabre.

"There's more coffee comin', an' then breakfast will be served d'reckly minute," he announced, looking round at the assorted officers. Captain Vickery looked very much the worse for wear, despite not having any ink decoration applied across his face that Cotton could see.

He'd let Pye know where his chick was, too.

"Thank you, Cotton!"

Torrington, now supplied with hot water, was hunting for his shaving gear. It would probably easier to get the ink off once the stubbles were removed.

"Is the acid having the desired effect? Thank you for your kind offer, but I must say ... If at all posssible, I would like to save the shreds of my dignity and get rid of the ink on my own. Although I of course will gladly assist you."

No, it is all good, sir. It would be unbecoming if a subordinate officer would expect a superior to tend to his ink, worse so, to have it done.." Willoughby smiled politely. He observed his fingers, lifting them up for a closer inspection. "They aren't too bad.." He answered and rubbed the lemon a bit more against the tips and under the nails. "It is getting there." He nodded. "We're in luck after all."

Cotton ducked back out into the fresh air outside, shaking his head. Officers! They got into far more scrapes than the ordinary soldiers, he was utterly sure of it.

"Well, at least in one respect. Our luck was definitely not with us for the rest of the night. I would give my coffee to know who that demented prankster was."

The engineer rather savagely wiped up the lather.

"He had enough sense not to decorate his own captain, it seems, so I guess he can't be excused as being completely drunk, insane or blind."

------

Outside, Freddie smiled up to the older rifleman, hugely relieved that Cotton was helping him cope with this rather unexpected beginning of the day. "Nearly finished!", he declared. "I made tea?"
The last included the question whether Cotton would perhaps want a cup.

"If I could remember much of yesterday, I could be of help.. but I don't." Willoughby answered and looked around for a mirror, then chose to slice the lemon further with the knife that Cotton has left behind

With smaller, neater slices, he decided to go blindly for the cheeks. It was obvious that whiskers were there as the little dot of a cat's nose was at the tip of his.

Rubbing the little speck rather blindly, he made a face as the lemon's acid came close to seeping into his nose.

"We are going to go ahead with an investigation? Or keep it low?" He murmured, rubbing more.