July 24, 1809: The Morning after

Torrington's answer was a bit muffled and occassionally interrupted by the shaving process.

"I don't see how we can proceed without making it a public inquisition. If the person responsible starts to brag about it, I guess Cotton, Rottlaender and Pye can keep an ear open. but if he is clever and silent, or maybe even doesn't remember it properly anyway ... I don't really see how we should find out. Unless he was unlucky enough to be spotted by witnesses and they come forward voluntarily."

Willoughby gazed at Torrington. "Do you think it was one of us?.." He asked bluntly. "Or do you think that a soldier dared to enter , steal nothing, but in his drunken stupor find ink to prank us with?"

Torrington pulled an unhappy face.

"It could have been one of us ... but why? I would assume that the guilty party does not remember or would otherwise have stepped forward."

He tried to recall the night. To the best of his knowledge, it had not been him, but he had to admit that he could not satisfactorily account for most of his time that night - after all, he had woken in a place he was certainly not supposed to sleep in. And it was just imaginable that he had decorated his own face ... although it completely eluded him why he should do such a thing as paint such uneven and completely ill-fitting whiskers on Willoughby's face. He hoped that even completely drunk he would do a better job.

"I do not know who it was. Any assumptions we can make..have little ground without witnesses unless someone's memory returns. We could assume the guilty party had not painted their own face.. but then again, it could be the guilty party had not painted all of the faces for whatever reason..and has somehow managed to paint their own..." He rubbed his temples. "And if you should make me suffer with thinking for a bit longer without something to ease this headache I will most certainly beg you to stop."

"I have some willow's bark, if you want. Or there is the option of a cool wet cloth?", Torrington offered.
"Breakfast should probably help, too."

He tried to scrap clean the sensitive spot under the chinline, but his stiff shoulders did not allow him to stretch his neck sufficiently, and he promptly nicked himself. Trying not to curse, he searched for the alum, pressing a flannel to his neck.

"Anything you are willing to part with..." Willoughby began then raised his gaze."Ouch... I did not mean it literally! ...are you sure you are sober enough not to cut your neck open?" He asked, trying not to show amusement, but only concern.

"The moment I let myself get caught unable to shave myself out here, I probably deserve having my neck cut."

Pressing the crystal against the cut to stop the bleeding, the engineer one-handedly searched through his personal effects until he had located the small wooden box with his medicins.

"Here - help yourself. Rottlaender, hot water, if you please!"

"Isn't your batman supposed to do the shaving for you?" Willoughby arched a brow, rather bewildered that Torrington did it on his own anyway. Of course common soldiers did, but an officer would not have, would he?

"Nevermind.. I'll take anything today, as long as it leaves me alive and without the whiskers." He murmured, took the box, opened it and searched for the medicine which could clear his mind.

"You will forgive me if I do not want an overexcited youngster near my throat first thing in the morning. If he makes me coffee, his time is much better spend."

With rather more care now, the engineer continued his grooming.

"If you want your batman to do it, you should perhaps add a steady hand to your list, too."

"I will first need to find one at all." Willoughby answered sighing. "It will be harder since I know many of the men as fellow troopers. I do not know how much they might want or not want that job and If they do.. I will have an even harder time choosing while avoiding hot blood." He groaned.

"How do you take this? Just chew? Eat? boil?" He asked, hopeful that he had picked out the correct medicine.

As far as Torrington's reasoning about why Freddie was not allowed around his neck early in the morning, he wholeheartedly agreed. An overexcited, overenergised batman might shave off more than Torrington has bargained for and hair did not grow fast enough, and other bits just did not regrow themselves at all!

"Let it steep in hot water for a couple of minutes - or even better in cold for a couple of hours."

Washing off the remaining lather, Torrington tried to think Willoughby's problem through.

"You would probably be better off declaring it a punishment and taking whoever needs more time occupied. Of course, you probably will get terrible service then."

"I think I will go for a couple of minutes in hot water then, if It is all the same to you....a few hours of this I will most certainly not be able to stand." Willoughby hoped that Freddie would arrive with hot water soon and be the savour that he was slowly beginning to think him being.

"...I think a punishment would cause bad blood as well, but maybe ...Oh dear. The more I think of it.....I could not just ask you to inspect, inquire and suggest? That way I am clear from blame of favouritism." He grinned sheepishly.

"Tea? I could use a cuppa," Cotton replied and looked at what Rottlaender had been doing. "D'you need any help with anythin'?" he asked.

"Help yourself, then, if you want hot," Vickery said, pointing in the direction of the bucket Cotton had brought in. "If you think that i had a hand in decorating either of you, I grew out of such pranks a long time ago."

Having not paid attention to where Torrington had been taking his water he inquired: "Is it still clean? I'd loathe to taste shaving lather in with whatever taste this little thing has." He indicated the bit he was to keep in hot water.

"We don't think that you had, we are quite lost at who might have. "Willoughby murmured as he began to rub at his cheeks anew. "And we were all drunk, so it is not helping us at all. We might as well have made bets and the looser might have needed to have their faces smeared for all I know!"

Freddie hurried to make up a cup for Cotton and set it down next to the man.

"Uh, would you help taking it in? Because if they want something and I become tangled again? In my head, I mean?"

He heared Torrington's shout and frowned.

"Did you not bring water? Or ... does every officer need his own?"

-----------

Torrington looked at his own elegant fingers. There were some slight ink stains, but he had those half the time from his constant writing and drawing, and this set already looked slightly scrubbed off and fading.

"I don't think I held a pen or smeared ink with my fingers after you came to celebrate - the charcoal from sketching is still there, though. Proof that I did not scrub the ink off."

"My fingers were smeared in a fashion I do not remember doing, but surely I would not have gone and painted either of us! What reason would I have for it?" Willoughby spoke, gazing at his now cleaner looking tips where ink had been rubbed at with the help of the lemon. His hands would certainly have a nice lemony scent for a while.

"I don't have the slightest idea - Or ... perhaps you wanted to grow whiskers rather quickly?"

Torrington stared gloomily into the mirror, where after the shave the dark ink smears reflected in all their beauty, the snatched the other half of Willoughby's fruit and started to rub it determinately across his chin line.

"I do believe that I shall be more happy to grow a different pair of whiskers which would not cause me to think I should meow, caugh up balls of furr or catch mice!" He turned towards Torrington. "What do you think... I can't see but, is it now clean?"

Squinting, Torrington examined Willoughby's face, making him turn it this way and that.

"There are still faint traces, but overall it looks much bet ... oh, not quite. You missed a spot right under your nose. Extremely close to your left nostril, in fact."

"Ah, here?" Willoughby guided the lemon in the suggested direction and tried hard not to have its acid go up a nostril. He imagined that if it managed, his eyes would tear up and his nose would feel far from pleasant. He did lean forward to get some of the hot water, scooping it up in a mug. This would hopefully do for the medicine.

"I took 'em a whole bucketful," Cotton said, a little petulantly. How could officers - gentlemen! get themselves into such a state? He had absolutely no idea.

"Per'aps they jus' want more coffee?" he added, and took the offered mug of tea. "Aye, I'll come with you," he said, once he'd swallowed half the contents of the tin mug, heedless of the heat. He thought he was apt to get tangled in his own head too, at all the shenanigans - it certainly was a good way of putting it!

"A bit higher still, I'm afraid."

Torrington winced sympathetically.

"I hope the artist did not do that deliberately. It comes close to torture."

"They need it!", Freddie said sagely, being rather well aquinted with the effects of coffee depriviation on his master's temper. "Or ... perhaps they want tea, as well? Coffee is not good if you are feeling bad in the belly, is it?"

He cut the crust off some bread before quickly toasting it as the final act of breakfast preparation.

Cotton shrugged. "Never had coffee to know. Let's take 'em another pot an' if they want tea, they can tell us so."

He wasn't used to dealing with hangovers - neither he nor Vickery got drunk all that often, after all. In fact the last time he'd got that drunk was when he'd enlisted, which was completely the fault of the recruiting sergeant, and the last time the Captain had got himself into that state was at Christmas when he'd celebrated his promotion.