July 24, 1809: The Morning after

Torrington took another look at the mirror.

"Definitely wrinkled!", he decided. "And that hill formation on my jam is growing trees. Since I seem to have lend you my bed at some point, perhaps you better make use of it a bit longer, until you feel able to abstain from leaving unwanted gifts."

He went to the tentflap, obviously intent on shouting for Rottländer, but after opening his mouth, he reconsidered and declared in a softer voice:

"I will see where our breakfast is."

In an afterthought, he took the heavy overcoat from its place next to the entrance, slung it around his shoulders and turned the collar up as far as possible.

Cotton had off-loaded everything he'd brought and was settling down to continue where he had left off when the tent-flap of Captain Torrington's tent was thrown open and someone emerged.

Cotton did a double-take; whoever it was was wearing a greatcoat and looked as though he was trying to hide his face as much as possible. Maybe that was the carter Rottlaender had mentioned earlier?

Though, not with those boots - those looked far too much like an officer's boots.

"Sir?" he asked, cautiously.

Freddie, who had brewed more coffee and was just arranging things on a tray, looked startled. He reckognized his master (he had polished the boots often enough), but the garb was so strange that for a moment Freddie could only immitate a carp. If this was really not a dream, then this was the strangest day he ever had.

Gratefully Willoughby returned to lying in the bed, although at this time his boots were no longer on his feet. He hoped he had not soiled the sheets where his feet had been earlier and made the slightest of investigations to see whether he had.

Then he relaxed again and a hand was placed over his forehead and partially over his eyes. He breathed short shallow breaths for a few then one deep one that sounded almost like a sigh. "...We'll eat much more next time it is decided that we enjoy the Spanish drink." He murmured softly. "Where did Captain Torrington disappear off to?"

"Cotton."

With a defeated sigh, Torrington turned the collar partially down again, so that he looked less like an escapee of a cloak-and-dagger romance.

"Please spare me all comments on the state of my face - both of you - and see that we get some breakfast, shaving water, and a bucket of cold water."

"I, uh. Sir!" What had the officer managed to do to his face? It looked like... No, it couldn't be. Could it?

How had he managed to get a map inked all over himself?

Cotton realised he was blinking like a mole just popped up through a mole-hole and shook himself to bring himself back to his senses.

"Jus' startin' brekuss now, sir," he said, glancing down at the oil heating in the skillet.

"Thank you!"

Torrington pulled himself up haugthily, pulled the tray out of Freddie's unresisting hands, and disappeared back into the tent.

Inside, he placed the tray heavily on the table and took the pot to refill the cups.

"More coffee ... breakfast will be coming soon. I would not advise going outside with ink on your face. A sample of two encounters produced two ... interesting reactions."

Cotton stared after Captain Torrington before turning slowly to Rottlaender, still wearing a look of deep confusion.

"Is that... Did he... Was that ink on his face?" he asked, pointing in the direction of the Engineer's tent, to make it absolutely clear (as if it wasn't!) who he was referring to. "How did he get ink all over his face?"

Officers!!

Freddie shook his head slowly, equally confused, closing his mouth, then blurted out:

"And on his ..."

He pulled his own cuffs, searching for the word. Remembering another incident - although without any ink that time - he offered:

"Perhaps he slept on a map?"

A sizzle alerted him to fat in the skillet and he started, then hurried back to his breakfast preparations.

"Ah... Sleeves. No - that bit's the cuff."

How had he managed to get ink there? Cotton gave up puzzling that one out and frowned. "But... on both sides of his face?"

It was just too confusing. Maybe he ought to take the Engineer what had been requested. Which was a good point... "Is there any hot water, for shavin'?" he asked, making the motions of a man shaving to make it clear what he meant.

He needed a shave himself, it seemed. That would have to wait!

"Cuff!", Freddie repeated, commiting the word to memory. As confused as Cotton was, he weakly suggested:

"He moved?"

He pointed to the kettle with the rest of the coffee water.

"We can use this? And then I make new water for more coffee?"

Cotton nodded. "That'll do. Any chance of a bowl - or I can fetch Captain Vick'ry's?"

He was not going to venture into the tent without some material evidence of being there to do a job - even if he wanted to find out exactly what had been going on.

Since no answer came Willoughby decided to shift onto his side, tug the covers over his hip and up to his shoulder, pull his legs up a little higher against him, adjust his pelisse which was wrinkled beneath his body and close his eyes.

Wherever Torrington was, he would probably return soon and then perhaps bearing gifts.  He blinked then closed his eyes, sighing deeply. He had a little longer before he was needed.

It was then that he heard him arrive, make far too much noise for his head's liking but at least explained the situation outside. Willoughby opened his eyes slowly and glanced at the captain. "..I see...Well, got that miracle cure for the ink then with you? is it on the tray?" He began to get up slowly. "..Though coffee.." Which he had now realised Torrington DID mention." Will do just as well, ..sir.. i mean , please?"

Refilling all three cups, he handed one to Willoughby, suddenly remembering what he had forgotten outside. Lifting the tent flap a bit again, he called outside:

"Rottlaender? Get us some lemons, too, please!"

He was not in a mood to puzzle out whether he had given his servant enough household funds for this and was not willing to let anybody come into the tent just to rummage around for them anyway, so he pulled his own purse from his pocket and threw it out in the general direction of the two soldiers.

Willoughby covered his ears and winced. "Could you not shout so loud. Ow.." He muttered miserably. The bed was actually quite helpful at helping him feel a bit better, though the smears on the tips of his fingers still confused him. They appeared as if the ink had been rubbed off when still wet, but there were still traces.

He shook his head. Hangover was the reason why getting drunk did not feel appealing at all. Drinking for such a reason or result was daft, terribly daft!

Freddie was just about to dash for Torrington's shaving bowl when he remebered that he had given it to Willoughby to serve in a rather different capacity - probably not one it was very suited to. Like Cotton, he was rather unwilling to go inside without any good cause, however.

So he only shook his head.

"It's inside for Will.. Kornett ... Mylord Gwydyr to ... uhm ... hold. If breakfast is ready, I could ..."

At this point the lemon order cut in, and Rottlaender, his eyes like saucers, asked:

"Lemons? What for? Is Frau Cotton having lemons?"

Torrington pulled a grimace.

"Pardon", he whispered. Sipping a bit of his own coffee, he sat down again, feeling rather leaden still.

"When do you need to report back?", he asked in similarily low voice.

"Lemons help with gettin' ink out of things," Cotton said. "Vinegar's good for that, too," he added, deciding that he could leave Rottlaender to oversee breakfast while he went and fetched Captain Vickery's shaving bowl and Maggie's entire stock of lemons.

"I don't... oh I think.. when it gets light.. or.. the usual time. Could I be late a little? " He would have loved if the time that he had to appear would have been at noon, perhaps later or even better, in the evening when the heat might begin to let up at least a little and the sun would be less of a pain to bear.

Torrington raised an eyebrow.

"I don't know. Will the repercussions for being late be more or less severe than for appearing with rather ... graphic whiskers?"

"They will probably not be thrilled...but, being teased for the rest of my career and called Cornet Meow,.. or Cornet Kitten...or something else similarly bad, almost makes me think I would prefer to be late." He shifted a little. " He looked up at Torrington. "And don't get any ideas yourself!.."

Torrington replied gravely: "I would never dare to call you anything less than Lord Puss-in-Pelisse."
------------

Freddie nodded. That made sense - so they would need lots of lemons and vinegar. The second he had a bit of, so he put it with the rest of the shaving gear, Torrington's nice soap and a piece of the rough sandstone soap he used himself (occassionally) on a tray.

"Puss-in-Boots, surely," Vickery objected, watching the chick pecking at the bit of biscuit. "I mean, cavalry officers wear boots, don't they?"

"Hush, Captain Treasure map!" Willoughby huffed having trouble to come with a better name with the head feeling quite uncooperative at the moment. "And you too, Captain....." He studied Vickery from head to toe, hoping to find some ink on his face, and failing to do so could come with very little in connection with the 'black art'. He still managed a rather pitiful:" Beanstock.." If only because he considered the beans and the bean stock itself green and a rifleman was somewhat like that. A moment later he realised. Captain 'Grasshopper' would have been more adequate!

Torrington snorted.

"I know I should have become a pirate. Are we then agreed that the treasure on the map belongs to me as well?"

He once again tried to make out the actual features on the map, but was as unsuccesssful as before.

"Do you have any idea who did this? I might have said some spirited soldier, but Willoughby slept in the tent, and I don't think they would have access to him quite as easily as to me tonight."