Fifth Night in Camp

Oh, blast it! The young scruffian would get the ball!
He reached into the mudd, got a handfull of it and rolled into a rather loose ball. He grinned and threw it at Carty then began to slush forward chuckling. "Carty, hands of the ball!" He called inbetween laughter.

Carty wiped a huge amount of mud off his face, blue eyes sparkling amidst the brown as he laughed. "No! Our ball!" he shouted, diving for it as the Colonel held Perkins back. " He clutched it lose to his chest and then looked around the sea of dirt. "Where is kettle?!"

"Well then, the kettle's ours!"

He had crossed the distance, limping every so often, but again not minding it for the game's sake. He grinned and saw something gleam under all that mud, and recognised it as the kettle. And then he grabbed at it. "Come fetch it!" He laughed, and grabbed some mudd out of the kettle, throwing it at the boy almost like he were defending a port.

Harris grinned as he approached the hussar from behind, and leaped up on his back. He'd have difficulty dislodging him, staying on his feet and holding onto their kettle...

Carty ducked, avoiding the slung mud in a futile gesture and grinned competitively. He waited until Harris sprung and then sprinted forward.

"OY!" He yelled before landing on the ground, with Harris still on his back, the kettle dropped and was upturned so that it's not at all shiny bottom was now pointing upwards. They both tumbled over and face first into the mud.

He was spitting it out still when he resurfaced and heaved them both to the side, before Harris got a good secure hold. He thrust the brown slush at Harris's face.

"Perkins, get that boy! And OFF with you!" He twisted again hoping the mud would work in his favour for the 'eel effect'.

Carty had the ball, all he had to do was right the kettle... Edrington dug his fingers into the mud, to find the rim of the kettle. It came loose with a disgusting sucking noise, and he stood it upright.

If this degenerated into a mud-fight he would have to leave, or start laying down rules, which would rather spoil it. Colonels might play football, but they should not become involved in a brawl.

Sharpe frowned. "Come on, lads, play fair or not at all. And that goes for anyone involved and I don't care what team. If you can't play fair, I'll march you down to the river to wash the mud off and you'll watch from the side. Understood?"

It might only be a bit of fun, but most serious fights started out as a bit of fun, and he really didn't want to lose anyone to some stupid fight.

Edrington nodded towards Sharpe. "Thank you. It comes better from you." He grinned. "How many teams do you think there are?"

Carty's sprint halted, and he looked shamefaced, not catching half of what Sharpe had said but recognising the tone. "Sorry, Mister Sharpe."

"You didn't move the kettle, Carty." He shrugged. "That's all right, sir. An' there's two teams, I think." He looked around. "Now, where's the ball got to, then?"

Harris wiped his face, glared at the Hussar, and stood up. Carty had stopped, brought to a halt by Sharpe's voice. Of all of them, Carty had probably been playing the fairest. "Don't stop, Carty lad," he called, "get the ball."

Carty looked over at Harris, indicating the lump of mud in his hands. "I got ball." He held it out to Sharpe, looking down. "Here, sir."

Sharpe's eyebrows shot up. "There's a ball under that mud, is there? Well, lad, seein' as you're holdin' it, why don't you score? You're on my team, ain't you?"

"Me? Am-" Carty nodded eagerly, his smile brilliant again through the mud. "Yes, on your team, Mister Sharpe!" He dropped the ball into the kettle and looked up again. "Is báire - a g-goal, yes!"

It never failed to amaze Sharpe how eager and enthusiastic Carty was. The slightest encouragement and he was devoted to you for life. No wonder the other Riflemen fussed over him so. And it was wonderfully easy to encourage him, too, unlike some of the other men, though his sulk of earlier hadn't gone unnoticed, as uncharacteristic as it was. "Yes, lad, a goal."

"Apologies, sir." He got up slowly. "Didn't mean no harm out o' it." All that was said to Sharpe, while the Hussar was muddying off his pants, till he decided it was really no use. "And to you too." He nodded to Harris. "All in good fun." He smiled.

"Aye, that's a goal, lad." So the boy was Irish, wasn't he. "And you scored one."

"I scored a goal. Scored, scored, scored." He put put his hands in the air, grinning. "I scored a goal!"

"That's all right, lad. Let's not stand around gossipin', though. There's a game to play.! He grinned at the state the Hussar was in - just as muddy as any of the rest of them.

"Certainly, sir." He grinned, rubbing a crust of mud of his face with the back of his hand. They'd all need a fair washing n' scrubbing once this was over.

And the ball was back in game. While resembling nothing more than a muddy round orb, it had to be wiped (or so attempted to be) to be able to give grip to the first man to throw it. Willoughby turned and with first few steps of limp, the next were eased into a fair mud run.

Edrington decided to stay close to the kettle. Let the younger men rush around - if one of his - or Sharpe's - team got the ball, he could either help clear the path for them, or even catch a well-thrown pass.

His presence might also stop anyone else moving the kettle.

The ball stayed for a while in Perkin's team. Tossed from the very first who'd picked it to the next, who began a run for the kettle. He was tackled by one of Sharpe/Edrington's team. The ball then bounced right back into the hands of the team, that lost it a moment ago and the game continued.

(who's else is on Perkin's team?)

The ball somehow came into the Hussar's hands, passed under hand, when he and the other player had passed. The lad kept on running as if he still had the posession of the ball, while the Hussar made his way around the side, in the same direction.

(Cooper, Slattery, Sims, Perkins, you, I think... They're all 95th apart from you.)

Sharpe tackled the man with the ball - Sims, he thought it was - bringing him down and getting the ball off him. He was plastered in mud by now, and would have to go down to the river after this to wash it off. He'd make sure one of the Riflemen brought the kettle, when the game eventually ended; it needed cleaning just as much as the players did.

(Aha thanks!! Oh, and there was a switchy. Sims doesn't have it anymore! And I just realised I should've made it clearer -.-;

"NO, sir!" Perkins yelled as he ran alongside Sharpe, trying to catch up and steal the ball. "Slattery, help!"