The Day of the Court Martial

The key turned in the lock, the door swung open and a voice - a Guard Sergeant's voice if ever there was one - said, with that touch of a scream "Out!" He pulled himself upright and stepped out into the guard room. The sergeant, now at the door next to his, what looked like a whole company of guards, and no Captain Padstowe. Who had promised to be here.

Any second, Sergeant Hakeswill would be out of his cell, and... Well, if he was safe anywhere, it must be here, at least from another prisoner. He stared fixedly at the opposite wall, and waited.

"I just thought it was summat I'd done, sir, that's all." He turned his attention to Padstowe's hat.

Obadiah Hakeswill had been looking forward to this day. He had made one of the guards whiten his crossbelts, shined all his button and brushed down his coat and shako to perfection. To any officer he would look, as always, like the perfect example of a rank and file soldier. He grinned to himself as he heard the key turn in the lock. Today he would see his revenge upon the Welshman complete.

He stepped out of the cell into to the light smartly, and saw Williams already out there. He grinned again.

"'Ow was yer last night this side o' Hell, Davvie?" he askedwith a quiet relish.

Padstowe decided to ignore Cotton's last statement and merely heaved another sigh, tying up the last folder and stacking them one on top of the other on the edge of the desk. He then picked up the comb, running it through his short hair in the way he usually did each morning, hoping that the remembered strokes would arrange the hair in the desired way.

Maybe it was Cotton's habitual cheerfulness that had annoyed Mister Padstowe. Heaven knew he managed to irritate his own officer often enough, and Captain Vickery was used to him by now.

He held Padstowe's jacket up, ready to help him into it, should his help be needed.

"I slept well, thank you for asking." Williams did not glance towards the Sergeant. "It's having a clear conscience that does it."

"Silence!" For once Williams welcomed the order. He was in no mood to exchange pleasantries with the Sergeant. The guard formed the escort party, but immediately had to break up to ascend the stairs to the ground floor, the prisoners separated by the file of soldiers. Once in the yard, they formed up again, this time with the prisoners in the middle. Hakeswill's closeness made Williams' skin crawl, and any confidence he'd begun to feel seeped away.

"Thank you, Cotton."

Padstowe slipped on the jacket, swiftly doing the buttons up with a practiced hand and arranged his collar. He could have done with a clean shirt too, but beggars could not be choosers and he doubted that Cotton would have been carrying a spare shirt his size. Besides, it's not as if anybody would see anything of his shirt. He settled the cuffs in place, then turned round to see where his sword belt had got to. It was hanging on the back of his chair where he had left it last night, but his sash had fallen down onto the floor and seemed to have snaked halfway under the desk.

Cotton bent for the sash, hiding a grin as he did so. How did they always manage to end up on the floor? He shook it out, and frowned as he realised it was different to the one Captain Vickery wore. Bother.

The Welshman still had enough spirit to answer back, then - but as they formed up and were marched up the stairs into the courtyard and then out Hakeswill saw the brave face Williams had put on start to disintergrate. Not so tough now, Davvie, are ye? He smiled inwardly as he marched along. If the Welsh had given up hope then was a good as dead already.

Padstowe saw Cotton's evident confusion over the sash.

"Winds round the middle like any other," he said, then realising that this wasn't particularly helpful he held out his hand. "I'll do it. I don't have a servant, so I'm used to it."

"Thanks, sir. It's... Yours ain't got the whipcord ends I'm used to with Mister Vickery's. He needs a second pair of hands to get his on."

He glanced around, wondering if there was anything else that needed doing. He did need to take his things with him, of course. He bundled them back into his pack and buckled it shut.

You've been had for a fool, Owen my lad, Williams thought to himself. There might have been a point, at the beginning, when he could have made a charge against Hakeswill. But he'd kept quiet, believed that the officer would help him... Why should he? What was a Welsh private to him? Not worth a night's sleep. Well, maybe a night's sleep, but not worth an early morning. Whatever happened now was out of his hands. Just go with it, as always.

Having wound the sash around his waist Padstowe picked up his sword belt and clipped the buckle together, settling the scabbard neatly against his hip. He turned to Cotton.

"Will I serve?"

He looked the officer up and down. "Very smart, sir. If I may say so."

"Thank God for that!" he breathed. "And you as well of course, Cotton."

He gathered up the files, slipped the cord and notebook into his pocket and crammed his hat on his head.

"We'd better be going, then. Out or down, as they say in the navy!"

And with that he strode out of the door, trusting Cotton to keep up and shut the door behind him. He had hoped to see Williams beforehand, but it was too late for that now. He only hoped the Welshman would not hold it against him as he quickened his pace. He should just make it.

Cotton closed the door and followed the officer, trusting he now had a legitimate reason to use the front door, instead of going the long way round by the servants' entrance as he had done earlier.

He hoped Williams was all right; he wished he'd been able to talk to him again, but he hadn't been put on sentry duty over the prisoners since the night Williams and Hakeswill had been brought in.

It was not far to the building set aside for such enquiries. They passed the imposing front entrance, with its flags and sentries, and made their way through the stable yard to the side door and a flagged corridor. At the far end, officers and civilians moved about purposefully. Here, they waited, without even a wall to lean against. And nothing to think about. This was going to be a waste of everyone's time. Why bother?

"Will you be staying to watch the trial?" Padstowe called over his shoulder as he descended the front door steps two at a time, much to the bemusement of the sentries.

Sharpe pulled his second shirt out of his pack, swore at how crumpled it looked and pulled it on anyway. Thank God Harper had brushed his jacket down, though nothing would help the fact it was tattered, threadbare, faded and bloodstained. He wound his sash round his waist, fastened his sword-belt and swore again when he realised he couldn't get away without wearing his shako.

"How do I look?"

"Presentable enough, sir. Though I don't know what some of the other officers will think."

"Who cares what they think, Pat. Some of them haven't been in the country long enough to know what a jacket looks like after six months on campaign."

"True enough."

"And I'm going to have to run. Bugger."

Cotton had his rifle at the trail and had to hold his sword bayonet with his other hand, hoping to hell his shako would stay on his head like it was supposed to.

"Sir. If I'm allowed to, sir." Though should he, considering one of the defendants was Sergeant Hakeswill, who had a down on him and apparently could carry a grudge until the Second Coming?

"Glad to hear it!" he called back. The building where the court martial was to be held was not far away and barely a minute later they were there. Padstowe slowed to a more sedate pace and took no notice of the sentries as he walked up the front steps, through the door and into the courtyard. To his right he ccould see the guard and prisoners already assembled, waiting for all the officials of the court to assemble before bringing them in. He spied Williams standing next to the squeaky-clean Hakeswill. The private did not look at all confident.

A clerk in dull brown spoke to the Sergeant, consulting a sheaf of documents. It wouldn't have surprised Williams if they had all turned round and marched back to the lock-up - it wasn't convenient for them to be tried right now, so just lock them up and we'll let you know. But instead there was a general shifting as the escort straightened itself up, and prepared to move off. And there, looking straight at him, as if he was the cause of all the delays and problems, was Padstowe.

Cotton followed Mister Padstowe into the building and then wondered where he should go. He could see Hakeswill and Williams down the hall, surrounded by their escort. Williams seemed to have lost the confidence he'd had only the other day, though Cotton wasn't surprised. He wouldn't be bursting with confidence, having to stand right next to that bastard before going on trial, possibly for his life.

[OOC: Looking straight at who?]

Padstowe was aware of the clerk's eyes on him as well as Williams', but merely straightened his back and strode past the escort on his way to the court room. However, he momentarily paused in front of Williams and, probably against his better judgement, patted his shoulder.

"Good luck today, private."

Sharpe saw Padstowe enter the building, closely followed by a Rifleman of the 60th who he recognised as Cotton. What he was doing here, Sharpe had no idea. In his place, he'd get as far away from Hakeswill as possible, and stay there.

He strode up the steps and entered the building to find Padstowe about to enter the court room. Cotton was standing to one side, looking a little lost.