Running an Errand

Cotton hadn't told Captain Vickery about Hakeswill and his threats, although he had told the other English Riflemen in the Company. The small group, Cotton's friends, were shocked, horrified and nervous on his behalf, though he'd told them there was nothing they could really do to help against a Sergeant from another regiment.

The rumour going around the Company at the moment was that they were shortly to be attached to a redcoat battalion (or division; rumours were never exactly clear on things) and to await for orders to march north. Cotton just hoped that the battalion in question wasn't the 33rd.

Meanwhile, Cotton - soldier-servant to his comapany commander - was on an errand. He found himself looking for a stationer's shop for more writing paper and a replacement Day Book for Captain Vickery. He kept one eye out for any friends, and another eye out for Sergeant Hakeswill, hoping that the man wouldn't try anything in broad daylight.

Troops were moving north, which was the start of something. No-one said anything to the ranks, of course, but the mood in the Young Innniskillings was that any day now they would get their orders to leave Lisbon. Which meant that every day was a potential last day, to be savoured. There would be none of the delights of Lisbon up country.

Williams was comfortable with his friends, out visiting favourite tavernas "for one last drink", but when he saw young Cotton, looking at the shops under the old wooden arcade in the old market, he grabbed Dougie MacKay by the arm. "I'll join you later," he said. "There's a mate I must see, before we get our orders. It won't take long, honest - just a couple of bottles." He grinned, slapped Dougie's shoulder and crossed over. "Cotton my lad! I thought you''d be long gone."

Cotton heard footsteps and turned to see Private Williams coming towards him.

"Not yet, mate. Won't be too long, though, I'm sure. How are you doin' after... after...?" He couldn't bring himself to actually mention the trial, but he was sure Williams would know what he was referring to.

"Well, there was a spot of bother at first. I don't think they accepted that the court knew what it was doing." Williams grinned. "But the Captain - Padstowe - talked to our captain and ..." He laughed. "It seems so long ago, and so much trouble to go to, when any day now we'll be facing much worse than that bleeding officer."

He looked along the arcade. "My mates were going for a drink - just in case this is their last chance. I've been clinging as tight to their sides as a limpet, but - you haven't seen anything of the bastard have you?"

"I saw him the other day, going into Headquarters for some reason, but he didn't see me. And I haven't seen him since." And there was no real reason for him to be hanging around here, after all. "If you'm a-going for a drink with your mates, I won't keep you. I just need to get summat for me own officer, that's all."

"i've been with them for so long now I know every word they'll say. They can have their last drink without me. We had one yesterday, and the day before." The news that Hawkswill had not been bothering the lad was welcome. But Padstowe's comments about how long the Sergeant could hold a grudge remained a worry. On the other hand, it was a lovely day, and soon they would be marching away. "Have you time for a drink before getting back to your officer then, or will he be watching every minute? Just a quick one. I don't think I ever bought you one in return for that brandy." He remembered the darkness of the cell, and the taste of brandy in water, and the sense that he was not without friends. That he could not repay.

He'd been scanning the window, and thought he'd found what he was after. "He won't be watchin' for me, but I need to get some stuff quick-like, before going for a drink. It'll be all gone, else. I'll only be a moment, if you want to wait."

One small notebook and some writing paper. Shouldn't take too long to buy them.

"I'll wait for you, no problem. It's a nice place to stand, this, with everyone being so busy and all." Paper and books and ink - the display was interesting, but he didn't feel inclined to shop there. He wasn't going to start writing letters any time soon.

"Cheers." He grinned at the other before going inside. Life as a soldier-servant certainly had its surprises, he supposed. After all, how often did an illiterate soldier usually have any reason for going into a stationer's? He still couldn't quite believe that Captain Vickery had taken him on, him not being able to read and all.

It wasn't too long before he got what he needed and was able to step back out into the sunshine with a parcel containing the things for the captain.

"Thats done then," said Williams as Cotton emerged from the shop with his parcel. "Now for that drink. We won't have to go far, not like that time. Something more crowded, more popular. I get nervous out on my own. He grinned to show that he did not mean it. "Have you heard about your orders yet?"

"No. There's rumours goin' round, of course. Last I heard, my Company's goin' to get detached duties with some redcoat battalion, or somethin' like. I only hope it ain't anywhere near the 33rd, that's all." He grinned. "Though right in the middle of a company of greenjackets... Don't suppose he'd try anything there."

He shifted the parcel to his other hand and looked around. "Where do you fancy goin' then, mate?"

"Could be you'll come to us - that would be fine, though I'm not sure why we would want rifles, when we've got our own Brown Besses. If there's one thing certain though, it's that they'll try anything once, and then, if it doesn't work, keep doing it."

Williams looked round. This part of town, with its old houses built out over the street to rest on wooden columns, had succeeded in attracting officers, and the bars here were pricy. He led the way down a street, shaded by the tall buildings "Between here and the docks - there's plenty of bars, and plenty of soldiers to keep us company. Even some green'uns like you, though red is the most fashionable colour this year." There were plenty of bars, some clearly rapidly converted from ordinary homes, to cater for the troops coming into the city. "They'll miss us when we've gone," he said, selecting one virtually at random. "This do you?"

Williams' summing up of officers and their way of keeping all-on trying things made Cotton grin. "I think the idea is that we do the skirmishing on front of your nice smart red lines and try and wear their own skirmishers out a bit before letting you have a go and their nice big blue columns."

He followed Williams down the road. They didn't want anywhere too near where the officers were; officers and private soldiers didn't drink in the same places. Stood to reason, that.

Williams stopped at a door and pushed it open, leading the way inside. Cotton looked round. "Looks just fine, mate."

"Wine? Or brandy? It's cheap, if you don't mind it at this time of day" That settled, Williams brought their drinks to the table. He was thinking. "You get on with your officers, don't you. You don't follow quite the same rules as the rest of us and... If you go back to a nice shiny-red regiment of foot, they will have you back under the full Articles of War before you can say "Aberystwyth" He looked up, with a helpful expression. "Probably get you back in red, and then put you in the Line. And claim irreconcilable difficulties."

Cotton grinned and accepted the brandy Williams pushed across the table to him. "We are still under the Articles of War. It's just that, yes we get on with our officers better - differently, anyway. And they ain't quite so quick to threaten us with the cat, if they can do it another way." He had a mouthful of his drink while trying to find a way of explaining himself. "Like just after Vimeiro. There was a couple of lads managed to hide themselves away and didn't take no part in the fight, bein' cowardly like that. So Mister Vickery - he was only a Lieutenant then - made them stand by the privies, each wearin' a woman's hat, to learn them not to be."

He couldn't imagine going back to a redcoat regiment now, with all the spit and polish and rigid way of doing things. "We're more...bendable. Able to change our way of doin' things. If one way don't work, we'll try summat else."

Williams laughed at the thought of the Riflemen standing by the privies. "That will teach them - shame is sometimes enough of a punishment. But the Army - the red part of it, anyway - would not allow that. Something you can feel, and something the others fear." He made a face. "You can't let one man break the line, just because he's scared. I've wanted to run, but - " He met Cotton's eyes. "It's different for your lot. You're more on your own, out there. So there's no one to keep you standing there when you want to run."

"But they won't let you get away with it - can't have one rule for Rifles and one for the rest. It wouldn't be fair, now, would it?"

That it wouldn't, of course. "There ain't anythin' wrong with being a-feared in battle. Hell, if you ain't, you're a fool. But the wrongness comes if you show it - act on it. You've got to know that the man next to you in the square ain't goin' to break and run. And we've got to know that our partner ain't goin' to scarper. Only, it's easier not to show it when you're in line, like."

At least, Cotton thought it was. He'd been in a redcoat regiment for three years, but hadn't done any real fighting with them.

"But there's more of us in line - and sometimes, it only takes one daft lad to break the lot of you. Well, so it's said. I've never had it happen to me, and I hope it never does. Your partner - well, if you know him, fought with him before, you..." He frowned. "Do you get to pick your partner? What if he is a shirker?"

"Well, Tom sort of picked me," Cotton said, thinking back to his first introduction to the 60th. "I was shown into a barrack-room full of men all talking German, and then this cove comes over and interduces himself, and we've been partners ever since." He had another mouthful of brandy. "Most partners are mates off the battlefield, have to be really, 'cause of how it works. Though if they had a falling-out or summat, they could speak to their officer and ask to be changed." He smiled. "Though an officer ain't allowed to break up a pair if'n they don't want to be split up. Means they work better, if they want to be partners."

Of course, to someone not used to the freedom the Rifles enjoyed, it all sounded more than a bit strange.

Williams knew about the Germans in the 60th, and did not think he would like that - though it wouldn't be that different from a room full of men talking broad Scots.

He tried to imagine going to his officers to talk about friendship, or the disagreements that arose among the soldiers, and leaned back, shaking his head. It clearly worked for the Rifles though. It was just hard to see how that bond would be acceptable in a regular regiment. "If you're right about this attachment, something will have to give. Will your officers fight for you, do you think?"

Williams seemed genuinely curious, something Cotton could easily understand, even if it sounded far-fetched to the Welshman. Cotton was proud of his regiment, and he knew it showed.

"Yes," he stated, simply. He knew it sounded too easy, and hastened to explain a bit more. "Most officers, whatever regiment, have to do some drill. So they can understand the drill book, and know what orders to give. But with the rifles, an officer has to do all the same drill we do. And they do it in the ranks, with the men, instead of in a squad by themselves. And that includes learnin' to load and fire a rifle. So they earn the respect of the men by proving they can do the same job we can." He shrugged. "I know it sounds strange, but it's just how we do things. And it works. Leastways, it seems to."

"If they can shoot as well as you, too, that'd be something." Wiliams remembered the lad winning the shooting competition. Which led, of course, back to the Sergeant, and the threat he might pose. "What does your partner - Tom? - think about Hakeswill? You did tell him, didn't you? And you running around on your own like this?" He shook his head in mock reproof.

Cotton had managed to forget the threat posed by the Sergeant for a brief few moments, while talking about the Rifles. He sighed and had another mouthful of brandy.

"Yeah, I told him," he replied, lowering the mug. "He's nervous, of course, and told me to keep where folks could see me. He's not so likely to try anything in public, he don't seem to work that way. And that Captain Padstowe said as he'd have a word with Captain Vickery, quiet-like. But there's time you can't avoid bein' out and about. Can't spend your whole life stuck indoors, bein' a-feared of what might happen. And if anythin' does happen, well, life ain't always fair, you know."

"Well now, eventually there might be a measure of justice. But if sticking with your mates fended off danger, the line would be the best place to be. Better than out in front on your own, in any case."

He decided that he did not fancy joining the rifles. They were useful, as Cotton had said, taking the edge off the enemy's attack, but there were times when it was more comfortable to obey orders, not to think for yourself. And when people were firing muskets and cannon at you, was one of those times. God, if you thought for yourself then, you'd be out of it like a shot. Just follow the drill, that was best.

"Mebbe, mebbe."

Cotton himself had been dubious about joining the Rifles, back when he was still a redcoat himself. But he'd been a Rifleman for the best part two years, it must be now, and he couldn't imagine going back to the rigid discipline of the line. Wearing the green jacket meant you could think for yourself, and your officers trusted you, and neither of those things happened in the close ranks of a redcoat battalion.

"It'd be nice if we was put with you and your lot," he said after another sip of brandy. It was good stuff, and the level of liquid in his mug was dropping fast. "I'd rather you than the 33rd, that's for sure." Which prompted him to ask: "Are the 27th a flogging regiment?"

Because some were, and it was a fact of life. Redcoat or greenjacket, the lash was always a possibility if you fell foul of an officer.