Dinner at Vickery's

"No, not that I can think of, thank you." He had a serviette already laid out next to the plate, which was the important thing.

Vickery looked up at Cotton and shook his head. "No, not at the moment, thank you."

The Rifleman nodded and stepped back as Vickery picked up his own spoon. "This would be why they don't serve stews in the Mess. Shame, really."

"Indeed, a shame." Like all Englishmen Padstowe was fond of a decent stew - or casserole as the French called it - now and again; one of the many home comforts that was so often absent. "Though on the other hand I do not know if I would trust the Mess cooks with it."

"Half the time, I'm not even sure what it is I've got on my plate, when dining in the Mess," Vickery responded, smiling. "And I don't suppose I'm the only one, either."

"I do not doubt it!" Padstowe laughed. He picked up his spoon and took a bite of it, and then another. It really was quite good. He chewed thoughtfully.

"Mutton?"

Vickery raised an eyebrow at Cotton, who nodded.

"Apparently so." Though where the Rifleman had acquired mutton from, he wouldn't ask. There was potato, onion and carrot in it too.

He took a mouthful himself. Cotton could cook, if nothing else.

"Very good."

Padstowe took another spoonful. Could look after kit, shave and cook; Vickery had certainly struck gold when he'd found Cotton.

"So how long have you been out here, captain?"

"I came out here last year with the 60th, when the Army came out. I was only a Lieutenant at the time, but I got my Captaincy just before Vimeiro." He was young for a Captain, he knew, probably the youngest it was allowable to be in that rank, yet he enjoyed the challenge and knew he could do the job.

"What about you, Captain? And you can call me John; it seems a little silly to be so formal at a private dinner."

"I am would be honoured to, John," Padstowe said, a gleam of amusement in his eyes. "And for that reason I must ask you to call me Jonathan, as it seems that another 'Jon' would only prove confusing."

Vickery smiled at that. "It would indeed, Jonathan." He had another mouthful of stew before asking, "So how long have you been in Portugal, then?"

"Since just before Rolica and Vimeiro," he said. "Same as you, though I have been with my regiment since boyhood. I've been around with them a few times."

"Your regiment is the West Kent Regiment, is it not? Are you from Kent, then?" That would be partly why Cotton liked the man, if so.

"Yes, the 50th, or the 'Dirty Half Hundred', so we're called."

Or at least used to be called...

"My family have a place in Cowden, not far from Tunbridge Wells. It's a nice, quiet village but we're near enough the iron works and the tanneries at Edenbridge - though most of our stock is in farming."

Well, that would certainly explain why Cotton felt an affinity towards the man. "I take it that you joined your regiment young, then," he said. The man looked to be in his mid-thirties, old enough to be a major. Vickery wondered why he was still a captain. It could be a number of reasons, of course. Maybe there wasn't a vacancy in his regiment. And if he'd been in the 50th from boyhood, why would he want to join another regiment, just for his step up?

"My father bought my commission in the 50th for me when I was sixteen."

It seemed such a long time ago.

Sixteen wasn't so very young, when you considered that a child of thirteen could have a commission purchased for him, and would expect experienced soldiers like Cotton to salute them and call them 'sir', despite being over twice their age.

"And you have been in the 50th ever since?" if so, that was the remarkable thing; most officers changed regiments frequently in order to be able to purchase up the ranks. Vickery himself hadn't begun his career in the 60th, but it was where he felt most at home, of all the two or three regiments he'd served in.

"I was unambitious," Padstowe said simply, which was the blind truth of the matter. He had been comfortable in 50th and was not willing unsettle himself just for the sake of a few extra guineas pay. His parents had money, he'd inherit the title, he had nothing to prove to the world and he did not care if that made his prospects for marriage grim. Wasn't as if he wanted to marry anyway. "Still am, I think. I do my job, I make myself useful; that's all I've ever really wanted. Besides, I liked the 50th; they were good men and I felt at home there."

However unhinged that made him sound.

"I know what you mean about feeling at home there," Vickery said. "I started out as an Ensign in the 45th, then purchased a Lieutenancy in the 69th before transferring to the 5/60th and thinking it just felt right."

He noticed Padstowe had emptied his glass. "Would you like some more wine?" he asked.

"Please."

Padstowe held out his glass.

"Do you ever fear of becoming too comfortable, though?" he asked. "I Have known a few officers who have done."

Cotton stepped forward to refill the officers' glasses. It was boring, in a way, standing there being ignored for most of the time, but it was also sort of interesting listening to the conversation, even if he didn't understand all the long words and things.

And of course he could keep his mouth shut about things that didn't concern him. He wasn't the sort who would gossip about things that were really none of his business.

He stepped back, putting the wine-bottle back down.

"Thank you, Cotton," Vickery said, picking up his glass.

He continued after taking a mouthful of wine. "I don't know if it is possible to become too comfortable, at least in the Rifles, with their emphasis on trying new things. This whole thing, putting us with the 62nd, is an experiment and is just the sort of thing the Rifles were made for. Although I think the ultimate outcome depends more on the redcoats than it does on us, as we try to be flexible in what we do and how we do it. Some of the redcoat officers, however, are the most set in their way men I have ever met."

He smiled apologetically. "I don't mean to cast any aspersions on your regiment, or the colour of your coat, of course, Jonathan. I hope you don't think I am lumping all redcoats together."

Padstowe smiled.

"Isn't that the whole idea behind redcoats?"

That made Vickery chuckle. "Well, that's one way of looking at it, I suppose. Or there's the idea that the old Generals have: make them march around a bit and look pretty and the enemy won't know what to do about them. But even we Rifles have to know what to do when there's cavalry on the field."

"We do have our uses, then," Padstowe said, smiling. "Though I suspect our new General has a better idea than most of how to lump us around properly."

"So what do you think of this whole idea of lumping us greenjackets in with you redcoats?"

It was certainly an interesting idea, as far as Vickery was concerned, but he wondered how things would work out if one of his men got into serious trouble. Not that he expected them to; Germans were always more steady and sober than British soldiers, and both Roper and Cotton could be trusted to keep an eye on his few British men.

(OOC - and I'm off out to dinner with a friend myself. See you later!)