Dinner at Vickery's

"I have only seen him in small skirmish actions, though he is nonetheless still impressive. He has a good grasp of his men and they understand him well enough to take the initiative when he needs them to, and as I said before he fights like an alley cat - rather fitting as he learnt his trade in the gutter."

And by 'his trade' Padstowe meant fighting.

"He and Sergeant Harper make quite a formidable pair."

"Sergeant Harper? Isn't he the tall Irishman I've seen around?"

He could well imagine the pair of them in a fight. They would make formidable opponents, working together. He was suddenly rather glad he was not on the other side.

"That's the one. Good man to have in a tight spot is Patrick Harper."

"I can imagine. He doesn't look as though he'd let anything stand in his way. Or any one, for that matter."

It really was a good stew. He couldn't remember how he'd managed to get by before taking Cotton on, despite the man having been in his service for only about six months.

"Equally it is very unlikely that Harper would let anyone move him out of their way."

He took a few more mouthfuls of the stew, having very nearly cleared his plate. He had not realised how hungry he was.

"Quite. I think Mister Sharpe has little to fear from anyone while Sergeant Harper is around."

He finished his stew and sat back. "That was very good, Cotton. My compliments."

Cotton blushed but looked pleased.

"Indeed, very enjoyable," Padstowe said, finishing up the last two mouthfuls. "Your talents it seems extend to the cullinary arts as well, Cotton."

Cotton looked slightly blank at the long words, but realised he was being complimented, even if he didn't understand exactly what the officer meant. He flushed an even deeper red. "Thank'ee, sur," he said, trying to keep from mumbling. "Do ee want anythin' else, sur?" he asked, realising a little late that perhaps it was best not to let his native dialect slip through so easily.

Vickery looked questioningly at Padstowe. "Do you need anything else, Jonathan?" he asked.

"No, I am quite alright, thank you."

"You can clear away, if you would, Cotton." He leaned back to allow the Rifleman to take his plate again. As Cotton left the room, Vickery pulled out a cigar case and offered one to Padstowe.

"I don't usually smoke, so I won't be offended if you decline," he said. He smiled. "Of course, I won't be offended if you accept, either."

"Thank you, but I prefer not to."

Padstowe sat back and sipped his wine as Cotton cleared the table and then retired.

"May I ask, John, what is it that drew you to the army?"

"Well, I am the younger son, and although Mother would have preferred me to go into Law, or the Church, my head had been turned by the thought of wearing a uniform. I have no head for mathematics, which ruled out joining the Navy, and an uncle kindly purchased me my Colours in the 45th when I was fourteen."

Padstowe smiled.

"Somehow I cannot imagine you taking silk, or as one of the cloth, John."

"I couldn't, either, and Mother finally saw sense. Though I think she was somewhat reluctant to let me go to war, of course."

"They always are," Padstowe said giving a derogatory snort and draining his glass. "Would you mind passing the bottle? I'm afraid I cannot reach from here."

"Certainly." Vickery said, passing the bottle over as requested. "And if you don't mind my asking in turn, what brings you into the red coat of His Majesty's 50th?"

Ah, now there was an awkward question.

"I suppose..." he faltered. "I suppose you could call it a boyhood fantasy. I don't ever recall really wanting to anything else, and when he was certain I was set on it my father purchased my commission in the 50th. Idid not have any relations of influence in the army, so he settled on a local regiment."

"And a fine regiment it is, too," Vickery said. From the way Padstowe's voice had faltered, he'd stumbled onto a sensitive subject. "I beg your pardon if I said anything amiss," he said, casting about for a safer subject.

"No, not at all," Padstowe smiled briefly to reassure the young man. "I was merely recalling my foolishness. How I thought war would be to how it really is..."

He shook his head and smiled again.

"As I said, foolishness."

"That is always the way with boys' dreams," Vickery said. "They never understand the reality of a thing. And by the time the boy sees the reality, he is no longer a boy, but a man."

Well, that was not strictly true. Padstowe reckoned he had done a lot of growing up over the past year, even though most had long considered him a man, but there were also several men he had met who had not seemed to grow up at all.

"It is not strictly true for all men," he said, giving voice to the latter part of his thoughts. "There are some so-called men who never leave boyhood."

"That is true, as is that there are some boys who are men in all but age," Vickery said, leaning back with his own glass of wine.

Padstowe nodded, having had experience of that too - usually amongst street urchins or naval Midshipmen.

"Then it seems a man must be judged on his mental, not his physical age."

And he hoped that Vickery would not take that as a slight towards him.

"I believe he should, yes," Vickery said, conscious of his own youth and, possibly, inexperience, beside the older Captain, although he reckoned he could stand his ground with the best of them.