Evening in camp, 1 June

"I'm sure his shirt can wait for a bit, you're half asleep as it is," Roper pointed out. Besides which, if the Captain had lost his baggage, he didn't have a spare shirt to wear while it dried, and putting it on damp wouldn't be healthy.

He poked a stick into the fire and wished again that he'd been taken instead of Cotton.

Maggie nodded absently, but she was not listening to Roper. She was listening instead to the officers conversing nearby. Lieutenant Sharpe was giving his report to Vickery and the other men gathered around him, and she heard her husband's name. Cotton, he had said. She was so completely drawn into their conversation that she forgot herself, forgot her place, and wanted nothing more than to turn their conversation back to Gabe. So much so that she stood and blurted out something before she realized what she was doing. Then, mortified, she turned and ran from the fire.

Roper opened his mouth to call after her, and closed it again without saying anything. The only person who could help her, comfort her, wasn't here.

He sighed and picked his mug up. She had dropped it as she'd scrambled up, and there was nothing left in it. He up-ended it to let the last few drops drip out and uncorked his canteen, threading the string of the cork through the handle to let the mug hang there, within easy reach.

Now that he was sitting down, Blackwood felt the worst of the heavy guilt settling about him like a leaden cloak. It had been a miserable couple of days. He was still smarting from the consequences of his own bad judgment the day before and with this new calamity heaped upon that... he prodded at a half-buried stone on the roadside and sighed.

There was no point in wallowing in self-pity but for the moment, he couldn't help it and hardly cared. He was being left to his own devices this evening, it seemed, and that suited him fine. So much the better to collect his thoughts and shore up his sense of purpose. Hopefully.

The normal bustle of the army in camp swirled on around him unnoticed. Blackwood brushed at a swath of caked mud on his hat and paid none of it any mind. If he was wanted, someone would seek him out. If not, he would happily - or at least readily - spend the night in this spot, undisturbed.

Vickery's side was still painful, but he felt easier now that his Company was back under his command. Well, most of it was, anyway - there were still men missing, of course: Cotton himself, Newbury and their newest recruit Pye, and some of the others as well, he thought.

He would have to see if the General or one of his staff was going to organise an exchange. Failing that, he would himself see if it would be possible to send Maggie through French lines so that she could be reunited with her husband - if she wanted to, and after everything that they had been through, he didn't think she would want to be separated from him any longer than she had to be.

A rider approached at a trot. The horse's fur glistened with sweat, its nostrils flaring with gulps of air. Its rider slipped easily down one side. Tucked under one arm was a shako with a green plume, the latter crooked and bent. Handing the reins to the nearest soldier, who was not wounded or in a state of distress. The rider adjusted their hold on the shako and then inquired about an officer of the 60th rifles. With a thumb jerking to the left, the man answered in broken English, his accent thick and certainly German.

"He wounded though....Don't think he.." Before he could finish however the new arrival had already took a turn, walking at a fair pace and with a purpose in their step.

"Evening, senhor." The rider greeted upon the approach, the hold on the shako adjusted again.

Vickery looked up in the gathering dusk. He didn't recognise the new arrival, which wasn't all that surprising, all things considered. "Good evening, senhora." At least, it sounded like a woman's voice, and a young woman at that.

"It is good fortune to see you on the mend, senhor." She smiled and held the shako towards the young captain, who's injury was grave perhaps, but he seemed with strength to surpass his ailments. " Compliments to your surgeon." She remained standing, perhaps awaiting that she would be invited to seat, or so remain where she was.

"..Pardon, It is rude not to introduce oneself." With a light courtesy of a nod, she continued:" Andréa Estefania Lopes da Almeida..." She paused at that. It was enough for an Englishman to attempt at remembering, an injured one even more so.

"Obrigado, senhora," Vickery replied, accepting the shako, though quite what he was supposed to do with it was beyond him. And just why had this young woman come to see him? He didn't recognise her - or at least, he didn't think he recognised her, which wasn't quite the same thing at all.

"Andréa Estefania..." It was a beautiful name for a beautiful woman, he thought, looking up at her, though he couldn't quite collect his thoughts enough to say so. "I am John Vickery, Captain in the 60th Rifles."

He managed to gather his thoughts enough to add, "Will you not please sit down? I beg pardon for not standing, myself." What with the stitches in his side, he would rather not attempt to get to his feet, however much of a boor it made him seem.

"You are known among our people." She smiled, a sense of playfullness underlining that tone. She had heard of the Captain. Not too long ago, when a mistaken identity has nearly got their allies thought as French. The riflemen too were said to have helped with a burial, and though it might have sounded as a local affair, it seemed to have reached the woman as well.

"I would not ask that you stand, when your injury is so grave." She answered, for a moment her expression quite serious, and only so. "It would have been selfish of me." At that she took the offer and sat herself down, her eyes skimming across the frame of the captain and halting at his side, from where they had gone to look at his face.

"I hope I do not intrude .." Was that the word? "...on your rest." Perhaps not, but she knew not how better to express it.

His thoughts were muddled, he knew that, but he couldn't think why anyone would have heard of the Rifles, and there was certainly no reason any of the Portuguese would know of him personally. Still, with her dark hair and dark eyes, she was pretty enough, when he finally managed to focus on her face.

And she'd said something else. "You are not intruding, far from it," he replied after a moment's pause. "I am sorry that I do not know you, even if you know me."

Another warm smile graced the arrival's features, as she settled herself comfortably in her seat. She observed the injured rifles' captain thoughtfully. " You shall have time to remember me, as we shall begin to meet more frequently." She gazed from him again at his injury." I am to remain in camp, for the time being. Though perhaps, once your vision is clearer." She indicated his head. "And your agility greater ,we shall cooperate more actively."

She tapped her chin and then straightened a little. "Your quarters... why do you not rest in your tent?" She said as if only then realising that she had found him not inside, but outside.

He shrugged. "The French got our baggage, senhora. And that includes my own personal baggage, as well." He rubbed at his eyes tiredly and looked back at her. "I do beg your pardon. Senhorita, is it not?"

How could he have been so blind as not to see that? She was much younger than he'd thought, at first.

"IF I may ask, how is it that you know of me?" He had been trying to think how she could have heard of him, but couldn't come up with anything he had done, either good or bad, that would have brought his name to the attention of the Pirtuguese

"Yes, it is. Senhorita." She laughed softly, though in no way did it seem disrespectful. "I am not old sir, nor am I married to earn such a title." Still quite amused she gazed at him. She gave a noncommitical shrug at his question and then leaned back as if considering it for longer before she would think to give a good answer.

"I have first heard of you when some of my men reported back obout you discovering their own. One was a civilian, who's son remains in our midst, as 'soldier'. These, two men and a woman were found by you, tied up in their house. They have been taken there by the fleeing French or so I am told. Perhaps you recall this event.. .though it might be as any other, insignificant to you, Captain."

"No, I remember." He smiled; he'd not done too badly out of that himself, acquiring Phoenix. He presumed the horse was lost to the French along with the rest of the baggage - and his soldier-servant.

"I am sorry I have not heard of you. I would remember that, as I would remember if I had met you." He still wasn't sure why she had searched him out, specifically.

"Do not worry, sir. My name is of no importance. We have not yet met in person and I'm but one of many of the loyal Portuguese participating in this struggle." She hesitated and gazed over her shoulder as if in search of faces that she would recognise. "Beg pardon, sir." She began then. "..But I wonder. Have you discovered those French soldiers, that have escaped you?"

She did not recall learning of their whereabouts, nor of them being caught. However, she wondered if they were connected to the dead that they discovered sometime later. "...And shall you be as kind as to point to where a tent ought be made?" This she said, as if it was the most common thing to happen at that time of day.

"You told me your name," Vickery replied. "Andréa Estefania Lopes da Almeida, if I am not mistaken." He shifted to sit up a little, steeling himself against the pain of his side.

"Make a tent?" he asked, puzzled. "Oh. Pitch a tent. It does rather depend on the size of the tent in question, of course, but any flat bit of ground will do." He couldn't quite bring himself to ask why; the answer was obvious, after all. Although quite why a Portuguese lady would be out here with a tent of her own, obviously intent on remaining with the Army, he couldn't fathom.

"I'm impressed, sir. Indeed, you have mastered my name but once mentioned." This certainly spoke in favour of the man. Even with his mind bemused, his injury sustained to his head as to his side, he was able to remember the name, which was fairly long, and would have been easily forgotten else, being also foreign.

"Oh.." He thought she did not know how,.." let me rephrase my question then. Where should you like your tent be placed, sir?" Her smile was still there playing on her lips, curving them upwards.

He shrugged self-deprecatingly. "It is a skill I need, in what I do," he said, looking up into her large dark eyes, before frowning. He was certainly dazed; he could have sworn she had said 'your tent'. "My tent? I told you. The French have that, along with the rest of my belongings."

Her smile was beguiling, showing a secret amusement at something beyond his present understanding.

"And I asked you..." The woman leaned closer, as if that might better his understanding of the things she had so clearly spoken and he seemed not to grasp. "Where shall we ... pitch .. your tent." Keeping her eyes on his, his expression mirroring some of his amusement, though it was certainly not for the same thing, she continued. "I have it being brought here. Perhaps not.. exactly yours... but a tent you are to remain at rest in and in privacy to mend."

He was a charming man, though perhaps still a bit slow at understanding. Smart, certainly, and quick of memory. A trait most useful, when things rarely thought to be repeated. "What, captain, amuses you?" She asked, mildly curious.

"Anywhere you like." It was all the same to him if she wanted to try pitching a tent the French had. Although, if she had a tent of her own, she would at least be able to put that up. Somewhere he could rest, though, sounded like a miracle.

"I was just wondering if I may call you Estafania?" he added. "And I never told you my name. I am Captain John Vickery, of the Third Company, Fifth Battalion the Sixtieth Rifles."

"Very well." The decision was made then. Since she saw the poor captain move with great effort, the camp grounds would be not far from where he now lay. Of course, she mused, it could have only been set around him, and have him not need to move at all. But the ground there was not as even as just a little further to the left of him, and she did not wish his health further endangered because someone would not have done his work when starting with the tent itself.

His next question had her blink. Did this cause amusement? "..You may, captain, if you tell me the name I may call you." At that , and only a short pause after she added. "Should it be John then? Or Mister Vickery?" She knew he had introduced himself earlier, but wished not to embarrass him by pointing this out.

He considered. "You may call me John," he said eventually, and lay back, closing his eyes. It had been a long day and he wanted nothing more than to have a cup of tea and go to sleep. He still didn't know where this woman had come from, either, and it also escaped him precisely how she knew of him from the three Portuguese his men had rescued.

Estefania remained quiet when she saw the man close his eyes, and waited thus seated untill she caught sight of a pair of Portuguese men. These carried with them, what was soon to be a tent into which the rifles' captain could be placed. Behind the two, came a third, and he too carried with him something of value and use.

She placed a finger to her lips, in indication that she requested silence. Pitching a tent however could not go without sound, and it was solely the conversation that was made much quieter and more scarce.

She remained an observer for the most part, glancing to see that John Vickery remained at ease. Some of the riflemen, who had managed to return now observed the strange turn of events taking place. What was said though, was mostly in German and so neither of the two sides could understand the other. Not at all.

The lady didn't say anything else, and Vickery relaxed, although the peace was disturbed by what sounded suspiciously like someone knocking in tent-pegs. He could hear someone muttering, but whoever was speaking wasn't talking loudly enough for him to catch what was being said.

It sounded as though they were just setting up camp in the normal way of things, and he thought he must be dreaming. He didn't particularly want to wake up and have to face reality - he'd have to do that quite soon enough as it was.