2 June; Not so good morning

The Guards. McIntyre shook his head as he made his way toward the tin pot that held the tea. "Not me, Missus. Ain't got the right sorta discipline for that!"

Who was Captain Blackwood, anyway?

"Oh." Maggie set her bucket down but hovered awkwardly next to the fire. "McIntyre, you won't mention to anyone about my husband being gone, or Captain Vickery's man being gone, at least not if you can help it?"

She dreaded to think what might happen if that particular sergeant were to find out. She ought to be safe enough staying close to the captain, but then again, rank had not protected that other captain whose watch had been stolen.

Why would he, anyway?

"No, Missus. Though you'll not mind me sayin', I hope, that me not bein' with me own officer ain't gonna pass without notice. Some of the lads'll wonder. S'how they are."

She nodded, staring at the fire for a moment. "It's just... I know some of the 33rd. It's not always safe for a woman on her own here." She would have given anything to have Cotton back, she thought as she let out a shaky breath.

Ah.

"I reckon you'll do well enough if you stay close 'round here," he said.

She nodded and changed the subject awkwardly. "So, is the captain awake?" Not that it mattered to her at all.

"Aye. Just havin' his breakfast."

Breakfast! How had the captain managed to acquire breakfast? Of course, McIntyre must have made it for him. She felt slightly guilty for not making the captain's breakfast herself in Cotton's place, but she had no food. Her own stomach grumbled, for she had not eaten anything since breakfast the day before. There was a burning in her throat and chest as well. What had happened to those biscuits she had gotten from the commissary last night? She must have lost them, left them on the ground somewhere. She had been too upset and exhausted to think of them again.

Cotton would have been able to do something, but he was gone. She had no one and nothing in the world. She felt hungry, tired, alone, and overwhelmed. Not even the captain could help, with his muddled head the way it was. Besides, he had written her one ticket for supplies and she had already used it.

What she needed was a good cry. But not in front of this stranger. Then perhaps she might go and find the other riflemen and beg some food off of Jacklin or Roper.

"I'm just..." She pointed vaguely in the direction of the stream again before leaving.

His mostly-grey eyebrows arched in surprise. That there was something amiss here was plain, but he was at a loss to think what. He was also too wise to interfere with a woman in such a state of agitation so he said nothing. Instead, he set the empty tin mug aside and reached for his pack. There was nothing he could do about it now, but later was a different story.

It took only a moment to put another, smaller, cut of pork - his last - into the pan, then to set the pan on the glowing embers of the fire. That would need a few minutes to cook. Satisfied, McIntyre refilled the tin mug and returned to the tent.

Maggie made her way to the stream and was already crying before she got there. But her sadness gave way to anger. She wanted to scream. She wanted to smash things. She wanted her husband back. But when her sobs and tears subsided, and when she splashed her face with water, all that was left was a dull, aching deadness that was all too familiar by now. She found herself wishing she could cut it off, like a diseased limb or dead flesh. What the bloody hell use was any of it anyway? This damned war would never end, and she might never see her husband again. What use was her life, even? If this stream were deeper, she thought, she could fall in and drown right here and now, and end this useless, pointless suffering.

From a little further downstream, something came splashing toward her.

Maggie looked up with a start at the sound of splashing, expecting to see some menacing soldier coming toward her. Instead it was an animal of some sort. A dog. A wet dog. She sniffled and backed away from the stream so it might enjoy its run unimpeded and without splashing her too much. "Go on. Shoo," she muttered as it came closer.

The dog slowed its stride upon spotting her, but rather than being deterred by her nonsensical words, sloshed closer, its tail wagging merrily.

"Go away!" she shouted impatiently. Blasted smelly dog. Maggie turned to walk back to Vickery's tent, scowling over her shoulder at the cheerful dog.

The shout caused the dog to stop, and it canted its head to the side, watching her move away toward... something that smelled very good. Very good like Food.

The dog abandoned the stream, pausing only long enough to shake itself off briskly, then loped eagerly toward the Food, obeying the direction given by its ever-empty stomach. The woman was all but forgotten next to the importance of Food.

"Git away!" she shouted again, seeing its intention. "That's the captain's breakfast, you lousy... dog!"

This had no effect, but the sudden appearance of another human from behind that funny-smelling wall did. The dog changed direction, momentarily permitting itself to be distracted from the quest for Food. It thrust its muddy nose at the new human's shoes, intrigued as always by the strange smell of leather.

Then, satisfied, it shambled boldly up to the wall and sniffed curiously at it. Food was in there, too. So was something else that didn't smell Right. Best not to go in there. The dog turned about and peered up at the Human from the Stream. It wasn't sure what to make of her yet.

The shouting brought McIntyre outside in an instant, but he relaxed when he saw the cause of it. That damn dog...

"Sorry if he's gave you a fright, Missus," the Irishman said, lifting the iron pan off the embers so the dog could not get at it.

"He followed me!" she told McIntyre, forgetting her red eyes and stuffy nose. "Go on, get out of it! He must smell the food."

"No surprise there. Daft beggar always goes where there's food." McIntyre nudged the dog with his foot and pointed toward the opposite side of the fire-pit. It gazed balefully at him but rather obligingly relocated itself.

"Got somethin' done up for your own breakfast, Missus," he added, nodding down at the pan in his hand. "If you like, anyhow."

Her heart suddenly melted and she stared up at him, her eyes made wider and bluer by contrast with the red. "Oh," was all she could think to say.

He offered a smile and turned away to fetch out his old square-cornered wooden plate. The piece of pork needed a little coaxing before it left the pan, but once it was on the plate, the rest was easy. A wedge of cheese and the heel-crust of bread.

"Ain't much better for anythin' that ails a body," he said, holding the plate out.

He had done as the Human with the Shoes directed and moved to the other side of the Hot Ground, but the curiosity about that strange wall was strong. The wall hid something that wasn't Right and that intrigued the dog. Thus, after sitting obediently for less than a minute, the dog stirred himself and approached the wall.

To his surprise, the wall moved when he prodded it with his nose. Hmm. This was interesting. Irrepressibly curious now, the dog nudged at the wall until it curled aside. The smell of something Not Right was a lot stronger but he edged past the moving wall. There had been Food in here too. That was all the encouragement he needed.

There was a rustle of movement that made Vickery look up. He expected to see McIntyre or Mrs Cotton, and blinked at the furry face looking up at him. He closed his eyes for a moment, wondering if the concussion had finally driven him mad. He opened his eyes to find himself being watched by something small and white that gave a small but hopeful whine at the scent of the meat on Vickery's plate.

"Where did you come from, eh?" he said, and smiled. "Not that you can talk, of course. Here." He held out a chunk of meat towards the dog.

There was indeed Food in here. Cheered, the dog drew closer, drawn by the smell of the meat but wary of that something that didn't smell Right. Was it this Human with the Food?

He took the needless precaution of sniffing the offered morsel thoroughly before biting it very carefully with his foremost teeth and stepping back. Experience had taught him not to snatch Food from human fingers.