10 June; Strays

The advantage of getting to know new humans was the opportunity to roam in new parts of the camp. Never mind that the camp seemed to move quite magically every day. The dog was perfectly happy to have the chance to explore new places, for there was always a good chance for Food to be provided to him.

He had found his way back to where the Earthy Humans hung about, choosing to wander about their part of the camp instead of staying near the Human with the Shoes. There was something interesting about these particular humans. Maybe it was their smell.

The dog trotted around packs and rifles without care, his tail wagging slightly to indicate his willingness to receive attention. Or Food. Or both. But preferably Food.

Cotton wasn't too sure what was going to happen with Pye. He'd received a ticket to draw replacement equipment from the quartermaster. Sergeant Müller hadn't been too happy about it, but had understood the necessity and had released precious equipment to the Riflemen. Cotton had signed for his, the first time he'd ever signed his name rather than making his mark on an Army list. The signature was awkward but legible.

He had found himself back in his own part of camp again after drawing ammunition to fill his new pouch and powder for his new powder-horn. The spout of this one didn't stick as his last one had done, so he was reconciled to the fact that all the leather was slightly stiff and looked very new.

And there was a dog sniffing around again. He grinned and dug in his breadbag - his comfortable old breadbag - for a couple of bits of dried meat to offer the animal.

"Hello there!" Maggie greeted the dog as she sidled up next to her husband. "That's McIntyre's dog. Is he about?"

Food. The Friendly Human was rummaging around in his bag, which meant Food. This was a good outcome to what had been a short wander. The dog promptly sat and stared up expectantly, his tail wagging a bit.

Ooh. Here was the Human from the Stream too. She was a little odd, the dog thought, but maybe she might have Food too.

"Is it?" Cotton replied, finding what he was after and offering a bit of dried meat to the animal, who was looking expectantly at him. He had to think for a moment who McIntyre was - the redcoat who'd taken over his duties as batman while he himself had been away, of course. "Does he know you'm here, eh?" he asked the dog in a conversational tone.

There it was. Food. The dog's tail thumped eagerly against the dirt, impatient for the piece of meat to be given to him. There! He took the offering with his front teeth, lifting it gently away from the Friendly Human's fingers. The morsel was gone in an instant.

Was there more? The dog licked his teeth and expressed his willingness to receive another snack with a raspy-sounding whuff.

Cotton grinned. "Don't reckon I'm goin' to give you all me dinner, dog," he said, holding another piece of dried meat out. "You got a name, by any chance?"

"Oh stop it," Maggie said with gentle reproach, though it was not clear whether she was speaking to her husband or the dog. "Gabe, don't keep feeding him."

"Why not?" Cotton asked, slipping his arm around her waist. "Ain't like I could eat them scraps - they wasn't much more'n gristle, them."

"You could always put 'em in stew," she said, reluctant to give in.

The second strip of meat was taken with the same care as before. Nipping the fingers that fed him was a sure way to earn a cuff to the muzzle. The dog had learned that long ago. Again, the Food was swallowed in an instant, and the dog peered up at the two humans with his round eyes.

"Ain't got any more," Cotton told the friendly thing, offering his hand for the animal to sniff, if it cared to. "Sorry."

"He probably gets plenty of food from McIntyre. Good scraps from his officer's dinner, too." She smiled at her husband. "He fed me and the captain too, McIntyre did, that first day when we didn't have anything. I'd lost my donkey and the captain's mule, and I didn't know what we'd do, and then he up and gives me a pork chop like he read my mind. No wonder a dog follows him about."

Cotton shrugged. "Ain't no harm bein' friendly, though. Wasn't like I was goin' to eat them bits meself, neither." They had been more gristle than anything else, although it seemed that the dog hadn't worried about that.

He shifted a little closer to Maggie, pulling her a little closer to him, jealous that anyone else could provide for her. It was irrational of him, he knew, but she was his wife, not McIntyre's, nor anyone else's.

She wrapped her arms around Cotton's waist and leaned her head on his shoulder. "I'm glad you're back, Gabe."

He smiled, and raised a hand to stroke her hair. "I'm glad I'm back an' all, Maggie. I missed you summat terr'ble."

She smiled up at him and looked around. It was still morning, and they would not be marching today, but the camp was buzzing with activity. "How many of you made it? Did you bring Martha? Jacklin was worried sick." As she had been.

His shoulders slumped. "We couldn't bring any of the women with us - there was only about eight of who got away, an' it was just too dangerous. Had to come over the hills, and we couldn't have done it even with a bunch of redcoats." Let alone with women and quite possibly children in tow.

He sighed. "The French seemed like they was treatin' 'em all right - an' they've sent women back afore, there ain't no reason to think that Martha and the others won't come back safe."

Her smile changed to a look of concern. "So Martha - and Sarah, and Jenny...? What about Joe?" She had seen a few of the riflemen around camp that morning, but not Newbury.

"Joe got carried back by a Sergeant of the Second Guards who ended up comin' along with us - reckon they Frogs thought he was one of us 'cause he didn't have no jacket or anythin'. He'm with the surgeons now, 'cause of his bust leg an' his head."

He felt wretched over the whole thing, but if they hadn't got away when they did, Maggie and the others would still be worrying about what had happened to them.

"Joe is?"

"Joe Newbury's with the surgeon some'rs 'cause of his knee an' head," Cotton repeated. "You all right, Maggie?" he asked, looking at her in some concern.

There were tears in her eyes, but she looked up at him in surprise. "I'm just thinking of my friends." It seemed perfectly sensible that she should be concerned. Now that she had her husband back, she had time to worry about the other people she she cared for.

"But I'm glad Joe made it back and all. Will he be all right? It was thanks to him I got away when they attacked the baggage. Him and a redcoat fellow distracted the soldiers when I made a run for it. I was so sure they'd shoot me in the back. I just kept running and running." She clung a bit tighter to her husband, and she idly rubbed the dog's back with her foot.

He pulled her to lean on him. "They'm my friends too," he said quietly. "Reckon Joe'll be all right, if'n he can just keep out of trouble an' not go makin' his knee or his head any worse. Though there'll be little enough of chance of that, I think. He looked half done in, poor sod."

He raised a hand to stroke a loose lock of her hair. "They ain't so...so uncivilised as all that, to go shootin' a woman." Though they might have done so by accident, of course - but they hadn't because she was here in his arms.

She gave him a skeptical look but did not reply. She would rather not think about what the French would or would not do to a woman.