Camp - first night

Perkins grinned. "Mícheál, this here's Gabriel Cotton. The one what bested Dan Hagman in the shooting contest!"

"Gabriel!" Mícheál gave a beatific grin. "Like the angel!" He recognised the name of his fellow rifleman, and he gathered what Perkins meant from his tone of voice and the word "shooting", which he knew very well - he looked suitably impressed.

"He's a good shot, your Dan Hagman, " Cotton said. He still felt a thrill of pride when that competition was mentioned. "Wasn't easy to beat him, at all. You should be proud of him."

He smiled at Carty. "Nice to meet you, Mícheál," he said, offering his hand. "Aye, like the angel. Though I ain't an angel, of course."

Mícheál grasped Cotton's hand, and for the first time showed some hesitancy, though his smile remained brilliant. "Nice to meet you, Gabriel," he said slowly and deliberately, taking care not to mangle the words. "Like the angel."

Cotton looked at Perkins, then back at his friend. He wasn't quite sure what to make of the other lad, but he seemed friendly enough. "So where are you from, then?" he asked, trying to speak a bit clearer than usual.

Mícheál was leaning forward, nodding with each word, wearing a small frown. His face cleared, and he grinned. "Tobar Pheadair!"

"That's in Ireland," Perkins told Cotton. "It's Peterswell. Peterswell is what we call it, Mícheál."

"Ah." Irish. That explained something.

"Have you been in the Army long?" he asked, attempting to tone down his accent. It wasn't easy, that.

Maggie cleared her throat loudly, standing a few steps behind them. "Are you going to take all night with that water? Those dishes ain't gonna wash themselves."

"Peterswell." He nodded. "My home is in Peterswell." He looked at Cotton intently, serious for the first time in the conversation. "It is a holy well."

Then he smiled again. "A long time. A long long time. I was in Corunna."

"With Mister Sharpe?" Cotton asked, for want of anything else to say. He turned as he heard Maggie's voice. "Oh, hello, Maggie."

"This is Maggie Evans. Maggie, this is Mícheál Carty. He's one of Mister Sharpe's men." He turned back to the two 95th soldiers. "Would you like to come and have some tea with us?"

"Hello Maggie," Perkins said, smiling. It looked as if Cotton and Maggie fair belonged to each other now, and he was glad to see it. "What d'ye reckon, Mícheál? Tea with the 60th? We was about to make some anyway back at our camp, and our lads'll be wanting their kettle. We'd better take them their water, but then we'll join you, sure!"

"With Mister Sharpe. And Sergeant Harper!" Mícheál hero-worshiped Harper, who spoke English fluently, knew all about birds, and was as tall and big and strong as Cú Chulainn himself, and sounded just like him when he ran into battle. Mícheál could only manage a high-pitched shriek.

"Nice to meet you, Maggie." He looked pleased by the name. He glanced at Perkins. "I like tea. I will have tea."

"Come on then," Maggie said with a mild smile for the lad.

"He's a big man, your Sergeant Harper. Nice, though."

He remembered standing next to the man during Williams' court martial, and feeling like a child again next to the tall, strong Irishman with the kind face.

"Our camp's this way. Not far from yours, so you won't get lost on the way home," he said, indicating.

After they had returned their company's kettle and pan of water, Perkins and Carty made their way over to the fire where members of the 60th were gathered. Maggie and Cotton were washing dishes.

Mícheál grinned at Cotton. "He is very big. And he is very nice. Um. Essept when he shouts." He gestured to his pan. "I will go back to my camp, and then I will go back to your camp."

He followed Perkins to Cotton and Maggie's camp, smiling up at the stars as he did so. "Is breá liom tae."

"Yeah, tea mate," Perkins agreed.

Carty smiled warmly at his friend. "You will speak the Irish soon."

Cotton glanced up from the fire as the kettle began singing, to see Perkins and Carty approaching.

"Hello, lads," he said, taking the kettle off the fire.

"Hello. Mícheál's been giving me an Irish lesson."

"Has he? Good evening, there, Mícheál." He poured two mugs of tea and offered them to the other Riflemen.

"Good evening, so. Thank you," Carty said, taking the tea. "We say, 'go raibh maith agat'," he said, in a proud, didactic tone.

Maggie looked up from her cup with surprised amusement in her eyes. "What's that then?"

"It is 'thank you', to be sure."