Camp - first night

Cotton shook his head. That Jenny! She was nearly as bad as his Maggie. Teasing the poor lad like that... it wasn't right, he was only young. He hoped the lad was all right, but didn't follow him for fear of making things worse.

He grinned. The incipient blister was forgotten as he smiled at Maggie. "Want to dance?" he asked.

Maggie gave him a reluctant smile and shook her head. Jenny flicked out an arm and caught Mícheál by the hand.

"Ah, well, worth a try," Cotton said and put his arm around her shoulders instead. "Jenny, just you be careful with the lad and don't go embarrassin' him, right?"

He stared down at Jenny's hand, clasping his own. "Er..." He looked around - as the music increased in speed a few more people had stood up. What had Cotton said?

He stared down at his much-maligned boots. "Wa- want to dance?" His voice strangled itself on the final word.

She laughed, a clear and merry laugh like a sudden peal of bells. That was her only answer as she put her arm around his shoulder and pulled him into a spin.

Perkins stared in surprise at the dancing pair, a little relieved and a little envious to have been the one left seated.

"T'ain't so bad, Perkins, lad," Cotton said. "You'll find yourself a nice girl one day, I'm sure."

Perkins laughed sheepishly, but Maggie scowled. She twisted out from Cotton's arm and stood up without comment, striding off away from the fire and the cheerful clusters of riflemen and their friends.

Cotton frowned, hurt. What had he done now? He scrambled to his feet and followed her.

"Maggie! Maggie, lass, please."

He had to dodge people, kids, whatever, but he finally caught her up. "Maggie, lass, whatever I did wrong, I'm sorry. Just, please, talk to me, lass, tell me what I can do to make it better."

If there was anything, of course.

She rubbed her brow and ran her fingers through her hair and would not look at him.

"It's easy for you. For all of you. For everyone but me. Even that Jenny."

"Easy?"

What was she talking about? He looked at her, allowing the confusion to show on his face. "I don't understand, Maggie. What do you mean?"

He wanted to understand, wanted to help, and didn't know where to start.

She rubbed her eyes and tried to control herself. "Moving on! Always moving on. Always marching, always going to the next place, the next thing, so easy!" She sat down in the dark grass. He couldn't see her face, but he could hear her gasping breaths. "It hurts!" she exclaimed with vehemence. "It hurts! I can't."

He frowned. Soldiers marched from one place to another, always had, always would, and if a woman chose to follow a soldier, she had to learn to accept that.

But it was the first day of a new campaign, they'd hardly left Lisbon, and she was tired of it already? That couldn't be it, could it?

He sat down next to her, and put his arm around her, trying to think of something to say. "Oh, Maggie, I'm sorry," he said, helplessly, for want of anything better to say.

"I can't do it. I can't do it!" By now she was blubbering with a gasping creaking voice and breathing so hard she felt dizzy. "Everything I think of reminds me of Jem. He was - always! - there with me. I never marched without him: I can't do it!" She burst out with explosive sobs, truly wailing with grief, a wretched sound of anguish. Even at this distance from the noisy crowd, one or two riflemen came closer to investigate. They discreetly turned and left when they saw the two figures seated in the dark, hardly moving at all, one comforting the other. It was not a cry of peril and not a situation that would benefit from their help.

"Oh, Maggie, lass." He put his arms around her, allowing her to bury her face in his shoulder. It seemed she'd never been able to grieve properly for her dead sweetheart.

He found himself rocking her, much as a mother would, to soothe a child. He didn't say anything; what was there to say, after all? He was content simply to sit there and hold her, hoping to comfort her a little.

It felt like an hour had passed. She was tired. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

"Don't be," Cotton said, still holding her. "Nothin' to be sorry for. I promise."

He wondered if it was his fault somehow; he'd asked her to come along with them. But then, it would have happened sooner or later, and at least he was here. He just wished he could do something to help her.

She finally fell asleep there, exhausted by her grief. She had not wept like that since Vimeiro, nor had she felt her loss so keenly in many months. During the day she had been cheerful and in excellent spirits, walking with the women in the baggage train. It was not until evening that she realized as if for the first time that James Balstrode would not be on this march.

She did not know she had fallen asleep until she found herself being carried. It was like when she was a little girl, back when her mother used to sing and sew - how did she find the energy? - and Maggie would fall asleep by the fire and her father would have to carry her upstairs. She would wake up when they were half way there, confused to be seeing everything from so high. But she would quickly close her eyes again lest he should see she was awake and make her walk. But then she rarely remembered anything else afterwards.

It was the same now. She became aware of one or two people fussing with blankets, although they were trying to be quiet. She frowned, wishing they just would let her be so she could sleep. And what a relief it was when finally everything was still.

It was when the hiccups finally stopped and Maggie grew quiet and still that Cotton realised she had fallen asleep on his shoulder. He smiled at her and carefully got to his feet before picking her up and carrying her back to his fire. She stirred once or twice in his arms, but didn't rouse, even when he laid her down by the fire, telling someone to unstrap his blanket from his pack. He tucked it in around her, vowing to himself that whatever happened he would always watch out for her. He sat down near her, accepting a hot mug of tea from Tom Roper.

He looked at Perkins apologetically. "Sorry to rush off like that," he said, trying not to wake Maggie. She needed her sleep, poor thing.

Perkins looked rather alarmed, but he nodded to Cotton. "That's all right, mate. I probably better be getting to sleep myself. I don't know where Mícheál's got to. Probably find him on the way back."

"I reckon so. Will you be all right findin' your way back in the dark? Or would you like me to walk with you?"

It wasn't necessarily easy, getting your bearings in the dark, especially when it was the first night in the field after a winter spent in one city.

He glanced at Maggie. "I don't mind. A couple of others left just before you came back, and I can probably catch up with them."

"If you want to stay a bit longer, you're more than welcome to."

He felt like a bad host; he'd asked the young lads to his fire, and had vanished suddenly, chasing after an emotional woman. He wondered if Carty had gone with Jenny - or the other way around.

"You sure?" he asked, looking again at Maggie. "Is she all right?"

"I'm sure." He looked fondly at Maggie. "She's fine. She'll be better once she've had some sleep, though."

"What was it upsetted her?"