4 June; Salty

"One or two, aye," the oldster agreed. "Things seem different nowadays though, I s'pose. Officers got no time for the lads under 'em, mostly. Maybe that's the land-service though."

Vickery gave a wry smile at that. "There is a line in the standing orders of my own regiment to the effect that the officers should talk with the men because then we will know what they're good at and how best to make use of their skills," he said. "Admittedly, that sort of thing is not the case in the regular Line regiments. That I know of, anyway."

That sounded like almost exactly what Captain Collins had said when he'd assumed command of Cornwall's Marine detachment. McIntyre wondered if he'd come from a similar school of thought as whoever had written the orders the greenjacket described.

"Seems so. But at sea an officer's gotta know his lads, more or less. He can't detail lads for fightin' top duty or boardin' parties too well if he don't know their natures. I s'pose that's not much different off your own lot's way of thinkin'."

Vickery leaned forward, careful of his side, to put his now-empty plate on the ground. "I think that the Rifles and the Marines are a lot more similar to each other than either is to the regular Line infantry, in a lot of ways," he said, sitting up again. "I think that is because of the nature of the roles they play, more than anything else. And the fact that officers and men of both live in close proximity." Although, of course, aboard ship there was the separation that came due to the fact that the officers lived in the wardroom and the men lived on the mess-deck.

That, McIntyre thought, was certainly possible. He couldn't judge it for himself of course but he didn't doubt the greenjacket's remarks.

"Could be it, sir," he said with a nod, as he gathered up the discarded plate. "Me second officer were like that, knowin' his lads. Taught some of us letters an' such. Those of us he knew was sharp 'nuff for it. Older fellow, him. Heard he had no family, so we was it."

Poor old Lieutenant Eldridge.

There he was. At last. The dog trotted briskly toward the Human with the Shoes, a freshly-killed rabbit clamped in his jaws. Getting his prize here without losing it to any of the many other humans around had been no easy task. Yet here he was, with his treasure intact.

Offering a muffled whoof of self-satisfied accomplishment, the dog dropped his catch onto the Human with the Shoes' feet. Then he sat down and looked up expectantly, his tail thumping merrily against the ground.

"That was... good of him." Vickery was willing to teach any of his men who wanted to learn their letters, although so far nobody had asked him - and Cotton had started learning his letters from Maggie, after being flogged. Vickery supposed it had been one way to keep his mind off the pain of it.

"I think that the best regiments should be like a family. Although, to stand in place of a family... Well, it isn't quite same thing, really."

He smiled at the return of the dog, who had caught a rabbit. "Yours, is he, McIntyre? Does he have a name, perchance?"

McIntyre shrugged, busily scrubbing the pan clean with a fistful of coarse old grass. "Mister Eldridge were an older fellow, maybe a bit too old for the work. We was mostly a younger set anyway. I reckon it was probably natural for him to get to thinkin' of us that way."

He shook his head at the slightly-tattered rabbit that was deposited on his shoes and set aside the pan. "Not mine so much's the company's, really, but it seems he tolerates me more'n the others. I call him Flint, 'cause he's sharp as." He grinned. "He'll want this skinned an' cooked for him, so he will. Picky scamp!"

Vickery chuckled. "Well, he's sharp enough to provide his own food for the cooking, rather than relying on the Commissariat, which is in his favour." He leaned forward and held his hand out towards the dog. "He reminds me somewhat of my own terrier, Tip. I had to leave him at home; he was getting old and the journey out would probably have killed him, poor thing."

"Aye, I'll give him that." McIntyre turned the rabbit over to examine it thoroughly. It was definitely still edible, once it was skinned. "Shame 'bout that, but this sure ain't no place for an old set of paws."

The irony of that statement was not lost on him but he was careful not to acknowledge it. Instead, he fished out a knife from his bread-bag. The sooner he got the mangled hair and inedible parts off the rabbit, the better.

The dog shuffled up to the greenjacket, once he was satisfied that his prize was going to receive the appropriate treatment, and thrust his nose at the offered hand.

"There's a good boy," Vickery said, allowing the dog to sniff at his hand before scratching him behind the ears. "I daresay it's easier to have a pet on land than at sea, though?" He chuckled. "You ought to be careful, or else you'll find he's been adopted by my men."

"Can be. We had two monkeys in me first ship. Some topmen snuck 'em aboard after a visit to Saint Kitts. They were favourites of every lad below deck. Charmin' creatures, monkeys." McIntyre worked as he talked, seeing no reason to sacrifice efficiency for a chat.

"I'd not mind it, really, sir. Be nice to not have him hangin' about wantin' scraps or usin' me kit for beddin'."

Vickery chuckled. "I'll bet they were a handful. I can't say I have ever come into contact with monkeys of any sort." He smiled. "I daresay it would be easier for a company to feed him than one man. Although he may feel some sort of loyalty towards you."

He wouldn't mind too much if the dog decided to adopt his Company, although Pye would probably object - he couldn't think that the lad would be any better with dogs than he was with horses. Of course, Pye was not with them at the moment, being a prisoner of the French along with Cotton, Newbury, the Palmers, Sergeant Fischer and one or two others.

"They was fun beasts. One of 'em took to our sarn't, so it weren't anythin' odd to see it sprawled in his hammock. Better to have 'board than a cat almost. Friendlier, anyway."

McIntyre held out a bit of rabbit meat to the dog, who ignored it. No surprise there. "Nice to have somethin' around that'll mind what it's told, anyway," he remarked, laying the strip of meat into the cleaned half of the iron pan.

Vickery had to chuckle at the image McIntyre's words created. He scratched the dog's ears, and smiled as the animal ignored the offered meat. "He obviously means for you to eat it," he said. "He's probably already had his dinner. Haven't you, boy?"

"Maybe he does. He won't touch it 'less it's cooked."

Trouble was that it was too early to even consider preparing lunch, which left McIntyre in a bit of a quandary. Or maybe not. This meat could be good dried, perhaps.

"He's always hungry, sir. Worse'n a midshipman!"

Vickery raised an eyebrow at that. "How... civilised. And somehow, that does not surprise me. I think most dogs are in a continuous state of hunger, very like young boys." He looked over at McIntyre. "Where did you pick him up?"

A very apt comparison.

"Somewheres outside of Lisbon, sir. He just turned up."

"Just turned up, eh?" He looked down at the dog. "That does fit with what I've seen of him so far. He obviously knows when he's onto a good thing."

The oldster chuckled. "Just like any good soldier, there. 'Nother bit of tea, sir?"

"More tea? Yes, if you please." He shifted his hand to pick his cup and hold it out for the redcoat to take.

This was as good as done. McIntyre refilled the cup and gave it a careful swirl before handing it back. Then, unthinking, he reached for the kettle again, thinking to use what was left of the water within it to clean off the freshly-skinned rabbit. It was an action he regretted instantly.

The hot kettle seared his fingers upon contact and he nearly dropped the damnable thing, which would have been unforgivable. It was, in fact, all he could do not to snatch his hand away at once. That wouldn't have been so good either. Instead, he set his jaw and withdrew the burnt hand with forced calm. Idiot. Where was his head?

"If he don't claim it all for himself, there'll be rabbit as dinner," McIntyre remarked airily, turning his attention back to scrubbing out the pan as best he could.

Vickery took the cup back, and nearly spilt it as he scrambled to his feet to help. "Do you have a canteen handy?" he asked, putting the mug down and looking around. It was extremely unlikely that there would be fresh butter to be had, but maybe water would be just as good. "That looks as though it hurts."

Flexing his fingers was painful but he decided the glaring red of the skin on his palm was not so bad. It was more embarrassing to have been so bloody careless.

"Oh it ain't anythin', sir," McIntyre said dismissively, curling his aching fingers around the heavy pan to set it back on the fire. "Serves me right grabbin' at the kettle like that, so it does. You ain't upset your cup, have you?"

"No, I haven't. And from the length of time that kettle has been over the fire, it isn't 'nothing'. You want to do something to reduce the effects of that burn so it doesn't put you out of action for a while." He was sure that the majority of his men ended up using their forage caps for impromptu pot grabbers.