5 June; Gone fishin'

His official errand was clothes-washing, but in his breadbag was a fishing hook and a carefully-constructed length of twine. Why waste the opportunity of being at the river on only one chore? McIntyre picked his way down the bank, mindful of the loose earth. Rivers were the closest he would get to proper moving water these days. More was the pity!

First task was to set out the fishing line. He dug the hook and its long twine out of his breadbag, then drew out his bayonet. It was simple work to wrap the loose end of the twine several times around the socket and then to drive the bayonet into the dirt. With a dead beetle firmly skewered on the hook for bait, McIntyre tossed the hook into the water and watched the bit of cork tied midway up on the line bob in the current.

With that attended to, next came was the washing. The Rifles officer's good shirt and jacket were finally get a proper cleaning. They needed it too, McIntyre thought. Seen a bit of action, these two articles. There was McIntyre's own spare shirt and stockings to wash. Attending to these would take a bit. Not that he was short of time at all.

He stripped out of his jacket and reached for the captain's shirt, deciding to take care of the easier clothes first. The oldster struck up whistling 'High Barbaree' as he set down to work. It was a prime day for it, at least.

The water was cold. It was a bit of a surprise, given how warm the weather was shaping up to be, but not an unpleasant one. Burke splashed some onto his face, blinking the drops out of his eyes. Well, it certainly woke him up.

The sound of whistling caught his attention from nearby. Picking up the full kettle beside him, Burke moved towards the noise.

"Halloa!" he hailed the older soldier. "Sea songs, is it?"

Whatever the grasshopper had been up to, it was certainly messy. Then again, considering that the poor beggar had lately been in action, messy was hard to avoid. McIntyre scrubbed at a persistent patch of stain - it looked suspiciously like dried blood - and tried to avoid the many buttons on the jacket. No easy task, that!

"Eh? Oh, aye. Best sort there is," he replied, looking up toward the other fellow. His gaze took in the kettle and he grinned. "For the tea-makin', I'll wager?"

"Aye," Burke responded with a grin of his own. "Best use for water, so it is."

Though, cleaning clothes was not a half bad use, either. Burke was plenty relieved that he had been issued a new jacket when he was transferred to the 60th - he had not relished the idea of having to wash and patch his old jacket.

"Ye've a good accent on ye," Burke said. "Nice t' hear sommat what sounds like home. Dubliner, are ye?"

"Aye, that's so." Even though it did still occasionally surprise him how much men on the march preferred tea. The drink had never been something very widely available before, or so it seemed to him.

A mostly-grey eyebrow arched curiously. It would have taken another Dubliner to recognise the lilt, he thought, which made it odd that he had not noticed it himself. Of course, considering how long it had been since he had been in Ireland, never mind home...

"Been a fair while since I've heard a lad what sounds that sorta familiar," McIntyre went on with a grin.

"Me as well," Burke said, chuckling. He studied the other man openly, more pleased than he would have expected to come across someone from home. "Where abouts ye from? Iff'n ye don't mind me askin', that is."

He lifted the jacket from the water and held it up to examine it with a critical eye before deciding it wanted a bit more scrubbing. "Quinn's Lane, me," he answered. "If it's still there, anyways. What 'bout you?"

"Horseman's Row," Burke said. "Though, I were 'prenticed in Lower Charlemont Street."

He watched McIntyre washing the jacket, and raised an eyebrow in confusion.

"How'd ye end up washin' a 60th uniform?" he asked, gesturing to McIntyre's own jacket, still lying on the ground. "Ain't ye 33rd?"

It belatedly occurred to him that he had not actually introduced himself. And here he was, practically interrogating the man.

"Sorry," he said, with a sheepish smile. "Me mouth runs away without me sometimes. Brendan Burke, at yer service."

Perhaps a little shamefully, he had to think for a moment before he was able to pair each name up with a location. "Ah. Not so bad a spot, Charlemont Street." He shook his head. "So I am, but there's somebody gotta tend the poor fellow who's your cap'n."

McIntyre straightened up and wiped his linen-wrapped right hand somewhat dry on his trousers. "McIntyre. I'd say you was free to call me Brendan but that'd be a bit much!"

Burke laughed as he shook McIntyre's hand.

"Well, if that don't beat all," he said. "From Dublin, and named Brendan. I'd almost think ye was havin' me on. Nice t' meet ye."

Ah - the man was filling in for the captured batman. That made a bit more sense.

"Oh, aye," he said, nodding. "Missus Cotton had mentioned ye, I think."

The oldster chuckled and was glad when the formality of hand-shaking was over. "Bit of an odd thing, so it is. Pleasure meetin' you, too." He rolled the dripping jacket up as tight as he dared to wring out all the water he could. "Did she, now? Seems a decent lass, that'n. Poor girl."

Burke nodded. "Aye, poor thing. Sweeter'n pie, she is. Hope her lad comes back soon." He smiled crookedly. "No offense to current comp'ny, mind."

"Indeed. Mean time it's only fittin' she gets looked after like, 'til he does," McIntyre agreed with a nod. "She's doin' all right keepin' near his officer though. Seems a decent sort, him."

He laid the freshly-washed shirt carefully aside and glanced toward his makeshift fishing pole. It didn't seem as though anything had bitten, yet.

"He does at that," Burke agreed with a nod. "Ain't seen too many like him.

"Any luck wi' them fish?" he asked.

"Nothin' yet," was the reply. Though it was still early time yet. He'd be here a while. Plenty of time for a fish or two to bite.

"You been with that lot long?"

"Nope. Just transferred from th' 95th." Burke moved to sit on the bank. "So far, 's not so bad."

Ah. Well. Rifles were Rifles, as near as McIntyre could tell. "S'what I've heard of 'em," he observed. "Freethinkin' sorts, the Rifles."