12 June: Piquets and Patrols

Cotton grinned properly at that. "He was a proper Light Bob, him, sir. Set up the Light Brigade an' all that - he knew all about the right way of skirmishin' an' all that. Shame the Frogs killed him. I reckon it was a lucky shot, that."

With a quizzical laugh, Edward remarked: "I heard le maréchal Soult saw it fit to build some kind of monument on his grave. Did you ever serve under him? Moore, I mean, not Soult, of course."

Cotton nodded. "He took command after Vimeiro, sir." He shrugged. "If you mean, did I ever have him for a commandin' officer, no, sir, I didn't. He was with the Light Brigade at Shorncliffe, an' us, our depot's on the Isle o' Wight, sir." He grinned. "I seen him, though, sir, on his white horse. Never spoke to me, though. not that he would, bein' a Gen'ral an' all." He shifted his pack a little; it was starting to dig a bit. "Did you ever meet him, sir?"

"No, unfortunately. Not personally."

Out of the corner of his eyes, Edward caught Cotton's movement. Not having much to carry, he was not yet uncomfortable or tired himself, but he suspected that the riflemen with their much heavier gear might be so by now, especially those not as battle-hardened as Cotton.

Being the highest-ranking officer of the patrol, he supposed he was responsible for ordering a rest when necessary, but he was unsure when it would be considered appropriate.

Letting his tone once more drop so that only Cotton could hear him, he asked: "I guess I need your advice once again, Cotton. Do the men need a rest?"

Cotton nodded. "It'd be good, sir, yes. We don't need more'n about a quarter-hour or so, though, sir. Enough time to get a drink an' have a bit of a smoke. An' give a five-minute warnin' afore you want us to get movin' again."

A rest would be very welcome; he needed to get his pack off and have a proper stretch.

Edward nodded and looked around. A nice little knoll with some bushes and a few trees lay a little further down to their left. No higher ground around, no exposed top where one might be easily spotted, no chance that anybody could suddenly rush up there suddenly, and even some shade.

"Up there, I think." He pointed the location out to Cotton, watching the rifleman carefully. In theory, it was certainly the best spot around, but would his theoretical knowledge meet with the approval of those with more practical experience?

Cotton looked where the officer was pointing and nodded. It would give them a good view of the area and was not somewhere where they would be easily taken by surprise.

"Looks good to me, sir," he said. There was some shade, too, even. "Be a chance for you to get off your feet, too, sir." The officer struck him as the sort who was more used to riding than walking, after all.

"Yes, it will definitely be one of the advantages." Edward looked around until he spotted the sergeant. "Sergeant, we will have a bit of a rest up there. Set two sentries, if you please."

Cotton breathed a sigh of relief as the Sergeant immediately turned to pass out orders. "I'll go on stag if you want, Sergeant," he said. He would be able to get his pack off, anyway, and it wasn't as though he wanted both hands to light a pipe or anything.

He glanced at the officer. "'Scuse me for sayin' so, sir, an' I don't mean to be impert'nent or anythin', but if you got anythin' you want to ask about, I'll do me best to answer you, sir."

Edward returned the glance wryly, but with real gratitude in his eyes. "I'm sure that there will be quite a number of things I will have to ask before long, so I hope you'll not regret your generous offer."

He looked around, noting how easily the men dropped down or vanished into the bushes, all actions telling of long practice. His diminutive batman was already engaged in giving some water to his horse, crooning at the animal.

He slightly jogged Cotton with his elbow, indicating the direction. With some concern in his voice, he murmured: "Would you do me a favour and call him over to you and make him sit down and drink something himself before he takes out a brush? If I do, he'll think he did something wrong."

Slipping back into his customary drawl, he added: "I'll take myself over to the other side of the top for a bit. I want to know what other bloke preferred keeping an eye out to sitting lazily in the shade."

Cotton nodded. "Hi, Rottländer!" He waited till he had the other Rifleman's attention, before continuing, hoping like hell that he'd got the German right, "Mochtest du ein bischen Wasser trinken?"

He gestured that the lad should come over, then indicated his own canteen, pulling it around on its strap and uncorking it, before pulling his pack off and looking for somewhere he could sit and yet still see anyone approaching.

"I'll see him right, sir, don't you worry about that," he added, glancing at the officer.

"Thank you, Cotton." Raising his hand in a small gesture of thanks, Edward turned and walked away to the other side of the small hill. When he passed Rottländer, the lad gave him a shy, questioning look, but the captain only nodded friendly and went on.

He grinned, seating himself near a boulder so that he could lean back and relax a little, although he was still alert and watchful for anything out of the ordinary. He laid his rifle across his lap and took a mouthful of water, careful not to waste any.

He looked up as the younger Rifleman came over, and indicated the lad's own canteen. "Have some water, do."

Freddie let himself drop into the grass besides Cotton. Cheerfully, but keeping his voice down, he told the other man in German: "Your German is excellent!" The young rifleman looked flushed from leading the horse that was actually taller than he was, but his spirits obviously were unbroken.

Putting his rifle over his lap, too, and looked out in the same direction as Cotton did, Freddie opened his canteen and took a sip. He knew from experience that everyone seemed to see things before he did, but it certainly couldn't hurt to keep watch as well as long as he was here.

Cotton blinked and had to translate the lad's words in his head before he understood quite what he'd just said. He grinned. "Danke."

He indicated the view in front of them. "You see the road?" He pointed at the paler ribbon that wound through the landscape. "If you see dust there, then it shows there are men marching - lots of men make lots of dust." He had to speak English because his German wasn't up to it, but he was careful to speak slowly, and was prepared to try to explain anything that wasn't clear.

Freddie looked in the direction Cotton pointed out and could indeed see the road, but when he followed its trail, it soon became blurred. He wondered how anybody could recognize dust there. But perhaps he had misunderstood the meaning of the word? Stomping his boot into a spot where no grass was growing to make some himself, he asked: "Dust? Staub?"

Cotton nodded. "Marching men make lots of dust - clouds of it." He had to use both hands to indicate what he meant.

He found he rather liked this, teaching other riflemen little things that would help them to be better riflemen. For some reason, helping Rottländer made him think of Pye, and he wished that things could be as they had been before the French had taken them.

He shook himself a little, and indicated Rottländer's rifle. "Are you a good shot with that?" he asked.

Freddie's colour deepend. He ducked his head and stammered: "No ... not so good. I try, but ..." He thought he was by now fairly quick loading the rifle, but of course that wasn't as important as hitting something with it.

"Tryin's the first step," Mayden remarked placidly, having until then been silent. He had been occupied with keeping an eye out on the terrain behind them, though now he was picking at a loose flap of wool on the left elbow of his jacket. That would need to be patched. A grimace worked its way across his face. What he wouldn't give to be back with his own company, such as it was.

"It's all in how you hold it," Cotton said. "It's got to be easy, without strainin', or you'll never hit anythin'." He shifted his position a little, taking up the seated firing position that he very rarely used. "It's got to support the weapon without movin', see," he added, raising his left knee a little so he could rest his elbow there, and pulled the butt back into his shoulder.

"Um, thank you", Freddie replied in his heavily accented English. He didn't know the rifleman who had just spoken up, but with Cotton beside him he ventured to extend his hand and add: "Friedrich Rottländer!"

Then he concentraded on Cotton again. The rifleman looked so one with his weapon! Taking up his own rifle, he copied Cotton's stance. Although it didn't look as elegant, he managed the position rather well. Squinting heavily, he took aim at the road.

"Like this ... Herr Cotton?", he asked.

It was obviously Cotton's lesson to teach and with both the other Riflemen being 60th lads, Mayden reckoned he had little enough place interrupting.

At Rottländer's cheerful introduction, however, he grinned and returned the handshake. "Sam Mayden," he replied.

"Um. If it's not comfy, move till it is," Cotton said, demonstrating the small adjustments a good Rifleman could make to his position. "It's got to point nat'rally at the target without you strainin' yourself, else you'll move an' it won't be pointin' at the target any more, see."

And of course a Baker would be a lot heavier, comparatively, for a lad like Rottländer or Pye. He glanced over at the older Rifleman, who was wearing the black facings of the 95th. "Gabriel Cotton," he said, taking his hand from the pistol grip to offer it to the other man.

"Mayden," the Rifleman replied and again returned the offered handshake. Then, knowing he was not necessarily there for conversation, he turned his gaze back toward the ground that spread out away behind the little patrol.

How had he managed to be the only man constantly on his feet when the patrol was supposed to rest, Edward wondered. But surely an officer should check on the sentries he had ordered? When they came closer to the camp, he might ride again, he supposed, but as soon as the thought presented itself, he discarded it. There was no sense in taking unnecessary risks, and he would survive his aching feet. His boots were probably ten times more comfortable than the men's were.

Coming back around the hillside, Edward was shaken out of his contemplations as he spotted the group of riflemen, with Rottländer aiming at the road with his rifle. For a moment he was alarmed and quickened his steps, but than Cotton appeared to explain something. If he wasn't alarmed, Edward probably needn't be either; and Cotton certainly would have kept to protocol and informed him if anything happened that he should know about .

Relaxing again, he halted in the middle of the man, and ordered in a clear voice: "Five more minutes, gentlemen!" These little advices about how to go on in such matters were invaluable. He made a mental note to mention Cotton's helpfulness to Captain Vickery. Taking the reins of his horse again, he led it over to the sentry group. A rifleman he didn't know yet had joined Cotton and Rottländer; when Edward came closer, he could see the different colour on his collar.

An eyebrow curiously rising, he inquired: "You're from the 95th, aren't you?"