11 June; The batman's trade

That he was probably not welcome in the Rifles' camp was not lost on him, but he knew he could not ask anyone in his company for help. They would only scoff at him for being useless. Just like the captain had. Being shouted out of the officer's tent still made the back of his neck burn hot with shame. It was hardly his fault that no one had bothered to tell him what a batman's duties were!

He kept his eyes down as he approached the nearest fire, aware that the Riflemen were watching him closely. No doubt wondering what a Guardsman was doing in their area. Not that they could be blamed. If the Light Company were more friendly toward him, he would be with them instead of here. It helped that he had heard the Rifles were a decent lot. Hopefully that would prove true now.

" 'Scuse me," he began, only to flush dark when his voice came out more like a squeak. "S'there room here to s-sit?"

Freddie jerked upright when he suddenly found himself addressed by a red-coated soldier. What did he want? He hadn't understood at all.

Flushing himself, he incoherently stammered:

"Verzeihung! ... Was ... what ... do you ...?"

He stared at the Rifleman who'd answered, bewildered by the man's own stammer. "Can I s-sit? Please?"

Freddie coloured even more deeply and gestured somewhat erratically to the logs arranged around the fire.

"Yes ... please! Wolltest Du ... Would you ... talk to ... a special man ... someone special?"

The permission to join the men around the fire was received gratefully. He sat down at once, uncaring if his trousers got a little dirty. This was already better than being with the Light Company.

"Um... no. Thank you. I'm just..." his voice trailed off. He couldn't very well admit that he was avoiding his own regiment. What could he say, then? Nothing came to him and he stared down at the ground, the back of his neck feeling like fire.

This was awkward, and Freddie got more flustered with every second. Had he said something wrong? Missed something? Why was the other man so uncomfortable?

Taking refuge in the only universal remedy Freddie knew, he asked tentatively:

"Some tea?"

Tea? He looked up at once, a little of his embarrassment fading. "Yes. Please."

It was hard not to sound too relieved by the offer.

As he filled the other man's mug, the corners of Freddie's mouth lifted a bit. The universal ploy had worked once again. Now remained only to find out what the other man really wanted. Not easy, but if things got too complicated, he would fetch Sergeant Mueller.

Realizing that the other was as nervous as he was helped to shake off a good deal of Freddie's panic. With nearly his usual grin, he managed to hand over the mug.

"Here!"

Deciding that the other would probably tell him what he wanted as soon as he had drunken, Freddie picked up the jacket he had just been about to patch, crossed his legs under him and started to work on it.

The mug was nearly too hot to touch, but he was hardly of a mind to care. "Thank you," he said, managing not to squeak this time, and breathed in the steam from the mug. After a couple cautious sips, which scalded his tongue, he felt he should explain partially why he was here. It could not be common for a Guardsman to visit the Rifles' camp.

"Um. I don't mean to... intrude."

Cotton didn't notice the redcoat at first, until he'd put his load down. The Captain's pistols might have a nice case, but the actual cleaning kit - rags, oil bottle and the like - didn't have room inside it.

"Oh. Hello there," he said. "Hope I ain't disturbin' anythin'?"

The arrival of another Rifleman carrying a box of some kind startled him and to his renewed embarrassment, he slopped some of the tea onto his hands.

"N-n-no," he stammered, managing not to curse at his own clumsiness.

"That's all right then," Cotton said, finding a clear patch of grass to sit down on. He affected not to notice other's slight clumsiness, apart from offering a spare rag to mop up the spilt tea with. "You ain't scalded yourself, I hope?"

"Thank you," he muttered, accepting the rag. He was careful to keep his eyes down as he set the mug aside so he could dry his hands. "N-no, I've not."

Though if he had, it would be another thing for the captain to berate him for.

"Well, that's all right, then," Cotton said, opening the catches on the box and opening the lid before lifting out one of the Captain's pistols. He didn't think they needed much work, thankfully.

He gave the other man a sidelong look, before raising his head to address him directly. "Relax - we ain't goin' to bite you or nothin' like that." He grinned. "Me name's Cotton, by the way."

He found himself staring at the pistol in the Rifleman's hands with something akin to wonderment. That right there was a very fine instrument. He longed to touch it, to feel its weight. The craftsmanship looked excellent.

"Err..." his face flushed and he reached for his mug, the damp rag clenched in his other fist. "I'm Priv- er... I'm Martin."

He couldn't help grinning at the look of awe on the other man's face at the sight of the weapon he was holding. At least, Cotton thought it was the weapon that he was holding. It certainly was a beautiful thing, as befitted the property of Captain the Honourable John Vickery... although Cotton rarely, if ever, thought about the Captain's having a title.

"Here," he said, holding it out. "Belongs to our Captain, this does. An' a prettier piece you won't see, neither."

It wasn't possible, he thought. The Rifleman was trusting him to hold something so valuable. Even his father had learned not to do that.

"It's right fine," he said, again setting the mug of tea aside so he could take the offered pistol carefully in both hands. It felt like perfection. He lifted it gently in one hand and studied the lock. This was definitely the work of expert hands.

Not since leaving home had he, Martin Darling, been so privileged as this.

"Aye, it is that, ain't it?" Cotton said, reaching for the oil bottle. "Worth a bob or two an' all."

Now what, he wondered, was a redcoat doing over here in the first place? Especially one of the Guards - they wouldn't normally choose to come and chat with the Rifles.

At least that, Martin thought. He turned the pistol over and skimmed his fingertips lightly down the barrel. Something like this was a treasure, right enough. Cotton's officer was a discerning fellow, at least about his pistols.

"Aye. Your officer has an eye for quality, seems." Martin offered the pistol back.

"Oh, he does at that." He shrugged, accepting the pistol back. "Got the money for it too, o' course." He found another rag and began wiping the barrel down, before asking casually, "How come you'm over here, anyhow? not that I got a problem with it; I don't."

As the older rifleman approached, Freddie gathered his things together, trying not to attract any undue attention. Although he was curious what had brought the Guardsman here, he didn't think he would understand the conversation. Sitting dumbly around didn't hold that much appeal either.

Besides, it could only be about a quarter of an hour before he had to appear before Captain Vickery. Although Sergeant Mueller had hinted that he would be promoted and not chastised, Freddie was very nervous about that. Better he was there in good time.

With a friendly smile and a little wave, he disappeared into the row of tents, only to be seen shortly thereafter, minus his pack, fidgety waiting in front of the Captain's tent.

Of course he had. He was an officer. Officers were supposed to have money. Martin picked up his mug again, noting that it was going cold, and suppressed a shiver.

"Um... I-I... the cap'n d-don't need me about for a bit, is all," he answered and was privately relieved his voice hadn't faltered that time. When the other Rifleman departed, however, his nervousness returned. It was the fellow who'd stammered at him when he'd arrived.

"W-who was that fellow?"

"He's called Rottländer, I believe - he'm one of the German riflemen in the comp'ny. He'm a good sort, though he does seem to run everywhere he goes."

Cotton couldn't help hoping that he wouldn't flatten Captain Vickery, either by his dashing everywhere or by his sheer exuberance. Cotton himself was habitually cheerful, but he didn't leave people feeling somewhat breathless after just talking with them.

"The captain?" he queried, his attention caught by the word, yet reluctant to pry.

Rottländer. Hm. Martin repeated the name once, thinking that it felt strange to say. It was probably a better name than his, though.

"Aye. Cap'n B-Blackwood." He swallowed, feeling that desperate sense of terror begin to rise again. "I'm s-supposed to be his b-batman."

"Ah." Cotton smiled. "Y'know, that's a pretty good thing to be. I'm Captain' Vickery's batman, me." 'Supposed to be' didn't sound right to Cotton, though. There was something not right here - and Martin sounded pretty nervous, which Cotton could understand. He'd been nervous himself, after all - still was, sometimes.