11 June; The batman's trade

No, Martin thought miserably. No, it wasn't. Not when your officer was like Captain Blackwood.

"H-how do you s-stand it?"

Cotton was completely taken aback at the question. "He's only a man, ain't he? Jus' got a bit of a nicer uniform an' all." He took a closer look at the other man.

"Look, it ain't that bad, honest. Jus' be nice an' polite an' respectful. Ain't nothin' to worry about, really. 'Specially not with Captain Blackwood - he seems a nice sort, to me."

He stared at the Rifleman in something approaching horror. 'Nothin' to worry about'? And Captain Blackwood being a 'nice sort'? The poor fellow had no idea!

"I h-have been," he said, managing not to moan - but only just. "He d-don't want me. S-s-sent me off j-just now, because I r-ruined one of his s-shirts."

Cotton sighed, and reached for the kettle before noticing that the other man already had a mug of tea.

"All right, then," he said, instinctively dropping his voice to a soothing tone, as though he was trying to calm a skittish horse. "You drink your tea an' tell me ezackly what happened, eh?"

What happened. Martin dropped his gaze to the mug in his hands. It was, he noted, no longer steaming. What happened was he proved how useless he was.

"I w-was blacking his s-shoes and g-got some on m-my hands. So I reached for a r-rag. Only it w-was his best s-shirt. H-h-he wasn't... happy." Which was putting it mildly, but Martin wasn't about to repeat anything of what Captain Blackwood had said.

Ah. "It can be got out without too much of a problem." The only downside was that the officer knew about it before it could be put right - if something was going to go wrong, it was better for all concerned if the officer didn't know about it.

"I can imagine he warn't too happy, though. Still. Nobody's died over it - you'm still here, so it can't have bin that bad." He reached for the kettle. "More tea?"

Maybe it could, but Martin didn't dare go anywhere near the captain's tent again, even if it was to retrieve the damaged shirt. Somebody else could be Captain Blackwood's batman, since he'd made it so plain that he had no use for Martin.

"Yes, please," the young Guardsman said, not sure Cotton would have understood if he expressed his doubts about it not being too bad.

Cotton poured him another cup of tea, using the pause to gather his thoughts.

"Jus' let him calm down a piece," he said eventually, holding the mug out. "We all of us make mistakes - we've all got to start somewhere, don't we? I don't s'pose he'll be too cross for long, anyway. An' once he've calmed down a bit, we can go an' get the shirt an' see if we can't sort it out. My Maggie's a dab hand at gettin' stains out of shirts, she'll know some way to get it clean again."

"Aye?" Martin was not about to let himself even begin to hope, but he was surprised to learn it was possible to clean the shirt. It might help the captain not hate him, at least. "T-thank you. For the tea."

He clung to the mug and relished the heat radiating into his palms. Of course, to have the shirt inspected, he would have to go back to the Light Company's camp. Maybe if he waited a bit, the captain would leave his tent long enough for Martin to slip in, grab the shirt, and hurry away again.

"You're welcome," Cotton said, indicating the mug. "Look, from what I've seen of Captain Blackwood, he seems a decent sort, not like some officers I could mention. It's just... bein' a batman, you get to see things that your officer wouldn't show other people. Like when he'm in a temper, or upset or whatever. Thing is to try not to let it bother you too much if you can help it."

He wondered whether he would still be Captain Vickery's batman if he'd managed to attack one of the Captain's shirts with blackball in the first couple of weeks after being taken into the officer's service. Possibly not...

Not let it bother him. He shouldn't, maybe. But the words the captain had used still rang harsh in Martin's head. He hadn't been reprimanded like that since... his memory blurred quickly, but it was just as well.

"Maybe." Though if Captain Blackwood was as decent as Cotton seemed to think, why wasn't somebody else his batman?

"Had a cup chucked at me, once," Cotton recalled, and chuckled. "Was empty at the time, thankfully." he'd managed to duck, too, or it would have hit his head. "Only time I've seen my officer with a hangover, that, I think," he added, grinning at the memory.

A faint grin tugged at the corner of Martin's mouth. That had not happened to him. Yet. Though he wasn't sure if the captain was fond of drink. He wasn't sure of anything much about the captain, in fact, beyond that the man had a fierce vocabulary when in a temper.

"Why'd he do that?"

"I think I jus' rubbed him up the wrong way that mornin'. Like I said, he'd drunk a sight too much the night afore - I'd had to help him home. Carried him, pretty much, in fact." He shrugged. "An' when a fellow's bright an' perky an' you ain't, well, you want to throw summat at him, don't you?"

He thought he'd seen the other man give the ghost of a grin at the story, which was something, at least. He'd be telling someone of his own slip-up one day, though it might be a while before he could do so.

Oh. That was definitely something Martin could not see himself doing for his own officer.

"I suppose," he allowed, swallowing down some tea. It felt good going down. Tea. That reminded him. "Where do you find tea leaves, if I may ask?"

"Should get some issued - else the sutlers'll sell 'em. Me wife does some sutlerin', she'll have some - an' if you say you know me, she ought to give you a good price."

He wondered vaguely if Martin was as nervous of every officer as he was of Captain Blackwood. And of course, he hadn't seen the Guards officer's temper for himself... though he had heard vague stories that Captain Vickery had all but called him out, the day of the skirmish.

"That simple?" He couldn't quite master his disbelief. It made sense, though. Where else would the leaves come from? Would have been nice to know that, when he had tried to prepare the captain's breakfast that morning. Of course, it would have been nice too if one of the lads had bothered to help him out.

Cotton nodded. "Aye, that simple." He gave the pistol a last wipe before putting it back in the box and looking up again. "Y'know, if you need to, you can allus ask me, if you need help with anythin' - seein' as we'm attached to your lot for a bit, it'd make sense."

The offer of help if he needed served to confirm what had been a growing feeling that the Rifles were a more tolerable lot than the Guards. Martin nodded.

"Aye. Thank you." He downed the remaining half-mug of tea and hesitated. "I-I ain't been a batman longer than a week," he confessed and hated that the back of his neck felt warm again.

"Well, we all started some'ers," Cotton said reassuringly. "He can't 'spect you to be perfick right from the off, can he? You only bein' human an' all. Best thing is to show willin' an' do your best - he can't ask any more'n that."

"Being perfect is what the Guards do best," Martin muttered and was immediately ashamed of himself for such an admission.

Cotton chuckled. "Aye, it does seem that way - but I reckon the recruits don't start out that way. You've jus' gotta figure out how t'do the job you got as batman. An' like I say, I'll help you do that - if you want."

It wasn't the sort of thing that could be discussed with the officer in question, though; the gentry just expected their servants to know what they were doing. Cotton reckoned he'd had it easy in that respect.

Martin shuddered, but what the Rifleman said made sense. Never mind that he was still figuring out how to be a soldier. These batman duties on top of that was more than he felt able to handle.

"How well d-do you know the cap'n? Cap'n Blackwood, I mean."

Cotton considered the other's question. "Hmm. Reckon I know him about as well as any office barrin' Captain Vick'ry. He seems a nice enough sort o' man an' the sort of officer who'd lead from the front. I can't speak for his temper, o' course, but mebbe he'd just had a bit of an off mornin'?"

Hm. As much as Martin was loathe to attribute any such positive qualities to his captain, he did have to admit that it was true Captain Blackwood preferred his lads to follow him, rather than to be the one following them. He'd seen that for himself when the original Light Company had gotten itself cut to pieces by French cavalry.

"Maybe," Martin allowed, finishing off his tea. "Lieutenant Woodmarsh has been up to his usual tricks."

That might just explain it, perhaps, he thought. Lieutenant Woodmarsh was the sort of fellow his former apprentice-master had always expressed disdain for.