11 June; The batman's trade

"Lieutenant Woodmarsh?" Cotton scratched his head, thinking. Who in the hell was Lieutenant Woodmarsh, when he was at home?

"Reckon... Well, if there's someone around who allus gets your officer in a temper, reckon it's best to stay out of the way till he's had a chance to calm down."

Probably Martin wasn't quite brave enough to try helping the officer to calm down. Cotton shrugged; it was still worth suggesting it. "Could allus make him a cup o' tea an' just leave it on the side for him, if he'm in a temper. Best thing, though, is not to draw attention to yourself till he've calmed down a piece, anyhow."

Martin made a face. "Aye. Strutting peacock, him. He hasn't been with the Light Company long or so I've heard."

It would be nice to find out what Captain Blackwood was like calm, even though he doubted he'd see it. If it wasn't Lieutenant Woodmarsh putting the captain into a temper, it was Martin himself.

"I could, maybe." He would have to find some tea leaves first. And, hopefully, not get shouted out of the tent again before he'd even had a chance to deliver any cup of tea.

Cotton saw the face and frowned in consternation. Ah. One of that sort - no wonder the captain was in a temper.

"Hold on a minute," he said, an idea occurring to him. He scrambled up and darted into Captain Vickery's tent, returning a few moments later with a tin cup and enough tea-leaves for two mugs. "Don't s'pose you've got anythin' to put these in, have you?" he asked, indicating the handful of tea-leaves.

Woodmarsh... Woodmarsh... There was something familiar about that name... "Woodmarsh... Youngish sort? Barges in without so much as a by your leave?" he asked. "Think I have seen him, now I come to think on it."

When the Rifleman scrambled up abruptly, Martin was surprised. He was even more surprised when Cotton return, carrying a tin cup and... tea leaves.

"Um." Martin fumbled with the flap of his breadbag for a moment before succeeding in unbuttoning it. In here somewhere was a small linen drawstring pouch... ah. There it was. He dumped out the pouch's contents into the breadbag, paying no mind where the pencil stub and scraps of paper went.

Once the pouch was suitably empty, he held out an opened hand for the leaves, scarcely believing the Rifleman's generosity.

"I c'n get more," Cotton said, grinning at the other's look of disbelief. "Like I said, me wife does sutlerin'." It was a small enough gesture, he knew. Maybe it would be enough to help, though? He certainly hoped so. He wiped his hand on his trousers and dropped back down to sit on the ground.

There was a distinct sound of tearing cloth as he did so.

That was true. He had stated as much. Martin carefully shook the leaves into the pouch and pulled the drawstrings closed. Now the trick would be getting a fresh mug of tea to the captain without some new calamity occurring.

His eyes widened when there came the sound of cloth giving way. It was not a pleasant noise at all. He gripped the pouch of tea leaves and tried not to shiver. That might be claimed to be his fault, if the Rifleman was of a blame-laying nature.

"Ah, crap," Cotton sighed, trying to work out how bad the tear was. They probably needed patching again, worse luck. He'd have to ask Maggie to sort them out for him.

"You cold?" he asked, as the other man's involuntary shiver caught his eye.

"N-n-no," Martin stammered and felt his cheeks grow warm. How he hated that he stuttered! To cover his embarrassment, he stuffed the pouch of tea leaves into his breadbag and dug around inside the canvas bag for something else.

"I c-can sew. A l-little. If y-you need that m-mended." It was a clumsy offer, to be sure, and one that probably deserved to be refused. Like as not he would make a poor job of it anyway.

Cotton's eye widened a little, and then he smiled. "Would you? I ain't no hand with a needle, me." Even rough stitching would help, in his opinion. The fabric was probably so worn that it would need patching, but it would help in the meantime.

He pulled his jacket off and then bent forward to unbutton his gaiters, pulling them and then his shoes off, and finally stood to pull his trousers down. His shirt came down nearly to his knees, but he still pulled his jacket into his lap as he sat back down again, holding his trousers out. "That's awful good of you to offer," he said.

Fortunately, Martin's attention was focussed on finding his sewing roll and he was spared the sight of the Rifleman undressing. Upon securing the desired bundle, however, he looked up. That was not... quite what he had expected, but the prospect of doing something useful helped him overcome his shock at seeing the Rifleman sitting with his jacket draped carefully across his lap.

"It a-ain't a bother," Martin told him, taking the trousers and looking them over with a critical eye. They had certainly seen better days.

Cotton just hoped that the Captain wouldn't need him for at least the few minuted it would take the Guardsman to manage a repair to the rent in his trousers... reporting in his shirt-tails would certainly make Vickery stare.

"I reckon they'll likely need patchin' afore too long," Cotton said with a sigh, turning his attention to the Captain's second pistol in an attempt to distract himself from his discomfort at his current state of undress.

Patching would only be a temporary measure, Martin judged. These needed remaking. Or replacing outright. If only he had the material for that.

"Patching doesn't fix everything," he observed as he turned the trousers inside out. There was evidence of other repairs but they looked thoroughly unprofessional to his eye. He sighed inwardly and draped the trousers across his knees, then reached for his sewing roll. It would all have to be picked apart and done up properly.

"This m-may take a while," Martin warned, selecting a needle and a small pair of scissors to begin the work of undoing those unsightly rough stitches.

"No, I don't suppose it does," Cotton replied. They were past their best, he knew, but they were comfortable. The right knee had been patched, too, of course. At least they weren't his only trousers - he'd had them made up in the autumn, from a length of the brown cloth that the monk had their habits made from. It had been an attempt to keep his regimental issue trousers looking half-decent, although they had themselves been patched before he'd got these.

"Like I said, I ain't no great hand at sewin'," he added, seeing what the other man was doing. He hoped the repair wouldn't take too long - the longer it took, the more likely it was that Captain Vickery would want him before it was finished.

To that, Martin made no immediate reply, busy as he was picking apart the stitching. This was almost the more important part, after sewing the seam back up. It was faster, at least. He would have to take his time with the actual repair, though. If he hurried... well. He wouldn't do that, would he?

It was bizarre, in Cotton's opinion, just how white his skin was where it had always been covered by his trousers or his shoes, especially when compared to the deep mahogany tan of the backs of his hands.

He glanced over at Martin, slightly puzzled as to why the other man seemed to be picking his trousers apart rather than stitching them back together.

"Is this," Mayden enquired, approaching the fire, "where lads can get their things set to rights?"

He nodded toward the Guardsman, who was now busy threading a needle, his cheeks almost as bright as his jacket.

"Depends what's wrong," Cotton said, spreading his jacket a little more over his otherwise-bare legs. "If its anythin' complicated, you might want to find my Maggie or one of the other women."

Except... most of the other women were still prisoners of the French. Damn.

He wasn't sure about it being complicated, but it was certainly beyond his meagre skill to repair. "I got a snag in me jacket, on the shoulder," Mayden explained. "An' some other little holes an' all. Could use a new jacket really, I s'pose."

With a shrug, he flopped down to sit nearby. "What'd you go an' do to them, then?"

"I sat down," Cotton replied, and chuckled. "An' they gave along the seam. They'm pretty worn, anyway. I'm surprised they ain't gone afore today. Well. They bin spong up afore, but that was a while back."

He glanced over at Mayden's jacket. "Yourn don't look so much worse'n mine." Though, really, it was hardly surprising that the other's green jacket needed some repair work - the 95th hadn't been anyway near their own quartermaster and his supplies for about six months, easily.

Mayden chuckled. "That'll do it, sure. S'prised me own ain't done that yet." He picked at a couple fraying threads on his cuff - when had that button gone missing? - and shrugged. "It's done all right, maybe. Considerin'!"

"It's one o' them things, wearin' green... ain't that easy to keep lookin' so smart." He grinned at the Guardsman, who was concentrating on his sewing. "I don't reckon I could've joined the Guards. I ain't got the way of lookin' that smart, me."

"Me either." Mayden shook his head. "Too stiff by half, that lot."

He fished out his dented tin mug and eyed the kettle. "There any tea left?"

"Careful, there's one o' 'that lot' sittin' right here," Cotton pointed out mildly. He grinned. "Aye, there's tea left... though you'll have to get yourself. I ain't dressed for it right this minute, after all!" He indicated his current state of undress.

So there was, but Mayden wasn't concerned. "He can't be so bad if he's here," was his judgment. He levered himself up and retrieved the kettle. "Anyone else?"

Cotton chuckled and held up his mug. "Don't mind if I do, mate."

He adjusted his position a little; it was strange how spiky grass could feel.