11 June; The batman's trade

Mayden refilled Cotton's mug, then his own. Then, after a moment's hesitation, reached down for the Guardsman's mug to fill that, too.

"Needs more water now," he observed and sighed. This meant going to refill it.

"It would," Cotton sighed. He would go and fill it himself, if it didn't mean wandering through the camp half-naked in broad daylight.

"Won't be long," Mayden said, reluctantly setting his mug down. Hopefully, anyway. He hefted the kettle and tramped away.

While the other Rifleman had been present, Martin had scarcely dared lift his head from his work. It was not until the man had gone that he did so, but this was only to reach for his newly-refilled mug. He was nearly done with Cotton's trousers, at least. Then again, it had been a fairly straightforward piece of work.

"A-almost finished," he reported, after moistening his throat with tea.

Cotton grinned. "Hey - us Riflemen ain't so bit bad, honest. We ain't bitten a redcoat yet."

And then a familiar voice called his name. "Bother," he muttered. "Be right there, sir," he called, hoping that the repair to his trousers was nearly finished.

Maybe not, but Martin was of no mind to tempt fate. He heard the Rifleman's name being called and quickened his pace with the needle. There were only a few more turns left anyway.

"There." He drew the needle out, knotted the thread securely, then snipped off the excess. If that did not hold, Cotton would need new trousers made up. He turned the newly-repaired garment rightside-out and held them out.

"Thanks," Cotton said with a grin, standing up to pull them back on, hastily following them with his shoes and gaiters.

He left the jacket off - it was a warm day - and headed over to the Captain's tent.

He was back a moment later. "He just wanted a cup of tea. Told him we needed more water an' he'll have it as soon as I can get for him."

Martin sat back with a rare, if fleeting, smile. He had done a good bit of work there. His old apprentice-master might even have approved. The proof of his effort would come if the trousers stayed whole where he'd stitched the seam back together.

"That seam s-should hold," he told the Rifleman as he packed his sewing bundle away again. "If it doesn't, you'll probably need a new pair of trousers."

"Thanks," Cotton said with a grin, sitting down with a little more care this time. "Reckon they're wearing a bit thin across the seat - they could prob'ly do with patchin' soon." He poked a few more twigs into the small fire. "Looked like you did a good job there, thanks."

His face flushed again. "Y-you're welcome." After a fortifying swallow of tea, he felt it necessary to add, "I w-was apprenticed to a t-tailor."

"Ah!" He leaned back and looked at the other man. "How come you ended up 'listin', then?" It was probably the usual story - not enough work or something like that.

This was not at all comfortable topic and Martin was displeased with himself for even alluding to it. "I-I didn't s-stay with my m-m-master," he replied, wishing he could steer the conversation to safer subjects. "H-he was a g-g-gentlemen's t-tailor."

Cotton nodded. From the the way the other man was stammering, it wasn't an easy topic to talk about. "So, how long you bin out in Portugal?" he asked, changing the subject to something hopefully easier for the other man to talk about.

"S-since January o-only." Before that, he had not been long out of training. His service thus far had been a series of sudden changes all heaped atop each other.

"Well, we all started some'ers," Cotton pointed out. "Reckon you'l finish as a Sergeant... mebbe even Sar'nt-Major, how 'bout that?"

The thought of that only made him feel sick inside, but he nodded. "Aye. M-maybe."

Though Cotton, he judged, was more likely to end up at such a lofty rank than he.

When filled nearly over-full, the kettle was damned heavy. Mayden carried it with both hands, his stride a little awkward. He delivered it to its place over the fire with a grunt of relief and moved immediately to reclaim his tin mug.

"That's that done," he commented gratefully, sitting down.

"Cheers, mate," Cotton replied with a smile. Now the Captain would only have to wait for the water to boil... and that would happen soon enough.

"So where's your 'rrivance, Mayden?" he enquired, thinking that any silence would probably be an awkward one. He hastily rephrased the question. "I mean, where 'bouts you from?"

Something like a smirk came onto Mayden's face. "London," he answered. "Yours?"

"Kent - a little tiny village 'bout seven mile from Fav'sham," Cotton replied. "Never bin to London, me."

"London is a strange place," Martin ventured. "So large and crowded. And the smell..." he trailed off when it occurred to him that the other Rifleman had said he came from London.

At this, Mayden lifted an eyebrow in mild curiosity. "Been there, have you?"

The question brought a dark flush to the Guardsman's face.

"No need to rib him," Cotton said mildly, noticing the change in colour that other's face had undergone. "I've heard things about the place, too. Seems it'd be too big an' too busy for the likes of me to feel comfortable there."

Anything he tried to say in reply to the other Rifleman's question would have been a meaningless stammer, even though inwardly Martin knew exactly what he wanted to say. He held his silence and clung to his borrowed mug.

"Oh I ain't ribbin' him," the other Rifleman answered. "Seems he knows the place a little though, don't he?" He shrugged. "It's big an' bustlin', aye, but it ain't so bad. Dunno's I'd want to live anyplace else."

"I'll stick with the country, me," Cotton said lightly and smiled across at the Guardsman. "How about you, then - d'you like the country or the town best?"