Rebuilding the Ruins; 26th June 1809

Vickery looked at the sheet and smiled. It certainly was a good way of teaching the rifleman his numbers. "Look after it," he said, folding the sheet up again to give back. "And if you have any questions, or find anything difficult, you can ask."

Freddie grinned happily and carefully replaced the sheet.

"Thank you, Sir! I will! ... Uhm ... is it true, Sir, that one can become a sergeant if one can read?"

He asked the question a bit over his shoulder, darting around again to pick up all the other small items that had been knocked over, and either carefully placing them on the folded table if they were still whole, or next to Vickery, if they were damaged, so that he could decide what to do with them. Most would be alright again after a proper cleaning, but a few things like Vickery's cup had suffered more extensive damage.

Vickery nodded. "Certainly it is possible." So Rottländer had some ambition that way, did he? Vickery would keep an eye on him. Although... "You do know that corporals and sergeants are not allowed to be officers' servants?" he asked gently, wondering if Rottländer was aware of that, or if it had just slipped his mind.

He sighed quietly as he realised that his tin cup had been kicked and then stood on, effectively squashing it flat and rendering it useless as anything other than a very strange-looking paper-weight.

Freddie's face fell.

"Oh! No, I didn't."

He looked troubled.

"Is ... is it alright if one doesn't want to become a sergeant?"

He had always been told in training that if he was good, and brave and applied himself, he would one day become a sergeant-major, and it always had sounded as if that was what every soldier must try to become. But if that meant leaving Captain Torrington's employ ... well, he found that he quite liked being his personal servant. Apart from the fact that he found he very much liked and looked up to Captain Torrington, he had found that it suited him quite well. It gave him a nice sense of belonging.

Vickery smiled reassuringly. "There is no need to worry, and you don't have to choose right now. You may want to become a Sergeant later on, but I won't give anyone a promotion that they don't want."

He glanced in the direction of the ox herd, and his own batman. "You would not be the first man who doesn't want to be promoted, after all."

Freddie, reliefed but still a little confused, followed the Captain's eyes, then suddenly smiled again. He had wondered why Cotton hadn't been made an NCO yet, but of course if he hadn't wanted ... And if Cotton hadn't wanted, then of course there could be no shame in not wanting to be promoted himself.

Earnestly he declared:

"Then I do not want to be promoted, please, as long as Mylord Torrington needs me!"

Because the Captain certainly did need him, and he would hate to see some clumsy oaf who couldn't cook as the Captain's servant. Mylord would probably starve himself then!

A small gust of wind shuffled a few things, and the sound recalled Freddie to his reason for being here.

"Uh, I'll move your baggage then, Sir, yes? So that the place is clear for the tent to be pitched again?"

"Very well... for as long as Captain Torrington wants to have you as his servant, he shall," Vickery answered with a nod. "Or until you no longer want to be his servant, should you want to leave his service, of course."

He nodded again as Rottländer glanced at the heap of canvas covering his possessions. "Carry on, then, Rottländer," he said, sitting back and opening his writing slope to remove the papers the Rifleman had given him so that he could look through them.

Rottländer bobbed his head and set about moving the larger things. For a minute or two he managed to do so with some semblance of calm dignity, but then he quickly forgot and began to dart around in his usual style, singing snatches of songs or talking with unruely pieces of luggage that refused to cooperate.

Whenever he spotted Vickery, he blushed and fell back into a more proper behaviour, but it needed only a trampled piece of cuttlery or clothing to make him forget himself again.

Vickery found himself watching Rottländer more than reading his papers, and more than once had to hide a chuckle as he caught a snatch of muttered German as the lad chastised some bit of kit, or a verse or two of a popular song. The lad would occasionally catch his eye and subside into confused silence before the cycle would repeat itself over again.

It was rather amusing to watch, but Vickery couldn't laugh at the absurdity of the situation, for fear of hurting Rottländer's feelings; the lad could be quite touchy if he thought he was being laughed at or mocked.

"Friedrich," he called across after maybe quarter of an hour of this. "If you could put the kettle on, I would appreciate a cup of tea, and I think you could do with one as well." The rifleman was going to wear himself out at this rate, in Vickery's opinion, if he didn't sit down and have a few minutes' break.

The rifleman looked up with a huge grin.

"Tea, yes, Sir! At once, Sir!"

Of course an officer should have tea! And he kept a kettle ready to boil at Torrington's tent, so Vickery shouldn't have to wait for long.

"I'll put the kettle on right away. Uh ..."

He fidgeted a bit. He was sure Vickery had very fine porcelain with golden edges and the best tea-leaves - he was the Captain, after all - but had he brought them to Portugal? And if yes ... where were they? Or should he just bring some of Torrington's? Mylord certainly wouldn't mind. Yes, that would probably be the best solution - in his experience, officers didn't mind too much where the stuff that was served on a tray came from, as long as it tasted good.

With a bit more fidgeting (once again the problem of leave-taking raised its head), he repeated:

"Uh, yes, Sir, right away. Putting the kettle on!"

And darted away.

Rottländer seemed a little uncertain and very eager, if a bit startled by the request - or at least, that was the only explanation Vickery could come up with for his repeating himself.

He paused for a moment after the Rifleman had darted away before getting up, tucking his papers firmly under his writing slope to anchor them, and looking down at the jumble of belongings. His camp-bed was still under the mass of canvas, as was his folding table. The beautiful mahogany canteen containing his crockery and cutlery had fortunately not been opened when the incident had occurred - and didn't contain anything fragile anyway; Vickery had taken his father's advice and provided himself with pewter tableware to bring on campaign.

What a mess.

It took a few minutes, then Freddie reappeared again, carrying Torrington's small folding stool under one elbow and a plate on which he had arranged some apple slices, a few nuts and the usual tea paraphernalia, including a china cup and saucer.

Once he had reached Vickery's side again, he balanced the tray precariously on one hand, took the stool with his other and shook it until it fell into the right form. Then he placed the improvised table next to Vickery's chair and put the tray on it.

"Here, Sir! The tea will be ready in just a moment!"

He was already half turned around again to go and see whether it was ready.

Good gracious, Vickery thought, watching Rottländer approach with both hands full. All he'd asked for was a cup of tea, so quite why the young German had supplied a snack as well was a little startling. It was still welcome, though; it had been quite a while since Vickery had had anything approaching the civilised afternoon tea that his mother favoured.

"Don't forget to make yourself a cup of tea, too," he said as Rottländer turned to head back to Captain Torrington's tent. "And thank you." He reached for a couple of slices of apple, deciding that he really ought to keep an eye on the lad; if he decided he did want promotion, he would certainly do very well.

Freddie grinned broadly as he ran to the cooking fire. Obviously the Captain liked what he was doing!

The water was boiling, so the young German took the kettle down and made tea in the porcelain teapot for Vickery, then poured the remaining water over some bramble leaves in his own cup. His own tea leaves were too precious to just drink them for thirst - they were one of his best bargaining assets.

Carefully balancing both mug and pot, he went back to Vickery, but put his own mug down on the ground a few feet away before approaching and filling the Captain's cup.

"Here you are, Sir! Would you like some bread as well? Or I could make you an egg."

Freddie bounced like a puppy waiting for his owner to throw a stick.

And when had Vickery managed to take command of a company of puppies, he wondered. Rottländer was another one, like Pye, who was a perfect representation of a puppy in human form. Oh dear... he really had to stop thinking like that before he did something he'd regret.

"No, no, this is fine, thank you," he managed. "You have your tea and then we'll see about the rest of my things, eh?"

"Yes, Sir!"

Freddie nodded eagerly, fussed with the tea tray for one last time until it really looked nice and inviting, then retreated to where he had left his own mug. Picking it up and letting himself drop with folded legs on the ground in its place was one fluid movement, although a bit less gracefully executed than usual - although he was fairly sure he was allowed to sit down in the Captain's sight, a little bit of insecurity remained.

He blew on his infusion until it had cooled down a bit, then took a large sip - he was really rather parched now, he realized.

Vickery expected deference as a matter of course; it was how he had been brought up. Respect should be earned, and he tried to be the sort of officer that his men could respect. But nowhere in any of that did he feel that his men ought to be nervous of him, and there were times when it seemed as if Pye and Rottländer were more nervous than anything else.

He leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs in front of him and crossing them at the ankle, the very picture of an officer at ease. "Freddie," he said conversationally,although slightly louder than usual due to the distance the Rifleman had put between them. "How are you getting on with Pye?"

"We are friends!"

Freddie's reply was instantaneous, proud, and just a little bit defensive. He hadn't quite forgotten the last instance when the Captain had to deal with the results of their friendship - although he still was slightly baffled why additional drill was considered such a punishment.

"Um, and we ... study together. Mylord Torrington is teaching us numbers. And he - Zachary, that is - helps me with my English, of course! And I'm teaching him German! And I'm invited to his mess."

Freddie rattled this down ridiculously fast, and only stopped because he had to catch his breath - there were obviously even more things he would have added in favour of Pye otherwise.

Well, it was good that they could get on with each other - and even better that they could consider each other as friends. They hadn't got into any more scrapes -yet, anyway! - which could only be a good thing.

"And you are teaching him to be a good Rifleman?" he continued, wondering how that sort of training worked in translation when they were both still learning each other's language.

Freddie immediately shook his head apologetically.

"I'm not good enough for that. But Herr Cotton, he shows us. He's ... He's really nice to us. And we try to practice ..."

He had been in much closer contact with Cotton in the last few weeks, but it hadn't diminished his hero-worship at all. If anything, the adoration in his eyes had become even stronger.

'Herr' Cotton... That made Vickery chuckle a little. "I hope that you will not mind my saying this, Rottländer, but I don't think that Cotton would be comfortable to be referred to as 'Herr'. He was only a farm labourer before he joined the army, after all." And as such, he was a relatively simple, uncomplicated soul, as far as the captain knew.

"But he is older than I am!", Freddie protested. "I can't just simply call him Gabriel! That would be ... indecent!"

He didn't mind that Vickery was addressing the problem, but rather grateful instead. In the orphanage, it had been forcibly impressed upon him to show respect to ... well, to about everybody. And his older and more experienced peers had made it quite clear that they deserved to be shown special deference. But Freddie also had realized that Cotton was uneasy (although sometimes a bit amused, it seemed) by the way Freddie addressed him. So perhaps the Captain, who even knew how to adress generals and lords correctly, was able to help.

"If he has said to call him Gabriel, or Cotton, then that is what he wants you to call him," Vickery replied. "I think that he feels uncomfortable - to be called 'Herr', for him, is like you are saying he is an officer."

He had seen Cotton's reaction to Rottländer's politeness, and trying to work out something that would suit them both was probably something best left to them... although there was the language difficulty, which wasn't going to help either of them.

"Um, yes, Sir. I'll ... I'll try. It's just ... strange."

Freddie nodded once, sharply, as if he had to nail the thought down in his head, then downed the last of his tea in one long gulp.

He considered the place where the tent was supposed to stand again soon and the rolled-up canvas and poles, then, a bit intimidated by his own courage to address Vickery, but bolstered by a certain confidence coming from pitching tents on a regular basis, asked:

"Begging your pardon, Sir, but if I perhaps could fetch some help to move the bed and this large box, and to pitch the tent again?"

He managed to the end of the sentence, but then he blushed. But for once he was reasonably sure of his cause, so he stood his ground without too much fidgeting.

Vickery looked up, and nodded. "Of course you may, Friedrich." The sooner his tent was pitched again, the better all round. It did not look at all the thing, to have his personal possessions strewn all over the place, after all.

"Cotton should have got that ox calmed down by now, but if he has not, there are plenty of other folks around you could ask." And if Cotton had been able to get away from the ox, so would Pye, and that would be two pairs of hands available - and one of those belonged to the man who was in charge of setting Vickery's tent up every time they pitched camp.