28th June, Officers' Breakfast

Fraser understood he had confused the servant by taking off his boots, but how could he explain that he hated it when his boots were brushed while still on his feet. Many of his childhood friends had been shoebrushers and he just couldn't picture himself getting his boots or shoes cleaned by them, or by anyone.

Fortunatly, Torrington mentioned India. Memories of a beautiful place, and good memories they were, made Fraser almost shine.

"India...A most wonderful place...And you are quite right mylord, nothing could beat there coffee...or their tea really. Has one of you gentlemen been in India?" he asked, though he expected thr answer to be 'no'.

Edward shook his head.

"I haven't been there yet, no, although I have followed the attemps to map the subcontinent quite closely. I understand there's a vast difference in climate and landform configuration between the north and the south?"

Fraser did not try to hide his enthusiasm.

"Indeed, but in a place as big as India, it is not strange. In the south, Seringapatam, for example, the weather is like the Caribbean, only far more dry. The westcoast is wet as an English summer but warm as hell.
To the north, one half is desert, the other half snowy mountains. However, there are more different landscapes then climates, and more different people then landscapes."

Fraser again took a sip of coffee.

"And off course, there are more cannons then people."

Vickery made no comment, but raised an eyebrow, when Fraser took his boots off. He did not have much to add about India; it was a place that he had never visited.

"Seringapatam?" he said, interested. "Wasn't General Wellesley there in... '97? '99?"

Fraser thought for a moment.

"99, I believe, but I wasn't there at that time. I did visit the place often. Enormous armory. I can still remember the engineer who lead the place, and his tall sergeant."

He continued: "I was still working in a factory in '99, I believe. I received my ensign-ship in 1802 and arrived in India in early 1803. Assaye was my first real battle - apart from some small skirmishes where we fired a few rounds at rabble and irregular cavalry."

It was to Edward's credit that he concealed his surprise quite well and only asked politely:

"So the artillery hasn't really been you first choice of career?"

Fraser lifted an eyebrown, for he thought he heard some sarcasm.

"It indeed wasn't. I was secratery to the owner of a textile factory. He paid for my education and my commision. I went to college for 3 years. Mathematics and physics. And then...well...things happend. I wanted to get out of my boring life and my patron wanted to get rid of me, and a commision in the artillery was the best solution."

Fraser scratched his neck, a bit nervous.
"Not that I didn't want to, nor do I regret anything. If my patron hadn't paid for my education, I think I would have signed up as ranker."

It took something to admit that while a man was an officer, he was not of the same class as those whose hospitality he was enjoying, Vickery thought. He smiled, and leaned forward to top up Fraser's coffee cup.

"Well, you're in the army now, and who knows where your career might take you, or where you will end up? Master General of the Ordnance, even, I shouldn't wonder."

If the man could learn from his mistakes, anyway.

Fraser laughed.
"Me? A general? That's just a lot of paperwork and London balls."

He now had a broad smile, for he couldn't help seeing himself old and in the gold-braided uniform of a general. Blue, off course.
He turned to Torrington. "Remind me to make you a colonel, mylord, if I ever become general!"

Edward gave a mock bow: "Thank you! Much appreciated."

He took another sip of his coffee. He did not care to comment on the likelihood of such an event. Nor did he think it diplomatic to point out that he would not accept a promotion based on connections. After all, the sentiment was nice and the act not at all uncommon.

"Well, depending on whether the fond mamas think you are a good catch or not, London society should not hold too many terrors for you," Vickery said. "One of the best ways of persuading them that you are not such a good match for their daughters is by being a terrible partner to dance with. And then, of course, you can enjoy yourself a lot more, because they will not expect you to dance with every pretty girl to whom you are introduced."

This last comment made Maggie laugh from her discreet station beside the tent where she had been helping Cotton ready the breakfast. She had been standing there waiting to hand him the dishes when comments on India had caught her ear. India sounded like such a fascinating and strange place, from what little she had heard about it. And then the visiting officer had mentioned a textile factory, which further piqued her interest. And now she was outright eavesdropping. Of course she often listened in on officers' conversations when she could, but she generally tried to avoid being so obvious about it.

To cover her laughter, she cleared her throat and coughed. "Here's the dishes when you're ready," she told Cotton. It was an unnecessary comment, but if the officers heard, they might assume that she had been laughing over some private conversation with the two batmen.

Fraser took a semi-serious face and replied: "Thank you for your advice, captain, I am sure it will come in handy!"

He laughed and looked up a bit, like he always did when he tried to memorize things. "When I was a child, we used to watch balls or feasts of the upper class in Manchester. From the roofs.
My mother wasn't happy with that. Not because we were walking on 5 story buildings, but because my friends were sons of workers. Even in the low class you have an upper and a...well...lower class. But then, mothers never think something is good enough for their little baby sons."

He looked to Vickery and gave a wink. "It seems you have some experience with London balls?"

Edward quietly melted into his chair and concentrated on his coffee. When he realized that Mrs. Cotton was there, he politely half-bowed to her.

Vickery couldn't help rolling his eyes at Fraser's question. Well, not so much at the question itself as the memories it brought back. "You could say that, Captain," he replied. "Even after I had my commission, I didn't manage to join my regiment right away - Mother insisted I had a London season, although of course I was not brought Out the way my younger sister was in her first Season. There is something about wearing uniform that seems to fascinate all the young ladies."

And Vickery could dance. If the truth were known, he quite enjoyed it. What he had not enjoyed was the constant attention he'd received that year, and he had made his escape to his regiment as soon after as he could.

Had that captain just bowed at her? Maggie had no idea how to react to being bowed at, so she quickly looked away. She was rather embarrassed that the man had caught her eye at all, in fact. Had he caught her staring? She hadn't meant to be staring.

"Gabe, hurry it up, won't you?" she asked in a whisper this time.

"I can't hurry it - it won't be hurried," her husband muttered in reply, concentrating on the food in the pan. "Y'know what they say about watched pots 'n' all." He glanced up at her, with a half-grin. "Beats me why you ain't a-doin' this - cookin's women's work, after all." He seemed in no hurry to relinquish the pan, though.

"Not when officers are eatin' it," she answered with a smirk. "You're gettin' paid to do it, not me."

"Reckon they'm payin' a deal too much for what they'm a-gettin', then," Cotton said, finally deciding the food was done - or as close to done as it was likely to get before he managed to burn it to a cinder. "Beef on the hoof ain't so nice as all that. Oughta make you do it, an' then it'll be worth it, mebbe. Pass a plate over, would you, lass?"

She obliged by handing him a plate. "Who's that other captain?" she whispered, very quietly this time. "Not Freddie's one, but the other one."

Cotton glanced over and shrugged. "Dunno his name. Looks like some Artillery officer Captain Vick'ry found wandering around lost somewhere, though."

Freddie, still brushing and blackening furiously - he would show this artillery batman how shoes ought to look - spoke up:

"It is Captain Fraser. He has done something the Captain and Mylord do not like. I think he fired the cannons. Mylord has made a ... a ... picture."

He hadn't been around serving coffee and blackening boots for nothing.

"Must've bin him what had them guns firin' off, then," Cotton said, with a slightly sour look as he served the fried meat out between the three officers' plates. "How d'you mean, made a picture?" he asked curiously, pausing for a moment in what he was doing so that he could glance across at the younger man without risking spilling something onto the ground.

Edward suddenly said:

"Perhaps we should have some kind of festivity here, so that we not loose what practice we have? Not a real ball - that would be rather difficult to manage, I believe - but some kind of assembly or garden party? We could invite the local society."

"He ... made a picture in his little book. With Captain Fraser in it. And cannons and a white flag."

The words for painting or sketching escaped him, so Freddie tried to make his meaning clear by pantomiming the act.