3rd July; Informal investigations

The business of settling down for the night was nearly over by the time McIntyre was able to make his way toward the Rifles' bivouac. Tonight, his post-march duties had included helping to lay table in the mess, for the colonel was holding a dinner. Once that was done, however, he had been allowed to escape having to serve the dinner as well.

Now he was ambling toward the grasshoppers' part of camp, hoping to satisfy the curiosity which had been nagging at him all day. He had not been anywhere near the Rifles since the captured lads had returned, but chances were good they could provide the answers he was after.

"Ahoay the camp," the oldster called as he got closer. "S'it safe for a redcoat to come alongside?"

Mayden was last seen here.



It was that old redcoat again. The one from the 33rd. Mayden turned toward the intruder with a slight frown, his steaming tea mug set aside so he could put his hand on the stock of his rifle.

"Might be," he replied cautiously. "If you wasn't one of that lot."

No one from the 33rd was any good. Of that, he was convinced.

"Lad can't help the colour of the jacket on his back," was McIntyre's reply. Nor could he help the colour of that jacket's facings. This was not the time to get bogged down in petty regimental bickering, though. "I got business with you lads, so I do. 'Bout the dog what wanders round between my company and this'n."

The dog. What business did this old toad have with the dog? The beast had not been seen in the 60th's camp since Jack had chased it off.

"He ain't been here lately. If you're lookin' for him, look some'rs else."

"I'm here 'cause of him. Somebody's used him rough, like. Poor bugger's got a nasty slash in his shoulder." McIntyre looked pointedly around at the Rifles' camp. "And since he's been hangin' about here a fair bit, I reckon you lot got somethin' to do with it."

A slash on its shoulder? Mayden's memory leaped immediately back to that evening, and he scowled. "Ain't anythin' there that means it's us to blame," he countered petulantly. "He don't belong to us, does he? For all I know, you done it your own self an' want trouble with us Sweeps."

Even though he and Jack were the only 95th lads with this company. It was a distinction he didn't think this old fool would make anyway. Rifle green was Rifle green, after all.

"Whyn't you fetch your officer," McIntyre suggested, a trifle icily. " 'Cause sure I ain't got time to back and fill round this mess with a child."

It was not his way to react so, but he was all but convinced now that whoever had tried cutting up his dog was a Rifleman. Why else would this lad prove so staunchly uncooperative when presented with the reason for McIntyre's being there?

His hand tightened around his rifle stock and he stood up quickly. He'd had quite enough of this old goat's bleating. "Best you was goin', 'fore you're made to go," Mayden told him. "Back to the sty with the rest of the 33rd."

His hand flicked out for the lad's ear before his mind even grasped that the action was taken. It was a quick, sharp blow, not hard enough to do anything more except knock the mouthy upstart half a step sideways.

"I said, whyn't you fetch your officer, so this all can get sorted properly."

Hopefully before he was obliged to box the lad's ears again.

The blow left his ear stinging badly. Mayden cursed feelingly as he recovered his balance, annoyed that he was surprised by the old man's swiftness. Then he was angry. Who was this bastard to swing at him?

"You best shift off, square toes. You ain't welcome here," Mayden snarled, gripping his rifle in readiness to strike out with the weapon's solid butt. He took insults from no one. Especially not a halfwit from the 33rd.

The threat was impossible to mistake, but McIntyre was not one to back down from danger, whatever form it took. He held his ground and said, "That ain't for you to say, it ain't. Fetch your officer - and keep a civil tongue in your head, while you're about it!"

That was more than enough. If this old goat wouldn't go of his own accord, Mayden would help him along. "It is, an' I'm sayin' it again. You ain't welcome here."

He grabbed hold of the redcoat's sleeve, up near the shoulder, in preparation to drag the grey-haired fool all the way back to whatever hole he'd come crawling out of.

He might have tolerated the verbal lack of respect, but this grasshopper had crossed a boundary by being that bold. McIntyre gave the boy a hard, two-handed shove to break the hold on his jacket sleeve. This was nothing more than years-old instinct, borne of being in the midst of too many tavern brawls.

The shove surprised him, and served to dissolve his last thin shred of patience. Mayden set his feet and swung a closed fist at the redcoat's face. His punch was followed up immediately with a hasty jab forward with the butt of his rifle. This had gone beyond a simple easily-resolved intrusion. Now it was a fighting matter.

A punch then a bellyful of solid, brass-capped hardwood. The former, McIntyre had been able to mostly take without difficulty, but the latter doubled him over. He was nearly too old for this. Steeling himself despite the pain in his gut, the Irishman bulled into the grasshopper, hoping mainly to get the boy on the ground. The rifle butt could not be used again if this became a tussle in the dirt.

Hopefully.

It had now been a few days since Jean had joined-up with the regiment, and things seemed to be going quite well for him. Being in the Rifles was turning out to be quite a different experience for him, after coming from a Regiment of Foot were he had served as an Ensign. At the moment he was on his way to meet with Vickery to ask him something. Though no-longer in the immaculate uniform he wore the first time he met the Captain.

His plans, however, soon changed when he came upon something rather unexpected. Two men fighting. He was aghast. One wore a redcoat, and judging by the red-facings, he was probably with the 33rd. The other, was one of his own Riflemen, he couldn't quite remember the man's name though.

"What the bloody hell is going on here? Get up! Both of you!"

The tackle caught him off-guard and in an instant Mayden was on his back in the dirt, the wind knocked partially out of him. He still had a grip on his rifle, though, and he tried to bring the weapon's butt into play. If he could clip this idiot a good one about the ears... maybe not. Best to punch at the old man's head for all he was worth.

This was his tactic until the unmistakeable bark of an officer brought an immediate halt to the fledgling fight. Get up, the officer had said. It wasn't Captain Vickery, at least, but this did not mean much. Mayden gave his opponent a kick as he rolled out from under him, and then got to his feet.

"Sir." He came to attention and saluted, unhappily aware that the brief scuffle had torn loose the careful sewing job he'd done on his left sleeve. Damn it.

The redcoat was slower picking himself up off the ground, but Mayden made no move to help him. It was that old bastard's fault for not going on his way when he was told to.

Jean was tingling with excitement on the inside, glad for a chance to use his new-found authority as a Lieutenant. "Get on your feet soldier!" He barked. Attempting to hide his French-accent. "You're both in luck, I was just on my way to see Captain Vickery. And you two will come with me. Now march. To the Captain." This would be interesting.

He was a damned fool. What made him think he could whip a man more than half his age? McIntyre gritted his teeth and pushed off the ground, his movements made slow by the throbbing ache that seemed to permeate every bone in his body.

" 'Tenant said get up," the young grasshopper snapped, and suddenly there was a hand around his queue. With a startled grunt, McIntyre found himself hauled roughly upright by his long queue. It hurt like blazes to have his hair nearly ripped from his head, or so it felt, but on the upside, he was standing now. He supposed it was an even trade.

He straightened to attention and stepped off, following behind the saucy young grasshopper.

"Leave him be Private, he can get up without your help." Jean wasn't a particularly "king-hearted" young man, but neither was he a monster. And of course, the soldier would have to be in good shape to last through a possible flogging to come. A good flogging always seemed to put the men back in their places.

"Come on you rabble, Vickery's tent is just up there." Upon reaching the Captain's tent, Jean motioned for the men to halt. "Captain Vickery!" He yelled. "I've got two problems here that need your attention!"

Someone shouting for him at the top of their lungs right outside made Vickery jump. Was the camp on fire or something? He dropped his pen, leapt to his feet and snatched the flap of his tent open.

"What the devil...?" he said, belatedly taking in the scene before him. He looked from one to the other and finally settled on looking at his new Lieutenant. "Report!"

The two privates came to halt and stood rigidly at attention. Alone of the two, Mayden had a weapon, which was gripped in his right hand, the rifle's butt pressed against the outside of his right shoe. He stared at a point somewhere in the middle distance, apparently oblivious to any trouble he might be in.

Beside him stood McIntyre, a bruise already forming on his left cheek. The grey-haired soldier had managed somehow to recover his shako before being marched off but the headgear was sitting slightly sideways on his head.

Jean saluted as Vickery stepped out of his tent. "Salute the Captain you mongrels." He whispered to the two men when they failed to do the same. "Captain Vickery, sir. I came across these two men assaulting each-other. I thought it best to bring them to you for disciplinary action. Perhaps a good flogging would be in-order. We are here to fight those damned revolutionaries, not each-other, correct?"

Both men obligingly saluted. Mayden held his own salute for a moment longer before returning his rifle to its previous position. So this, he thought, was the 60th's way? A bit of a scuffle brought the expectation of a flogging, yet two lads who went wandering off and got tangled up in a skirmish escaped any punishment? If Mister Sharpe was here... Mayden sighed internally. If Mister Sharpe was here, Mayden would not be hanging about with this lot, would he?

Vickery couldn't help raising an eyebrow even as he returned the men's salutes, bare-headed as he was.

A flogging? Well, from all appearances, nobody was seriously hurt, and there were worse things to happen in camp than a bit of a milling. Vickery was not a flogging officer, but that did not mean he was going to let them off - there were other punishments than flogging, after all.

"Thank you, Lieutenant." He turned to look at the two soldiers, slightly surprised to realise that he recognised the redcoat as well as the Rifleman. "All right, then. Do you mind telling me exactly why you felt it necessary to have a milling in the middle of camp?"