4th July, early evening; Red & green

There were some definite advantages to being on light duties. The freedom to come and go as he wished, so long as he had his ticket with him, was one of them. It had been no fun getting his arm cut up, but he'd given Johnny Quinn a good belt or two for it. As if it had been all his fault the drumstick had gotten broken!

Whistling to himself, the drummer strolled toward the Rifles' camp, feeling particularly cheerful. He'd just come up from his own regiment's camp after having helped himself to one of Johnny's hidden-away pieces of cheese. He'd heard the odd rumour or two concerning the Rifles lately and was curious about the state of things. What better way to find out for sure than to go to the source?

" 'Ullo there," he called as he ambled up, using his one free hand to tip his shako back a little further on his head. He didn't seem conscious of the fact that his jacket was unbuttoned and hanging open. "What's tricks?"

Kirridge was last seen here.
Mayden was last seen here.



What in the hell... another damn redcoat coming around to stir up trouble? This was a baby redcoat, though, which would have made him less of a nuisance, until Mayden recognised the lace on the boy's jacket. Oh for. A Guardsman.

He spat on the ground and shuffled the cards Jack had just shoved at him. "The hell you want?"

Across from him, Jack simply glared in the baby redcoat's direction.

"Jus' poppin' round to see what's what," the lad answered, unfazed by the less-than-friendly reception. He dropped himself down to sit without waiting for an invitation. "So what's tricks? You playin' anythin' good?"

Perhaps, had he been a couple of years older, he might have recognised that he was not necessarily welcome in the Rifles' camp. He was too young yet to have a care about such things however; this showed plainly in his blithe assumption that he could go anywhere he pleased.

The two Riflemen exchanged glances, then Mayden said, "No tricks doin' here. Piss off back to wherever you come from."

He turned away and pointedly began dealing out the cards. Even a baby redcoat could not interfere with his winning back the previous night's losses.

No tricks. Right. He ignored the attempt at a brush-off. "I heard you fellows was up to trouble the other night, see. Jus' wantin' to know about it. Seems it were a lively time an' all."

The remarks made Jack lift his gaze from the cards in his hand, a hard look in his eye. "Wot 'appens 'ere ain't any of yer b'ness," he growled. "You was told to piss off. So hoof it."

Who was this boy to come round asking about that night, anyway, like he actually knew something about it?

This fellow was a hostile one, the drummer thought. He shrugged. "Jus' wonderin'. Ain't any harm in that, sure. Somethin' happened though, 'cause I heard all about it from one of our lads what was back with our sawbones. Seems some poor fool got himself all bit up - "

The sentence was left unfinished, for the scrawny little Rifleman had stood up quickly, a dangerous expression on his face. A little wary now, the lad frowned. "What's got under your bonnet, then? A dog?"

It was the wrong thing to say.

There was a startled oath from Mayden as Jack bowled him over in his charge at the baby redcoat. What in the bloody hell was that about? He got to his feet in time to see Jack knock the boy sprawling with a mighty cuff to the ear.

"The hell you doin', Jack?"

The natural reaction to being struck was to strike back. Despite having been knocked onto his back, the lad lashed out in retaliation, swinging his fists for all he was worth. Sneaking evil bastard! He'd only been asking questions!

His mate offered no reply to Mayden's question, but the swiftly escalating fight between Jack and the baby redcoat was sign enough that this was a bad situation. Mayden had to break it up before a sergeant or officer saw it.

"That'll do, you daft buggers!" He grabbed at Jack's collar, choosing the easier of the two to dislodge. But damn it, Jack was a strong one! It needed both hands to drag his mate back even half a step and the attempt drew Jack's fighting attention down on his own head.

A backward jab from Jack's elbow caught Mayden in the chest, to which he responded by tackling the other Rifleman. This was madness. And coming from him, that was saying something!

There was what sounded like a scuffle happening somewhere ahead of him and Cotton quickened his pace. If there was fighting going on, the Captain would not be happy, especially if it concerned his men and someone from another regiment.

And it sounded as though it was happening in the Rifles' camp. Not good -especially with the Captain being the officer doing the rounds this evening.

Two men were on the ground, both wearing dark green. "Here, you two! Break it up 'fore the Captain sees you!"

There was a youngster there, too, wearing a red jacket. That was really not good at all.

"Gerroff, Jack, that's - oi, you bastard, lay off!" Mayden shoved both hands, palms flat, against Jack's chest with all the strength he could muster. Anything to get this skinny bugger off him. This was mad. And here came one of the 60th lads, trying to break the scrap up. Which was, until a second ago, exactly what Mayden himself had been trying to do.

Nearby, he could hear that damned baby redcoat egging Jack on, despite the fact that Jack had nearly laid the boy's face open a moment ago. Madness!

Gabriel turned to the redcoat lad. "Shuttit, you."

The two men fighting were Kirridge and Mayden. Cotton could understand Kirridge getting into a fight - the man always seemed to be aiming to get into some sort of trouble or other - but Mayden?

"You get up, the pair o' ye, afore the Captain comes an' decides to measure you fer a new jacket!"

(OOC - 'to be measured for a new jacket' = Kent dialect for 'to be flogged')

It didn't seem that Jack was paying the 60th man any heed. But he wouldn't, would he?

"The horneys!" Mayden burst out, managing to block a badly-thrown punch. "Bing awast!"

It was a rough attempt to distract Jack and it appeared to work. At least enough to permit Mayden to grab hold of one of the man's arms and roll him over onto his back. In this position, he could keep Jack restrained.

"Bloody hell, Jack! You're bein' queer's Dick's hatband, you are."

The what, now? "What's got into you, man?" Cotton asked. "Anyone'd think as you wanted a good leatherin'!"

"I've half a mind to give him one," said Mayden crossly.

Jack appeared to be settling now, though, so Mayden let him up. Christ. Maybe he should have let that little urchin get a thumping after all, the way he was looking so disappointed.

"That'n," Jack growled, with a glare at the baby redcoat, "don't belong 'ere. 'E's a conk an' needs a good lacin'."

"Ain't no laws as says a redcoat can't come inta our camp," Cotton retorted, wondering what on earth Kirridge meant by 'a conk'. "Captain'll give you what-for if he finds you've bin millin' again."

The captain's toady was stupid. He had to be. Jack rolled his eyes. " 'E's a bleedin' spy," the Londoner said, drawing each word out as if he was explaining his meaning to a child. Might as bleeding well be.

"Anyways," he went on, with his usual sneering drawl. "That goose's bin attit more'n me, ain't 'e."

Mayden scowled. "Hey, cheese it, mate! I ain't the one started this'n."

"He's a bleedin' kid," Cotton returned. "Jus' you don't cotton together with the redcoats ain't no reason to pick a fight with 'em. It's the Captain on rounds this evenin', an' if you don't want to get yourself into the biggest heap of trouble since Adam an' Eve got theirselves thrown out o' Eden, you'd stop argufyin' an' go find your mates."

"Mates? Me mates is off som'rs doin' a proper Rifleman's work," sneered Jack. "Whyn't you go play at bein' the brisket-beater t'that bully fop there?"

This was something Mayden was increasingly less comfortable with. He took a step away and dusted himself off, wishing not for the first time that he was off with Mister Sharpe and the lads, wherever they were.

"Well, I ain't goin' to stand here argufyin' with you," Cotton replied, and turned to the redcoat youngster. "Reckon you'd best beat it, lad. Though, wait." Even in the fading light, the boy's face looked somewhat bruised. "Did he larrup you a'tall?"

His hand dropped quickly away from its cautious examination of his nose. "Eh? Oh it ain't nothin'. I got him back for it, didn't I, so it's square."

It was difficult to keep from smirking. A full-grown soldier had belted him a bit but he'd fought back, like a Coldstreamer should.

"Who swung first, then?" Cotton wanted to know, feeling more and more as though he should've just walked on and ignored this whole mess. He thought he might know the answer to that question, too.

That was a question even he knew to be dangerous. He flexed his left hand and hesitated before answering. "Don't recall."

Cotton just bet he didn't. It had been a stupid question, of course. "All right, then, run along."

The question was, would he end up on the wrong side of Kirridge's temper now he'd well and truly shoved his oar in? Why hadn't he just walked on and ignored them?