Second Night in Camp

[This conversation is out of synch - it clearly takes place before the rain sets in]

"Ah, it will be a long while before any of us go back. If we're lucky we'll be marching through France before then, and taking the short journey." He leaned back, looking at the sky. Rain clouds were coming in, masking the stars. Probably rain before morning, and a wet march tomorrow. "We could do with that coach here," he grinned. "At least it would keep our feet dry."

"Lord willin'," Grogan agreed. Like Williams, he too looked skyward and smiled. "Aye so we could, 'til it got good'n'stuck in the mud, so's it wouldn't move. But then them Rifles lads'd be put to use, pryin' it free."

He stretched and stifled a yawn. "A little rain ain't hurt a body yet, least not that I seen!"

[Also before the rain sets in]

Waldegrave walked back from the mess to the barn where he and some other officers of the 62nd had set up camp. The clouds showed that they had been sensible to find somewhere with a roof. But Waldegrave was not thinking of the weather, but suffering a general sense of grievance. He had had to eat dinner with Rifles Officers. Captain Vickery was not a bad sort, probably, but Waldegrave was disposed to dislike him just for the uniform he wore. The other one - Sharpe - who he hoped would be present, had been absent. It would have afforded Waldegrave some pleasure to have shown the man up for what he undoubtedly was - a boor and a peasant, who should be in the ranks, not the Mess.

Thinking about this and looking round in the dark for the outline of his barn, he did not see the dark figure of a Rifleman and walked straight into him.

Once the march had halted for the night, Carty did not know what to do with himself. He wanted to be alone; he did not want to be alone. He wanted to sit somewhere warm and friendly and surrounded by people; he wanted to go somewhere quiet where he could think. Every flash of white was the hand or foot or face of a pale corpse; every shadow was an enemy, lurking, waiting to attack.

He could not find Ben Perkins, and he could not bear the thought of seeing Jenny tonight, looking at her curling hair and her smile and then remembering that man on the thorns.

He walked away from the general noise of the camp, and away from his own Rifles especially, for it was them he did not want to think less of him as he began to sniffle. He stopped, hearing a noise, and walked backwards for a few steps, his skin on fire with an icy dread, the image of Portuguese irregulars bright in front of his eyes, and then nearly pitched forward as someone walked into him.

Waldegrave staggered as he rebounded from the collision, seeing only a white face, in a distinctive Rifleman's uniform. A private, who was almost on the ground at his feet. "You stupid oaf, watch where you're going! Are you drunk?! If I could..."

His heartbeat in his ears was deafening, but it only increased as he saw the man's uniform, and his face, red with anger. An officer, oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, a 'bleedin' officer'. He groaned in horror and clapped a hand over his mouth, hissing between his fingers, "S- s- sor-"

"You are drunk," said Waldegrave, recognizing the uniform now. 95th, Sharpe's shower. Good. "Assaulting an officer - at least a flogging, and this isn't an internal affair by God." He reached out to take the man by the arm, and caught sight of the terrified young face.

"Flogging". He recognised the word "flogging".

"No, no! I am so sorry, sir - I didn't see you - I heard a noise and was scared; I didn't see you! I am sorry!" Every word of English he had learnt in the weeks and months deserted him in his terror - the words spilt from him in Irish, his tongue tripping over itself as he automatically backed away from the man.

The man was not even speaking English. There was the sense that he could be saying anything, he could be insulting Waldegrave, scorning his uniform and his rank, and he, a Lieutenant, could not charge him with the contempt because he chose to do it - wilfully and maliciously - in a foreign tongue. Soldiers in the British Army should speak English. "Shut up!" he shouted. "I will have you flogged, you gibbering idiot!"

"Please, please," Carty sobbed as he backed away. "I am sorry, sir." The officer was shouting at him, calling him an idiot, saying again that he'd be flogged. He had seen men flogged, their backs opened up-

He turned and ran.

Waldegrave took two steps after the man, as he disappeared into the darkness. He was fast on his feet, the Rifleman, and Waldegrave, whose boots were not made for running, could imagine the picture he would present chasing after a private through the camp-fires and blanket-wrapped bodies. He knew the man's Company. He could, quite easily find him. When he wanted to grind Sharpe's nose in the mud, by having one of his men flogged, as he had wanted to do to Sharpe, who had pulled him from his horse and humiliated him.