Second Night in Camp

"That's all right," she said with her quiet, reassuring but motherly voice. "Lots of people can't. I just got lucky is all. But it ain't hard, really. Tell you what, I'll write your name at the bottom of the letter, and you can try to copy it. They'll like that. Now this here is a G..."

He watched her, frowning in concentration as he followed the way the pen looped and curled across the paper. When he took it from her hand, he tried to copy the way she'd held it. It felt strange; he was unused to holding a pen, after all. He bent over the paper, trying not to press too hard, and slowly copied what she'd written, that she'd said was his name.

It looked clumsy next to her writing, but he still looked at her, pleased with his effort, even if he couldn't actually read it for himself.

"Thanks, Maggie," he said, looking at it for a moment longer. When he finally looked up, the pleasure was evident in his expression.

She looked up into his face and laughed. She didn't know why it had made her happy, but it had. Perhaps it was the thought of bringing his family some good news after all these years - they sounded like such a good family - or the thought of Gabe himself having that peace of mind, or just his childlike innocence and awe and pleasure in the phenomenon of writing. She wanted to explain that it was a nice change to be able to do something for him, to have something to give instead of feeling like a debtor and a burden. But she said teasingly, "Next time, you can teach me. How to fire a rifle or summat."

"Aye, I will."

He wasn't sure quite how it worked, reading and writing, and it was a strange idea that someone would be able to look at those black lines and marks and tell his family exactly what he'd told Maggie, sitting here in Portugal. But finally, they would know where he was, and that he'd done well enough for himself, and they could stop worrying. Well, maybe not stop worrying; he was a soldier now, and at war, and it might make them worry more. But at least they'd know where he was.

"Thank ye, Maggie. It... you don't know what it means to me."

She responded with sincerity this time. "It were a pleasure, Gabe. And if it really means that much to you, why, you should learn how to read 'n write. You could write them letters yourself, every week if you wanted, every day! You could... leave notes for Captain Vickery to remind him not to spoil his best uniform!"

Somehow, the idea that he, Gabe Cotton, could learn to read and write was new to him.

"I... I dunno, Maggie. Never thought of it. Mebbe one day." It would be nice to be able to write to his family, but then they'd have to find someone to read his letters to them. And he hadn't needed to be able to read and write so far, anyway, had he?

"Yes, well. And maybe one day I'll fire that rifle, too." She leaned on his arm companionably - it was becoming a comfortable habit - and stared into the fire, humming.

"You can learn to fire me rifle any time you like, when we''ve got a bit of free time," Cotton said. He liked her leaning on him, and hoped she had at least begun to get to know him a bit better, and to like him for himself. Though he wouldn't push her beyond what she was happy with.

"Really?" He could feel the vibration of her voice as she giggled on his shoulder.

"Aye, really. Though I've never taught a woman how to, but I don't see why you couldn't learn. It's easy enough, after all."

She seemed to be happy, anyway, which was the most Cotton had hoped for. Oh, he'd've liked her to have stronger feelings for him than that, but he had promised himself to try his best to make her happy.

She laughed again quietly. "Is it heavy? Does it hurt?"

Cotton considered. "No heavier'n you can cope with. And you don't hold it out at arm's length anyways. And it don't hurt if'n you pull the butt right into the shoulder." He smiled. "I know that sounds strange, but it's true. And I wouldn't teach you standin', like. But kneelin', you rest one elbow on your knee. Makes it easier to hold the weight, if you ain't used to it."

"Sounds like fun." She paused, thinking with a grin on her face. "And useful, too! I can go out fighting with you in battle! More useful than reading and writing during a fight, I reckon."

There was something about the idea of women fighting in battle that Cotton didn't like. "Dunno about battle, lass. Though if you get good enough to bag us dinner, it'd be somethin'." He slipped an arm around her waist and finished up his tea, which was lukewarm by now.

She rolled her eyes at him, though of course he couldn't see. "I wouldn't really. I doubt I'll bag you anything for dinner either. Speaking of which..."

He liked the way she was sitting, all sort of snuggled up next to him.

"It's been cookin' f'r a bit now. I ain't on kitchen duties tonight, though I'll still have to wait table for the Captain. No, I won't. He's off eatin' with the officers of the 62nd tonight, ain't he."

"Good. I'm hungry." She stayed there without moving for a moment and then suddenly exploded into action. "Look at me! How did I get so lazy? This is all your doing, Gabriel Cotton. Sitting by a fire and just talking... I have a shirt to mend!"

Cotton grinned as she scrambled to her feet. "Well, you bring it over here and you c'n sew and talk at the same time. Don't want you bein' lazy, do we? Not that you are. I never seen a one so busy as you be, for sure, Maggie Evans."

The rest of the evening was spent in companionable busyness. Without being aware of it, Maggie was keeping all stronger emotions at bay for now, still feeling raw from the night before. But it was pleasant to sit and do her work here next to a friend, sewing until her eyes grew too weary to focus.

"I need to go to sleep," she finally announced and stumbled across to where she would set up her blankets near the fire. But it was pleasant to crawl between them, feeling a physical exhaustion rather than an emotional one. "G'night, Jem," she murmured in the last moment before she was fully and peacefully asleep.

It was a pleasant evening. Cotton found himself rubbing his rifle down, just sitting next to Maggie. Neither of them spoke; there wasn't any need, and finally it grew too dark to see any more, so Maggie folded her sewing up and lay down, wrapping herself in her blankets.

Cotton was a little hurt to hear her say goodnight to Jem, but thought that she was tired, and it had been a long day.

"Night, Maggie. Sweet dreams," he said and wrapped himself in his own blanket, yawning once before falling asleep.

With the 27th

Williams came back to the area his mess had appropriated, and settled down. He caught the Corporal's eye and grinned. "I've just been visiting our friends in front," he said. "Thought I might have a word with a girl who's attached herself to the 60th. But no luck, not tonight anyway. But she's a fine thing, and I'd hate to see her waste herself with a mere Rifleman, when she could do better with me. But it looks as if I'm too late."

The Corporal was new, and although he seemed a decent sort, Williams wondered what he was really like. "Do you have a girl - or a wife - back home, Corporal?"

Grogan grinned around the bit of twig he was using as a tooth-pick. "There's no makin' sense outta what women do, an' no mistake." The corporal spat out a bit of gristle and gave the makeshift tooth-pick a flick with his fingers. He had a girl but with luck she wasn't back home anymore. Though... how she was going to join the column was quiet beyond him.

"Aye, I got a lass, a fine an' fair Wexford one too. S'posed t'be here, she is, but Second Battalion din't see she got 'board the right ship or summat." Grogan waved a hand in the air to indicate his lack of understanding of such things. "Mebbe when the waggon train catches up she'll be wi' 'em. An' whattabout yeself, boyo? Sure that misguided lass wi' the Rifles ain't the only one?"

Williams hoped that the Corporal's woman turned up soon. Wife, presumably, since she was being shipped out to join him. He might try to sound unworried, but if she did not join them when expected, it would be sure to tell on him. And a worried Corporal would not be a happy Corporal. Williams wanted a happy Corporal. Much less trouble.

"I won't even count her as one," he said, thinking of Maggie Evans. "Hardly said a word to her, before she was going off with my friend. Which is not a nice thing to happen to a man. But I wish them well." Or would do, once he was sure that that was what they wanted. Until then, he could hope. "As for others -" he grinned widely "- I've not yet found one to settle down with. There was a nice little thing in Lisbon, but what could we talk about, with her having no English and me no Portuguese?"

"Ha." The Irishman stretched his legs out and grinned. Williams sounded like most of the other lads, which was something of a comfort. "Settlin' down ain't all wort' it, I tell'ee. Be worse havin' a lass on'y got the Portugrease, too!"

He shook his head. "Women ain't meant t'be figgered out, 'specially when they t'ink they gotta fella they likes. Then they b'have worse'n a lad, sometimes."

Wellesley stopped his pacing, a mirthless smile coming to his thin lips. Confidence. Had he been catholic he would have doubtless brought a confessor with him - though Wellesley despised that idea. To confide all your worries and deepest, darkest sins to one man whose character was only accounted for by the cloth he wore; for a man in his position it was a foolish idea, plus at this moment he was not particularly anxious about the state of his mortal soul, and he would rather tell a friend his worries than a stranger. A friend would in some ways understand, maybe offer a sympathetic ear, could be trusted not to betray his confidence, and perhaps would be able to offer some advice back.

The theme of confidence made him recall his exchange with Dr. Maturin earlier that day, and the memory made him wince. Now the heat of the moment had left him he realised that he had behaved appallingly, and what was worse that he now did not have the opportunity to apologise. The doctor had expressly made his trip so that he could hand over the papers he had doubtless spent sleepless nights decoding - whilst, it now emerged, tending to the desperately injured Captain Padstowe (That news in itself had not pleased him at all). But then the papers had been forgotten amongst the discovery of the French cavalry, the sight had sickened him, he had already been feeling not at his best from the ride... but that was still no excuse. Maturin was not attuned with the courtesies of military hierarchy (or any hierarchy it would seem - but what could one expect from an Irish intellectual?) and had made an admittantly somewhat impertinent remark, but there had been no malicious intent behind it. Though he had not seen that at the time. If only Maturin had phrased it as a request or suggestion he would not have taken offence... But again, it was too late.

And now Maturin had disappeared off backto Lisbon, once more having seen nothing but his worst side.

But it was not just Maturin. He had behaved despicably to Pumphrey as well, though the man had not been the best example of straightforward behaviour. He just hated the way the man played, as if this was a game... not to mention the way he always seemed to look at him; the only look in the world which ever made Sir Arthur fear for his non-existant virtue. Yet even without Pumphrey he had been feeling out of sorts, snappish, impatient and restless. Ever since he had got off that damned boat and Henry had started the opened the ball with his tasteless comment on Caesar.

He suddenly felt very wretched and very alone.