Second Night in Camp

"That is what I think too, Corp," said Williams, wondering just how happy Grogan's marriage was, for all he was worried about his wife.

"I would not take a wife from out here - apart from anything else, can you imagine what old women would say when I took her home! So I'll wait until I get home and can find a decent girl - one with an interest in her own place, perhaps." He rested his chin on his knee. "And then there will be time to settle down - you couldn't do that here, even if you found the right girl."

Hmm. Grogan fumbled in his pack for his pipe for a moment. "Old biddies back home... fa! They ain't good fer nothin' but gossip an' tha's truth. Ye'll fin' a good lass some-place though, no mistake. There's plenny good lasses out there fer good lads. An' tha's no lie!"

Williams smiled into the darkness between fires. "And while I'm waiting, I'll not be looking for the good lasses, Corporal. Far more interesting to find the ones who know how to please a man who wouldn'd find favour with the old women himself. Once you've been out here, it's hard to imagine going back home and living peaceful."

"Ain't tha' too true."

What would the old women back home say if they knew even half of what men did out here? Grogan smirked as he thought of it. They'd die of pure shock. "It's sure free'n'easy out here, I'll grant. Dunno how it'll be like when the Army's broke up." He shuddered to think of it. "Please God it don't happen soon!"

Williams chuckled at the expression on the Corporal's face. What would his wife say? "Easy it is, and free if you know the right way to ask for it," he said, grinning. "Going home, though, I'd like to do it before I'm too old to enjoy the rest of my life. I never imagined being a soldier for ever - it was the means of getting away from work in a town. We'd lost the sheep when my da died, and... When my mother died, I didn't fancy herding other men's sheep all my life. There was the recruiting sergeant, so here am I. But when I go back, I'll have my own land, if I have to marry to get it."

It had been in the early hours of that morning when it was still dark that the shadowy figure had flitted through the 60th's baggage. It had somehow avoided the sentries, but it ignored the potential richer pickings of the officer's portmanteau. It was looking for one particular scrawny little mule...

Maggie had been awakened by the rain. Wretched miserable rain. At first it was only a light shower, but it was enough to keep her awake. Perhaps later in the march she would sleep right through it, but for now she was still getting used to open air sleeping again after several months of relative comfort in Lisbon - a roof, four walls and a bed. Cotton nearby had pulled his blanket closer without rousing.

This will never do, she thought. I've got to sleep. I can't sleep like this now. Maybe if I wrap up in my green shawl. My feet are getting wet now!

She finally crawled out of her blanket, pulled on her boots, and went off in search of a shawl and dry stockings.

Someone was approaching.

The shadow shrank back into the cover of some nearby trees, watching to see who approach, and waiting to see what would happen.

Shrugging and hunching her shoulders against the increasing raindrops, Maggie stumbled over to where her boxes were. There next to them was Jessy her little donkey, pricking her ears and vocalizing a soft question. Maggie was too tired to greet her, but went straight for the box where she kept her clothes. In the dark, she fumbled through her things telling them apart by touch until she found what she was looking for. She closed the little chest again and sat on the lid while she wrapped herself in her shawl, removed her shoes and put on her dry stockings. Ah, much better.

"Well, well; little Maggie Evans," a voice from the darkness behind her purred. "'Ow's my favourite girl now she's got herself a new man?"

A surge of fear pulsed through Maggie’s heart when she heard the voice. She jumped to her feet, stockings dry no longer, and stared into the darkness.

“Who’s that?” she called sharply, not caring if she woke the riflemen sleeping some yards away. But perhaps it was just one of the riflemen playing a joke. “Jed Palmer, is that you?” She had nearly tripped over the man when she had picked her way through the sleeping bodies on the ground.

She heard an indistinct mumble from Palmer’s blanket.

“Jed! Are you making fun with me?”

But by now, Palmer was either ignoring her or had fallen asleep again. She muttered a curse and grabbed her shoes, hurrying back toward the spot where Cotton was sleeping.

Cotton's sleep was confused. He heard a woman's voice crying out, and at first it had blended with his dream. He turned over and woke up, realising it was Maggie’s voice. What was wrong? He looked over and saw that her blanket was empty, and scrambled to his feet, concerned.

She was too experienced a campaigner to cry out for no reason.

“Maggie, lass, where are you? Are you all right?” he called.

She hurried over to the sound of his voice. “Here I am, Gabe. I just went to get some stockings and a shawl. Chilly, isn’t it?” Shivering with nerves rather than with cold, she deposited her shoes and useless mud-soaked stockings on the ground and crawled into her blanket to try to get warm. She would have liked to huddle up next to Cotton under his blanket, both for warmth and for security, but she knew what men were like. It would be unfair to the poor good fellow.

“I got worried when I woke up and saw your blanket was empty and heard you calling.”

He would have liked to wrap her in his own blanket next him, but that would have been too forward and would probably make her more uncomfortable, rather than reassuring her. Some men would do whatever it took to sleep with a woman, but Cotton had told her that he didn't want to do anything she was unhappy with.

He wrapped himself in his own blanket and lay down next to her, maybe a little closer than before, but not so close as to upset her. Hopefully, anyway.

“Oh, I'm all right. It was just – one of the lads was playing a joke. It startled me is all.” She pulled her blanket tighter. “I’m all right," she repeated. "Go back to sleep.”

He wished he could give her even a chaste kiss, even a peck on the cheek like he used to give his sisters, just to show her how he felt, but it would probably make her even more uncomfortable. He didn't want to do anything that would upset the fragile understanding they had come to.

“You stick with me, lass, and the lads won't never give you any trouble.”

And if he did lie down closer than he had before, he would never hurt her or do anything to make her uncomfortable.

She hesitated, and then her little hand slipped out from under the blanket to find his, much warmer, and to grasp it. “Thank you Gable. Good night.” And then her hand slipped back to its own place and she curled up in her blanket.

He smiled, pleasantly surprised when she grasped his hand for a second. Be nice to hold her hand, he thought, rolling over to lie facing her. He had no idea what she'd make of it if he did though, and contented himself with reaching out to brush a strand of hair away from her face.

"Night, sweeting," he said, the endearment slipping out unconsciously.

That made her smile, partly from amusement, a secret smile in the dark. She burrowed down into her blanket feeling safe and a little more warm.

He smiled at her, pulling his blanket closer about him. She was a good lass, his Maggie, he thought drowsily, drifting off.

Grogan absently tapped his pipe stem against the buttons of his half-open coat, wondering what he'd do when he got home. It seemed that Williams had a good plan for his own return. Lucky fellow. Most likely, it'd depend on what Cara wanted but she never wasted time making it known what she wanted.

"Ain't right, doin' other men's work," the Irishman agreed after a moment. "Though 'course I made me wages doin' just that, mostly. Post-coach guards're considered less'n soldiers, an' work harder fer it, an' that's no lie!"

He grinned slightly and patted his pockets in search of his pouch of tobacco. "I'd like t'have me own wee coach outfit, m'self. One coach'd be grand. Wit' two horses t'pull it. That'd be plenny, d'ye reckon?"

"Two horses? That would depend on how far you wished to go with your two horses." Williams thought for a moment and then said; "Welsh-bred cobs are what you want for that work. But I know nothing about raising horses, so I'll be sticking with sheep. Would you not like to pull your coach with sheep, now?"

"Don't need 'em t'go far. Jus' 'nuff t'make it round Wexford!" Grogan chuckled. "I ain't got high hopes like some other fellows, a comf'table livin'll suit me fine. But I'll not turn down a few sheep even if they's offered! D'they work better'n horses?"

Williams chuckled: "No, but the dog to drive them works for less than a coachman would."

He sat back, thinking of this planned-for farm. He had no intention of ever returning to Scotland, and he had to admit that Wales, for all his talk of Chapel and the valleys, was a distant memory, and not a very pleasant one at that. "What's Wexford like?" he asked. "More importantly, are there pretty girls there who would look kindly on a returning soldier?"

Dogs. He could use one or two of those too. Grogan puffed at his pipe, having lit it with an ember from the fire, and considered Williams' first question. Wexford was still an uneasy place at times, after the '98 rebellion, though things were looking up a bit. He shrugged. "S'a good wee city, mostly. Close to the River Slaney, so there's plenny'a fishermen an' the like. An' course there's roads leadin' right up t'Dublin-town, too."

After a moment's contemplation of Williams' second question, he added "Oh aye, there's plenny'a pretty girls, sure! Me Cara knows a fair many, too. I'd be s'prised if she din't intraduce ye t'a few, if ye went back wi' us."