17th Juli 1809: Putting holes into things

Edward dipped his head in amused acknowledgement and disappeared, only to come back a short time later in an old coat that seamed to have seen very rough times, although Rottlaender had done his best to stich up the the partly ripped off sleeve and the long gash at the back, and get out the various stains.

"Rottlaender is delighted to be of service and has darted off to organize some ... well, either onions or olives. He will be here shortly. I took the liberty of bringing my own chair, much to his horrror", the engineer reported, placing said piece of furniture on the ground together with his neatly folded regular uniform jacket.

"I do believe that Rottlaender thinks we ought to live like Roman emperors - not lifting a finger even to feed ourselves," Vickery remarked, amused at Torrington's appearance - he had forgotten that the Engineer had said he was used to roughing it, despite only recently having arrived in Spain.

"There is water on the boil, so we will have hot water to use, and a cup of tea," he added.

He had brought out of his tent a chair for himself, a folding table smaller than the one he used for his desk, and the box containing his pistols, although he only wanted one item from it.

"Make yourself comfortable," he said, indicating his set-up.

[OOC: Torrington's jacket is a direct outcome of this excursion with Captain Hunter.]

"Thank you, I quite prefer to sit for dinner and not wear a crown that I imagine is rather prickly on my head all the time."

The engineer sat down, crossed his legs and reached for the rifle again.

"But tea would be very welcome - I'm afraid my technique to avoid tasting too much of the gunpowder still leaves room for vast improvements."

"More likely heavy than uncomfortable," Vickery pointed out. "Tea will be along shortly. Firstly, you'll need this." He opened the box containing his pistols, and passed over a screw driver. "Everything else should be found in the rifle itself." He laid the one that he had borrowed over his knee, with the lock uppermost, and flipped open the brass lid of the small compartment in the rifle's butt.

The engineer took the screwdriver, inspecting it and raising an eyebrow.

"So every rifleman carries a screwdriver?"

Outside something clanked against metal, followed by a splash and a quiet German curse, indicating that Freddie had arrived with fresh water for tea.

Vickery nodded. "Yes - he would not be able to change the flint without one, after all." He had a quick glance in the rifle's patch-box to check that everything else was there before closing it again and turning the rifle over so he could get to the two screws holding the lock on.

"This is what you need the screwdriver for," he said, indicating the two screws. "Once you've taken them out - and lay them out on the table so you know which goes where - the lock should come off, with a very little persuasion."

Fine mechanics were more to his liking, so the engineer had the lock off quickly and without much fuss, although he managed to offset the good impression somewhat by nearly slicing his finger open while taking a closer look at the flint.

"How strange - it nearly looks like those ancient flint tools Mr. Frere takes such an interest in. I wonder what he would say if he were to accidentally investigate a modern battlefield."

"I had not thought of that. Though of course flint is sharp - you want to be careful there." And like all good advice, it was given several seconds too late.

He couldn't tell whether Torrington had actually cut himself or not, and thought it best to err on the side of caution. "Do you need a handkerchief there?"

Edward shook out his long hand, then inspected the damage before sucking the injured finger. He managed to make the movement seem casual, elegant and stylish, but he still felt utterly foolish - injuring himself on a piece of stone he intellectually knew to be sharp!

After a moment, he took the finger out again, blew on it to dispell the pain, and flexed his fingers a few time.

"No, thank you. It is just a nick. You were right: It is sharp, and I really want to be careful there ... it is just my luck that you don't always get what you want."

"I think everyone who has handled a rifle has cut himself on the flint, so you are no different from anyone else." He looked critically at the outside of the little finger of his own right hand - yes, he did still have the scar there. It was only a small one, however.

Laughing, Torrington huffed something about "barbaric blood sacrifices among soldiers", and put the lock aside properly.

"Well, after these rites of passage, how do I best go on?"

Vickery gave him a slightly predatory grin. "Well, for the next part, we do need to be outside. We also need some hot water - this is possibly the dirtiest bit of the exercise. At least, potentially the dirtiest, if you're not careful."

Edward took a deep breath through his nose, but stood up. Raising one eyebrow mockingly, he remarked:

"You know, with your expression just now, I feel strongly reminded of school days ..."

He looked down at his long, elegant fingers which he had sofar managed to keep in reasonably good condition.

"I will be very careful, of course, but I have a nagging feeling that this will slay another of my secret vanities - perhaps all those romantic authors are right after all and war is doing some good things to a man's character."

"I would never bully a friend the way some schoolboys do their fags," Vickery replied. "And especially I would never bully the heir to Lord Gleve - my reputation would never stand it."

He grinned. "You need not worry about your hands - after all, nobody is going to expect you to make a living from this. We need somebody who knows about map-making, and I would make but a poor fist at it."

(Note: 'fag' in this context is a young public school boy who performs menial chores for an older boy or prefect. It is not an insult. From here)

Edward raised an eyebrow.

"Just lack of training and exercise or ... does your brain disagree with the concepts behind it?"

Freddie came, carrying a pot of water, and sloshed some of that as well as he stopped and took in his master's jacket with an expression of horror.

Vickery gave his friend a wry look. "I fagged for Ravenshaw - Lord Amersham's eldest son - and I can assure you my days were a perfect misery. I would never inflict that sort of thing on anybody. That is not to say Ravenshaw's a bully, as such; there were far worse prefects than him at Winchester during my time there."

He shrugged. "As for the map-making, my figures are wrong at least twice as often as they are correct - or otherwise I believe I would have been packed off to sea. Thankfully, it does not take a mathematician to be able to use a map. And I believe Rottlaender has just twigged the state of your jacket," he added in amusement, looking up just in time to notice the horrified look on the young Rifleman's face.

Edward tried - and failed - to match a face to the name, and was just about to offer Vickery mock condolences for his lost career chance, but at the sight of his scandalized servant, he inwardly sighed and explained kindly:

"It is just an old jacket, Rottlaender. I haven't sold out or anything ..."

The young German looked even more unsettled and glanced pleadingly at Vickery.

Vickery had to bite the inside of his cheek not to smile at the lad before explaining, "Herr Hauptmann Torrington wanted to know how to fire a rifle, and I have been showing him, the way you and I learned. It is an old jacket and he wears it only to stop his best one from becoming dirty."

It was probably not the best explanation in the world - and Vickery was not sure that Rottlaender was aware that officers in the 60th had to complete the same training as their men - but it was the best he could come up with, without going into unnecessarily long spiels.

He smiled reassuringly at Rottlander, and added, "We would like some tea, please, and some hot water for the rifles."

And that last probably would send the lad into a fit. Ah well; it couldn't be helped.

Torrington looked quite grateful that Vickery had taken over the explanations - until he saw the hurt, disappointment, then quickly smoothed over look on Rottlaender's face.

"Water for rifles ...? I can take and clean it behind the tent ... I am good at cleaning rifles! It is not like pistols! I know rifles ... I can clean it!"

Closing his eyes for a moment, he explained in a low voice to Vickery: "I prefer to clean my pistols myself ... and I might have said something when I came here that I didn't trust anybody else with them ... I had hoped he had not understood or mercifully forgotten ..."

Louder he tried to explain to Rottländer:

"I know - but I want to learn how to do it myself. I won't make a habit out of it. Tea, please?"

The last was almost a plea. He felt utterly sheepish. An officer and lord certainly shouldn't feel it necessary to explain himself to a common soldier, but ... he liked Rottländer, and he was aware how much the young German tried to make his life comfortable here, and ... he simply did not know what to do when confronted with that sad look in those puppy eyes.

Vickery took a breath and quietly let it out. "Rottlaender... Friedrich. You are very good at cleaning your rifle, but Mylord has asked to learn, because he wants to know what you know. It is only for this one time, I promise." He smiled. "He was teaching you how to make maps, remember? So you know something he does, and he will know what you do."

Now the engineer looked ... well, frankly confused, because he felt that his domestic troubles should not be something Vickery ought to either see or solve for him, but nevertheless felt quite grateful for his corroboration - the necessity of which opened up a whole other area of questions the engineer did not want to contemplate at the moment - for which he felt a coward ...

The German's quiet, but understanding "Oh! I'll get hot water ... Entschuldigung, Mylord!" made him break off that fruitless circle of thoughts and give Rottländer a slight, rueful smile.

"No need. And some tea, please?"

The young German dashed off, and the engineer transfered his rueful expression towards Vickery.

"I won't say anything more, but ...Thank you. Had you really to learn all the drills just like a common soldier?"

Vickery nodded, with a rueful look on his face. "Oh yes. All the marching, manoeuvres, loading, firing... everything. And I got shouted at just as much as the others. Well, maybe a little less - I had the advantage of knowing left from right. And the Sergeant was considerate enough to remind me on several occasions 'that it was his duty to make a Rifle officer of me and he'd do it if it killed me... sir!'"

He grinned. "The rifle regiments are peculiar in that respect, but it does ensure that we are aware of what the men are capable of - and they know that we have been where they are and will not ask anything of them that we have not done ourselves."

Edward had to supress a nervous grin at Vickery's imitation of the sergeant, but while he shuddered at the thought, he could see the logic behind the approach.

"So you actually trained with the men, like a volunteer? Doesn't that occassionally cause disciplinary problems, too?"

Rottländer came hurrying back with hot water - by the speed with which he reappeared, Torrington gathered that this was not the water he had fetched, but rather another of his little bargains.

Vickery considered the question. "Actually, not that I know of, no. I might have drilled and trained with the men but, like volunteers, I lived in the Mess - besides which, I already held a commission, which a volunteer does not."

He smiled as Rottlaender hove into view again. "I wonder how many more of my men would prove to make exceptional servants if given the chance?"

Edward now really grinned.

"Well, you can try! Has Delacroix already one? Also I will fight tooth and nail to keep Rottländer, and probably Pye as well, although I have no legal grounds for that. But he is indeed very helpful and adept with the equipment."