21st July, The Aftermath

It wasn't as though Cotton had been exactly blind to what the Army did when he'd taken the shilling. it wasn't as though he'd never seen death, in any form - hell, he'd killed before, and not just animals for the pot, either.

He couldn't help remembering the battlefield of Vimiero, after the fighting was done. The fighting was done, but the killing wasn't - and that was a memory he preferred not to think about, ever.

He was used to death, as used as anyone could be. So why did he keep seeing that lad's face, begging him to stop, not to hurt him... pleading with him to make the pain stop...

He'd only been a boy, really. He'd let Cotton and the others get away and had sealed his own fate by doing so. And despite the fact it was war, and it had been in battle, Cotton felt more guilty over the lad's death than he had since... since Coimbra, and Maggie.

He sighed, realised the kettle was as full as it could possibly be, and hauled it in, somewhat listlessly, before turning to head back to camp.

And promptly ran someone down.

Regular bathing. It was not something Peters would have imagined he would come to enjoy doing. But he'd grown up in the regiment and had absorbed all the strict standards that such an upbringing entailed. It was just part of him. So going to the river for a wash was nothing at all out of the ordinary. To the point where he had even acquired a towel, before the regiment was shipped to Portugal.

Peters carried the necessaries for bathing in his breadbag. He'd made an effort to be inconspicuous, choosing his drill jacket and forage cap over regimentals, but he was too tall and big framed to completely avoid being noticed. Ordinarily. The smaller greenjacket just coming away from the river lugging a laden kettle did not see him. This was the only explanation for the greenjacket's banging straight into Peters.

"Here, steady now, mate. Plenty of room here for two lads to pass each other, I think?" The grenadier took a step back in order to keep his balance but was not, happily, so badly jarred that he was in danger of coming off his feet.

Cotton looked up. And up. The guy he'd run into was at least a foot taller than him, and built as solidly as anything. He had no idea how he could have missed seeing the man - at that height, he must be a grenadier.

"Sorry, mate, didn't see you," he said, realising how stupid that sounded - anyone who missed seeing the man must be blind, and Cotton was a long way from being that!

"Am I really invisible?" Peters asked with a grin. "Wish I'd known that 'fore now. Here, you ain't spilt none of your kettle, have you?"

"No. No, you ain't that." Cotton gave a wry shrug and then glanced at the heavy kettle in his hand. "Don't reckon so, no - there's plenty enough water for tea, an' there's more in the brook, an' all."

He gave a sigh. "Warn't lookin' where I was goin', is all. I didn't hit you too hard, did I?"

Shame. If he could sneak up on a grasshopper, maybe he could manage the same with his sergeant. Or maybe not. "Ah well," said Peters. "Glad it ain't spilt, anyway. Kettle-fillin' is no sort of fun. And I ain't hurt, mate."

The chances of any collision short of a full-speed one actually causing harm were rather small. Not that Peters would have admitted otherwise anyway.

"Thought you lads were supposed to be all-seein' or somethin' like, though. Able to spot a blade of grass twitchin' and that sort of thing."

The jest, feeble as it might be, brought a ghost of a smile to Cotton's face. "Sup'm like," he said. "Can shoot a Frog at three hundred yards. That good enough for you?"

"Aye, more'n good enough." Peters grinned, then abruptly stuck out his hand. "Young Peters."

Cotton grinned, properly, in response. And had to switch the bucket to his left hand in order to shake hands - though, really, he ought to be carrying it in his left hand anyway, in case an officer decided to wander past. "Cotton."

"Pleasure," Peters replied with a grin. He nodded at the kettle as he let his hand drop. "That's enough for a whole company, is it?"

Cotton glanced down at the kettle. "Nope. Jus' enough for a mess - I ain't daft enough to try makin' tea for the whole Comp'ny." The redcoat might be, although Cotton doubted it.

"Aye, maybe not. Dunno's there's one kettle big enough for that." Peters shrugged. His company needed four kettles of that size, but they also consumed more than the typical company.

"That's what happens when you have them great big Flanders cauldrons to heat up. Takes a deal of water, an' then a deal of firewood an' all," Cotton said.

Peters shrugged. "It'd take two of those, I think, to keep the lads happy. Dunno's it's any even trade." Not that it mattered. Smaller kettles were the broad preference. "Anyway, them big ol' things are better left for the French."

"That'd be why we only mess in a bunch of, what, eight or so," Cotton said, looking down at the kettle in his hand... and the great sooty black mark it had left on his trousers leg. Ah well, it wasn't as though he had to be all nice and shiny on parade like the Guards did.

"There you are, Gabe!" Maggie called cheerfully as she approached. "I was going to see if I could do something about the captain's shirt, but I thought he'd want his tea first. You all right?" She stopped and looked anxiously at his face, and at the friendly giant beside him. Cotton had not been his usual self since coming back from this last fight, but she knew better than to question him. Maybe he was just worried about Vickery. "I'll take that back if you want," she offered, reaching out for the handle of his heavy kettle.

Whatever reply he might have made to that was forestalled by the woman's arrival. Peters snatched the forage cap off his head in an instant. "Evening, Miss," he greeted. Then, after a suitable pause, he added, "Don't let me keep you from your mates. Sure they'll be wantin' their tea. Nice meetin' you, Cotton. You's well, Miss."

He hitched the strap of his breadbag a little higher up on his shoulder and headed down the river bank. If he wasn't back with the company soon, his sergeant would get suspicious, and that never lent itself to good outcomes.