July 24, 1809: The Morning after

Torrington rather mechanically opened the tin still on the table and placed a bisquit before Peggie, still not completely coping with the situation, but doing his best to stop the chirping, which seemed to drill holes into his ears.

Freddie meanwhile had slipped around Torrington and was rather frantically pulling at Willoughby's blanket, while at the same time trying to keep silent and making hushing noises to the hussar.

"Willoughby! What do you in Mylord's bed? Come out! If he noticed this, he will be very angry! This is an officer bed! you can't sleep here!"

"m' a cornet now. Stop pullin." Willoughby took a firmer grip of the bed so that when Freddie pulled he had the whole bed move with him. If he persisted he could just as well have ended up with a very sleepy hussar and his bed, right outside the tent, still clutching to it.

"Stoppit. He saw me in it, and he covered me back. I'm a cornet now!" He grumbled unhappily. All this jarring and pulling was making his head feel worse.

++

Little chick finally shut up and began to peck at the biscuit that had been laid before her. She looked satisfied, but beware who would dare to take that biscuit from her, for he would have unleashed a ball of yellow fluff fury.

"No, I think my head's shrunk a bit, if anything," Vickery said carefully, watching the chick in confusion. "Where in the world did she come from?" he asked, pointing at it to make it very clear what it was he was enquiring about.

"Out of my breast pocket. I did not put her there", Torrington answered matter-of-factly, staring down at the chicken as well. "She seems to be hungry."

He refilled his coffee cup, hoping to clear his head sufficently to start unraveling the various mysteries of the morning.

---

Freddie gave up on pulling, and started to shake Willoughby's shoulders instead.

"Very good if you now make music, but you really can not sleep here ... Come, before Mylord wakes up properly! Where did he sleep if you were in his bed?"

"Make music?" Willoughby blinked at the Freddie. What on earth was the boy talking about? Did he drink some of that wine without their knowledge and was now trying to pretend to be sober?

"He slept ...." The memory was hazy. Where did Torrington sleep? He was certain that the bed had only housed himself, while the tent seemed to have had Vickery as well. He could not however remember where Torrington was.

There was a trace of a memory of seeing Torrington outside with his pelisse. But how either of them got there was too much for his brain to process and he winced and shoved against Freddie to make him stop shaking him!

"I'm an officer!" He snapped and groaned pressing his hands against his temples. "Stoppit." And then more softly. "I don't know where he slept...."

Slightly panicked now, Freddie shook harder.

"No, no, no, you are still dreaming! Willoughby! Wake up! You are not an officer!"

He looked over his shoulder anxiously, because it could be only a matter of seconds before Peggie would cease to hold the captains' attention and they would turn to the commotion around the bed.

"I AM an officer!" Willoughby groaned and was really tempted to smack Freddie if only that would make him stop shaking. His stomach was beginning to feel rather queasy and his head was just feeling worse. Could he NOT stop it for a moment.

"Captain Vickery...Captain Torrington, can you PLEASE...enlighten your rifleman and your batman ...Ow.. head! Please!"

"What?"

Torrington looked over, trying to make out was the actual problem was. It took a moment until his brain sorted to what he had half-heard and what he knew, and provided a likely answer. Somewhat weary, he introduced:

"Rottländer, meet the newly appointed Cornet Gwydyr. And bring him a bowl and some coffee. He is turning green."

The young German pulled his hands back so quickly he nearly slapped Willoughby accidentally. Stammering apologies over and over, he with one hand fluffed up the pillow while with the other reached for the shaving bowl, trying to make Wiloughby perfectly comfortable all at once. The poor lad was looking worse than Willoughby - he had shaken an officer. And nearly screamed at him. And talked to him like he did to Pye! Surely there would be a lashing for this. If not worse.

"Thank you." Willoughby mouthed, his voice strained. The gratitude was meant both for Torrington who stopped his batman from shaking him further, and Freddie, who actually stopped. He blinked feeling the rush of air pass his cheek as hands were yanked back.

With his hands pressed to his temples he pressed against them gently and then with a slow nod added "Yes please..could I have some coffee...and.. that." He was not sure whether he would yet loose it, but a bowl in hand was better than a pond of vomit on the ground.

He was mildly aware that he would need to calm the youth down and reassure him that he would not be punished for shaking him so violently, but he needed a few more moments before he could muster up the strength to do so.

Freddie brought another cup of coffee so quickly that Torrington had to close his eyes - the rapid movements were making him feel dizzy.

"Here, if you please, Herr ...Cornet?"

The strange rank still drew enough confusion to momentarily distract him from his embarrasment. He knew a Cornet as a kind of horn the hunters and musicians had, so was it something completely different in English? Or where the people who made music in the cavalry officers?

Realizing that three people drinking from the pot he had prepared for Torrington had already depleted it, he thankfully took this as an opportunity to slip out, muttering that he would bring coffee and breakfast and willow bark and ...

Once he was outside, he only took time to set the water kettle to the fire again, before he set off in a flying run to find Cotton.

Willoughby began to drink from the coffee. Anything he had wanted to say to Freddie would have to wait. The boy was out before he was able to say even just thank you, let alone more.  But coffee was there and possibly it would help a little.

He took a first sip and paused. He had not drank it in a fairly long while. It was not exactly a trooper's drink. He sighed contently and sipped away at it. It would have of course been better if his head did not still hurt so terribly that thinking was hard.

"...Ok.....so,... if I...understand this correctly...and remember it right... That bottle... means we drank and had fun. Somehow Captain Vickery ended slumped over the table I ended in your bed.. you ended with my Pelisse and..." He turned silent briefly, the light of the candle betraying Torrington's marked face.

"......what happened to your face?" He asked not sure whether he could muster up laughter without groaning at what agony it would cause.

Reflexively, Torrington touched his face, but apart from a rather unciviliced stubble, which was to be expected, given the hour, he could feel nothing wrong.

"What happened to my face?"

"...You've got...." Willoughby hesitated and actually moved to stand up. "Do you have a mirror somewhere. Look at it yourself. You have got black ink all over your face." He still clutched his pelisse in one hand.

"What?"

Torrington searched for his shaving kit and pulled his mirror out, groaning as he moved his head. He groaned even louder as he saw his face.

"Good Gracious!"

Rather unsuccessfully, he tried to remove the ink with his washcloth.

"Who's set your arse on fire?" Cotton wanted to know, looking up from the newly-lit fire he'd just started as Rottlaender came running up with a look of near panic on his face. While he had come to accept the running as the younger Rifleman's sole speed, the panicked expression was not usual for him.

"Willoughby ... officer! Breakfast ... Captain ...Vickery! I schüttelt him! Willoughby!"

The report was probably rather indecipherable, even accompanied by many quick hand gestures. After a bit, he cooled down enough to add, still panicked, but at least in full sentences:

"They are in Mylord's tent! With a Kater!"

"Willoughby wants to have Captain Vickery for breakfast?" That was about the most sense Cotton could make from Rottlaender's words at first, and made no sense at all.

"In Captain Torrington's tent?" That bit, at least, made sense, but it was the last statement that made Cotton blink at him, thoroughly perplexed. "What on God's green earth is a carter doing in Captain Torrington's tent with them?!"

Freddie waved his arms madly.

"They have him! He is there! Captain Vickery! They .... Willoughby is gets green in the face and wants breakfast! And Captain Vickery says it is a dream, because then all is good! And he wants coffee!"

That made almost less sense, in a way. Coffee, though. "He always has tea in the morning," Cotton said, inconsequentially. Mostly because Cotton made him tea, admittedly.

He sighed. "D'you want a hand?" he asked, straightening up and wiping his hands on his trousers.

Freddie nodded, his whole face transforming into beaming gratitude.

"Yes, please! I made coffee, and make some more, and breakfast, but ... can you go there and see? And tell me what they need?"

He had already found out that occasionally that was not necessarily what officers wanted.

"And help Willoughby? He plays a Kornett now, and is an officer, and I shook him! And now he is green in the face and ..."

Here even Freddie had to take a breath.

"Green? Sounds like he had a sight too much to drink last night," Cotton said, though the bit about him being an officer now and playing a cornet still didn't make any sense.

"If you've got a fire goin' over there, I'll come an' use that to cook their breakfasts on - they'll need sup'm to eat, anyway," he added, trying to think what he actually had that he could cook for breakfast. "There's eggs, anyway, an' a bit of bread. Could fry those up, easy."

"So.. it is ink?" Willoughby inquired. He thought it was something black. It did look like ink, but perhaps he had imagined it. He would have atleast chuckled at what looked like Torrington had on his face if his head would not threaten to hurt worse if he did.

"Easy... it could be worse." he said softly. ".....Just rub it off and nobody will know!" Though Torrington's face looked like a stranged map that had been wiped sooner than it dried and a moustache that was strangely lopsided - also the consequence of the wiping.

Freddie nodded eagerly.

"Yes, I have fire! And coffee! And shaving water! And things for Mylord's breakfast!"

Freddie danced eagerly around Cotton, holding his arms out to carry whatever the older man thought necessary. Since Torrington usually got a rather generous breakfast - he was a lord, after all, and had never complained about the expenses sofar - but tended to merely pick on it, Freddie supposed that if Willoughby had similar eating habits, the food would stretch enough for two. It would mean that he and Pye would not get a nice breakfast, of course, but he thought that he deserved that for shaking an officer, and he would do something nice for Pye ... give him all of his own breakfast tomorrow, maybe?

------------------

Torrington tried rubbing, first dry, then with water, but the effect was negligible. With a very unhappy sigh, he went to check whether his best iron gall ink was still where it was supposed to be. As he happened to pass the bed, for the first time he got a good look at Willoughby's face, and halted. Squinting and tilting his head a bit, he gave the other officer a long, curious look, as if he was deciphering something, then held out the mirror.

"It seems that you have not escaped unmarked as well ... I suppose it was meant to be whiskers."

He then turned to Vickery, fully expecting to see the rifle officer decorated as well. His brain felt too sluggish still to really search for the artist, so all it was willing to do at the moment was to ask why Willoughby had gotten something recognizable, while he had mostly broad black smears.

Willoughby shook his head, thinking that perhaps Torrington was still a bit drunk and imagining things. The moment however that he had taken hold of the mirror and peered into it, his eyes widened then blinked and he groaned softly. Either their mirage was shared, or he had indeed whiskers on his face! They were not the best design, but they could easily be recognised as such.

He touched one line with his fingers as if thinking it would disappear the moment he rubbed against it. No such luck. Several times he rubbed against the skin, then scraped, but the line remained. "Did you manage to get yours off?" He asked, having seen Torrington try, but not whether he has any results.

He muttered something under his breath and rubbed a bit harder, but the black line persisted. Atleast his was not as bad as Torrington's. Whoever had done it, had certainly been rather imaginative and used a lot of ink for it.

"No, I did not. Neither will I have any success with it in the foreseeable future, if my guess about the ink used is correct."

Holding his inkwell at arm's length, he peered at the glass visible through the brass encasing.

"Yes, best vitriolic iron gall ink. It takes about three days to get out of your skin, as I can tell you from long and unhappy experience. We might have had a good chance before it set, but I'm afraid now it is dry and as permanent as ink can be."