Third night in camp

Carty nodded wordlessly as he sat next to the fire. "You hear about Gabriel Cotton?" he asked his friend.

Perkins' face darkened. "Aye. I'll never believe he's a thief though. Sommat's wrong there. It ain't right."

Children, Harris thought. They believed in truth and justice, even in the Army. With luck though, Cotton's fate would serve as a lesson.

Perkins would probably survive it: poor Carty, who still hadn't recovered from the discovery of the previous day, had been shocked and afraid even before hearing about Cotton.

"Have you seen a flogging before, Mícheál?" Perkins asked gingerly.

Carty nodded; even in the Rifles, one couldn't go for several months without seeing at least one flogging. "Is horrible. Back all opened up, and cries..."

Perkins cringed just thinking about it. "Aye. Wonder if Cotton's ever been flogged before. He don't seem the type. So's that what you's upset for, then?"

"I..." Carty's eyes darted around nervously. "You know the recoat officer? The lieutenant?"

"The one who came here to take Maggie Evans to the court? What about him? Just another Rupert."

Harris was listening. Harris was clever, and Carty honestly believed that he would look after him. "Yes, him. Last night, I walked - I am upset in my head, because of the bodies - and it is dark, and the officer walks into me - ah! I say, I try to say, but I say 'S- s- s-', because I am scared, and he shouts ' You are drunk! Flogging!'"

It was one of the longest speeches he had ever made in English - he sometimes stammered, shaking at the memory of the man's face and voice. "I try, I try to say 'Sorry' - I say ' Sorry, sir, sorry, so sorry, din' see you, sir, please, sorry!' but I am scared, so scared, and I says in Irish!" Tears came to his eyes. "I din' mean to, but I am saysing in Irish not English, and he says - loud - shouts 'Shut up! Flogging! Idiot!'"

The tears spilt from his eyes, feeling scalding hot on his cheeks - he brought up his hands to hide them. "And I runs! I dun' want to flogged! Not like Gabriel Cotton!"

Harris did not know the officer, but he had seen him in their camp. He patted Mícheál on the arm. "He didn't say anything to you when he came here, did he? He's probably forgotten all about it, or didn't recognize you."

Carty struggled to bring himself under control. He was crying, in front of all the other riflemen, crying like a little boy. He took a deep breath. "He says nothing, but he looks, looks at me! He-"

"It's all right." Harris moved round to shield the boy, looking to Perkins for support. "We'll make sure he doesn't have a chance to do anything." He was only a lieutenant after all. Probably not a match in any sense for Mr Sharpe. Who would have to be told about this. "Have you spoken to Mr Sharpe?" he said. "You should."

"No!" Carty moaned, shaking his head. "No Mister Sharpe! I dun' want him to be- to be-"

"Why not tell Mr Sharpe?" The boy's anguish was real, although Harris still thought that he was refining too much on the chance appearance of a redcoat officer in their camp. On the other hand, that same officer had brought the charge against Cotton.

"He be..." He knew the word in Irish, but did not in English. "Angry. Think little in me. Dun' want Mister Sharpe be angry and think little in me."

"Hey, don't you worry, mate," Ben said, frowning angrily at the thought of the redcoat who had caused so much anguish. "He can't touch you without some real good cause. "But Mister Sharpe'll see you all right. He won't let that lobster touch you. Why should he be angry with you?"

"But he says! Flogging! And Mister Sharpe to be angry because I in trouble, and walk into officer, and says in Irish, and now cries!" he finished, dashing angrily at his eyes. He was nearly fifteen now, he thought; old enough to know better.

"No, mate, no. Mister Sharpe won't listen to him. I seen him talking to the man when he came to take Maggie Evans away, and he didn't seem to like the look of him at all. And anyway, didn't he say just when we were scouting that we'd done a good job, you and me? Eh?"

Carty buried his face in his hands, unable to find the words that that made it all so much worse. Mister Sharpe saying "Well done" to him had turned him from a heroic officer into a kind, even more heroic man, and it was this newly-discovered man that Carty did not want to disappoint.

Perkins looked helplessly at Carty and then at Harris, not knowing what to do.

"He should be told," said Harris, meaning that Sharpe needed to know if there was a redcoat officer threatening one of his men - and Carty was just a child, in many ways. Terrifying him might not be difficult, given the state he had been in before, but he did not like the idea of the man 'looking' at Carty in a way that made him more scared, even in the presence of his own officer.

He looked at the boy. "Would you like me to talk to him?"

Carty looked up and shook his head at the other rifleman. "No, Harris, please no! No talk to Mister Sharpe - be angry! Más é do thoil é!"

"He won't be angry," Perkins insisted. "Harris wouldn't say it if he thought Mister Sharpe'd be angry. He's known him for a long time."

Harris nodded: "He won't be angry with you. With the lobster, probably, but not with you." He shook Carty's arm. "I won't tell Mr Sharpe if you don't want me to. But I think he ought to be warned. While you're thinking about it, you should stay close to him. No other officer is going to touch you when he's around."

"He... he won't?" He looked from Harris, to Perkins and back to Harris. "He won't be angry at me? I should tell him?"