Third night in camp

"You should tell him. And I promise he won't be angry. He's never angry with anyone who tells him the truth," Harris said, certain that the lieutenant would not blame the boy for whatever had happened.

Well, the trial was over, and the sentence was two hundred lashes, to be given tomorrow morning.

Edrington hadn't seemed completely convinced by Sharpe's story, but he had sounded willing to reduce the sentence. He'd probably let the lad go after a hundred, though he might be lucky enough to only get fifty.

He came back to his own area of camp to see Perkins, Harris and Carty talking round a campfire. Not wanting to impose on them, he went to walk past to find space at another fire.

Mister Sharpe was walking past. At a reassuring nod from Harris, Carty stood up. Harris' promise had made him feel brave enough to speak to their Lieutenant, and he stepped forward, staring down at his feet.

Sharpe paused as one of the seated riflemen got up. It was Carty, looking nervous, but seemingly trying to put a brave face on it.

"You all right there, lad?" he asked, and sighed a little. "Here, let me sit down here and tell me what's eatin' you."

He joined the two seated men, thinking that whatever it was, maybe it would help Carty if someone were there to prompt him, or even, possibly, actually broach the subject.

Sharpe sat down; Carty remained standing, as though making a report. "Mister Sharpe, sir," he began, and then looked helplessly at Harris.

"Here, lad, sit down and make yourself comfortable. Then tell me when you're ready."

He glanced over at Harris, trying to get the man to put some tea on to brew.

"Sit?" The look of anguish on the boy's face deepened - how could he tell Mister Sharpe how much trouble he was in when he was being so kind to him? He sat down and stared into his lap, wringing the hem of his jacket.

Sharpe cast a despairing look at Harris. He wasn't good in these sorts of situations.

"Mícheál," he said. "I can't help you if you don't tell me what's wrong."

"Tell the lieutenant," Harris said, and looked at Sharpe. "Tell him about the other lieutenant, Carty."

Carty nodded and swallowed. "The other Lieutenant, sir-" He sought not only the words in English, but the beginning of his story. "It was the night we are after, sir - last night, sir."

"You got any tea there, Harris?" Sharpe said, hoping that having something to drink would calm the lad a bit.

"Right. Last night, summat happened with you and the other Lieutenant. What?"

He wished Harper were here; they'd natter nineteen to the dozen in Irish and it'd be sorted.

"I walk, away from the fires, sir. I was upset, sorrow in the head, from the bodies, and I want make it quiet. It is dark, and I walk, only the Lieutenant walk also, and he walk at me." He twisted the material in his hands, not meeting Sharpe's eyes.

Ben returned from fetching some tea. "Here y'are, sir," he said, handing the cup to Sharpe. "I think Mícheál bumped into the lieutenant, in the dark like."

"Thanks, Perkins, lad," Sharpe said, accepting the cup. He felt that if he were to look at Carty, the lad would bolt like a startled hare. He leaned forward, gazing into the dancing flames of the fire.

"He walked at you?" he asked. "What, toward you?"

"At me, then, at me. Um, on me. No..." He held one hand up, and then pushed the other into it, in a fist. "Like so, and I fall, almost."

"Right." It was easy enough done, in the dark. Carty was a Rifleman, wearing a dark green jacket and black leatherwork that was not designed to be seen at night.

"Did he walk into you from behind, or in front?" he asked.

"I hear sound, and I think it is-" He swallowed and looked down, ashamed. "I am scared because I think it is Portuguese like who killed the Frenchmans, and I walk, um, not front. Walk behind. And the Lieutenant walk at my back."

Harris crouched down by the fire. He wanted to say that they had all been affected by the French dead, that he had seen the bodies behind his eyes, but Carty was telling his story now, and the lieutenant was listening.

"Bumped into you," Perkins said helpfully. "The lieutenant bumped into you."

"He walked into you from behind?" Sharpe thought he could see where this was going. He'd met officers like Waldegrave before, when he was in the ranks.

"So what happened then?" he asked, feeling as though he already knew.

"I see him, and I say, I try to say, 'Sorry, sir', but he is looking like anger itself, and I say 'S- s- s-'." He could feel his eyes growing hot again; he squeezed them shut. "He says, loud, he shout, 'You are drunk! Flogging!'" He began to stammer. "And I am scared, so so scared, sir, because he is an officer, sir, and we walk at him, and he is angry, and I says "Sorry, so sorry, sir, din' see you, sir, no, please, sir, sorry!' but I am scared and I can' says it in English and I says it in Irish!"

As he'd thought. A drunken bully who'd push around any soldier so long as they were scared of him.

"Well, you're here now, with me, and Harris, in the Rifles' camp. And I will sort it out."

Quite how he would do that, he wasn't sure, but he'd find some way of doing it. And really, the lad was doing very well, learning English under the tutelage of Harris, even though he had a tendency to forget things when he was excited... or nervous.

He would make a good Rifleman one day, Sharpe was sure.

"You did the right thing, telling me. I don't ever want you to think you can't tell me about something, right? I'm your officer, and I will look after you."

(OOC - and I'm falling asleep, so I'm going to call it a night! See you later!)

"But he shouts "Flogging!" again, and then I, sir, I run." Carty hid his face, the grass in front of him blurring. He had run from an officer reprimanding him. "I was so scared, sir! I am sorry, Mister Sharpe!"

[OOC: Good Night! Or, as Carty would say, Oíche mhaith!]

Perkins tentatively patted his friend on the shoulder. He didn't blame Carty for crying, but it had caught him off guard. He'd cried himself a couple of times in front of the others, but when it had happened he had wished he could disappear into a hole in the ground and never come out again. He had no idea how to react to someone else crying.

"Drink your tea, Mícheál," he suggested.

Sharpe sighed. Carty was young, and he'd learn the ways of the Army soon enough, but Sharpe didn't want him - or any of his men - to be brutalised before they had the chance to learn how to be good soldiers.

"Carty, you are a Rifleman. One of my men. And if he - or any other redcoat officer - has a problem with you, he will have to get through me and Sergeant Harper first. And I don't flog. You remember my rules, don't you?"