Third night in camp

"Do you want to come along, Private?" Sharpe asked, pausing to wait in case he did. "You don't have to, o' course."

"Sir?" Carty whispered, not looking at the other officer. "You's got..." He brushed some of the worst dust off Sharpe's jacket sleeve, which was covered in ash where he had been facing the fire, like he saw other officers' batmen doing. "Sorry, sir, sorry." He turned his face away, cringing, and sat down again.

"My witness," said Waldegrave doggedly. "I have to put the facts of the case before the Colonel. And her evidence will prove ... " He smiled, showing his teeth. "If she tells the truth, that is. She will be under oath, but..." He looked down at her, and then gestured irritably for her to move off. He did not wish to look as if he were walking about the camp with a woman of this type.

"I'll come, Sir, though the memory of that court still has me waking in terror." He smiled to show that he was joking, although it was true that he had had a couple of nightmares where the judgement went against him. "I'll be there if Miss Maggie needs me, after. For Cotton's sake, he'd want her taken care of."

"I've got...? Oh, bugger. Thanks, I wouldn't've noticed that."

Something seemed to have upset the lad, and Sharpe made up his mind he'd have to get one of the other Riflemen to find out. He doubted the young Irishman would tell him directly.

But that was a problem for another time. Right now, he had another Rifleman to worry about, and not even one of his own.

And if anything were going to show Vickery he wanted to be able to work with the 60th, surely this would.

*Good man," he said to the Private. He didn't want the redcoat to think it had been an order, but wasn't entirely sure how to phrase it otherwise.

"You hope her evidence will prove her man did summat you don't approve of?" Sharpe said, turning away before the younger man could reply.

"No," Maggie said firmly. "It won't. I'm ready now."



Continued in Cotton on Trial.

After leaving Maggie Evans at the 60th camp, Williams walked back to his own unit. He had missed the evening meal, but had little appetite. Cotton's predicament merely reinforced his own caution where officers were concerned. Get involved with them, think you can trust them and they will let you down. Cotton had been full of praise for his Captain, and although he may have done his best, it still hadn't stopped Cotton being lined up for two hundred lashes. Cotton did not deserve that, even if he had acted like a fool. He slid back down among the others, fending of their questions about whether 'she' had fed him, or been worth missing a meal for.

Mícheál sat by one of the 95th's camp-fires, hugging his knees. First that officer, scaring him out of his wits, and now the news that Gabriel Cotton was to be flogged. Gabriel, who had an angel's name, like Mícheál did, and was as kind as one too on the first night of the march. It was not right, it was not fair. Then he remembered the look in that officer's eyes, as hungry and excited as a cat eyeing a mouse, and he felt chilled to the bone.

(since arrival in camp was late evening, lessay the drop by , if al right?)

While staying with the riflemen for the first night till he could approach the other officers, of which the time was doubtful tomorrow. He's heard a few rumours and could not locate Cotton, leaarning now the reason for his absence. Tomorrow there would hardly be any time with the possibility of trial taking place, but he would worry about it as the day would come.

For now he was quite satisfied to warm himself beside the fire, which he needed first to locate. Seeing such a one he spotted a figure seated beside it, alone and in, what seemed to be , some distress? At first he had thought to leave the lad alone, for with such a posture he was certainly not one to seek company. But then, he could quite ask and be gone if the youth so desired. It was the closest of the camps and the fire seemed mighty attractive.

"..Good evening."He spoke as he limped closer. "..Is this fire reserved.. for closed company?" His voice was soft, as it always seemed to be, with only a slight edge where it was laced with strain.

Carty looked up in shock as a stranger approached him, speaking to him in English. He stiffened, until he saw that the man was a private soldier, like himself, for all his different uniform. His eyes widened as he took in the pelisse. And he had a limp. He frowned.

"Di- Hello," he said slowly. He made a welcoming getsure; there was plenty of room around the fire after all.

Relieved that he was welcomed to the fire, he seated himself slowly, extending his injured leg forward a little, deciding, at the sight of it, that tomorrow would be spent scrubbing the boots clean, when time allowed.
"..Timothy Willoughby, 15th Hussars."He murmured at the gracious host, smiling. He caught the particularity of the boy's greeting, especially how slow it was in English, when it had begun in ..well, by how much he had heard, he would be damned if he could say what.

"I hope I don't disturb." The shock on the boy's face still fresh in his mind, he almost felt compelled to give him a light comforting pat on the back, and tell him all was well.

He managed a small smile in response to the stranger, but he remained wary. "Mícheál Carty, 95th Rifles." That was something he could say without a single stumble, he said it so often. He pointed at the man's leg. "You are wounded?"

"Yes." No reason to deny it. "A roll with my horse...'didn' end up well." A saddened smile:"..They make them heavy.. those beasts." Speaks so endearingly about the horses, that one needs not to understand nor hear the words to learn of his affection towards them.

"So.. why are you 'ere all on your own, if I may ask." A sensitive question that he hoped would not be taken in offense.

Horse? That would explain the pelisse. The man's smile was sad, and a natural urge to comfort rose in Mícheál. He reached out tentatively and patted the man's arm. "Horse? I like horses."

He barely hid the surprise when the youth reached out to pet his arm.

"You do?" He asked and shifted lightly in his place, adjusting his pelisse, which he wore as a coat now, to keep himself warmer. It was stiff and tight, but with a few buttons now left free, its prospects of warmth outweighed the close embrace of it. Tattered and in need of a good tailor's work he still prided in it. Mud needed be washed out, but that would be done with meticulous attention.

"Have you ridden many? Or have worked on the field with them?" He spoke clearly, and muffled no word so that its meaning could be lost.

He gently added:"... They are beautiful and noble. Kind spirited and sometimes wild... always intelligent.." His smile had broadened. Though it did not reach his eyes which were still of a man who had lost, and it wasn't his pride or honour that was the item in question. "Pardon.." He looked to the fire and leaned closer, his hands facing the flame with palms first. It felt pleasant to enjoy the fiery warmth again. "I meant not to..."He hesitated briefly:"... You are a rifleman, aren't you?" Stating the obvious, good job. "..For how long?"

Carty nodded, smiling a little. "I am a rifleman." He was proud of the fact. "Long, long time now. Many months. I go with Mister Sharpe."

" And, I see, quite proud too! A good shot then? For what I hear of the kind of men that are accepted in your ranks." He smiled. Though the boy was young and a many months were hardly a long time compared to years that others carried on their list, he was a pleasant company. And there had to be a good reason why he was here, so there was no underestimating the lad.

"A good shot? I hits a rabbit, maybe, and I hits the target, but Dan Hagman is a good shot! Most good shot in the army, he is so! He can hit a bird's eye in a storm with his eyes closed, Dan Hagman!"

"Now, now. Are you sure that you aren't exaggerating just a small bit?" Shakes his head and leans back slightly.".. May I see your rifle like?" He rested his arm against his thigh. He was tired. The warmth of the fire had the Hussar relax to the point he could've slept right at it's side and not be bothered by sleeping on the cold grounds without a cloth between himself and it.

"You probably can't show to shoot it now, can you?"He asked in a whisper feeling fully at ease.

"Exaj..." Carty shook his head, and held out his rifle, not letting go of it. The man was a stranger after all, and a missing rifle would mean his back off. "Can't shoot it. In camp, and is dark. For- in case of- French. You know."

"If ye hit one by accident they wouldn' hold it against you." He teased, studying the rifle from where he could.

"Got a fine looking thing there." He released it again and nodded that the boy could reclaim it fully. He had warmed himself enough, and as late as it was starting to be, the best bet was to go to sleep. The boy probably needed to be places or want some alone time anyhow.

"..Hope it will turn out well for Cotton." He reckoned he was a man quite liked among the rifles.

" Bu' now I think I best be going." He stood, and straightened his pelisse tugging it a tad lower.

"Good night."

"Thank you," Carty said as he pulled back the rifle, cradling it in his arms. What was that phrase Cotton had taught him? "Nice to meet you."

He smiled turning to look at the boy for one final time:" And you. I thank you for your company." He spoke kindly and softly." Take care." He turned and with an uneven step bit by bit he was lost to the eye, consumed by the darkness. Like a ghost that appeared and now, at peace, departed into thin air.

"Go- Good night!" Carty called with a wave as the man disappeared, and he was left alone by the camp-fire again. He clutched his rifle a little closer to him, and then went to find someone else with whom he could sit, anyone from the 95th. He hated to be alone now.

Perkins looked up from where he was cleaning his rifle, hearing someone approach. "Oh, hello Mícheál." He took a closer look at his friend's face as he drew nearer to the fire. "You all right, mate?" he asked in concern. "Here, sit down."