Day of the Flogging

Waldegrave stood watching as the men of Captain Simmonds' company reformed ready for the march. The solemnity of a punishment parade was soon forgotten, particularly when the man on the triangle was not one of their own. As an example, the Lieutenant thought it would fail. Fifty lashes was insufficient punishment for the crime Cotton had committed, and the woman had not been punished at all - although she clearly had suffered. But the Colonel was still going soft on the Riflemen, as he had over the incident with Sharpe. It would not work, of course. Riflemen would continue to think they were a special breed of soldiers. As for the men, there was little to choose between them - scoundrels and shirkers most of them. Rifle officers on the other hand, maintaining that their ways were the best - they woulld see about that.

Now there was one unhappy man to the left, up ahead. A lieutenant no less. One would think he had eaten something particularly sour and was stuck with the taste on his tongue till the cows came home. By the way he stood he left an air importance, but not the kind that would draw in the crowd with an applause of merry ladies. Rather his first impression was of a man that felt more important than everybody else about. He could though be as well mistaken.

Judging by his uniform he was of the regiment of Foot.
That was certain, and the men that he was observing were of the same.

The wagon had already started moving by the time Maggie came back. So many people had stopped her to ask about Cotton. As she climbed back inside, she smiled to see him lying on the mat and taking it easy. She had been worried that he would insist on marching, and even his talk about keeping his hands busy hadn't altogether pleased her.

"That's the idea," she said approvingly as she settled down next to him. "This is the way to travel in style. Now where's that shirt of yours?"

"In me pack," Cotton said. He never let anyone else but himself go into his pack; it contained everything he owned in the world. Which wasn't much, but still.

"I can't lay around like this all day, though, Maggie. Ain't nacheral. Ain't right, neither. I've allus worked... allus kept me hands busy, and this is like to drive me mad, lass."

She shook her head at him. "But aren't you tired? What I wouldn't give... Maybe I'll just mend your shirt in a minute, and you can talk to me instead." She carefully folded his jacket and set it aside before she lay down on the mat next to him, propping her head on her arms and smiling. "Tell me about your farm."

"Tired? No, lass." He sighed. "It weren't my farm, either. Nor Dad's. We was labourers, see, to one of Squire's tenant farmers, a proper yeoman farmer. Not quite gentry, but would've been in a few years. It was in Kent... dunno if you've ever been there. East Kent, it was, and we grew wheat an' oats an' peas, stuff like that. Taters, o' course. And there was an apple orchet, and hops for the beer. And a few sheep." He smiled. "It was hard work, o' course, but good. What else d'you want to know?"

"Hmm?" She opened her eyes slowly. "Oh. Were there... animals?"

"Some sheep, and cows for the milk and butter..." And he was feeling tired after all, what with the lack of sleep last night, and the best part of a pint of rum in his belly wasn't helping his head. "And the hosses. Lovely big things, they was. Suffolk Punches, not Shires like the other farmers had..."

"Mm," Maggie responded without opening her eyes. She would get up in just a minute, she told herself. She wasn't falling asleep. Just resting a moment. So comfortable. She wouldn't fall asleep, not with the wagon jostling. She would sit up in a minute and mend that shirt and do a dozen other things that needed doing. But for now...

Somehow, he was feeling drowsy even with the dull, insistent pain of his back. He smiled sleepily at Maggie, who had fallen asleep next to him, and reached out to brush a strand of hair away from her face. Lovely hair, she had, he thought.

And she looked so peaceful, sleeping there, with the worries that had creased her brow over the last day or so all forgotten now. He lay his hand on hers, watching her... She was a good lass, and he finally allowed himself to admit to himself how he felt about her. He loved her. He tightened his hold on her hand fractionally and drifted off.

The men were on the move. Riding along with them was the solitary Hussar. No longer horseless he passed the river of red easily, gazing at the soldiers with small amount of curiosity. Spurring the horse into a trot and then a canter he rode up ahead. The riflemen were already on their way and have been so sooner than the rest of the camp, obviously to scout ahead.

Some mud was sent into the air, as the horse splashed into a particularly deep puddle, spraying all that was in its range.
Back in the saddle again and right where he felt most at home. If he had not thought better, a song would certainly have been on the menu. Not even the dull ache on his right leg could ruin his mood. He turned and halted the horse briefly. Lord Edrington.. right, a man he needed still to contact as ordered. Then he would see what more there was that he was to do.

Private Abernethy had brought Bauernbrot up from the horselines, and the horse was saddled, and waiting, by the time Edrington had changed his coat to something he would be more comfortable in, riding. What had been an Army camp was gradually emerging as a muddy field, with the marks of fires, interlaced with a pattern of worn paths. Across them lay the marks of the regiments' passage, even tyre ruts from the early wagons.

Among the mounted officers from the Regiment, the Hussar stood out, trotting easily along the flanks of the column. As Edrington watched, he halted, looking back, and the Colonel rode forward to meet him.

Catching sight of the Colonel the trooper jerked his head into a slight nod. There he was then! He sent his horse into a walk to meet the respected Lord Edrington. Sitting proud on his horse, he looked every ounce a Hussar, with the air that had his tattered uniform seem as presentable as if it was in its perfect state.

He saluted, barely containing his high spirits behind a mask of formality. "Sir." He greeted the man, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smile.

Edrington saluted in return, regarding the young man curiously. There was a sense of elation about him, despite his obvious tiredness.

"I am sorry that you had such an unedifying spectacle on your first day - but it not required often, thank God." He smiled, and turned his roan to walk with Willoughby's beside the column. He would need to ride to the front, to show himself to his regiment and to the Rifle companies, but that could wait until he had dealt with this.

"Now, I am rather unclear about how you come to be here, and even less clear about what to do with you. Attach you to the Scots Greys, was my first thought, but that may not be necessary. Hussars and Dragoons do not work together, and ... "

He turned his head to look at the youngster again and said: "You said your name was Timothy Willoughby."

[OOC - I must go out in about 15 minutes - so be warned! I am likely to disappear for a couple of hours in mid conversation.]

"Yes, Private Timothy Willoughby of the 15th Hussars." He answered proudly easing himself around so that he would come on Edrington's left, walking now between him and the open land. He wasn't quite surprised at the interest of the Lord in his name, though more that he had remembered it from a day ago.

"I would be fully oblieged to recall the past events that brought me here, if you shall so wish, sir." He spoke politely, with a warm and proud tone to his voice, even if the events were by far not ones to be proud off. His new horse was still a bit unused to it's new rider, a notion perhaps that only one knowing the ways of the horses and cavalry could see.

He felt somewhat relieved, though not as much showing , about the Scot Greys. Still he wondered what his name had to do with the decision that Lord Edrington had made.
A curious bright look was held at bay.


[OOC - allright! I shall be also gone but that in about 3 hours and return later then! ]

"And therefore Lord Gwydyr," Edrington said, still looking forward. He continued: "I met your grandfather at the House* just before I left. He knew I was coming to Portugal and mentioned that he had a grandson with the 15th Hussars. He asked me to give you a message."

*House of Lords

A fleeting emotion of unease crossed the young man's features, gazing ahead at the small figures of men and at those larger walking with purpose and repetitive motion, like life-sized toy soldiers.".. he has, ..sir?" His voice hadn't lost it's earlier tone, yet it was somewhat more subtle, quieter.

Edrington flickered a glance at the Hussar. "Yes - oh, not an urgent message, and not one I think you will be eager to receive." He smiled ruefully. "I would like to say that I am sure that he is secretly very proud of your courage and independence, but that would be putting words into his mouth. My only evidence for that is that he did ask me to look out for you, and we have not spoken since my grandmother's funeral - fifteen years ago."

"..yes sir." He did not sound convinced about what his Lordship said first. He held onto the reins, adjusting them in his palm of his one hand still keeping his eyes on the column up ahead.

"..I am capable of looking after myself, sir." He added after the silence had dragged for a few moments. "With all due respect." He added and finally looked to the colonel. "I .. do not believe that you shall need to take that role.." He paused and then added almost in a trooper's defiance:"Sir."

Edrington grinned at the lad's continued defiance. "I do not propose looking after you - you are not my responsibility, at least, not after we get you back to your Regiment. Until then, you can draw food and fodder, and other requirements - would it suit you to eat with the 60th, since you seem to have made friends among them already?"

He rode on for a few more paces before adding: "Your grandfather's message was that when you wished to return home - the phrase when you came to your senses was used - he would ensure that all was sorted out, and that you could discuss your future sensibly." He glanced sideways again. "Would you not prefer a commission?"

"Yes sir." He paused, his eyes brightening somewhat:".. If it were not an inconvenience, then I would enjoy eating with them, yes." They were found to be a very pleasant company, if somewhat different from the rest.

he cast his eyes to the head of his new horse, watching as the animal's ears twitched to the sounds of the marching men, of the colonel talking at his side and of his own voice sometimes breaking the silence. the horse pulled on his reins again and jerked his head up then down. Timothy was starting to get used to it, though the behavour had to be changed somehow. He didn't need the horse pulling at his reins just when he was supposed to concetrate on slicing a man's face open.

"...I would prefer to remain with the Hussars, sir." The answer had an underlying meaning saying clearly that he doubted his grandfather would agree to that and thus he would actually rather be a private on a horse, than an officer off it.

Edrington smiled to himself. Fancying oneself in a hussar jacket was one thing, but this boy had made it come true, evein though he had had to give up all the comfort he had known from birth. If he did get a commission in the Hussars, the experience of the last couple of years would give him a most unusual insight into the lives of his men. But he was as stiff-necked as his grandfather, and as proud.

"Write to him, at least," he said. "It is for you to make the first gesture towards reconciliation - particularly now with an action imminent. You can't expect him to grovel to his own grandson."

"I do not expect that from him." It wouldn't hurt if it happened though. He sighed quietly gazing ahead.

"..There is not much that I should write him, sir, that he does not already know. I have made myself fair clear and my actions and my service in the Hussars, I hope, do not conceal my intentions."
He stole a sideway glance at the colonel, before he continued.

"I respect him, sir and love him dearly.. but he is set in his ways as I am in mine." There were regrets ofcourse and sometimes he yearned to return home and there to ask to be forgiven. At others he knew that if he was presented with the option again, there was not a single that he would change.

"It is your choice, of course. Even if you were in my Regiment, I would not order you to write home."

The Countess would scold him in her letters for not writing home often enough, but he did write, not to tell her that he loved and respected her, although that underlay everything he did write, but to tell her of the people he served with and some of the things that happened that might interest or amuse her. The Earl of Parham, this boy's grandfather, might scowl and complain about his grandson, but he would surely welcome ...

Perhaps not. Relationships differed, and he was not going to tell the boy how to handle his own affaris. So he put that aside and asked: "How did you come to be horseless so far from your Regiment?"

"While scouting, sir."He began, steering a horse around a rather large rock and then closing in to Lord Edrington's side. So it was time to tell the story, or atleast the more important parts of it. "We were on our usual route, when we came across some French scouts. I am certain that they were not intent on attacking, for there were far too few of them. However, they were certainly curious about our movements and our numbers.

We engaged them and they turned tail. As they dispersed we followed." In fair Hussar's fashion. Chase and fight whatever moves, till it is dead or you need to run right back, overpowered.
"They thought that they could face us, when we were in... 'loose formation'." An understatement.

"I happened to be the first in line of fire, figuratively speaking." He shook his head curtly. "The blasted bastards killed my horse!" He spoke that louder than he meant, his hand balled into a fist, and his eyes fierce, enraged, with his lips pursed stiff. His voice shook at the very last sentence, while before the story had been spoken in a nonchallant manner, as if citing a report.

He had to breathe in sharply, a couple of times, to ease his mind and his nerves, a silent count to ten and inhale and another exhale before he was to continue:"...While I was engaging one of them, one of the others had come to his aid....Bayard took the brunt of it.." He spoke the name tenderly as if speaking the name of a sweetheart or his most trusted friend.

And then :"...I don't quite remember what happened later with my men, for I have fallen and must've struck my head, sir." He looked at the colonel. "..I only awoke later, alone." The first part of his story completed.