Day of the Flogging

Such devotion to a horse... Edrington was pleased with his mounts, but would not speak of them, or think of them with such love. Horses died in wartime, sometimes killed by the man who had ridden it, just to stop it falling into enemy hands. As they had done at Corunna. And as he had done himself, to a beautifully mannered horse... Or they died when the food ran out, for them and for the men. Or were killed by weapons that they faced out of love. There was enough heartbreak in war, without adding horses to the scales.

More interesting, however, was Willoughby's own story, particularly in view of the discoveries of two days earlier. "French scouts? Did you see which regiment?" he asked, frowning in calculation.

It was a decision that the young cavalry man hoped to never face. To kill a live and healthy horse of his own would have broken his heart where men could not, nor women sweethearts. It was enough that he had to, once awoken to the dying breaths of his faithful companion, end his suffering more swiftly. For he knew that there was nothing he could do to save it, nor anything that could help him bring the horse with him.
It wasn't something he had wished to mention, blaming the French scouts fully for Bayard's untimely death. A decision not too wrong, for Bayard would've died either time, it was only that thanks to his rider, he had suffered less long.

He considered a moment, for he needed to remember the colour of the men's uniforms at it's fullest:"..I believe the 1st. "He spoke and then continued with a description:".. Light.. sky blue pelisses, dolmans and trousers, white lace.. well black furr lining on their pelisses. Red Cuffs. The collar, I believe it had to be the same ..sky blue as well." And he added few other details, easily recognising the men as right regiment.

"Why sir? Have you encountered them as well?"He doubted that they could, but all was possible in the circumstances.

"The first are with Soult at Oporto, I believe. I haven't seen them." He grinned. "But then, I've only been back in Portugal for a week. We met Hussars when I was here before, and... " Edrington hesitated. Rumour always flowed through a Division, and he was unsure of how much of what he knew, and suspected, was now common knowledge. "You will probably hear that we found some bodies a couple of days back - killed by our Portuguese allies - that are believed to be from a company of the French 3rd Hussars - scouting very far to the south. It would have been interesting if your encounter was with the survivors."

"I assume you do not know what happened next - who won the encounter, for example?"

"No sir. I'm afraid that I have missed that, for when I woke.. and I am not quite sure on the legnth of my induced rest, there was no sign of them, nor smell or sound." Not too strange that the Portuguese would bring down some horsemen as well. As long as their men - the Portuguese - knew who belonged to which side, the Hussars would bear it. But if it was worth a mention then perhaps the manner in which they found them was less ordinary? Or was it the men who were discovered that they knew?

He wondered about that topic, while adding:" I'm certain that they weren't the 3rd, sir. But I cannot say if they were the last living or first dead." He mused at that, believing more that his troops had managed to hunt down and kill those men and that his departure may have been to blame that they missed each other. But he did not know. He knew nought but that he woke and he went walking.

"I have found marks of hooves, but they were in clear disarray and I crossed each other as if a madman had been on the loose." He smiled faintly and shrugged:"... I remember walking, still dazed... Went one way first. Proper way towards the First. But then I had to have been lost in the rain, a switch of direction for I have gone towards you instead. And with a help of the local I found you."

The boy was lucky to have found them, and there was an apparent concussion, as well as the injury to his leg. "I'm glad you did. It would have been a long walk back to Lisbon, if you'd missed us." Edrington watched him ride, which he seemed to do quite easily. "What did our surgeon say?" he asked. "About your leg and your head. Did he pass you for riding?"

A long way back to Lisbon it would have been, if he managed to conclude it on his two feet. Not a thought he fancied to consider, even in a manner of theory.

"He was.."A small grin appeared on his face:"... persuaded to believe that I am well enough to ride, sir." Persuaded was quite the proper word, for it had been quite close that he would remain in the cart and give company to his fellow Cotton and his sweetheart. The surgeon would not have been as pleased to answer that question.

"It is just a slight pain now." Unless you tried to mount a horse. "And my head is fine, else were I to be talking with you, sir?" Allright, the surgeon could've deemed him unable but if he was able to limp about, he was damned if he would've been confined to a cart when he could be of use elsewhere. On duty.

Maggie awoke before Cotton did. It was pleasant to sit and watch him sleeping. She rarely saw him when he was asleep, since it was usually night and dark. This was only the fourth day of the march, after all, and she had only agreed to walk out with him four days ago, though it seemed like months. He looked so sweet, and also so vulnerable that she wanted to protect him like a child. Poor thing must be exhausted. She wondered how much pain he was feeling and whether he would insist on marching tomorrow. Could he even carry his pack and his rifle like that? Stupid army, that punished its soldiers by making them unfit for soldiering. Didn't the army want able-bodied men? She shuddered to think of what it would have been like if he had gotten the 200 strokes he was listed for.

There were orders being shouted outside, and the column seemed to be slowing to a halt. Time for a rest then. No longer being rocked in his cradle, Cotton squinted and slowly opened his eyes.

"Hello," she whispered, setting her knitting aside. "We're stopping."

"Oh?" He shifted a little. "Ah! That... hurts..."

It was nice here, and Maggie had got her knitting out. He wondered how long she'd been awake, and how long they'd been moving.

"Don't move around! Just lie there like that. Do you think I should look at your bandages or something?" The thought worried her a bit. She had helped men and women through sicknesses and a variety of injuries, but she had never had to tend someone whose back had been flogged open.

"No... no, I reckon it's all right. But I want to sit up. I feel like a useless lump just a-layin' here like this."

He wanted something to do, to be useful. He'd never not had to do something, since he was in petticoats.

"Well, we've stopped now. Do you want to walk?"

"What, and get bullied back into fallin' back in and have to try to keep up with the Rifles? I ain't so daft as to do that, Maggie, lass. Not just yet, anyways."

He sighed, turning his head on his folded arms to try to make out what she was knitting. He couldn't see whether it was a sock or the first part of a comforter, or what it was. No harm in asking, was there?

"What' that you'm knittin', lass?"

They came to a stop, and Carty drew closer to Harris, with whom he was marching. "Now we stopping for the night?"

Colonel Edrington noted the air of satisfaction, and frowned. "Do not risk long-term recovery for a short-term advantage," he warned. "The surgeon might well know best, or at least better than you. Your regiment will not thank you if you turn up unfit to ride."

The column was breaking up into smaller groups as the first rest-stop was ordered. Edrington nodded to Willoughby, and brought Bauernbrot round as men walked round him to join their messmates.

"Just a ten-minute break," he said, watching as the others moved off the road. It was not a hard march today, and as Riflemen they could outpace the Line Infantry. Today though they had made sure they stayed in touch. Patrols were doubly on the alert with fresh talk of French Hussars - live ones this time - being not far away. Although they might well be dead by now, if the British patrol had managed to catch up with them.

"Are you all right?" he asked. He had not mentioned the flogging after they had taken Cotton down. Harris had had one eye on Carty and the other on that damned lieutenant Waldegrave, whose smile had frozen slightly when the Colonel had stopped the punishment.

"Yeah." Carty nodded. "All right." He'd be trembling throughout the flogging, staring as Cotton grew whiter and whiter, and his back grew redder and redder, and Waldegrave's eyes when the Colonel had blessedly stopped at fifty - dark with dissatisfaction. "Thanks, Harris."

When the column halted, Williams had spoken briefly to Grogan, who had given him his chit. Best to be safe, in case he was stopped - even at a break, soldiers weren't meant to go wandering about. He strode past the waiting soldiers and found his way to the surgeon's wagon. Voices inside, one a woman's. Maggie was still here then, cadging a lift. He grinned and knocked on the side of the wagon, mimicking a drum roll.

Maggie pushed the curtain back and gave an awkward smile when she saw it was him. "Oh, hello Private Williams. I was just - Gabe, I'm just going to go see Martha." She jumped out of the wagon and slipped away, leaving Williams and Cotton alone.

Williams watched Maggie as she jumped down. Although the memory of the previous night embarrassed her, she had clearly made her peace with Cotton, and looked much happier. Cotton too, though tired. "Taking the day off, are you?" he smiled and then pulled himself up. "How is it?"

Edrington wrote:Colonel Edrington noted the air of satisfaction, and frowned. "Do not risk long-term recovery for a short-term advantage," he warned. "The surgeon might well know best, or at least better than you. Your regiment will not thank you if you turn up unfit to ride."

The column was breaking up into smaller groups as the first rest-stop was ordered. Edrington nodded to Willoughby, and brought Bauernbrot round as men walked round him to join their messmates.

"Certainly sir. .. I have promised the doctor that should I feel worse, I would come to see him." He rested his foot out of its stirrup. Perhaps it sounded as if he were reckless, but he too did not wish to be hampered by an injury till his days were numbered, so that if anything went for worse he was sure he would do what was right. No need to play a brave man, when it meant you were useless later.

He hesitated seeing as the colonel probably had much to do, now that they were stopping. Riding on his horse at walking pace he was not at all tired yet, but those who walked deserved a short pause before they were to continue.

"Sir.. there is,.." He began:"...something else, that I would wish to discuss with you, with your permission."

He gave a pause before he continued with his train of thought: "You have told me that you would not join me with the Scot Greys, so I would like to know, what are my duties till I rejoin the 15th? I am able rider and scout. I believe I am also a fair shot, if that may aid In your decision. " He hesitated. He did not wish to remain a burden who ate the food and drank the tea, and gave company to some. He was not afraid to face the danger, which was perhaps what his grandfather was not too pleased about. Surely he, when young had been as 'brave' but it was different when his only male blood line may end in the death of this boy.

Mícheál Carty wrote:"Yeah." Carty nodded. "All right." He'd be trembling throughout the flogging, staring as Cotton grew whiter and whiter, and his back grew redder and redder, and Waldegrave's eyes when the Colonel had blessedly stopped at fifty - dark with dissatisfaction. "Thanks, Harris."

"If you have any worries, go to Mr Sharpe, and tell him about it. Or the Sergeant. They can sort it out for you. Or to me, of course. Don't allow any of them to frighten you. We're Riflemen - so we're better than them." That might be true - it was a truth accepted among Riflemen, if contested fiercely by musketeers. But even if so, this set up made it difficult for Sharpe - or Vickery - to protect his men. But he'd give it a damned good try, and take no nonsense from some snooty lieutenant with no experience worth talking about.

"Yeah," said Carty with a ghost of his old smile. "We's Riflemans. Better than l-lobsters."

"Even those of us who were lobsters are better men now than the lobsters we were," Harris confirmed. That went for most of them, even the Lieutenant. But to stress the point, to try to tell Carty that there were some men who shoulld be given a wide berth, whatever the colour of their uniform, would only worry Carty further. He was learning it soon enough.

Carty took a moment to decipher to grammar, and then nodded eagerly in agreement. "Sure, sure." The terrifying effect of the morning's flogging was beginning to wear off, for he liked walking - he liked the simple action and the camaraderie even in the silence; he liked it when the Sergeant looked up at the sky and muttered to the birds in Irish. He took a drink from his canteen. "You think Gabriel Cotton all right?"

"We'll know for sure when Dan gets back." Dan Hagman, who had been beaten by Cotton in the shooting competition, had been the one chosen to go back and check on Cotton, when it was clear that most of the 95th would have gone. "But - it looked bad, but many have survived much worse than that. At least it was stopped after fifty. He won't ever forget that he's had them, more's the pity. He will be conscious of his back until the day he dies, and ..."