Fourth Night in Camp

"Hmm," Newbury muttered absently, gazing down at the now half-empty pot. He'd have to go back to the river and refill it.

Then it dawned on him that the hussar had mentioned messing with the company. Was that so, then? Newbury shrugged and indicated the pot in his hand. "Only thing to do is fetch some more water, like. Yer welcome to follow 'long though."

"Gladly." He had to properly water his horse any ways. He did not offer to take the pot, for he reckoned the rifleman would take such as an offense. Instead he let him lead, while he followed on his horse.

He kept Bella a distance from Newbury, for she seemed intent on having a nick at his uniform. Whether it was that she thought it was grass (doubtfully) or she was just of such character (most probably) was not quite easy to decide, but the mare needed some reining in. The lass was far from acting proper!

"Does it happen often?" He asked when they were a small deal away from the ears of other soldiers: "...The disputes between the riflemen and redcoats." He supplied.

Newbury shrugged again, taking care to keep the pot well away from the horse. "Shouldn't happen at all," he replied. "But there's some fellows that can't be trusted to leave things be."

"Some in every army... there are." It was best to keep the distance then, and hope that you would answer the officer always in a calm, composed and proper manner. The least you said, the better. For even a yes sir could be twisted to sound as something bad, but a full sentence to a vengelful man was an invitation to a disaster. Vickery, he reckoned, wasn't one to call on for trouble and the conversation that they shared was a living proof for it.

".." The conversation here ran dry though, and so the Hussar rather busied himself with his horse. It was easily expected that the captain would accept the Colonel's word, but harder to ask of the riflemen to accept a stranger.

It was easy work to refill the pot once he made it back to the river. The trick would be keep it away from that horse though. Newbury looked over at the hussar and wondered why the lad was so drawn to the Rifles. All they'd done was bring him back a few yards to the army.

"C'mon then, camp's this way," Newbury said and started off. The lads would be annoyed with him for taking so long.

Every man would seek those that he could relate to, be it due to experience, be it to the kinder word or solely that he had known them, when he knew no other face. The hussar had been in ways, a scout himself, though on the horse and never with a rifle to strike down a man. His ways of chasing and of fighting were by far different. Still he was the only man now of the 15th Hussars, yet as eager to do his duty. It happened that the Colonel suggested the riflemen, not he. But he readily accepted, having atleast met some of the faces.

His horse now watered while Newbury filled his own pot, Willoughby followed in stride and at distance, to have Bella not tempted to drink from that pot again. The mare looked less interested in it now, and her step was lighter as they crossed ground, the prospect of any hay or the like endearing her to the direction that they were taking.

Her rider was lost in thought wondering about that boy. Young Micheal Carty. He felt his heart go to him when he saw him so distressed. The poor youth had been scared and trembling, being picked on by someone who should have lead and not bullied the men.

And now there was a slight worry to meet the others he hadn't known. He could only hope that they shared captain Vickery's view, else this would turn to be a less pleasant night that he hoped for.

Harris had returned to the 95th's camp with a bottle of brandy, or something which called itself brandy. If young Carty was going to introduced to drink, this would either give him the taste, or put him off for life. Carty had become calmer, away from redcoats, no longer alternating between bouncing with joy and flinching at the sight of gold on red. At the moment he was drinking tea, and Harris slid down to the ground beside him. "We have to be fit to march tomorrow," he reminded the boy, and tried to remember how much he could drink at that age. But that just reminded him that once started, you drank what you could and be damned to tomorrow. The sound of boots made him look up - gold glinting on a red that glowed in the firelight. The Colonel, though, not the Lieutenant, although he doubted if the one was more welcome than the other. He stood up hastily, conscious of the bottle in one hand, and said: "If you're looking for the Lieutenant ..." He glanced behind him in the hope of seeing him.

Sharpe had come back from setting picquets to find Harris standing by the fire, talking to a redcoat officer. The firelight gleamed off the officer's buttons, and Sharpe wondered whether it was too late to head back out to the picquets. Then Harris turned to look around, and Sharpe sighed. Yes, it was too late.

He moved forward, and his heart sank a little when he realised it was Colonel Edrington. He'd wanted to keep away from him tonight, after what had happened, and now it didn't seem as though he ws going to be able to. Damn.

Edrington nodded to Harris, smiled - reassuringly, he hoped - at the two younger riflemen, and walked towards Sharpe, away from prying ears. "Mr Sharpe. Perhaps we should have a word, somewhere rather quieter."

"Sir?" What he could possibly want to talk about, Sharpe couldn't imagine. He hadn't hit Waldegrave, after all, though it had been a close thing.

"That was a damned unfortunate exhibition you and Lieutenant Waldegrave staged in the middle of camp this evening. I am trying to get us all to work together, and two officers squabbling in full view of the rest of the regiment - and outsiders - will not do." Edrington swallowed his anger and said: "If it happens in future, you should bring the matter to me. I have said as much to Waldegrave."

Sharpe stopped dead. "I gave him two chances to admit that it weren't no more than you ruled it as," he said. "An' he insisted on bein' right. Sir."

If Edrington thought that was an exhibition, Sharpe would damn well give him one - and beat that arrogant, bullying Lieutenant into a pulp. They were all the same. Just 'cause a man had a bit of money and a pocket-handkerchief sized parcel of land, he thought he could be an officer and get away with making men's lives a burden.

"It is not a question of which one of you I agreed with, it is the fact that you chose to discuss it with him in full view of the rest of the camp," Edrington repeated. "Had Carty already told you about the incident? Or was it so minor... Did yu know about it?"

"He told me, my lord. He was terrified he was going to be flogged, like Cotton was this morning. And not having a tent like yourself, I don't know where else we could have discussed it, as you say. Sir. Considering that he chose to confront my men in the middle of camp and I was fortunate enough to be close by, sir, I intervened there and then. My lord."

"Then you should have come to me about it. I would have hoped that you would trusted me to deal with it." Edrington sighed. "I don't know Lieutenant Waldegrave at all - barely spoken to him before the Cotton incident - but you. I thought we had some kind of agreement on how to make this work."

And that understanding seemed to have been lost. First Cotton, and now - but Carty was there, sharing a mug of brandy and talking with excited gestures, not awaiting a flogging.

Sharpe kicked at a tuft of grass. "He's in your regiment, an' it's been my experience that the colonel will back an officer of his own regiment over an outsider. And I was tryin' to settle it calmly, like. Only he wouldn't have none of it, which ain't my fault, sir. Besides, you'd already flogged a Rifleman today. How were I to know you weren't goin' to back your officer and flog one of my men, an' all?"

He'd tried, couldn't the bloody man see that?

"I flogged a rifleman whom I found guilty of theft. I would have done the same had it been one of my regiment. Waldegrave's involvement in that was purely co-incidental: he found the watch, and I asked him to present the case. Which he did quite ably, I thought."

For a moment Edrington looked away from Sharpe, towards the line of trees along the river. "As for young Carty, I don't know the truth, but I would have pardoned Carty if he had been as drunk as a wheelbarrow. Anyone would be forgiven for getting very drunk that night, particularly a boy of his age. Moreover, I do not consider accidental collisions a cause for flogging, nor is speaking Irish, even if iit is inadvisable."

Maybe... Maybe he had misjudged the man. He was finding it hard to see beyond the smart red coat with its gold lace, and had no notion of the man wearing it, or what sort of soldier he was. He had to give the man a chance, but something inside did not want to do that.

"Sorry, sir," he said obscurely, though quite what he was apologising for, he did not know.

"I don't need to lecture you on what is reasonable - but I would appreciate it if you leave Waldegrave to me. He joined us last autumn, from the -th Foot, when they were posted to the West Indies. A relatively experienced lieutenant, and Major Vereker had no trouble with him. Now I'm back, I will see what I make of him."

"Yes, sir." Experienced as a bully, no doubt, wanting to make the men's lives harder and more miserable than was necessary.

And why was it always easier to slip back into 'Yes, sir', 'No, sir' mode of replying?

(OOC - dinnertime!)

"I'll say it again, Sharpe. If you have any trouble with any of my officers, or men, and if Waldegrave so much as looks askance at one of your men, come and tell me." Come and tell tales, ask for help? Sharpe was unlikely to do that, but there was no other way to handle the problem. If it spread beyond Waldegrave, it would be difficult to check from spreading to the men, and ... He grimaced. Sir Arthur probably expected him to fail, and that made it more important to succeeed.

Sharpe was grateful the darkness hid his scowl. He was not going to go running for help - sink to the level he'd accused Wadegrave of being at. He didn't need a God-damn nursemaid to help him deal with any of the 62nd.

"Yes, sir," he replied, woodenly.

Edrington knew he had lost Sharpe, for the moment at least. The wooden sergeant was back, and the Colonel had no expectation that the man would do as he had been asked.

"Thank you, Mr Sharpe," he said with as much courtesy as he could manage. A day which had started with a flogging at least was not going to end with another one lined up. And even if the conversation had not gone as he wished, at least he could be sure that Sharpe would be very wary of Waldegrave.

"Is everything else all right, Mr Sharpe?" Other than having a vengeful Lieutenant persecuting your men, of course.

[OOC: dinner break until 8.30ish]

"Yes, sir." Not that he'd tell the Colonel if it wasn't, and get accused of not being a capable officer.

Drat the man. Sharpe had spent the winter acting as escort to Hogan on his map-making expeditions, and found himself resenting the strict discipline of the redcoat regiments, even though he could still enforce his own rules the way he was used to doing.

Right now, he wanted to get drunk, or go and spend some time with those who appreciated him, and that meant his own men.

"Good," Edrington kept his voice level. "I'm sorry to have bothered you." Damn the man. And damn himself, for starting off on the wrong foot. And, most of all, damn Waldegrave.