Fourth Night in Camp

"No bother, sir."

Well, of course it was, but he wasn't going to admit it, was he?

Edrington turned away, and began to thread his way back between the camp fires to the tent that marked the centre of the 62nd's ground. The air smelt of woodsmoke and boiling meat.

Sharpe stared after the departing Colonel for a moment before turning and heading over to the fire where Harris and Carty were sitting, drinking.

He had hoped that they might be able to work together, but he resented being told to run to the Colonel with problems. Though, as his temper died, he appreciated the fact that Edrington wanted to know if his men were being a nuisance - Sharpe would want to know, in his turn, if Edrington had a problem with any of the 95th, after all.

Carty looked up from the brandy he was studying to see Sharpe approaching, having spoken to the Colonel. The Lieutenant did not look happy, and Carty's face fell to mirror his. He hoped that he had not caused Mister Sharpe much trouble, but if the Colonel had been talking to him, it was apparent that he had.

"Evenin', lads," he said. "Mind if I join you?" He noticed the look on Carty's face and smiled. "It ain't that bad, is it, lad?"

Carty smiled in return. "Brandy? No drunk no brandy now, Mister Sharpe. First brandy." He imitated what he had seen the other rifelmen do, and took a swig. "Bleugh!" He made a face and shuddered, looking at the bottle and the other riflemen in confusion.

Harris patted Carty on the shoulder, as he reacted to the taste. "Now pass the bottle to the Lieutenant," he said, and cocked an eyebrow at the officer. "Not more trouble, sir?"

That made Sharpe grin properly. "You'll get used to it, lad. Is there any for me?" He took the offered bottle and had a swig himself.

"Only the Colonel, trying to get me to go runnin' to him if any of the 62nd try causin' problems, Harris," he said, passing the bottle over. "Nowt to worry yoursel' over."

"Well, you'd do that of course," said Harris, accepting the bottle. "We can handle any trouble ourselves, French or English." He made sure he had a decent mouthful of brandy, and passed the bottle to Perkins.

"French or English," Carty repeated and nodded. He was putting every effort not taken with trying to ignore the fiery taste in his mouth into following every word of the coversation, and was frowning a little in concentration. He had to improve his English.

"Are you sayin' I can't handle trouble, Harris? I can handle you lot well enough, now, can't I?" He grinned at Carty. "Drink it a bit slower, lad, not so much all at once till you're used to it."

"Is hot. Not hot like tea, but... hmm." Carty searched for the word, and gave up. "Makes hot down to belly."

"Aye, it does that, lad. Warms you up, it does."

Carty nodded eagerly, delighted to be talking to Mister Sharpe like this. "Warm, warm in the belly, but hot in the mouth! I like the warm, but dun' like the... the feel, in the mouth?"

"Need another taste then?" Perkins asked with a grin, passing the bottle.

Harris agreed with Sharpe. He had handled them all, all the way down through Portugal to Lisbon, with most of them not wanting to go. He'd handled the French even more roughly, and any redcoat officer would receive the same treatment, if they pushed Sharpe too far.

He turned his attention to Carty's problem, thought briefly and offered. "Warming. We'd say it warms you all the way down. Warms, warming."

"Of all the thing I have to teach you lot, I didn't reckon on drinkin' being one o' them." Sharpe was smiling as he spoke, enjoying the company of sitting round a fire with his men.

"Warms. Warms, warms, warms. It warms all the way down. It is warming?" Carty looked pensive. "The brandy is warm; the brandy warms. The fire is hot; the fire hots."

"The fires heats. But you're doin' very well, Carty, lad. Where's that brandy bottle got to now?"

Carty rubbed at his temple as the brandy bottle was passed back to Sharpe, the red in his cheeks nothing to do with the fire. "Thank you, Mister Sharpe, sir." He looked at Harris again. "Heats. Heats, heats, heats - the fire is hot but the fire heats. And snow? Snow is cold; snow colds?"

"Snow cools or makes cold." English lessons round a fire... about as far from his own reading lessons as it was possible to get. "I think you might have had enough brandy by now, though. It's strong stuff, if you ain't used to it." He took a second swig and passed it back to Harris. "Don't reckon there's any tea, is there?"

"But cool is smaller than cold! Like warm is smaller than hot, yes? Snow cools..." He was growing more confused; the warmth from the fire and the warmth from the brandy were making his own head feel warm too - warm and comfortable and far too heavy for this ridiculously illogical language. "Tá Béarla briste," he murmured. He shook his head. "Brandy is strong drink?"

"Yes, Carty. Brandy is strong drink. And you shouldn't have any more or you'll have a headache in the morning."

It was nice to sit round the fire with a bottle of brandy and not have to worry about things for once, but he didn't want Carty to have a hangover the first time he'd tried drinking properly.

"Um..." Perkins was still thinking about snow. "Snow chills? Or freezes?"

A headache... an ache in the head, a bad head! Carty had, like the rest of the riflemen, happily laughed at and teased the hungover when it came to marching; he did not want to experience that himself. "Strong drink makes you sicking," he said with an air of wisdom.

"Eh?" Carty looked at Perkins. "Chills? Freezes?"