Fourth Night in Camp

"Too much strong drink and you'll be sick, yes. And we don't want that, do we, now?"

Carty shook his head, smiling blissfully at the riflemen around the fire. "No, dun' want sicking, sir!"

Mellowed by the brandy, Sharpe reached out and ruffled the boy's hair. "Good lad, Carty. You always try hard, don't you?"

"Chills. Makes you cold. And freeze is like making ice." He grinned and looked up to make sure Harris and Sharpe weren't listening before saying quietly, "Just no sicking on the general, eh?"

Carty thought he might explode with happiness; he beamed at Sharpe worshipfully. "I tries hard, sir, I do. For you and Rifles." And he did; he had always worked hard, but never before had he expended so much effort in self-improvement, which was somethinge entirely different to the farm's menial labour, and a hundred thousand times more rewarding. He heard Perkins' comment and started laughing, not believing how happy he was in comparison to how terrified he had been so little time ago, how certain he was of a flogging of the worst degree.

And that started Perkins off as well, shaking with laughter that he tried to contain, knowing that the others would probably ask for an explanation.

Harris leaned back, listening to the boys. Up one minute, down the next - it came with the age, and would go with it, and they would learn that there was less to laugh at than they had hoped. But he smiled anyway, because at least there was still some brandy, and the boy wasn't going to be flogged after all.

That was how the Riflemen should be, Sharpe thought, cheerful. He was pleased how quickly Carty had recovered from his stark terror of earlier. If the lad could keep this up, and improve his English, he would have to see about making the lad a Chosen Man. He'd keep an eye on him and see how things went, before saying anything or making a final decision, though.

He wondered again about Vickery's plans for a training day, though those plans were probably on hold now, until his man was recovered somewhat.

As they arrived in the camp of the 60th, he lead Bella a bit further from the fire, where she would be safe from the dangers of the enemy but still not in the way of the grasshoppers. There he tied her and secured her so that she would not wander about. The camp found he looked about, deciding to have Newbury be left in peace with his fellows, while he could observe and go about, to see more faces and know more men.

So with the limp in tow still, his leg less stiff as the riding had worn it. Tomorrow would be another story, but today he could almost have himself walk proper. And he grinned about it, while wandering about, fire to another fire.

Cotton couldn't bear to be cooped up in the surgeon's wagon for another minute. Despite the man's protests, he eased himself up before stepping down to the ground. The surgeon would only stop protesting once he saw Cotton's things still tucked away inside the wagon, though he didn't want to leave them alone any longer than necessary.

He was grateful for Maggie's shawl; his own jacket would have been too tight and painful to wear, but the shawl was loose enough it didn't cause his back any more pain, even if he looked an old woman wrapped up like that. It reminded him of when he'd been ill as a child, and his mother (well, his step-mother really, but he couldn't remember his own mother) had had to wrap him in her own shawl to comfort him. He found Maggie's shawl comforting, too.

He had to pass the 62nd before arriving at the 60th's part of the camp, and he kept a wary eye out for Edrington. He didn't want to see that cold, aristocratic face; it hurt him deeply that the man thought he was a thief.

Maggie had gone ahead to where the 60th was camped to see if someone had remembered to make them some supper. She was just returning to the wagon when she saw Cotton walking towards her. "What are you doing out and about?" she asked, rushing to take his arm. "You sure you should be walking?"

"It's me back that hurts, not me legs. And I needed to get out. Haven't spent so long sitting - or laying - in one place since I was knee-high to a grasshopper. Have a heart, lass."

He pulled the shawl a bit tighter. "Keep an eye out for Colonel Edrington. I don't think he'll be happy to see me, somehow."

She turned her head, giving a dark look at their surroundings. "I don't think he's anywhere near. Well, maybe he'll keep well away if he thinks we're going to pinch his own watch," she said cynically. "And that lieutenant too. But never mind them. Do you remember outside the tavern that night, when those... men from the 33rd were bothering me? You told me 'Forget about them. You're with us rifles, not with them.'"

"I remember. And look at you. You're my lass, and you belong to the 60th." He liked the look of his jacket on her. It made her look properly one of them.

She smiled up at him. "I know. And I'm glad. Come on, we're over this way."

He should just forget about the Colonel. He wasn't Rifles, after all. But it was hard to forget about him when Cotton's back was hurting the way it was, and it made him remember the Colonel's cold, aristocratic face when he'd given the sentence.

Yes, he'd stopped it a quarter of the way through, but he couldn't see the man's face when he'd done that. He'd still been concentrating on staying quiet because of the greenjackets watching, after all.

"Joe's made some stew, Joe Newbury. Rabbit stew. Do you want some tea?"

"Rabbit stew and tea sound like Heaven. I'm half-perished." He smiled fondly at her. "You'm a good woman, Maggie, lass."

"Course I am," she answered mildly. "Sit you down and I'll be right back."

He eased himself down near the fire, feeling conspicuous suddenly because of the shawl. He hoped the others wouldn't start treating him like an invalid because of it.

It was nice and warm down here, and he hoped the movement hadn't opened the deeper welts back up. He'd have to ask Maggie to take a look at the bandages in the morning.

"Gabriel!" exclaimed Sergeant Roper, crossing over to see him. "How are you? How's that wagon?"

"Sergeant! I'm fine, in meself, though me back hurts real bad. The wagon's all right. An' Maggie's learnin' me to read." He looked bashful as he said the last, speaking quietly.

"Read!" The sergeant stared in amazement. "How do you find it, then?"

After the silent expedition he had made himself to follow, he returned to the fire from which he begun his walk. He noticed two figures and hesitated, for one wore a shawl. Well 'twas no lady that was for sure, even if the light of the fire allowed details to be lost, making a silhuette of the men from where they sat. It must've been Cotton and no other, for only he would carry such a garment and have good reason to. The back was probably still raw with pain and it would remain so for a good while.

Approaching the fire he halted a moment before greeting the men.

"I never expected it to be the way it is. She showed me how to write my name, see, and told me what the letters are and what they sound like." He was twenty-eight, would be twenty-nine after hay-making this year, and it might be a simple thing that children could do, but he was pleased with what he'd done so far.

He looked up as the cavalryman of yesterday morning came up and greeted them.

"Hello, there, lad. Decided to join the infantry after all, eh?"