Fourth Night in Camp

"Shame on them if they don't. There's more to bein' a soldier than lookin' like you'm about to go on guard at Windsor Castle, after all."

He didn't understand the Hussars' way of thinking: that a soldier was only any good if his uniform looked brand new. Surely it was better to do the job of soldiering, even if your uniform was in tatters?

"Right it is..but it wouldn't do to approach the enemy and have them mistake you for a beggar." He chuckled softly shaking his head:" If you are to die, best die in your finest."

The sober notice had him shift, and he managed a grin instead: "I would give any proper appearance if I could have myself a right firearm. Not something as crooked as my sabre, or as inexistent as my carbine. 's all fine knowing that I should have them, but less fine to know that I have nought but the hooves of me horse and the pair of my hands."

Though he spoke in amusement of his predicament, he did feel just the same. What good would pride be to a dead man? What to an unarmed soldier?

"I dunno... could try askin' the 62nd's armourer about the sword, but I don't know nothin' about gettin' another carbine. Unless... how far ahead was your regiment?"

He shivered a little, and pulled the shawl closer. It was nice and soft, and smelt of Maggie's scent, which was comforting. And his back hurt like blazes. He hoped that if he was bleeding again, it wouldn't come through his shirt; he didn't want Maggie's shawl to get blood on it - it was hard to shift once it was there.

"..Days ahead." He answered gazing up to the starlit sky. The weather held for the night, and hopefully it would do so till morning and even better, much later too. "We'll sooner come to where I was grounded... than to reach the 15th." He considered the other suggestion and decided that perhaps he could do so. Atleast have a sabre that wouldn't shy away from the enemy.

Did he want to see the very spot that he'd left in daze? Bayard would be there, torn by the animals, rotting away slowly by time, caked in mud and water. He turned his gaze away. The imagery too vivid, the anguish of loss strong. He willed himself into silence, and kept his eyes trained on the fire. "... .. the stew.. was nice." There was no way he would be overcome infront of the riflemen. Damn it all.

Newbury listened with half an ear while Cotton and the Hussar talked. He couldn't think of anything he had to ad to the conversation, so he distracted his attention by gazing up at the stars. It was a fine night indeed.

He sat up again when the other two were finished with the stew and he took their bowls with a grin. Jacklin would be pleased that his cooking skills weren't wasted.

"Good evenin', lads." Newbury stood up and slipped off into the darkness, taking the empty bowls with him. He had to help clean up all the bowls and the pot, since Jacklin had cooked.

Private Artmitage wove his way through the campfires of the Rifles, his red jacket conspicuos amongst the green, trying to locate the 95th; but to his eyes he could only see the red collars of the 60th. If the 95th were here they must be bloody hiding!

"'Scuse, mate," he said, stopping by the nearest campfire after a couple of minutes searching. "Looking for Lieutenant Sharpe, 95th. 'S urgent, like."

"He's over there somewhere, mate. Least, his men are." Cotton pointed, not without biting back an exclamation at the sudden agony raising his arm cost him. He really was going to have to learn to do things ham-fisted* for a bit.

The private frowned and headed in the direction indicated.

"I take you ain't all that keen to see the area again?" Though if that was where his horse had been killed, it was hardly surprising. The lad seemed very attached to the horses he rode.

*Kent dialect: left handed

"Not quite.." He managed a smile. Poor lad had forgotten about his pain, till it reminded him on its own. There was nothing fine or pleasant in being flogged. A terrible ordeal to watch and to experience. The fear of this punishment forever present in men, especially the redcoats.

"... But I'll bear it ..ofcourse. Duty predates all other sentimentalities, eh?" His smile was less forced. "You allright there, Cotton?" He asked and gazed at the man's back, or as much of it as he could see, when sitting at the present station. "Steady on that, ey."

"I been... I been better, yes. But I'll live, thanks." He really didn't want to think about the mess his back was in, though. "Just got to try to take things a bit easy for a while, that's all." Which was rather a tall order for him; he wasn't used to sitting back while others did the work.

Maggie had noticed that the young hussar was troubled by the memory of his skirmish. Perhaps he had lost a friend there, or had seen disturbing sights. She delicately brought the conversation back to a lighter topic. "I can certainly mend your coat for you, if you want, or can sell you the thread and a needle. Mending is part of my business, and I'm a sutler too."

He looked kindly at Maggie and nodded with a small inclination of his chin. The memories drawn from his mind was perhaps the better path to take, similiarly to Cotton's worries of his future:"... certainly miss. If it would be of no trouble, and ofcourse a fair pay, I would be greatful if you could mend it. And.. certainly later I might need to buy a needle and some thread, for the times to come." He placed his hand to his pelisse, and smiled. "Pray tell, could I know how soon were it to be possible for it to be done, and when should you afford the time?"

"Show me what damage there is. Just your coat, is it?"

"Well, for now, 'tis just my pelisse. If it were other, I would not quite be able to give." He unbuttoned it carefully, though it took a while with so many of the buttons in a single line. He shrugged it of his shoulders and placed it in full view of the girl, wearing now only the dolman underneath, and a shirt below that. "Here." He traced his hand across the tears that marred the cloth. Pointing each out, surprised to find a few tears he'd not been aware before. "And t' lace.. if you may. 's come loose in a place.. n' tore here." He held his finger to the upper corner on the left hand side.

She looked it over with a critical eye. "Can you do without it for the morning? I can have it done by noon - that is, if... depending on if Gable rides in the wagon and me with him." She looked at Cotton questioningly. "Only I'd rather do it in daylight, not like mending a shirt, it being so fine and with that lace... But if need be, I can try to do it tonight, or at least mend the major tears in it, then do the rest tomorrow night."

"Take your time miss. I can ride in dolman only. 's a coat in it's own right." He smiled, he did not wish the work to be hurried and by chance the coat to suffer more, instead of being mended. In haste many things could go wrong, and in the dark, he might end with the lace sewn in places that it never dreamt of being.

He could and some riders did ride in dolmans, with their pelisses safely stored away when not needed and when the weather was warm enough it would be a dull waste to heat oneself in both. He did feel some of the draft now, as used as he'd been to wear them both. But it was not at all close to feeling cold or worrying about it, nor needing to.

"I dunno if I'll be allowed to march tomorrow, lass," Cotton said. "I know I won't be able to carry me pack, even if they do let me march. But I ain't in any hurry... I'm on light duties for a week, an' if I try to do too much, they'll only make it two weeks. Or more."

"So you think you'll ride in the wagon again? As long as no one else gets sick or injured, I can probably still ride with you if you want, work on the sewing then."

He Kept silent and descrete, deciding to wait for the lad and his lass to conclude their own conversation and plans for the days to come. In the meanwhile he busied himself with a stick that he'd prodded the fire with, lightly. the flame cracked and sputtered, and was set strong and high anew. Some of it licked at the stick, and few small flames jumped across, setting the stick on fire and slowly creeping higher.

"I'd like that, Maggie." He smiled at her, pulling her shawl a little tighter around himself as he did so."

She gave him an understanding smile, perhaps a secret communication passing between them. "All right then, Willoughby, tomorrow at noon. Do you want to keep it for the night and give it to me in the morning? No need to deprive you of its warmth prematurely, if you're needing it."

"I'll find you in the morning yes." It was a point well recieved. The night would get colder and it would not do the opportunity of warm cloth when there was one :" You'll be at the wagon, will you?" He could seek her out in the camp, but he considered it an easier ordeal, and by far swifter were he to know her location more exactly.

"Or might you be present at breakfast here?" If she was to come then, he was just as glad. He pulled the pelisse carefully back onto his shoulders and buttoned it some. A tight fit, as were these kind of uniforms, but it did nothing but have the rider look smart. He wondered back for a moment, and couldn't help but smile at the memory of games that he and his peers had played when younger. Be it horse riding, or 'hunting', there was always a story that came with their games. And to think now that those games turned to reality. Sitting around camp with the soldiers, truer ones at that.

"Breakfast... yes, I'll probably be here."

"Al right miss. Then I shall see you there, and have my pelisse ready." He felt tired but pleasantly at peace. He saw the exchange of looks between her and her chosen and felt a pang of.. well not quite what one would expect, and he stifled it easily and had himself consider the means and ways of getting himself armed again. He felt restless, uneasy. He sighed. It was somehow so quiet without his fellow
horsemen.

(OOC - and with this this horseman shall curl up to his saddle, and go rest in hopes of shooting himself some game... and more so in getting something fight useful Good night! )

Maggie noticed Cotton pulling the shawl closer around his shoulders. "Are you warm enough, Gabe? Maybe you need a blanket. Or I've got one other shawl; you could wear both at once. Oh Gabe, is that blood?" she cried reproachfully, not because it would stain her favorite item of clothing (for it could easily be washed) but because of his stoical self-neglect. "I should have-- I'm sorry, I should have checked! I should change the bandages for you before they stick."

"I best bid my farewell." Not to overstay his welcome:"Good night miss, Cotton." He stood. "I'll see you in the morning." He departed, limping into the dark again. Bella was heard greeting him a short while later and then the Hussar had gone to sleep for the night unless any woke him, or there was an event that demanded the alertness of soldiers.