Fourth Night in Camp

[OOC: I have to go to the University Freshers' Fair! I'd like to do nothing more than watch this unfold, but I promised, so please carry on: Carty will go where you want him to go, do what you want him to do, say what you want him to say, and be terrified all the while. Bye!]

"Lets hope not. We do not need to fight an enemy within... when there are plenty enough outside." He had to back the horse, for the animal was already trying to depart the scene. Bayard would never be as impatient and hardly ever as unruly. He gritt his teeth and settled the horse back in it's place.

"How long has this been going on?" He asked, sitting more upright, listening partially to the conversations exchanged between the 'old' lieutenant and the young upstart of a red-coat.

Newbury shrugged. "I dunno. Happened to see it just a moment past, goin' back to my company. Don't bode well though."

Edrington looked up as Will Abernethy came into the tent, dumping the pot, and shaking the water from his boots. "There's trouble brewing, my lord. Yon Mr Sharpe, and that Lieutenant Waldegrave, fighting over one of the riflemen. Drawing a right crowd too."

Edrington swore. Abernethy would not be so abrupt if is his opinion this was not something more serious than a semi-polite exchange of views. Sharpe and Waldegrave - could he have stopped this earlier? He thought the warnings would have done it, but they were all too close on the march.

He walked through the camp, following Abernethy, and saw the group before they saw him. "What is going on here?"

Sharpe was looking at Waldegrave. "There ain't no harm in admittin' you made a mistake in the dark, you know. It was an accident, you didn't see him and you thought he was drunk because he apologised in Irish."

He turned as he heard Colonel Edrington's voice. "He bumped into one of my lads in the dark night before last, my lord and claims the boy hit him when drunk. Despite the man being as sober as a judge."

A Rifleman somewhere on Newbury's left straightened his back abruptly and hissed quietly " 'Ten-shun."

The soldiers watching the spectacle stiffened as if an insivible jolt had gone through them all. The new arrival was Colonel Edrington himself. Newbury blinked and was somewhat annoyed that he was still carrying the water-filled pot - it would get heavy fast, now he couldn't shift it from hand to hand. Bloody hell.

Waldegrave and Sharpe, a couple of men from the 62nd and three of Sharpe's men. With a little circle of the curious, who would gather for any excitement or disaster. This would probably count as the latter, particularly if played out in public.

"Mr Sharpe, Mr Waldegrave. Private Abernethy will take you to my tent, with any witnesses. I will be there presently." He had no difficulty in identifying the target of Waldegrave's accusations. A boy, standing shaking between two much larger redcoats, his face white and still wet with tears. It was that, as much as anything else, that gave instant recognition as one of the three who had found the dead Frenchmen two days earlier. And the other riflemen had been there too. Waldegrave had not, and knew no more than that some bodies, believed to be French, had been found and buried. This incident had happened that night.

Edrington knew that his own face was stiff with anger, his eyes lacking all warmth. But it really was too much. Sharpe and Waldegrave should have had more sense than to turn this into a public spectacle, in front of the entire division.

[OOC: This confrontation will break shortly and resume at the Colonel's tent, latish this evening - in about ten hours in anyone's time - comment and reaction may continue up to the tent.]

(decided on a lady horse this time ;P)
Upon sensing the water in Joe's pot, Timothy's new mare lifted her ears with the greatest attention. While her rider was standing still, observing in silence as the colonel arrived and addressed both men, she craned her neck steadily towards the rifleman.

She inched her nose closer, the beady brown eyes observing the grass man with keen interest, but no keener than that for his pot. Her lips lifted to reveal a set of healthy teeth and she grunted when reins were tightened.

Again attempting her delicate procedure she dipped her snout first into the kettle and drank greedily. It was clear the horse knew this was not to be done, by the way she had tried to make little movement, and less disturbance of the pot before and after.

Mícheál looked at the Colonel's face, the same Colonel who had come to inspect the bodies they had found, and he felt all hope fall away from him, for it was as hard and as cold and as care-worn as a stone on the sea-shore. A sob rose in his throat, choking him, and he hid his face in his hands. Waldegrave was saying he had hit him, had 'assaulted an officer', and that must be thousands and thousands of strokes. It did not matter if Mister Sharpe believed him, because the Colonel was involved now, and furious; he would be flogged for sure.

Harris glanced across at Sharpe, and then back to the boy who had started to sob. He laid a hand on his shoulder, giving him the smallest shake. The only consolation was that the 62nd's lieutenant did not look entirely happy at the summons either. "Easy, Carty," he said softly enough to not be overheard by Waldegrave, who was fussing about the set of his sash. "You did not hit him, you were not drinking, you were properly respectful - more respectful than the bastard deserved. They are not going to flog you. Now, dry your eyes, and straighten up."

Carty drew a deep, ragged breath and stood up straight, wiping his eyes on his sleeve, and not looking up at the redcoats on either side of him. "Sorry, sorry," he whispered to Harris. "I dun'-" His face crumbled again, and he tried to bring himself under control.

Oh, for...

If the younger Lieutenant had had an ounce of common sense, he wouldn't have accused Carty at all, let alone have let it go this far, and now Edrington was involved And after Sharpe had twice offered Waldegrave a face-saving way out. Was the bastard bloody mad, or something? He sighed, and glanced across at Carty. Harris was standing with him, now, having elbowed one of the redcoat privates out of the way. Good man.

Waldegrave tugged at his sash, and then at his jacket. He was confident that he would be believed - the boy was already incoherent, and the chances of his giving a reasonable account were minimal. In such cases, the facts of the case were one thing, the proof of intention another. The only question was, which offence to concentrate on. He did not meet Sharpe's glance but hitched his sword and looked at the Colonel's servant, who was watching the proceedings with dark alert eyes.

Abernethy turned and walked back towards the Colonel's tent, sure that the others woulld follow.

One of the redcoats pushed Harris away, not overly agressively but firmly, and the other took hold of Carty's upper arm and propelled him after the Colonel's servant. Carty tried to twist around, looking over his shoulder. "Mister Sharpe?"

Sharpe caught up to Carty and his escort. "Let go of him. He's not going to run." The man hesitated a moment too long. "That's an order."

He reluctantly let go.

"Good man. Are you all right there, Carty?"

Carty nodded. "All right." He remembered, and hastily wiped at his face before looking up at Sharpe again. "I'm sorry, sir. I din' mean all-" He waved his hand. "I dun' want be flogged, Mister Sharpe, please! Harris said dun' come off, and I din' mean to do a bad thing, I swear!"

"I know that, Carty. Colonel Edrington will understand that as well. Just tell him what you told me, all right?"

"Yes sir, yes," Carty nodded desperately, wondering how on earth he would be able to tell his story to the Colonel, with Waldegrave watching, interrupting... But if Mister Sharpe knew that he had not done a bad thing, then surely that was half the battle fought?

"Are you going with them, Harris? What happened?" Perkins asked in a whisper.

"Good lad. Just talk slowly, and look at me or the Colonel, all right?" He was concerned that if Carty looked at Waldegrave, he would get flustered and confused again, which wouldn't help them.

"Of course we're going. Didn't the colonel demand that the witnesses go too?" Harris was not sure about what he was a witness to, but he was going to go along with Sharpe and Carty.

Edrington returned to his tent. The camp was settling down for its evening meal, there were other quarrels, about provisions, women, firewood, and he hoped that the squabble between Sharpe and Waldegrave would be forgotten as just another sign of tired irritablitiy among the soldiers. He found the others already there.

"Look at you, look at Colonel. Look at you, look at Colonel. And talk slow." He was feeling calmer now, the simple instructions giving him something to concentrate on, but the terror returned as they approached the Colonel's tent. "Look at you, look at Colonel, talk slow."

He heard noise behind him, and turned to see the Colonel approaching; he clasped his hands together. "Look at Mister Sharpe, look at Colonel, talk slow," he hissed in the final moments before the man was in hearing range

Edrington's eyes flickered round the small group, Sharpe and his three riflemen, and Waldegrave. He received the salutes, quelled his irritation, and asked: "Mr Waldegrave, what was going on?"

Waldegrave stood to attention and said, as formally as he able: "Rifleman Carty walked into me the other night, my lord. He was drunk, and disrespectful, but ran away before I could discover his identity. I saw him again this evening, and..."