Fifth Night in Camp

"Quite a few of them started in the Line, I reckon, but not bein' required to load at the speed of the redcoats, that'll be a skill long grown rusty. And there will be men perfectly willin' to give lessons. Some of them might even be good at it." He grinned. "I dunno about you,, though, but I really need to wash some of this mud off before it sets. I dread to think what I look like!"

He kept himself close to the bank, for the river though not as fast flowing could still be strong enough in places that a man not careful, would be swept away on it's waves. His shirt had been slipped over his head and loosened into the water, where it was dipped and, wrenched and dipped in again. He glanced towards his coat where it hung, just to make sure that it still remained there. A glimpse over his shoulder too was taken, if only to see that there were no French crossing or aiming at the sole soldier. A bit reckless that he had taken most of his mind on washing and less on safety before he was filled with certainty of it. But, they were close to the camp, so close that he felt safe and sure.

His boots rested beneath the coat, as he had gone barefoot into the water, feeling now the sharp edged and some rounded stones beneath his feet. His ankle must have enjoyed the cold, though the bandage with which it was secured, might not have done so.

Edrington smiled back at Sharpe. "I will join you. Or Abernethy will give me a real dressing down. Not that he won't then do it all again, but I will be able to plead that I did make the effort." He continued: "We can work out the details later, but it will be interesting - even if your men are rusty on musket drill, mine will be able to see what riflemen can do best. " He turned towards the water. "At least it is only mud. There are worse things to be covered in..."

There was a migration down to the river to wash, and Carty followed Harris, chattering in Irish and broken English about the game and how exciting it was and could he believe the Colonel had joined in and he scored goals and could they have more English lessons like that in the future, Harris, please?

Sharpe grinned. "Y'know, I thought Sir Arthur'd made a mistake when deciding to put us with you. But I think he was right after all. Though I don't know how many of your officers will agree. And a trainin' day like that will be interestin' for everyone, I think."

Harris watched the boy bounce from foot to foot, still with too much energy, even after the game - the English lesson. It had been a good experience, but not the sort you can repeat. Everyone had joined in because they wanted to - try to organize it, and it would lack that sense of slightly illicit pleasure. But Carty was not in the mood to be told that you couldn't plan spontaneity. "We'll see what we can do - maybe not the same, but there will be more English lessons, you can rely on that, Carty." He smiled at the boy. "Just remember not to shout at the Colonel in Irish, next time."

Carty stopped mid-bounce; his face fell, and he went pale underneath all the mud. "I shouted at Colonel in Irish?" He moaned, and brought his hands to his face.

Harris patted him on the shoulder. "He didn't seem to mind, though you could see he was startled. It was when he scored the goal, so I assume it was congratulations or something. I told him that's what it was anyway."

Carty thought back, trying to remember. "I am saying he is strong and fast like in stories, to score goal in caid. I din' know, Harris, I din'! And I says promise to Mister Sharpe that no more Irish to officers..."

With the sounds approaching he had noticed muddy men coming to the river. The conversations were mostly still lost to the hum of the water but he was not really interested in eavesdropping any how.

"I asked myself what I had done to him to deserve it. But I am more hopeful now. The idea of a day - or just an afternoon - to learn about each other is good. The men - both groups - will find they've more in common, I hope." Edrington grimaced. "That will put more on your men, though I hope that Captain Vickery's Germans will at least take part. But as for the officers, I have hopes that most of them will accept it, if it works."

"Can't speak for the Captain's German men, but mine will be happy to. And there'll allus be one or two officers who ain't happy at havin' to mix with those not of their kind." He said the last lightly, keeping any bitterness out of his voice and allowing Edrington to interpret his words however he chose.

Edrington glanced sideways at his companion, remembering Padstowe's words and wondering if Sharpe knew that he knew... "I'll have a word with the Germans, if necessary, although it probably won't be. Vickery manages them very well. But as for officers - if there are any like that in the 62nd, it makes you wonder why they joined the Army. Or at least why they joined an unpretentious battalion like this."

Sharpe sighed a little. "I meant, me. There's officers who won't accept me as bein' allowed in the Mess 'cause, well, I'm the bastard son of a whore and fought me way out o' the dirt." He shrugged. "Though there are officers like Captain Vickery, and yourself, who don't mind about a man's past just so long as he can do the job. Mebbe that's why I'm so good at what I do. I have to be, 'cause it's all I've got."

He couldn't quite believe that he'd opened up to Edrington as much as he had. Maybe it was the anonymity of the darkness, or the companionship of the ball game. He knew he wouldn't have been able to say that earlier in the acquaintance, however.

Harris looked round as the Colonel and Mr Sharpe came down to join them at the river. Teasing Carty would not help - the boy was as liable to panic over a joke as over a real threat. "I'm sure he didn't mind," he repeated. "Though it would probably please him if he knew you compared him to Irish heroes." Or would it, he asked himself.

He saw Edrington and Sharpe walking together and there also spotted Carty and with him, what he thought was probably the teacher, Harris? He didn't quite know if that was the right name, but it didn't really matter now. Seeing others of the rifles join, making the river much muddier than before, he begins to climb the bank. After all, the rifles would probably prefer the river to themselves not poluted by horsemen.

Edrington rubbed at mud on his chin. "I mind about a man's past - but not about his birth. You've made your own past now, and it shows you can do the job. You've had to fight your way up, and it shows. But - I'm not saying it's the same thing at all - I have to show I can do my job. Fighting my way down, you could say."

Harris saw the hussar climbing up the bank and called to him. "Hold on a minute. Or have you got a date? I wanted to ask you something..." The football game had not really presented an opportunity to ask about that story of Willoughby's horse and the annoying redcoat lieutenant.

The Hussar had turned startled, and resembled much a horse that is uncertain whether to proceed with an action, or remain put and see what its owner had wanted. He didn't stay such for long, for it would have been embarrassing, and instead straightened some.

"Sure, what is it?" He asked pulling his soaked shirt back on, glad that atleast it was as clean as day now.

Harris grinned - the boy looked uncertain: possibly because he'd given Harris a hard time during the game, and might fear that, out of it, the older man would take his revenge. He dropped his voice, to avoid attracting the officers' attention. "Did you know we had a run in with a certain redcoat lieutenant last night? Threatening young Carty with a court martial?"

Carty looked up, hearing his name and frowning - he stepped forward to listen and attempt to glean further understanding of what was being said.

He felt some relief though he had not known he'd been worried just the moment before. He hadn't heared about that, being as busy as he were during the day and staying more in the vicinity of the 60th, so he shook his head slightly, replying:" A redcoat lieutenant threatenin' him?" He nodded to Carty, whom he had spotted eavesdropping and trying to look as if he hadn't. "I didn't know. What for?"

Harris gestured dismissively. "For talking Irish, probably. It doesn't matter: the Colonel told him to forget it. But... Did you have a run in with a lieutenant from the 62nd in town this afternoon? Because rumour has it it was the same man." His teeth gleamed in his dirty face.

He looked sympathetically at the boy and then slowly nodded:" Yes. I've met one such lieutenant." If it was anything to judge by how closely knit the group of riflemen was, then that was a positive thing they were just discussing.

"He hadn't seemed too pleased. Wanted to send me walkin'." He thought there was no need to continue as it was the man, he fit the description of one that would easily have accused and sent a man before the court. "Are you asking me what happened?" Surely the rumours of the event hadn't spread so fast. Or have they? There were plenty of witnesses, that was for certain.

For a moment Harris looked soberly at the young Hussar. "He's the man who had Cotton flogged. I'd watch my step if you've angered him. But if you don't mind telling us what happened, come and sit on the bank while I wash the mud off."