Fifth Night in Camp

"Oh," Sharpe said, feeling a little foolish. "Thanks."

Carty turned and handed the ball to Sharpe, beaming up at him.

Sharpe blinked as the ball was thrust into his hands. He blinked at the look of utter devotion and worship in the youngster's eyes. What had he done to deserve that? he wondered, even as he threw the ball across to Harper.

The ball arced towards the big sergeant, but was punched away by a tall skinny rifleman, and bounced towards Edrington, who kicked it straight back, aimed at Sharpe.

"Incoming!" Sharpe snatched the ball from the air, eyes widening as he saw the redcoated figure standing on the periphery of the playing area. He looked around - Harris was free - and sent the ball across to the red-headed Rifleman.

Harris caught it, and hurled it on towards Cooper, who was by the kettle - or was he the opposition. Too late to worry about that.

"Báire! Báire!" Carty shouted excitedly, jumping on the spot as Cooper touched the ball to the kettle. He grinned at the other members of the team they had seemed to carve out - Sharpe, Harper, Harris, him, Cooper... and the Colonel.

There was a game of football going on near the 95th's camp. The news had come from the Palmer brothers, which spurred a few men to drift toward the other Rifle regiment's camp to watch. Newbury was amongst them, as he had no special duties that evening.

It was indeed a game of football, and a lively one at that. Newbury joined the gaggle of onlookers and grinned. It was good to see men in such high spirits. "Go lads!" Newbury called cheerfully.

"Goal," Harris murmured to Carty as the boy bounced with pleasure. "We have scored a goal."

"Goal! Báire! Goal!" Carty laughed as the ball was kicked back into play.

After settling Bella in he'd overheared Newbery and some other lads talking about some excitement happening across to the other rifle's camp. Curious he had joined in the line of men that were on their way towards the game grounds. And so he was not disappointed by the sight, for sure enough the ball was being flung, and the men, half brown half green, and one red, were seen chasing after it. The excitement at it's peak, as was seen by the young rifleman jumping with glee.



The ball bounced of the muddy grounds , the force carrying it much farther than expected. With resounding splash, it landed right in the puddle infront of the Hussar. It sprayed some of the water onto the youth. He knelt and he picked it with an impish grin, and then broke into a run. Just a faint limp seen in his gait, ready just about, to hurl the ball at the young Micheal or perhaps Harris.

Edrington smiled. The redhaired rifleman - Harris, he remembered -was clearly taking his responsibility to teach the boy English seriously. The smile widened as the ball bounced in front of young Willoughby, who caught it up and ran with it.

"Sarge, get off!" Perkins was protesting noisily. "Let go! I'm on your team! I think!" But by now it didn't matter because the ball was already far away. "Who's that? Get him!" And they both took off running for the lad with the ball.

Who was with whom and with whom was he? He doubted it mattered as long as you got to the kettle! He laughed hurling the ball at Hagman, from whom it bounced high, turned airborne again. He jumped and snatched it from the air, near coliding with one of the greencoats. The kettle was in sight! He grinned again and threw it hard at the kettle.

This time when the ball came out again, towards him, he caught it and held it at arm's length for a moment. No one was going to barrel into him, even if he did have their ball! If there were teams, he was, he decided, with the Irish lad and his red haired teacher, and - that probably included Sharpe. Still, he was sure about the boy. He threw the ball towards him, overarm, and grinning again, stripped off his red coat, handed it to one of the Riflemen who had declined to join in, and moved towards the centre of the game.

Maggie rushed back to Cotton and grabbed his hand carefully. "Gabe, come quick. You have to see it," she laughed, her eyes shining with merriment.

Mícheál had caught the ball. Thrown by the colonel! Well, it didn't matter - he wouldn't have it for long! Perkins gave a great yell as he lunged at his friend's shoulders to bring him down.

In the scoffle that could only ensue, the Hussar tried his luck. He dived for the ball while Perkins had thrown himself at its carrier, ignoring the slippery ground at his feet.

Edrington broke into a run, and kicked the ball just missing the hussar's hands as he reached for it. The ball slanted over Perkin's head towards Harris and Harper.

Williams had made his way to the 60th when the column halted for the night, to see how Cotton had coped with being back on his feet, marching with the company. Clearly well enough - the rifleman tending the pot had said that he and some others had gone over to the 95th's ground, and Williams wandered over, attracted by the sounds of a game in progress, with spectators from both rifles and redcoats.

Carty slid along the ground out from under Perkins, his entire front and face covered in mud, laughing joyfully at the thought of playing caid with the Colonel. He ran towards Harper, an awkward, gangly, long-legged but fast run, shouting at the Sergeant in Irish to pass it to him, to him!

He jerked his hands upward and grinned at the colonel, sparing him no more than a glance before he ran after the skinny-legged boy. Whatever the boy was shouting, he must be calling to the Sergeant. And it only meant one thing! Stay close and intercept, or tackle, if the ball comes the right way. He bit down a grunt, ignoring his leg so far and further.

That hussar he met the night before last was hrrying after him; Carty yelled "Timothy!" gleefully before turning around and launching himself at Willoughby's midriff. "You not get the ball!"

Carty was temporarily out of the game, wrestling the hussar to the ground. Harper passed the ball back to Harris, who started running with it, passing the Colonel and saying "Teaching him English, Sir." Jenkins stuck a leg out as he was distracted, and he pitched over, hurling the ball in the vague direction of 'forward'.

"Hey, Mícheál!" The hussar grinned back right before he was tackled to the ground. He pulled the boy after him, so that the force of their colision had both rolling a few in the mud. "Nice one!" Now as mud covered as the boy. He slipped from under him, playfully nudging him right back into the muddy puddle.