6th night, 95th camp

"Oh. I mean it counts. Your men, one, two, three. And a notch is like a cut. Like, for counting." Perkins looked around for assistance.

"Some men carve a small line into the butt of their rifle for every Frog they kill," Sharpe said. "And we call a littl line like that, a notch."

Captain Hunter came up to the Chosen Mem, Firebird trailing behind and bumping her head against his affectionately.
'Lieutenant Sharpe?'

"Aye?" He turned to see who it was. Someone with a bicorne and leading a horse. Ah - officer type. He stood up, careful not to spill the mug of tea.

"How can I help yo, sir?"

Carty was frowning - he was a soldier, and he killed Frenchmen, sure, but the idea of carving a notch for every life taken, like keeping score in a game of stones or dice... something in him recoiled. He looked up at Harris with a feeling of desolation.

'It's Captain Hunter, we've just met at Colonel's Edrington's tent. I came to speak about the shooting exhibition'. Firebird, having rested while Hunter was ensconced with Edrigton was in a playful mood again. She nudged him rather forcefully causing to stumble a little. 'Damn it, Firebird! Shall I let Hercules bite you the next time?!'

Perkins saw Carty's face and misinterpreted its expression. "Well you don't have to carve a notch. I was only saying it like a joke. But maybe a prisoner doesn't count. I don't know who makes rules about these things." He lowered his voice in the presence of the officer.

"Sorry, sir, couldn't see you prop'ly." He grinned at the horse nudged him hard. "We - that is, Captain Vickery and me - wanted to organise some sort of competition between our men. Some of them, anyway. So that we could show the redcoat soldiers how we work, most of 'em never really havin' seen Riflemen before, sir." He looked at the man shrewdly.

"You do know how we work, sir?"

It would be just his bloody bad luck to get the one redcoat officer in Portugal who had not got the faintest idea how skirmishers fought.

'Yes, Lieutenant, I believe I do. I saw 95th Rifles at work in Denmark', he smiled. 'I thought I'd talk to you first since you seem to be in command of Chosen Men, who if I'm correct are the best marksmen in the army'. Firebird whinnied loudly calling for attention. Hunter sighed, 'That's it, dear, I'm feeding you to Hercules', then he added quietly 'While Wellesley would be feeding on me'.

"Aye, I've got some Chosen Men. I've also got about thirty others - ordinary Riflemen." If you could call any Rifleman 'ordinary', that was. "We got cut off from Sir John Moore's army during the retreat to Corunna, last winter."

He wondered what had happened between Wellesley and the Captain in front of him. Though he could probably guess; Wellesley didn't like to have officers foisted on him. The General's 'ice-general' way of looking at you made even the bravest man shake in his boots.

Perkins nudged Carty, still speaking quietly. "Eh! You all right? What's eating you? What's wrong?"

'Yes, I've heard'. Hunter paused. 'Erm, I'm going to be perfectly honest with you, Lieutenant. I've just arrived to the camp and no one has seen fit to give me orders, and, hell it my first bloody day as an ADC, and I'm not really sure what do I do as a messenger boy. It's quite a change from actually fighting. Would you mind telling me what the hell I'm supposed to do with a shooting exhibition which is apparently my responsibility, though I have a sneaking suspicion it's a trap laid for me by Wellesley'. Firebird snorted as if in agreement, and lowered her head towards Sharpe as if expecting to be petted.

"Eh?" Carty looked up, and gave Perkins a small smile. "I feel bad, about the prisoner. Bad in my heart, you know? He look so sad, Ben. And I shoot his friend."

That made Sharpe grin. "Generally, ADCs hang around the General, look pretty and and agree with anythin' he says. Well, that's what they all seem to do, anyroad. I'm only a foot soldier, so I don't reckon I'm the one to ask. As for the shootin' thing, you let me and Captain Vickery organise it and then take the credit when all looks wonderful."

He looked askance at the horse. "An' you can bugger off an' all. I ain't got anything you'd like, and you ain't havin' me tea. So there."

Perkins looked around at the officers talking nearby. "Come on, maybe we should go for a walk."

Hunter grinned back. 'Generally ADCs choose to be ADCs. Generally, Wellesley chooses his own staff. Well, this time something went wrong, and now I have to 'look pretty', Hunter tugged at his expensive cloak in disgust. 'I suspect that you and the Captain do know how to do organise such things much better than me, but at least let me help in any way I can, cause otherwise I'm not taking all the credit' Hunter smiled, indicating that this was a jest. 'And don't worry about that wretch, Firebird: the only thing she wants are Hercules's guts. He bit her, thus proving he without a doubt General's mount'.

"He'd bite the General if he didn't know he'd get turned into tomorrow's dinner for half a Regiment," Sharpe replied, grinning. "I really don't know of owt else you can do, though, I'm afraid."

He'd noticed the expensive cloak, and the equally expensive-looking saddlery and equipment, yet somehow Hunter hadn't managed to set his back up as some other officers did. But then, Hunter hadn't managed to sneer down his nose at Sharpe and the obvious poverty he showed in his worn, threadbare and scruffy uniform, that had been new once, but had lasted him through the entire previous winter. He treasured his jacket, and would be buried wearing it, whenever he finally ran out of luck.

(OOC - ever so sorry... I'm falling asleep here and really need to toddle off to bed. Anyone wanting a reply will get one when I'm a bit more awake. Like, later.)

Hunter laughed 'I'd dearly love to see him bite the General. Well, if you think of something I can turn my hand to, let me know. I'd be grateful. And pass my compliments to your men for volunteering, if indeed it is volunteering'. Hunter looked at Sharpe's battered jacket wistfully: he'd much rather wearing something like that if it ment fighting. 'Erm, lieutenant, you wouldn't mind if I joined you and your men from time to time? I suspect it is rather horrible being an ADC'. Hunter hoped that darkness covered up his blush.

Carty smiled. "I just finish my stew."

By now Sharpe and his visitor had moved away, and the conversation around the fire would not be overheard. Cooper too had moved off to clean the cooking pot. "Of course, mate, or we can stay right here. I only meant if you wanted to talk somewhere... away from officers." Perkins gave him a slight grin.

"S'all right, so," said Carty, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of rabbit meat. "Is more hot here."

"Yeah. Warmer." Perkins fiddled with a stick on the ground and then absently poked at the embers in the bottom of the fire. He could tell something was wrong with Carty, but he didn't know what. Why should he suddenly start feeling sad about killing the French?

"More warm? Or warmer?"

"Warmer. Warm is nice. Sometimes hot means too much." He cleared his throat. "You don't have to carve notches in your rifle butt," he said awkwardly. "I don't. I only meant that... you were a good shot today." It made him feel guilty, imagining Carty to think of him as a sort of bloodthirsty pirate.

Carty smiled. "Thanks, Ben." He sighed. "I dun' know... I mean, I know it is good thing, yes, because we are soldiers, and soldiers kill Frenchmans, but there is prisoner, and he is only older than you and I, and I kill his Harris, or his Cooper, or his Sergeant Harper. I makes me feel sad in my heart, because one day a Frenchman kill our mens too."