Meeting the Green

Her lips narrowed, but she nodded and made herself look civil. She had not forgotten Hakeswill, but neither had she forgotten how men of the 33rd had harrassed her in Lisbon. But she fixed a polite smile on her face. "Well, any rifleman of the 60th is all right by me. Gabe'll take good care of you."

He grinned at her. Well, she hadn't seen him choose his rifle, which was one of the things that had made him think the lad was perfectly suited for the Rifles. Time would tell, after all.

"You be careful how you talk about me, Maggie. I ain't some saint or nothin' like that."

She grinned then and smiled good-naturedly at the newcomer as well. "Don't let him fool you, Pye. He's an angel - remember Gabe? Like Micheal says. But now I got to find Martha. You seen which way she went with her big basket? Good to meet you Pye, and good luck to you."

"I know her an' Ben are billetted in the house acrost from th'Captain. But, so's half the Comp'ny, seems. Dunno where she is though, Maggie. I'll see you later - an' mind you tell 'em there's another mouth to feed now. Though he'll catch his share of dinner later on, or I'm a Chinaman." He smiled fondly at her and blew her a kiss.

She laughed and waved as she left them, wading through the maze of grass and wagon tracks and horse prints and muddy areas of the field.

Cotton watched her go, returning to the lesson a little reluctantly. He was lucky to have her, he knew. She could have had her pick of the men - even had a Sergeant if she'd wanted - and she'd chosen him. His Maggie.

He'd listened a little to the lass that came to see Cotton, and watched them for a short while, when spoken of and spoken to. He could not miss how Maggie's expression had changed at the mention that he was from the 33rd. Though he'd not known what the case was, it did not surprise him. He would have claimed ignorance if he did not. Her being a woman was possibly the reason she might have caught their attention, and when drunk - not too rarely if the occasion giveth - lasses were smart to avoid. As any men in such a state.

He nodded to Maggie. He had a small grin on his face when she had given Cotton his well deserved praise. "I'll trust the lass there, Gabe. n' thank you miss, just the same!"

He then looked at his rifle, having had finished with loading her. As Cotton warned, ramming the rodd down took some more effort and time.

He lifted her to his shoulder, choosing a kneeling position to fire this time. He glanced at Cotton and smiled seeing the man still somewhat distracted by his leaving girl. She looked like a good kind of lass, just the kind that would do well with this man. And he with her. Judging by first glance atleast.

"Right suppor'" Nothing else was said, as he'd taken aim. He'd never fired with someone watching and wanting to see if he'd hit something. Having a pair of eyes on him, and those of the finest shooter too, felt unnerving. He held his breath and squeezed the trigger. Atleast he'd remembered what he was told. Gentle on the gun there. As the smoke cleared, he lowered his rifle.

"Just you 'member what I told you," Cotton said quietly. "An' don't rush it, whatever you do."

And the rifle fired.

Cotton went to see where he'd hit the target, and returned to report, "You got it in the second ring. D'you want to try that again? You just have to remember everythin' I've said, and if it feels even slightly awkward to keep the rifle on the target, change your position a bit. Don't pull the trigger until you know you're ready."

He let out a breath he had not known he was holding. He had hit the target alright! He grinned and it was no doubt what the answer to Cotton's question would be. Yes, of course! He had only gotten his hands on his rifle, he could not just let her go after one shot. Still nervous about being watched, he tore at the cartridge and followed the earlier procedure of loading.

No rushing was something that went against the drilling, where the speed was perhaps a good deal more essential than actually firing the musket. You shoot with eyes closed, as long as you have pointed your weapon in the direction of the enemy. Vague direction, not an exact face to look at and to bring down.

He had gone from a kneeling position into another, seemingly more comfortable. He'd remembered seeing it displayed earlier anyways. Once the ramrod was back in place and the rifle was cocked and ready, he lifted it slowly to take aim at the target. He'd breathed in. He had attempted to channel Cotton's presence out of his mind and think of only the target, but the man was there. The longer he'd waited, the more aware he was. His breathing , earlier almost silent, now sounded quite loud. A simple small shift of his foot on the cracked, pebble covered ground had his senses on end.

He could even hear his heart beat. He lowered his rifle and craned his neck, closed his eyes a moment before lifting the weapon up to point at the target again. It wasn't even moving! Was it, the need to do it, that was lacking? The target wasn't an enemy after all.

And so he'd have chosen to make it such, imagining a Frenchman there. A cap, his standard type coat curved to the sides. Then there was a familiar face replacing the Frenchman's. He'd steadied himself, grinned and squeezed the trigger.

Cotton took another look at the target.

"You're much closer - only about a couple of inches from the bull. Have another go. Oh, and if you watch how you breathe, you might find it easier if you fire just after you breathe out. Hold your breath and squeeze the trigger, 'cause that means the rifle ain't movin', then."

With a nod, looking fully concentrated on the task, he took another cartridge from the box and tore it open. He felt the familiar sting of gun powder on his lips while he poured a little of it into the pan. Then closed the frizzen, pouring the rest into the barrel. A wrapped up bullet later, with the ramrod pushing it down and into place, the rifle was lifted again.

"Hold breath." He repeated with a small smile and nodded. Hold breath! He took a steady aim, repeating all four of the rules in his mind, with the last suggestion of breathing coming into play next. He'd have to steady it first, a bit easier this time, when he'd felt more at ease with Cotton watching.

He inhaled, paused and exhaled. Repeating it a few times as he shifted and adjusted his aim a notch. Fire when ready. He had himself breathing in then out again, and just at the moment that he'd exhaled and stopped breathing he squeezed the trigger gently. Feeling the kick of the rifle, and the rush of smoke against his face he waved it away.

"How is it?" He asked.

"You... Hang on." Cotton double-checked it. "You just grazed the bull. You keep that up an' you'll be a better shot than me. D'you want to try from fifty yards, or d'you want another few shots from here? We'm only about twenty-five yards from the target where we are."

"Fifty! " He was grinning, ear to ear and red on the cheeks at Cotton's words. "Whatever you think is right! I'm not a.." He paused and chuckled. "I'm a rifleman in learning, n' you're t' hardened veteran here!"

He didn't think he could be better, but he was beaming just as bright with the compliment.

"You've had three shots, out of twenty. Forty, if you count what I got. We've got all afternoon, and I know what I can do. It's up to you, I don't want to push you too far afore you'm ready, after all."

He was leaning on his own rifle, grinning.

"I'm ready t' learn all there is.. t' be a rifleman, Gabe!" He smiled an honest, alert look on his face, all just for the lessons he was being given.

"I want to try it." He nodded. "That is, if ye have time." He didn't want to be the cause of Cotton's absence with his girl.

He nodded. "I've got time. And you'll not learn it all, just like that, y'know. Fifty yards, then?"

He started moving back. "Fifty yards is about... here, I think. So, you know what to do. Take your time and do it - though you might want to fire prone."

He dropped to his belly to demonstrate the position. "It's easier to hold the rifle without moving, like this, though you should at least kneel to reload. And if you want to rest the muzzle on your shako, that's allowed in the drill manual."

He marked the name of the position, though he guessed he needn't know it, and dropped to one knee. He paused, grinned and placed the shako infront him. Loading the rifle he looked at the distance between himself and the target then lay on the floor. Wasn't do to worry about getting dirty if you were a rifleman. Proved right there. A knee and now the whole of his pants and some of his coat.

"This like? " He asked as he went on adjusting the shako a couple of times, but with it being more in the way than it seemed to help he nudged it away. Lying on his belly, with the rifle propped up properly he felt a few stones digging into his leg, one into his hip with a rather sharp edge. The glass was dry enough, so there would be no water to soak up as well.

He waited for a word of confirmation, or adjustment before he'd aimed at the target again. He was enjoying it even if he suspected his shoulder might disagree in the evening. He gently stroked along the side of his rifle before pushing it back into a fair hold.

Once aknowledged, he would've fired again.

"Are you pullin' that rifle back into your shoulder?" Cotton asked, suddenly remembering that. Redcoats couldn't be trusted to know about that, of course. "Helps stop the kick if'n you do. You want it pulled right in, to the fleshy part, not the bone. 'Cause elsewise the kick'll give you a nasty bruise, 'specially if it's a long fight."

(OOC - I've got to go. I've got work later, and need to grab lunch and stuff)

"Ah." He grinned adjusting his hold a little bit.

"She's.. a fine one..." There was a hint of a question in his voice. Cotton could judge one rifle from another, he could just hope and guess.

"..Do all riflemen choose their rifles like that?" He asked conversationally, while taking aim. Now that the correction had been made, he could squeeze the trigger, and did. "Didn't have any say in the Bessies they gave us." He grinned. "Though, couldn't make much of a difference there!"

(ooc - have a good one! *waves*)

"I'm sure she is." He shrugged. "I dunno about the 95th, but we do in the 60th, aye. Here." He held his own rifle out. "I know you seen this'n earlier but tell me. Does my rifle feel the same to you as yours does?"

He placed his own rifle to the left of him and took the offered. He'd held it as he did his own earlier, ready to aim. And then adjusted his hands a bit on it. He shook his head.

"No.. they're both rifles.. yes. But..." He smiled slightly. ".beg pardon, me own, feels better in me hand. That is, yours is all fine n' good. Just... jus' not fer me." It didn't feel wrong with Cotton's, it just couldn't compare as much to his own. It wasn't something he could place a finger at, neither something easily describable or logical. But, as much at Cotton's rifle was that of an expert and had a history behind it, it didn't sit as well in Pye's hand as his own did.

"An' I'd say the same about yourn. Means that a man'll care more for his own rifle and will probably be a better shot or summat 'cause it's his rifle. Not just a Baker, but your Baker, or mine. Y'see what I mean?" He took his own rifle back. "I could probably fire just as well with yourn but it'd feel... well, it wouldn't feel right. And the folks who can tell the difference, well, they'm goin' to be right proper Riflemen. Someone who was happy with the first rifle he picks up ain't goin' to quite fit in or understand things properly."

He shrugged again. "I don't have the words to explain it, prop'ly, not really. But I think you understand me meanin'."

Pye nodded picking his rifle up again and give it a good brushing, even if the weapon might have done with a few strokes. Holding it propped on it's butt, with the length of it resting against his arm and elbow, he listened to Cotton. These first moments were invaluable to the lad. He was not learning only how to pull the trigger, and what not to do. He was being taught something a lot deeper, more of the essense of the coat he was now wearing and of course the meaning of his rifle.

"S' a lot different ye know. From how we've been before." There wasn't a doubt in that. The 60th Rifles and the 33rd Foot weren't a thing to compare.

"But.. I'um right grateful that ye did have that yesterday. heard about you, mind. Prolly' seen ye too, but is' a different thing, seein' it like that n' hearin' ye can join, n' just knowin yer there." He flushed and looked down. Cotton might think him a silly fool now, jabbering away like that. He looked lower and busied himself with his new lass, brushing a hand across the cool surface, though there wasn't a speck of real earthly dirt on her.

"Aye, it's vast diff'rent. We've got more freedom, in a way, and there's greater trust needed 'tween us and the officers, so they don't need to use the threat of the lash in the same way in the Line regiments. It's all stuff you'll learn, just by bein' part of us, wearin' that coat, an' it's stuff folks can't see, lookin' at us from the outside. Though we can show 'em summat of what we do an' who we are, like we done yesterday."

He grinned. "I never had a look at that last shot you fired, did I?"

Pye grinned. It might have been that there were hardships a rifleman had, that the others didn't, but it still all sounded like dream kind of thing.

"Aye, fired I did! " He answered, excitement in his tone of voice.