Riflemen to the front of the column

Harris recognized the look, but thought he might as well finish, anyway, since the whole conversation had started with the Light Dragoons. "Light also means not heavy. So we have heavy cavalry - like the Scots Greys, who were with us before Coimbra. Big horses, big men."

"And big horses and big men is heavy! Is there other 'light'?"

"Hmmm." Harris was not quite sure. "We're Light Infantry, of course, and there are light companies in the regiments... But Sergeant Harper isn't lighter than your average redcoat..." In any sense.

"I mean, light for candle, and light for grey and hair, and light for not heavy - many lights!"

"We-ll ..." Carty was not yet ready for metaphor and figurative usage, or at least, Harris was not ready to try to explain 'light-fingered' or 'light women'. "That should do it," he said, "but it also means 'not serious' - that's the same as 'not heavy', I suppose."

"Sure, sure, laugh is like light in sun," Carty said happily. That at least was easy to understand.

"Light of my life," said Harris, in response. "As you might say to a girl you loved."

"Light of my life. Light of my life. Light of my life," said Carty, delighting in the phrase and wearing what he thought must be a very subtle smile.

"Not that you would say that to just any girl," Harris teased. "Only one who made the day bright. Like the sun."

"Oh, no, no, no, no - not any girl, Harris. Girl with... with light hair! Light hair like sun..." Carty stared up at the sky, shielding his eyes.

"I don't know who you can be thinking of. Hair golden like the sun, and eyes like ... What colour are her eyes?"

Carty pointed up at the sky. "Gorm - b-blue. Light blue."

"As blue as ... the sky at daybreak... What would you say in Irish - usually you are more poetic than the English." He stopped talking, to scramble out of the gully. From the lip he could see further forward, and for a moment caught a glimpse of another pair in Rifle green on the slopes to the east.

"For hair, maybe... chomh buí le hór - is... yellow like coins, and chomh cas le carr cruite." He twirled his finger near to his face. "For eyes, maybe 'chomh gorm leis an fharraige, an fharraige chiúin' - blue like sea, or 'chomh gorm le plúirín' - little blue flower. But many, many - ab áille gnúis is pearsa; she is reált geal san oíche, is chomh deas le bláth bealtaine - mheall sí lena glorthaí mé, a béilín bláth mar chúr na trá..."

"Slow down, Carty - you don't want to use all your compliments in one go. One at a time..." Damn the woman. Poor Carty was going to be sadly disillusioned: or perhaps Harris underestimated him. The boy was much smarter than his speech would indicate. But young, and suffering from the first pangs of love. Calf-love. "Blue as the sea. That would do."

"Blue as the sea," repeated Carty, stilted and slow again.

"One day," Harris said slowly, regretting that he had squashed the boy so abruptly, "you must tell me what those phrases mean - when you have the English for it. And I will show you English poetry. Is that agreed?" He smiled. "And you can then talk to your lady in poetry in English."

Carty smiled back brightly, his innate happiness and joy in the world the most resiliant thing about him. "What is poety, Harris?"

"Poetry is words used for beauty. To say more than we can say, talking like this. Your chomh buí le hór " And Harris did not want to translate le hór ..." is poetic. Irish epics - Finn McCool, Cucculean. Almost all written in poetry. Or spoken in poetry."

"Poetry is beauty things... but things in Cú Chulainn not beauty! Is strong words, fighting words. But is poetry?

"War is one of the things poets write about - and the poems that live. People want to read strong words about fighting."

That made sense, Carty though, nodding. Everyone loved Cú Chulainn after all. Harris would know, as well - he was always reading books, not just notes and dispatches and newspapers. "You reading strong words about fighting, Harris?"

"They are some of the best books. People will write about our wars, eventually. A lot of officers keep journals, so they can remember what happened."

Carty frowned in confusion. "Officers journals is poetry?"

"Officers may write poetry - it was quite the thing some time ago. But they will write their memoirs .... Their own stories about the war, and there will be heroes and villains. Like your poetry about fighting."