In bivouac with the 60th, 18th May

"It's me that ought to be sorry, not her. I... I should've woke up. I shouldn't've stopped lookin' for her." He bowed his head, trying to control his emotions and swallow the lump in his throat before looking up. "I know... I know she would've fought him like anythin'. How... how bad did he hurt her?"

"There is nothing that will not heal - at least, nothing physical. She is badly bruised and has ... You can imagine, I am sure, since she fought him as much and as bravely as she could. But she will recover from that, I am sure. The sisters will do all they can for her."

The priest watched the Rifleman, and touched him. "I shall finish what she has to say to you. Although I think she is as not as decided about her future as she says."

People will tell you that your girl is a whore. I am so sorry. It is not your fault. You can keep my things or sell them. I will stay here for a little while and go to England with Jenny, or Lisbon. I am very sorry. I never wanted it to happen. I should have been more careful. I never did it on purpose but I was stupid and I am sorry. I hope you will be well and happy always.

Maggie

Thank you for always being kind and good to me.

He had to turn away for a moment then. His eyes were stinging with unshed tears that he wiped on his sleeve before turning back to look at the priest. "She ain't no whore, not my Maggie," he said, and there was a catch in his voice. "It warn't her fault that... that... bastard done that to her."

He slipped a hand into his pocket. and pulled out a ring. It shone a little in the dying light, and he smiled sadly. "I had it made in Coimbra. I won a guinea, did you know that? And I had that made from it for her. I was goin' to ask her, when the time was a bit better, if she'd marry me." He slipped it back into his pocket. "And now... do you think she'll come back to me now?"

Father O'Dwyer looked at him sadly. "Even if she had already been your wife, it would not have protected her from what happened. Nor from what malicious tongues would make of it." And malicious tongues could make what they complained of into the truth. "As to what she will do, I do not know. She has her friend with her..." who may not be the best person to advise a decent young woman .... "and she will not be able to do much at all for some while, given her injuries. You may write to her - and if you like, I will write your words for you. Sent by me, it will be carried to Coimbra, without the Army being involved."

He looked up, hope appearing on his face for the first time since he had woken that morning. "You... you would do that for me? For... us?"

He would have to think how to say what he wanted, but he knew without having to think about it that he wanted - needed - to tell her how he felt.

If it took the offer of marriage - or even the wedding itself - to still those tongues, he would offer it to her, but not for that reason. "I do love her, you know," he said simply, holding the ring in his pocket, clenching his fist round it tight enough to leave an imprint on his hand.

"I will - I do not see any difficulty... I am, as you can see, a Catholic - attached unofficially, but for some years, to the 5th of Foot, who are now part of your Division."

O'Dwyer looked at him, and wondered how it would all work out - it would depend on the woman, of course, whether she could face him, and everyone else. "Anyone in the 5th will know where I am, when you are ready."

"Thank you." It was too late, really, to be writing letters now, but tomorrow... Or would that be too late? Would another day make her think he had thrown her over?

"If I tell it you now, well, after you've had your supper anyway, could... could she get it tomorrow?" He needed to hold her again, to tell her he was sorry he'd let her down.

"And... for why are you helpin' us like this? It's not that I ain't grateful," he added, hastily, lest the priest misconstrue his words. "It's just, you don't know us, and we'm both Church of England, and, well," he shrugged. The relief of being able to get a message to her was making him feel almost light-headed.

"This evening - I will have a place where we can be private, since that is, after all, my business. A letter will not go until morning, when camp breaks up, in any event. But it will reach Coimbra, and her, by midday, I would guess. We are not yet far away."

The priest smiled at the Rifleman's question about his motives. "I was asked to help - by a friend of yours, who seemed very concerned - one of the 27th, and there are a few from that Regiment that I've helped over the years. And your Captain, when I spoke to him. As for you being Church of England, while I'm Church of Rome - it's all one Church, and we are meant to help our neighbours..."

By midday! That was better, far better, than he could have dared to hope for.

"Would they take a package? I've got her shawl here and she'll be wantin' it, I should think. And I can wrap it up real small, you know, make it a proper parcel." The captain wouldn't begrudge him a bit of brown paper, or he could scrounge some from somewhere, and he always had a bit of string.

"Williams, that was, then." They owed the Welshman a lot, really, though he might not think it. "Thank you, Father. And... God bless you. Just... just sayin' you'll write for me has, well, it's helped more'n I can rightly say."

"Think about what you wish to say to her - and a small package will be carried easily. I shall see you after supper. And - do not expect an answer by the next day. She will need time to think, and every day, the distance increases. I do not have the General's couriers to carry messages for me." He had folded Maggie's letter again, and held it out to Cotton. "She wanted you to keep this - so you could see it was her writing, and what she said."

"I know that, and she don't... don't need to say anythin' if she don't want to. If she's made up her mind to go, I won't stop her. I can't, neither, me bein' her while she'm back there." He took the letter and tucked it into his jacket, but not before a tear had fallen onto the paper. He wiped his eyes again, feeling slightly ashamed.

"I'll have the parcel ready. And, if I come up to the 5th, I'll find you easy enough, I should think. Easier than you found me, anyways."

Father O'Dwyer blessed the Rifleman, and turned back towards his part of the camp, where others would be needing his services. But he would still feel concern for the Rifleman, who could do nothing to help his woman make up her mind. He could only pray that what happened woud be the best for both of them.

(OOC - flying visit only, I'm afraid!)

Cotton didn't understand the Latin words but felt strangely comforted by them, and headed back to his own camp, thinking hard what he wanted to say in his letter to Maggie.

Captain Vickery gave him some paper as soon as he knew what it was for. Cotton took it gratefully and went to get Maggie's shawl out of his pack. He folded it neatly, but before wrapping it, he took Maggie's locket from around his neck and sighed before placing it carefully in the middle of her shawl. If she didn't come back to him, she would be glad to have her locket back, he thought, and if she did come back and still wanted him to have it, she could tell him so.

He wrapped the shawl in the paper, tying the package carefully with string, and, borrowing a pencil stub from Roper, carefully wrote Maggie's name on the outside of the package. At least she would know he was keeping up with his writing.

He hoped he could manage to tell Maggie what he needed to say, and that she would understand his intentions in returning her locket.

He couldn't eat much supper and found himself heading for the 5th's camp, hoping that he wasn't going to interrupt Father O'Dwyer's meal. If the priest was eating, he could wait, though.

The sight of a Rifleman among the red coats of the 5th attracted attention, and someone pointed out where Father O'Dwyer was. Total privacy was not a possibility in an army camp, but the priest had a tent, just about large enough to allow two people to sit on low stools in comfort. Inside, he was alone, ensuring that everything was ready for an early start in the morning.

Somehow Cotton hadn't expected the man to have a tent. The sight of it reassured him a little, though, and he scratched at the canvas to announce himself, hoping he wasn't interrupting anything.

He had been mulling over what to say in his letter - there was so much he needed to say, about how he felt, and everything else. He needed to let her know that what had happened didn't change how he felt for her.

His breath caught as thought of something else. What if there was a baby? Would she still insist on returning to England, where any baby would be born a bastard, and she would likely end up in a workhouse or something. Or end up having to whore herself out, out of sheer necessity? No... better by far that she stay with him, or stay here, than have to put herself through that. But, he couldn't say that in a letter, not really. That was better said face-to-face. If he ever saw her again.

"Come along in," O'Dwyer said, and then looked up to see who it was.

Cotton ducked into the small tent, and stood there awkwardly, the brown paper parcel held tightly in his strong, calloused hands.

"Are you... are you sure you want to do this, sir?" he asked. "Only, it might be rather a long sort of letter."

"Do you want me to, son?" he asked, watching the Rifleman, and smiling in the hope of reducing his embarrassment. A long letter - to ask his Captain, or a literate comrade, would mean that not just his business but his feelings would be known, and no man wanted that. That, O'Dwyer had always sensed, was one reason for a priest with the army: to allow the men someone with whom they could talk, who would not think less of them for feeling fear or doubt, or even love.

He couldn't ask anyone in his Company to write this letter for him, not even the Captain. And he certainly couldn't do it himself. He only had a very basic grasp of his letters yet, after all, and she deserved more than an ill-written crudely spelt note.

He nodded, unable to trust his voice for the moment.

When he regained control of himself, he held out the parcel, with the name 'Maggie Evans' written in large, bold, yet slightly shaky, letters across the paper. "There's this for her, if... if whoever's goin' don't mind takin' that too."

"That will be easy enough for someone to carry. Now, sit down, Rifleman and - I will write down what you say. Then, when we have finished, I'll write it out fair, so there will be no problem in changing it, if you think you've forgotten something. It isn't easy, writing a letter like this to someone you love. Even more difficult that saying the same things."

Cotton nodded and sat down. This was going to be very different from writing home to his family. "All right then. 'Dear Maggie, I'm awful sorry for what happened to you. I still love you, it won't change that. I... I want you to come home, but if'n you really want to go back to England, I won't stop you.'" He looked up. "I couldn't stop her if I wanted to, though." He watched the pen scratching across the paper until it paused, obviously having caught up with him. "This is... real hard to say," he said, looking back down at the parcel in his lap.

"Yes, it always is - you ... If you were speaking to her, face to face, you'd see how she felt. But you are doing well - she will be able to hear you in that: you don't want to start talking to her in flowery phrases that you think people who write would use. It's you that has to ask her to come back, not some officer type."

It was common enough, among men with enough schooling to have been exposed to model letter writing. And what their families got was a model letter, with just the merest hint of the person they really knew, in the spaces where the model wasn't up to the task. Few schools taught how to describe the aftermath of a battle in rounded phrases....

Cotton nodded, and took a breath before continuing. "'I thought that if you was... was leavin' me, you'd want your locket back. It's wrapped up safe in your shawl.'" He managed to look up again. "She axed me to keep it for her, see, the night afore I was flogged. It ain't worth any money, but it's hers."

It was as though she was sitting here suddenly, instead of the figure of the kind Father O'Dwyer, and he was talking to her.

"'Maggie, I want to ask you to come home to me, please. I'm sorry I couldn't look after you, but don't leave me thisaway. I couldn't bear it.'" There was a catch in his voice and he wiped his eyes on his sleeve. "'I bin awful worried about you, and Father O'Dwyer says he can get this letter to you. I know... I know you won't be able to answer it, but I wanted to tell you that I miss you so much, and I love you, an' I allus will.'"

And even saying it for it to be written in a letter helped, a bit.

I miss you so much, and I love you, and I always will. Father O'Dwyer wrote, very much moved. He looked up at Cotton with a sad smile. "She will know you care, that you are not returning the locket because you don't want her, or anything of hers, which is important. And it will be something for her to give thought to, when she decides."

"I don't think I got anythin' else to say only..." he dug out the pencil stub he'd borrowed from Roper. "Could you tell me the letters for 'I love you', please? She's bin learnin' me to write, see, and I want her to know... to know I bin practisin'."