In bivouac with the 60th, 18th May

Cotton nodded soberly. "Thank you. An', whatever she decides to do, I'll accept it. Though I mightn't want to, but I do know what 'no' means. And, I can't sell all her stuff. D'you reckon I might be able to get her other things - her clothes and stuff - to her? She went out in not much more than than her shimmy* an' shoes, from what I could tell, after."

*chemise

Father O'Dwyer looked thoughtful. "Provided the French don't get round behind us - and I am sure General Wellesley won't allow that .... If she is still there, a message to the Convento de Santa Clara-a-Nova, Coimbra, will find her."

"The Convent de Santa-Clara-a-Nova, in Coimbra," Cotton repeated, committing the name to memory. "You've... it's been awful, the not knowing. I feel better now I know, though it don't help that I can't help her, not really, and she's stuck back there, thinkin'... Well, seems she thinks I'm goin' to throw her over, 'cause of what some... bastard done to her. 'Scuse me language, please, I don't mean to sound coarse."

He looked up at the priest. "She come out here with another one of our lads, who got killed at Vimeiro. They was sweethearts since they was young, you see. And knowin' that she'd, well, bin with someone else, it didn't matter 'cause I wanted her for herself. An' I still do. She's a real good woman, you see, an' I'm real lucky to have her." His face fell a little. "Well, to have had her, if so be that's what she chooses."

That was not unusual. Widows were usually snapped up fairly quickly, especially those who had shown themselves to be strong, and willing campaigners. And the women themselves would prefer a new protector to being left without support.

"You have been together since Vimeiro, then?" he asked, drawing a fresh sheet of paper and printing out the name of the convent - even if Cotton could remember it, he would find the spelling difficult.

He shook his head. "No. She didn't want a new man so quick. Like I said, her and Jem had been sweethearts for years before he listed. We've only been walkin' out together since the night before we left Lisbon, though we was friends before then, 'cause Jem was a mate, even though he was a Corporal, y'see."

That cast a new light on the situation, Father O'Dwyer thought. He had assumed that the couple had a longer relationship - not that they had only been together for less than two weeks.

"Here is the address - I have written it so that you may easily copy it, but if you would like me to write a letter to go with it. Miss Evans will get your letter, and the parcel tomorrow, but I cannot say when you will receive a reply."

"Thanks," he said, taking the paper and looking at the letters on it, running a finger under them as he pieced the letters and sounds together to make the words that Father O'Dwyers had said he'd written.

"I... I ought to be goin'," he said finally, folding the sheet and putting it carefully in his pocket, along with the letter Maggie had written. "I've took up too much of your time already, really, an' I'm sorry. You must have other folks to see to, after all." People who belonged to the same faith were probably more important than some Rifleman not even in the same regiment, after all.

"There will be, I am sure, although there will be more tomorrow, as the chance of fighting gets closer. There will be those who want me to write letters for them too, in case."

He stood up. "The letter will go tomorrow. If you want, I can help you with any reply."

He nodded. If it was going to be as hard to hear the reply as it had been to tell his letter, he didn't want the Captain or anyone else to see. Somehow, he didn't mind the priest knowing how he felt.

"Yes, please, Father," he said. "That would be awful good of you." He managed a smile. "You've helped, a lot. Thanks for that."

"It was no trouble, son. I'll be around whenever you want me, although I might be rather busy... Bless you."

"Thank you. And I'll try not to interrupt anythin'." Cotton knew what it could be to be rather busy, after all, and busy people didn't always appreciate being interrupted.

He ducked out of the tent into the cool evening air and paused, just breathing, for a moment before turning to head back down towards the 60th' bivouac, his heart a lot lighter in some ways than it had been that morning.

Cotton walked back to camp, his heart a lot lighter by the promise that his letter would be with Maggie by midday tomorrow. He still wasn't sure quite how badly hurt she was, but he had been able to share his own thoughts and hopes, a little, and make her aware that there was still a place for her, if she wanted it.

His path coincided with Vickery's as the officer came back from checking the picquets. The officer raised an eyebrow, pleased to see him looking a lot happier than he had been that morning. "Good news, was it, Cotton?" he asked.

Cotton looked up and nodded, then shrugged. "Sort of, sir. I... There's that priest with the 5th, and he brought me a letter from Maggie, and she says she's hurt - that someone hurt her, made her do... summat she didn't want to, and she wants to go back to England." He sighed, and Vickery saw his hand stray unconsciously to his pocket. "And, well, I didn't know what to do, or anythin', and Father O'Dwyer said as he'd write for me, if I wanted to send her a letter. So I've writ - or he has, what I said to him - and he'll send it off tomorrow."

Vickery frowned a little, grateful that the gathering darkness would hide it. "But she might not want to come back, Gabriel," he said gently, beginning to be aware of just how much his batman cared for Maggie Evans.

Cotton nodded. "I know that, sir. But, it was the not knowin', and not bein' able to tell her how I felt that was the worst. At least now, she'll know... she'll know I won't throw her over if she comes back. And, well, if she doesn't, it's her choice, and I can't help her choose. And I thought she might want her locket back, if she don't come back, and I sent it her with her shawl. Her favourite one, the green one," he added, as if the colour mattered.

Vickery knew nothing about any locket, though he thought he'd seen something fastened around Cotton's neck the day he was flogged. But then, he'd seen and felt so much that day, he couldn't be sure. "I am sure, Gabriel," he said instead, "that if she does decide to leave, she will find leaving you to be the hardest thing about it, and she will know that you didn't return her locket because you no longer wanted it, but because you wanted her to have it back."

And inside, the young Captain couldn't help hoping that Maggie would come back to Cotton.

Pye was returning from the visit of his friends of the 33rd and spied the two men, the captain he'd had nothing but good words for - and thought all of that as well, and the batman who was perhaps similarly endowed with good meanings. He halted unwilling to interrupt their conversation and turned to take the longer path about towards where he was meant to go sleep for the night. He was in good spirits.

The visit went fine enough. Wasn't a question there. He'd been about since, really. With a pocketful of pebbles, as clean as day and as round as a flattened bullet, he walked, no heavier in step. Nice and soft, rubbed slick, were the pebbles. Meant for nothing more but in part to lick on them to keep the mouth from trying, and in another part .. well he had yet to decide, but they'd do!