With the Guard

"Probably needed his bed after getting half killed. But if you've got an officer on your side, you'll be fine." He leaned against the door, hoping nobody was going to walk past and catch him talking to the prisoner.

"Besides, it's late and no officer's going to want to hang around trying to sort things out if he can leave them till mornin'."

"It's not him that's going to hang around, is it?" Williams said, and shivered. He remembered his thoughts about the rifles, and swallowed again. It was the cold, and the dark, and the uncertainty.

"You're probably right, and he'll be here in the morning. Whoever he is. Just a lieutenant, see. Didn't catch his name." The other officer had called him 'Richard' - did that help identify him? But he was daft worrying about that. Someone had to speak to the victim, surely. No, that wasn't what was important.

"That Hakeswill, he's after the Rifles lieutenant, but he thought he'd get me while he could. And now he knows who you are. If an officer can't stop him, how are you going to?"

"I dunno. But wasn't there another officer tryin' to help you?" Cotton hadn't seen much, but had got the vague impression that there was a redcoat officer who'd tried to help, as well.

"And if they take the word of a sergeant over a private, sure as hell they'll take the word of a couple of officers over a sergeant."

He was probably talking complete nonsense, but he sensed how much Williams needed the reassurance.

He thought about that. The redcoat, who'd gone off with the lieutenant. Had he been trying to help, or just to find out the truth with the minimum of fuss? And who knew the truth? If the Rifles officer had been absolutely certain he could have quashed all this by just swearing that he could identify Hakeswill. But he hadn't gone that far. Officers - they lied to you all the time, until it might be helpful to stretch the truth.

Williams dropped his voice still lower. "I don't think the Rifles officer can swear to it. I mean, I'm the only one who knows for sure I didn't do it, you see? Well, and him down there. And the other one, he wasn't even there." So it would come down to his word against the sergeant's, with no one else prepared to perjure himself.

Ah, crap. Maybe there wasn't a way out for Williams, then. "The bastard!" Hakeswill had stitched him up good and proper if that was the case.

"But they believed you. So there must be some way of getting at the truth." If the truth even mattered to anyone apart from Williams. And Cotton. He didn't want to see the man shot; he'd come to like him in the short while they'd been acquainted with each other.

Williams rested his face against the door. He'd talked his way into and out of enough trouble in his life to recognize that this was something he couldn't handle. The contact with Cotton helped - it was something beyond the thoughts in his head. The system was loaded against him - benefit of the doubt only worked if the judges had any doubt about their own superior judgement. If not, then the higher the rank, the higher the trust that had to be placed in that person. And a private was the lowest.

"They could try beating it out of him. And I'd offer to help." He grinned in the dark at the thought. "Could die happy then, maybe." He licked his lips. Ask for water and make a daring gaol break? The cell was pretty basic, at that - drinking water wasn't the only thing he'd like. "You on duty here all night?"

"'Fraid not. I'll be here for another hour or two yet, though." He hoped he was helping. He wished he could see Williams' face to see whether his words were having the effect he wanted.

"You wouldn't be the only one who'd volunteer to beat the crap out of that Sergeant. Hell, I'd hold him down for you."

"There's this story, of a dog Gelert, the faithful hound of Prince Llewelyn, see. It's not quite the same, if you understand. I'm not claiming to be anyone's faithful hound. Anyway, Llewelyn goes off hunting and leaves Gelert to guard his home and his son and heir When he gets back, Gelert is all covered in blood, and the child missing, the boy's bed covered in blood too.

"The frantic father plunges his sword into the hound's side, thinking it has savaged and devoured his heir. The dog's dying yell was answered by a child's cry.

"Llewelyn searches the palace and finds the boy unharmed lying by the body of a wolf, slain by Gelert. The dog gets a decent gravestone, and a village named after him. They wouldn't do that to a soldier."

Tales settled him. He could recite some that went on for hours. But this one, with its helpful hound slain because no one bothered to look for the evidence until the dog was dead and skinned, seemed sadly relevant.

Ah, bloody hellfire. Now the Welshman was talking himself into the blue devils. "You ain't dead yet, Taffy. There's always hope."

Suddenly Williams started laughing. "I ain't dead yet." he chuckled. "That's a message for your gravestone, to get people wondering." He drew in a breath with difficulty, and coughed harshly. "I think the maid missed out this guest room this morning. Or a previous guest made away with the fine glass water goblets, but do you think you could get me some water? The pause was a fraction too long. "I give you my word, Cotton." His breath still sounded ragged to his own ears. "And even more of my word, for a very long time, if there was some gin in it."

Water. Of all the bloody things he could have been asked for. There was a water barrel by the steps up, which solved one problem. He pulled his battered tin mug out and dipped it in the barrel before heading back to Williams' cell.

He spoke in a low voice. He didn't want any overbearing NCOs to overhear this. "Ain't got any gin, mate. Would a drop of brandy do?"

He added some from his canteen anyway and gestured for Sanders to go stand by the steps.

"Look, mate, I hope you're not planning on anything, because there's only one way out of here and that's the way you came in." He carefully unlocked the door and set the mug on the floor just inside it.

Williams stepped back as the door opened, and blinked at Cotton, not just because of the light. When he could speak, he said: "Thanks, mate. I'll go out the way I came in, on my feet and under guard." His voice rose. "Don't shut the door 'til I've got it. It's bloody dark in here - though I could track it by smell. God, Cotton, you're a life saver. He walked forward, bent down and picked up the mug. "I'll drink this, and leave you alone. Things won't seem so bad in the morning."

"They never do," Cotton said. He waited till he was sure Williams had the mug before closing the door again. "Don't drink it all at once, will you?"

Williams slid down onto the dirty pallet, cradling the mug. "Goodnight, Cotton," he said to the closed door. Not many would do that. The brandy filled the holes the day had made, and even as he continued to sip slowly at it, his head began to droop. He put the mug down, where he wouldn't kick or roll onto it. And fell asleep. [At 2:32 am Goodnight, children, everywhere]

Cotton listened, but the other man seemed to have fallen asleep, which was hardly surprising after what he'd been through.

And Cotton felt more than half asleep himself. He crossed back to the water barrel and splashed some water on his face before taking a stroll down the corridor and back. Most of the prisoners, drunk or not, seemed to have fallen asleep.

He wondered how long it was till his relief would come, and hoped he'd be able to get his mug back without any problems.

(OOC: and that's me done for the night too!)

Padstowe had lied. There was more that could be done tonight, but they were things that could only be done without an awkward half-dazed rifles officer trailing around behind him like a lost wolfhound, as Sharpe would have insisted on doing if he'd even suspected the captain might be thinking of doing anything. Besides, he worked better alone - it was what he was used to after all.

He'd paid a brief visit to headquarters and was now on his way to where the guardhouse had been established in an old wine merchant's property. He came and stood before the officer on duty at the desk - a thin, scragged lieutenant - and slapped a paper down under his nose, making the man start.

"Padstowe, Captain, 50th. Defending officer regarding the assault on Lieutenant Richard Sharpe of the 95th."

The lieutenant blinked up at him stupidly for a few moments before thinking to read the paper. He frowned as he deciphered the lines and the signture at the bottom of the page, which seemed to take him an inordinately long time, and Padstowe noted with some satisfaction that the man reeked of cheap wine, and judging by the glass and bottle next to the man he'd already had more than was good for him. Good; the less he remember of this visit the better.

At length the lieutenant handed back the paper.

"It seems to be in order, sir," he said, though there was not absolute certainty in his voice. "What can we do for you?"

"You have in your custody a Sergeant Obadiah Hakeswill of the 33rd and a Private Owen Williams of the 27th. I wish to examine the personal belongings you took off them when they arrived, and I have the authority to remove into my keeping any item that I may think significant in the case."

The lieutenant blinked. It was irregular, damn irregular, but the signature on the paper... But it would be more trouble than it was worth to question the captain, and he sent the sergeant off to get the boxes.

When the boxes finally arrived Padstowe nearly sighed with relief. His first priority had been to get hold of that damned cord, as it was better for him to have it than the prosecution or simply not at all, and he'd prayed to God that it would be here and not lost in some dark alleyway. But no, there it was amongst Williams' belongings. He made a charade of searching through the boxes, first Hakeswill's, then Williams', before taking the cord and putting it securely in his pocket. He borrowed the lieutenant's pen and paper to leave a note that he had taken the item, then straightened up.

"Thank you. I now wish to see Private Williams. I shall require a light. If your sergeant would be so good as to lead the way?"

There were footsteps on the stairs and at first, Cotton thought it was another party with another man under arrest. But these footsteps sounded more insistent somehow.

And then the party came into sight. Sergeant Mayberry was holding a lantern and leading an officer. Cotton sprang to attention and then saw it was the same officer he'd run into the other day. He hoped the man didn't recognise him.

Though what could an officer want down here at this time of day, when people should be asleep?

As Padstowe came down the stairs behind Mayberry he saw the shapes of two guards spring to attention, and when he reached the bottom could clearly recognise that one of them was the young rifleman who had run into him a couple of days ago. He frowned slightly. Dear Lord,but this was a night for coincidences!

"This one, sir," Mayberry said, indicating the cell Cotton was standing outside.

Padstowe nodded.

"And the sergeant?"

"The next one, sir."

Only next door. Damn. He turned to Cotton.

"Open up."

"Sir?"

He knew he wouldn't get any explanation from the Captain and turned to unlock the door. "Taffy? You've got a visitor, mate."

The noise of the key in the lock slipped into place in Williams' dream. Now? But before he could panic, reason reasserted itself. No matter how warped, there were still stages to go through, and he couldn't have slept through trial and sentence.

A slit of light, widening as the door opened and Cotton saying he had a visitor. How long had be been asleep. Now he could see an officer in the doorway, but no details. One of his mob, no doubt, counting up his stray lambs. He caught sight of Cotton's mug, still part full of brandy and water. No one could blame the lad for giving water to a prisoner: the brandy was another matter. He took it and drained it quickly, coughing as he did. Then stood up and as straight as his stiff neck would allow.

"Sir?"

"That'll do, Cotton," Padstowe snapped quietly. He didn't want to let Hakeswill hear any more than was necessary. Ignoring Williams' questing 'Sir?' he asked Cotton less harshly, "Do you know if it is possible for anybody in the next cell to overhear a conversation?"

He heard Williams coughing. The water! He hoped Captain Padstowe hadn't noticed, or wouldn't say anything if he had; he didn't want to get in trouble with the guard commander, or Captain Vickery, for that matter.

"No, sir, they can't. 'Less'n you shout. It's all thick stone down here, sir." If he didn't want Hakeswill to overhear, that was one thing, but he wanted to know himself what was going on. Hopefully Williams would tell him afterwards. He prepared to move away, giving them some privacy.

"Good." That was satisfactory then. He took the lantern from Mayberry and dismissed him with a wave ofhis hand. He looked back at Cotton.

"When I go in you are to shut and lock the door behind me, then retire five paces away from the door. When I have finished with the private I will knock on the door and then you are to let me out. Understood?"

"Sir? Yes, sir."

And to think he'd thought it was going to be a quiet night.

Padstowe stepped into the cell and heard the door close and lock behind him. Whether the rifleman move away was his on affair, but it didn't really matter. It would have been pitch dark in here had it not been for the lantern, and he regarded the private standing riggedishly to attention, the man's eyes squinting to get used to the light.

"Good evening, Williams," he said mildly.