27th May, morning; with wagons

Cotton grinned at them. "You know the basic idea, though, don't you, mate?" he said, looking at Pye, then winked at Newbury. "Whatever you do, Joe, don't whistle for us to form rally square - it'll be pretty hard to do that with just two of us."

"Even more, couse I don't think you taught me the call for that command anyway." Pye grinned hoping he would remember the commands when whistled out. If he didn't he could always cheat and look at Cotton for help, but he preferred actually doing on his own. He would have to know them one day, so cheating really wouldn't help.

He nodded absently as he carefully fished the yellow ball of fluff out of the bread bag. It seemed cheered to be out in the air. Newbury kept the chick in his opened palm and grinned.

"Any time you lads are ready," he said.

Pye smiled seeing the little chick out and more happily chirping away now that it was no longer confined. He was assured. Newbury would take good care of the little animal and the chick actually didn't mind him, though it did begin to peck at his palm as if searching for something to eat. It looked about curiously, looked at the other two riflemen, perhaps somewhat startled that the most familiar face was not the one whose hand held it.

"We're goin'." He looked at Cotton and made to turn and follow the elder rifleman. He turned around again, walked to his cheek, gently patted it over the head:"Take care, Peggy."

He smiled and with the final turn in the same direction as the first time, looked ready for the 'game'.

"Peggy?" It wasn't what he was used to, in the way of names for chicks. Though, to be fair, he was more used to the grown birds that his stepmother had kept.

He checked his rifle and glanced at Pye. "All right. You know the idea of skirmishin', don't you? Up to six paces in front an' don't fire till your partner says 'ready'."

"Um.. the chick." Pye answered embarrassed. "..dun' think... i didn' want to call it chick,..she lives some time now so..so she deserved a name, right? If it's a she. If it ain't then.." He looked briefly over his shoulder before following Cotton obediently.

"..It will be one unhappy male cock." He murmured with a grin. The grin which was quickly replaced by a serious expression of one changing into the 'working' mode. "Right." He hadn't had it explained in as much, having followed and observed what others did and mimicking it. This would be a perfect opportunity though that he would know the rules along with the actions.

"You'll start, will you?" He asked, shifting his rifle from his shoulder to his arms. They wouldn't fire for real in any case. The indication of it would have sufficed.

"Right. The Frogs is up there - not for real," he added hastily, in case Pye should get the wrong idea. "An' the Captain's just had young Joe give the command for skirmish order." He whistled it. "Means to spread out - we cover more ground an' there's less danger of hittin' anyone we didn't ought to, see. There's diff'rent ways of gettin' into skirmish order - extendin' from the left, the right or the centre. Wherever we extend from, those men stay put an' the others move away till there's two or four paces between each pair."

It might be confusing to the poor lad; Cotton had found it confusing enough himself at first. "You'll pick it up quick enough," he added reassuringly.

What he could understand is that some men did not move, and others did. Perhaps if the men spread from the left, it meant the right men didn't move? And if from centre.. no, that made no sense. Unless if from the centre, All but the center men moved, and.... He blinked and gazed at Cotton. "...how do yer know which one moves n' which'un doesn't?" He asked. The distance between pairs didn't sound like a hard thing to understand at least. The end result would be men with two to four paces between them.

He did make a note to remember the whistled sound for it. ".. does t' command say which way we's spreading?" It probably did, which meant three signals all very similar to one another. All that he might've learnt before had to be abandoned here. Standing up straight as a glaring target to the enemy was not the riflemen's way!

"No, the Captain says that before havin' the bugle give the order. Or, well, look where he's standin'. If he's on the left, then it's extend from the left - the left-hand file stays where they are and you move to the right." He chuckled. "I know, it's confusin' at first. But you just stick with your partner an' you'll pick it up."

He grinned and indicated the empty field. "Right, we'm goin' to be on the right flank - where I usually am - so we don't have to worry 'bout any of that, just the skirmishin' itself. It starts with the rear-rank man movin' forward, up to six paces in front. It's best to kneel down 'cause it means there's a smaller target. Remember to aim an' then fire - there's no point in wastin' the ball, after all, and we can aim a rifle."

If it was from the left, the right hand people moved. Pye paused. If he understood it right, it meant the ones that were mentioned were not to move, and the ones that weren't would. And since if it was from the left, that the left ones were in the way, the only direction the ones moving would have, is going to the right. Right, he hoped he understood it correctly and didn't just confuse himself with the explanation in his mind. He probably would've confused anyone else, to whom he would explain it in such manner.

He was the rear-rank man in the present moment. He nodded quickly, then advanced forward a few paces. He'd started a bit awkwardly, not certain that he was meant to move already. Once that moment passed though he continued to about six paces then stopped. He'd still moved a bit too much like a soldier of the line. Too straight up and stiff, perhaps even somewhat too slow. He did kneel when he reached his spot, and raised his rifle. But after that he waited. Cotton said he was only meant to fire when the other rifleman said ready.

"I'm ready," Cotton said, and added, "Just shout Bang or summat, so's I know you've fired. No point in wastin' the powder an' makin' the column think there's summat goin' on when there isn't, after all."

Pye's lips curled into a broad smile, his scar somewhat distorting this with its stiffness. Bang would have sounded so strange to say, but there was little else he could do to make a sound of a rifle firing. He could attempt to mimic it of course. He allowed himself a chuckle, a moment when seriousness was just not there and then in a clear tone he uttered. " Bang!" And lowered his weapon. He could just imagine a Frenchman falling back, with a hole in his forehead or one sagging under his weight as his leg could no longer hold him, the injury weakening it.

He glanced at Cotton briefly.

Cotton grinned, before darting forward, passing Pye to his left, and kneeling when he was six paces past the younger man, his rifle in his shoulder as if tracking an advancing Frenchman.

This wasn't quite like one of the Captain's training days, but it could get to be pretty enjoyable in its own way, especially out here. He wondered for a moment what the redcoat officers would make of it all.

Pye took note in what manner Cotton darted and grinned, waiting for a few moments then: "Ready!" he called. The weather seemed to be to their liking, fair enough at least. But even if it had been poor, the lad would hardly have minded. This was fun and very useful! Cotton had done it so smoothly. Ran forward, knelt not sparking a moment for hesitation, no space for uncertainty and yet he didn't hit his knee against the ground hard. If he had, and the ground had been full of stones, he might've ended with a very sour knee and a reason to curse.

Pye waited, but also gazed at the terrain as if searching for the best path to go across. They would have to go a bit diagonal to the lines of the wagons. Should they have gone too far in a straight line or even in the opposite direction, and they might have to go a running to catch up.

Already a few of the camp followers had noticed the pair, and a red coat or two had arched a brow, not sure what to think of what he was seeing. Perhaps the wine had been bad. That could explain it!

Cotton grinned. "Bang!" he called, and began to mime the reloading process. Of course, it was always quicker to reload when doing a dry run than it was when doing it for real, and there would be no powder residue to have to clean off later, either.

It was a nice day for doing this sort of thing.

This time, when the young rifleman ran, he had been bent lower, he moved faster and lighter on his feet. He had a purpose and an exact direction that he wanted to take and so did. He hadn't a trouble to come across a larger boulder that was in the way, and came around one before lowering himself to his knee. He winced. Perhaps he had done the last bit a bit too quickly, and as he reached under it, he found a jagged bit of stone poking in his direction.

His rifle was raised though, less than a moment later. He rested his finger along the side of its trigger. He wouldn't pull for real, but he made himself used to the feeling of having his finger there no less. It had gone smoother, but he learnt what he might still be able to do better. The 'French' were still there, and they were ready to fire at them or perhaps they were doing so already. But as they were low, the enemy could not hit them as easily. It wasn't hard to imagine it all,and perhaps even other riflemen running and moving left and right of them, in the same manner and pattern. It was harder than only following as the third man. There, he could 'tag' along , but now he had to know and do his thing exactly as it was to be done. Nobody else would do it for him.

The punishment for the other two had almost seemed a gift to the lad.

"Ready!" Cotton called, even before the ramrod was withdrawn fully from the barrel of his rifle to be replaced in the brass pipes where it belonged. He'd have to tell Pye, later, that he could make use of that rock, rather than just run around it and kneel in plain sight of any advancing soldiers.

"Bang!" Went the next shot. He had to aim. He had aimed before the shout of 'ready' was given. What he really aimed for was a bit of bush up ahead of them. The bush had become a French shako, it's bushy part that stuck at an odd end from the rest of the small branches, its plume, and the white stone infront of it what he'd have dubbed its plate. Of course, if a Frenchman had been so low he would've done better to wait for him to come over the hilly side.

He began to prepare the rifle for firing, loading, adding gun powder as if it was real, as if he was truly using the ball for it too and then the ramrod. Hopefully Cotton wouldn't have staged at being hit. The lad had no idea what he was to do then. When the lines of redcoats had someone get killed, they usually just closed the lines and marched on, but when there was a pair of man...what would one do, when the other was gone or injured?

Cotton was running forward. There was a clump of heather and he didn't even think about it before throwing himself flat, using it as much as possible for cover, adjusting his position as he pulled his rifle into his shoulder.

Pye looked on in alarm. At first he'd thought Cotton had fallen, perhaps something worse had happened. His hand jerked to a stop, still holding his ramrod at the barrel end of his rifle. It stayed there, then as if remembering that it could not be left in its place no matter what had just happened he jerked it free. He remembered well the warning that if a ramrod was found shot at the enemy, whoever would have shot it, would be ordered to go and retrieve it and he too would've been punished for loosing the said ramrod.

The thin lean bit was slid back in place and he hesitated. What, oh.. :" Ready!" Cotton didn't seem to be calling off their training, which meant he was alright. He thought back on the three positions that he was told in which a rifleman would stand. Were they four? Kneeling, sitting..lying and standing? Right!

There was a bit of a delay before Cotton heard Pye's "Ready!" and he wondered how the other lad was managing with the reloading. "Bang!" he shouted, before scrambling to his knees to begin reloading himself. it was possible to reload while lying down because of the shorter barrel of a Baker, but it wasn't the easiest option by a long way and Cotton saw no need to make things any harder than they had to be.

Pye darted forward, he had done an error by gazing at Cotton to make sure he was alright, before advancing forward. It did slow him down some, which he tried to remedy by exerting more effort to cross the remaining bit of ground faster. He dropped to his knee, just after he'd nearly skidded on loose pebbles, mixed with dirt and grass. It did bring up a bit of grass, and some stones which hopped and rolled down the slope.

His rifle was lifted. He was pursing his lips and biting at his lower one, angry with himself for possibly doing several mistakes too many. Faster, more efficient, and easy. He'd done neither of those!

"Slow down, lad, there's no need to rush - the speed'll come later, when you'm more sure of what you'm doin'," Cotton called across to him, as he went through the motions again. "Ready!"

"A'right." he was convinced though that he had little time for later if he wished to be of use. He felt rushed, but not because Cotton or Newbury or even Vickery would've been rushing him into learning it quick, he was imposing that on himself. He did not wish to be a liability, not a soldier of the line dressed up as a rifleman, but a rifleman deserving of his name.

What do you do, if' your partner falls?" He asked just before uttering a sharp: "Bang." He had aimed again. Properly. He took enough time for it, so that if he had truly fired it wouldn't have been a wasted shot. As if in answer to the 'shot', a flock of birds raised from the bush further ahead of them. Tiny birds, no larger than sparrows, if they weren't just that. They chirped animatedly as they flew in a large round circle, high up first then dropping in a show of fair coordination. They almost looked as though they were one and yet made of many.

"Join in with another pair to make a three - means you can fire more shots in the same time, that does. And then the Captain'll sort it out afterwards, rearrange things and you'll get a new partner." He shrugged, and grinned at the birds. He much preferred the open skies and horizons of the countryside to the narrow streets and foetid air of the town or city. "Here, d'you want to stop for a minute, 'cause I'm sure you've got more questions to ask than just that one."