midday
It was a big brown-faced woman who said that crossly , and a big rough-looking bugler , in the uniform of the 200th Fusiliers , with belts , buttons and facings looking very clean and bright , but the scarlet cloth ragged and stained from the rain and mud , and sleeping in it anywhere , often without shelter , who dropped the lid as if it were hot and shut in the steam once more , as the iron pot bubbled away where it hung from three sticks , over a wood fire . It was in a lovely part of Portugal , and the regiment was halting among the mountains after a long weary tramp ; fires had been lit for cooking , and the men were lying and sitting about , sleeping , cleaning their firelocks , pipeclaying their belts , and trying to make themselves look as smart as they could considering that they were all more or less ragged and torn after a fortnight 's tramp in all weathers in pursuit of a portion of the French army which had been always a few hours ahead . But it was easy enough to follow their steps , for everywhere they had plundered , and destroyed ; villages and pleasant homes were burned ; and blackened ruins , cut-up gardens and vineyards met the soldiers ' eyes wherever the enemy had been . There had been a straggling little village by the side of the mountain stream , where the 200th had halted at midday after their long march under a burning sun , at a spot where there was plenty of fresh water , and it was the pot over one of these cooking fires whose lid Tom Jones had lifted off . `` On ' y wanted to smell what was for dinner , '' he said . `` What have you got , Mother Beane ? '' `` Never you mind .