11 June; Surprise guests

The wagons he had briefly explored the day before hadn't moved, which was odd. He was used to seeing the great noisy contraptions being dragged along by those annoying Things with Hard Feet. It did not seem natural for them not to move.

It was a relief to discover that the Things with Hard Feet were kept at some distance to the wagons, which made it safe for him to wander closer to them. There were plenty of humans coming and going, with many patches of Hot Ground located around the motionless wagons.

The dog padded along past several wagons, pausing briefly at each to sniff at the wheels and at the wagon beds. Some of the wagons had humans in them. The smell from those wagons was suspicious and the dog avoided them. It brought him to mind of the Great Noise that had happened the last time the two human packs met with each other. Afterward, there had been many humans who smelled like the ones in those wagons.

A round-bellied human appeared suddenly from behind one wagon and, spotting the dog, snapped a curse at him. Something hard and solid was thrown in the dog's direction, prompting him to bolt. His flight through unfamiliar territory was short-lived, for, as he dashed under one wagon to emerge on the other side, he collided solidly with a pair of human legs.

The dog let out a startled yelp as the human he had run into came crashing down almost squarely on top of him. Bad!

Waking up in a wagon that was not moving was a novelty that Newbury was not sure he could get used to. At the same time, feeling marginally less sore upon waking from the lack of jostling was a relief. Such that he considered making the effort to crawl out of the wagon and see if he could still bear to stand upright.

The concentration required for such movement was useful chiefly to keep his mind off other things, which was another reason he was making the attempt. It was better not to consider things that were now impossible, after all. Not, Newbury thought as he eased his feet down to the hard ground, that he could really help the feeling that he should have made more of an effort to stay behind with the French.

He gritted his teeth, eyes squeezed shut, as his feet settled into the dirt. There was no knowing for sure how many hours he'd slept, but the stiffness in all his limbs could only come from spending more than a night in exhausted slumber. It would take a little walking to loosen his muscles.

At least it seemed as though his knee could tolerate his weight. Newbury kept a firm grip on the wagon and straightened up, using the wagon itself for support. Bloody hell but he felt like an old man. He wouldn't be much use to anybody if he didn't sort himself out. A grimace passed over his face. Perhaps for the first time, he wasn't sure he really wanted to be with the Rifles.

That thought, and indeed most all others, were driven straight from his head when something solid, moving fast, smashed full into his legs. Whatever balance he'd had was gone in an instant. Newbury cursed aloud, colourfully, as he fell, and he cursed again when he landed on something small and furry.

A flaming dog.

"You a'right?" Maggie exclaimed, hurrying over to help the fallen rifleman. She recognized with surprise that it was Newbury. "Joe!" she cried, and then a smile spread across her face and she wrapped her arms around him. "Joe, Joe. I'm so glad to see you back."

The dog was alternating between a whine and a growl. Newbury ignored the worthless beast. He was more concerned with getting back to his feet. Somehow.

Help came from a familiar-sounding bystander but it wasn't until he was back on his feet, nominally, that Newbury realised who this bystander was.

"Hullo, Missus," he said, too surprised by her warm greeting to even wince. "S'good bein' back."

Even though it really wasn't.

"You've met the dog, I see. Get off, shoo," she scolded the creature, though her tone was mild. "Gabe said..." Well, she would not embarrass Joe by repeating everything that Gabe had said about his injuries. Apparently he had had to be carried nearly the whole way back. "How you feeling?"

That was much better! The dog scrambled away from the Awkward Human, only too glad to not have avoided being thoroughly squashed. He made his displeasure at the entire incident known with a growling whuff, though his irritation was relieved when he recognised the Human from the Stream. He liked her.

Despite the incomprehensible buzz that came from the humans' mouths, the dog stayed put. Having nearly been smashed flat, he felt the Awkward Human owed him something. For the indignity. Thus, he sat down and waited.

Was this mutt a fixture in the Rifles' camp now? Newbury hoped not. For some reason, he felt rather disinclined to like the animal.

"Bit stiff, maybe," he answered with a careful shrug. The sudden jarring from the fall had set his head to ringing again. "Glad you got clean 'way, Missus."

In her surprised pleasure at finding him here, Maggie had momentarily forgotten about that last time she had seen him, and the significant part he had played in her escape. She looked down at the dog to hide her pink face. "Me too. Thank you for... distracting them." She had not seen much of his diversion at all, since she had run as soon as she could and had not stopped to look back. She had never properly stopped to think what the result might be for Newbury himself, or that other redcoat fellow who had been there. "Did they hurt you or anything?"

His face flushed a bit and he glanced down at the dirt. "Least I could do," he said. "They weren't so bad 'bout it though."

She smiled shyly up at him. "Good. What about everyone else? Did they treat them all right? Did you see any of the women, Jenny, Sally Palmer, or Martha?"

The women. Newbury bit his lip and forced a shrug. "We was looked after a'right, mostly. Didn't see so much of the women though. They was kept separate of us."

"Oh. Well, I guess they'll send 'em back to us soon." She rubbed the dog's ears absently for want of anything better to do. "Was Gabe all right? He didn't really say very much about it. Didn't want me to worry, I guess."

Would they? Newbury hoped so.

"Aye. He was the best of the lot, really." And he, Newbury, had naturally been the worst. Needing to be bloody carried all the way back. Had he known that was in store for him, he would have stayed behind.

It was an awkward conversation. Maggie knew he was not telling her everything, and she also knew enough not to ask for more. Men did not like women to worry. Maggie did not want to worry the men by letting them know that she was worrying. And so she pretended that it was all right, that she was reassured and optimistic. And indeed she tried to be so. She would go mad with fretting if she let her imagination run its course.

So she changed the subject. "Captain weren't half glad to see you back. He didn't like to show it, but he was feelin' awful low to have lost you lot. He had a knock on the head and couldn't even remember it all."

Newbury managed a weak grin. It was hard to imagine Captain Vickery showing any sort of low feeling. "Musta been a sight," he said, privately relieved that she had changed the subject. "I din't know anythin' of him or his doings 'til I heared the Palmers sayin' he was dead."

Maggie gave him a compassionate look. "That musta been awful. He probably looked dead. He looked half dead when I met him, when young Joe Cavender dragged him off the field." She lightened her tone with a laugh. "You 'n him had the same sorta knock on the head. He were so angry and confused! I think he challenged the Guards captain to a duel, though he probably don't remember it now."

Despite himself, Newbury chuckled. Doing so promptly made his head throb but for once he didn't mind it. Having something to laugh about was too great a relief.

"Did he? That woulda been somethin' worth seein', no lie. Prob'ly best for that Guardsman he don't 'member, neither!"

Now Maggie laughed in earnest. "Think so? What would he choose, the captain - swords or pistols?"

"Pistols, I think. Faster at settlin' matters. 'Sides. A Rifleman'd be hard to outshoot."

She gave him an affectionate smile. She was really rather fond of Newbury. "Maybe not a rifleman who couldn't see straight. He couldn't walk straight neither. Probably couldn't think straight, that's why he don't remember." She looked at him questioningly. "Gabe said you'd been hit on the head. When was that? Do you have things you don't remember?" Though if he could not remember them, he might not know he had forgotten.

That was true enough. Newbury's brief feeling of mirth was beginning to subside. He wished it would hang about a little longer.

"Mebbe." He shrugged carefully. "Which time d'you mean?"

"How many times has it been?"

A very good question.

"I dunno, now."

She shook her head at him in wonder. "Your head must be a prize conker. We should get you a helmet, or the very least a cooking pot you can wear on your head. Did it get knocked about while you was with the French?"

All this buzzing of nonsense was making him feel sleepy, though strangely not bored. How odd. The dog whuffed quietly and laid down on the Human from the Stream's feet. He didn't trust the Awkward Human.

Maybe, whenever they finished making such endless noise, they'd feed him.