10th July, late evening; A surgeon's summons

The last time he'd been on a horse was fully five years ago, on the road from Leeds to London. He'd been unseated when the horse had spooked at a rabbit and suffered a broken leg as a result. It had been the last time his backside had felt a saddle. Until now. It felt thoroughly alien to be on horseback again but somehow, his muscles remembered the necessaries enough to make the experience nearly comfortable.

However, it had been sufficiently long enough since his last ride for Mister Todd's hasty arrival to the Riflemen's bivouac to be anything but graceful. He was successful in keeping the borrowed horse from barrelling straight over a crowded camp-fire, but in roughly reining the animal to a halt, he was nearly launched straight over the horse's neck.

"Captain Vickery!" The surgeon cried, not caring a whit for the spectacle he'd just made of himself. He was sensible not to dismount, for if he did, he was not likely to drag himself into the saddle again.

"What now?" Vickery had just returned from making his rounds of the sentries, to see the 60th's surgeon arrive in camp on horseback and nearly go headfirst into one of the men's camp-fires.

He broke into a run - something must be very wrong somewhere if Todd was bumbling around the camp on a horse! "What has happened?" he asked, coming up to where the horse was, having back away from the fire a little to crop at a mostly-untouched patch of dry grass.

God be praised. The man was nearby, saving Todd the trial of sending men to find him.

"Two of your lads have turned up, sir," he said. "The missing two, I daresay. They... you had better come along directly."

The officer was better served to see the state of affairs, instead of hearing Todd describe them.

"Two of...?" Mayden and Kirridge. He turned to the nearest riflemen. "I want someone to tell Cotton to saddle my horse, and someone else to give my compliments to Mister Delacroix and would he come here at his earliest convenience, please?"

Meaning 'now', of course. He stepped towards the horse and took its bridle both to prevent it from moving away and to allow him to converse at a much lower volume with Mister Todd. "Where are they, and what had happened?"

Why would two men who had deserted take it into their heads to return?

The surgeon hesitated, aware of the unusual delicacy of the situation. His nature commanded him to be honest, while circumstances commanded him to be discreet. After a pause, he settled for, "They have returned, sir, and at the moment are being guarded in my waggon."

Which left Vickery absolutely none the wiser. Finally, there was Cotton with Phoenix. He swung himself into the saddle, ignored the horse's whicker, and looked down at Cotton.

"Would you please inform Mister Delacroix that I have been called away to deal with an urgent crisis and he is in command here until my return?" he said, and turned to the surgeon.

"Very well, you had best inform me of the details, as you know them, on our excursion to your wagon."

At least, Todd told himself, the return journey would be made at a more manageable pace.

"The pair of them arrived a little more than an hour ago," he said, with some reluctance. "Neither wore anything like a uniform nor carried their rifles, so it took some time to work out who they were. Both had been... badly cut up. My assistant is looking after them both now, with four lads of the Twenty-seventh as guards."

Out of uniform and without their rifles... He was going to have to request a general court martial on the pair of them, and that could only end one way: With a capital sentence.

And of course, being their company officer, he was going to have to defend them at that court martial. What a complete mess.

"How badly cut up?" he asked, wondering precisely what had happened between the two while they had been... away.

Again, Todd hesitated. They were picking their way along at a trot - a damned uncomfortable gait if ever there was one - but it would be some minutes before they reached the surgeons' train. He felt it best for Vickery to see the men and their injuries for himself, even as he acknowledged that it was only fair to let him know how things stood first. It wasn't like he'd give up asking until he knew anyway.

"One has a bad slash across his chest and a more minor slice to his face," the surgeon answered presently. "The other is in a more serious state."

Vickery sighed. It would probably just be easiest all round if they died while under the surgeon's care - that would mean no trial, no gloriously ghoulish panoply of having the Division drawn up to witness executions, none of that.

"Dare I ask just how bad a state they are each in?" he asked, feeling fairly certain that he wasn't going to get a straightforward answer. These things never were straightforward, after all.

Christ above. Couldn't the man just leave it? But that was unfair, really. These were, nominally, his men. He couldn't be expected to simply accept they were hurt without any questions being asked.

"The first lad will recover," answered Todd. "The other will not."

He would not yet say that the second Rifleman was, in fact, already dead - and had been before he'd been brought to Todd's waggon.

Vickery sighed. Would likely recover, only to be shot. Wonderful.

Mister Todd's answer was somewhat short, which was only to be expected, really.

"Thank you," he said. "It cannot have been easy for you."

It was likely to get less easy still, Vickery reflected, but the surgeon's part was not likely to last for too much longer, depending on how long the first man took to recover and the other took to die.

"Mhm." It was all Todd felt he could say to that. Blessedly, they were nearly to the surgeons' train now. He could count the paces till they got to his own waggon, in fact. Another minute or two would see them arriving.

The cluster of waggons, carts, and cooking fires passed in a slow blur. Todd's mind was wrestling with the dire reality of the situation. Two Riflemen who had made off from their company, gone missing for days, only to turn up wounded and wearing peasants' clothing. Worse even than that was the knowledge that one had carried his dead comrade to Todd's waggon in the misguided belief that the surgeon could do anything to help.

Todd had not even told that man the truth.

Well, Vickery would not be in suspense for too much longer. Phoenix was picking his way amongst the carts, wagons and fires that made up this part of the Second Division's camp, heading towards where Mister Todd and the other surgeons had their wagons.

Why Mayden, he wondered. Kirridge deserting, he could understand, but not Mayden.

At last. Not that reaching his waggon offered Todd any relief. He drew rein, a tad more sharply than intended, and his horse showed its displeasure with an irritated whicker and a hard turn to the left. Todd's descent from the saddle was thus achieved in a less dignified manner than he might have preferred, but at least he was on the ground again.

"They're just this way, sir," the surgeon said, not bothering to attempt dusting off his clothes. Devil take that wicked animal. He'd never get on a horse again if he could possibly help it.

Vickery had to hide a smile at Todd's slightly undignified dismount, dismounting from Phoenix with an easy, unconscious grace that had been schooled into him from the time he rode his first pony. He tied the reins to the nearest wagon before following the surgeon, trying to prepare himself for whatever he might see.

Mayden was last seen here.




"They're just here, sir," Todd said, gesturing toward the back of the waggon. He had given strict orders to his assistant not to let the wounded Rifleman into the waggon itself. These orders had been followed, he saw with private relief, and the taller Rifleman sat huddled against the back left wheel of the waggon, a blanket pulled tight round his shoulders.

Two lads of the Twenty-seventh stood nearby, with telltale white patches of bandages on their arms and heads, respectively. Both had their muskets. Their two comrades weren't immediately in view but Todd knew well enough they were around.

"Rouse up, lad," Todd said to the wounded Rifleman. "Your captain's here now."

After a moment, the lad looked up. It was difficult to see his face because of the shadows cast by the lantern hanging from the back of the waggon. Notably, he made no attempt to rise, as no doubt he was supposed to.

"Sir," he said tonelessly.

"All right, lads, we're not going anywhere," Vickery told the two guards. He sighed, and crouched down beside the blanket-wrapped man.

"All right, then, Mayden. Tell me exactly what's been going on," he said conversationally. "Starting with why you... left."

Bringing out the word 'deserted' in this conversation was going to help nobody. Vickery could only help if he knew as much as possible about what had happened in the first place.

There was a long pause before Mayden answered and when he did, it was in a slightly halting voice. Todd noted that the Rifleman was staring off into the darkness past them, which was perhaps understandable.

"I went off 'cause Jack did. His wrist was broke, wasn't it, so he wasn't in top form. Anyway, he's a Ninety-fifth lad, so where he goes, I'll go, too. Sweeps gotta stick together an' all."

"Mayden." Vickery did not sigh, though he felt a headache beginning to gather. "You might not be 60th, but you are a Rifleman, as I am an officer of the Rifles. I want to be able to help you, and right now, the only way I can do that properly is if you tell me exactly what went on between you and Kirridge."

Kirridge's wrist was broken? When and how had that happened, Vickery wondered.

"He said he were in a bit of a scrape an' needed to hoof it, so I went 'long too. We ditched our kit in some lad's cart an' got some of the muleteers' duds instead. Our rifles are prolly still where we stowed 'em, in that cart." It sounded fairly pathetic to Mayden's ears but he didn't know exactly why Jack had piked and neither had he asked. Some things were better off not known.

His gaze dropped to his shoes. "We was a'right for a few days. Then that redcoat bastard turned up."

"Redcoat?"

Something more intriguing needed answering first, though. "How far did you get, and where have you been for the past few days?"

He felt in his pocket for his hip-flask. "Have a nip of this," he added, holding it out. "And I will see about some food as well - unless you've eaten already?"

He was going to have to check on Kirridge, too, of course.

How far? Any other time, Mayden might have chuckled dryly at the unintentional joke, but now he was too tired and aching. "Not far, sir. We was in the baggage, ridin' in a waggon. Wasn't... ready to do a proper runner, Jack wasn't." He paused to shake his head. "I ain't thirsty. Or hungry neither."

"You were still with the baggage... with the Army? Had you intended to 'do a proper runner'?" Intention might not mean much, but it might mean everything.

He screwed the top back onto the flask.

"And what was this about a redcoat?"

If he was honest, his intentions would have been not to leave the company at all, but he'd not listened to his better judgement on that count. But Jack had been close to piking properly and Mayden knew he'd have gone with him, regardless of his own reservations.

"Aye," he said and stared off into the darkness. "We was set on by a redcoat this same evenin'. Cut us both up like a proper hackum. Bastard weren't half fond of kickin', neither."