27 May; surgeon's wagon

"I'll do a mite better'n that," Cotton said cheerfully and tucked it under the blanket by Newbury's hand before straightening up again. "Well. Take care of yourself won't you? I don't mind sayin' I hope to hell this is the last scrape you get into any time soon."

So did he. "That's if them provosts don't come snoopin' 'round again." But if they did, he'd put up more of a fight, that was for damned sure.

"Oh, they won't. You got your own sentries - there's a bunch of soldiers from the 27th who look like they'd stop the King hisself gettin' in if you din't want him." He was grinning.

" 'Magine that."

Redcoats guarding him. The thought was funny. Newbury rasped a chuckle despite the harsh agony in his ribs. "Long's they on'y keep him an' them provosts out, that'll be fine."

Cotton chuckled. "Aye, well. Reckon you ought to catch up on your beauty sleep - you look like you need it. An' I'll be sure an' tell Miss Ross where you'm at."

" 'Bliged," Newbury mumbled, embarrassed suddenly that he'd managed to open up the gash on his tongue somehow. Maybe that was a sign to shut up and go back to sleep. Not a bad idea, really.

"Arrigh'. Be seein' you," Cotton said, and slipped back out of the wagon to the cooler, cleaner night air.

Jenny... Where would Jenny be?

Newbury stared up at the canvas covering the wagon's bed for some time after Cotton had departed. The darkness was a relief. The darkness meant nobody could see him unless they looked directly into the wagon. He hadn't seen the state of his face or head for himself, but he hardly needed to when he could read the reactions of everyone who visited him. Obviously he must look absolutely frightful. It had been worth it. This was a hard thought to keep in his head, though, when the simple act of breathing sent shivers of pain through him.

Bloody provosts and their high-handed sense of superiority. Newbury hitched his shoulders and hissed quietly. It was a good thing he'd been there, been told to remain behind, wasn't it? All things considered. If it had been Cotton ordered to stay... he reached up and gingerly touched the lump on his head. Better him than Cotton, certainly. Or even Pye. Especially since it had been Jenny in trouble. He should've put up more of a fight, though. There was no excusing that.

"Bloody hell," he grumbled to himself and steeled himself for the waves of agony that came when he forced himself to sit up again. His head felt all a-whir with the change in position and he waited several seconds for the unsteadiness to dissipate. The bottle Cotton had left felt cool under his fingers. Cool and enticing. He wrestled with the cork, gritting his teeth to keep from cursing, though he nearly barked out an oath when the cork came free unexpectedly. A cautious sniff of the bottle's contents showed that it was wine. Good lad, Cotton.

To duty, Newbury thought wryly and tipped the bottle up to his lips. He had little idea what particular sense of duty had pushed him to take that beating, or even if it was duty at all. Not that it really mattered. What mattered was that he hadn't resisted at all. Unforgivable. It wasn't like they had really laid into him at the beginning. Coward. He'd been such great use to Jenny, hadn't he? Newbury coughed at the bite of the wine as it went down. Not just a coward, but a useless one as well. He hadn't even gotten back to his feet to defend his girl.

Another long swallow from the bottle went down much easier. It helped that he was still dog-tired. Some of the pain was drifting away as well. This was good, he thought. He tucked the bottle between his knees, unmindful of the protests from his bad knee, and set to work stripping himself out of his jacket. It had been pulling too tightly across his much-abused ribs. He ignored the fact that it hurt a great deal to pull his arms free. Bloody green jacket. The garment rustled toward the end of the wagon, thrown weakly in the direction of the lighter blot that represented the outside. It felt much better to be only in his shirtsleeves.

He lifted the bottle again. The surgeon would pitch an almighty fit when he discovered this, but Newbury didn't care. What did it matter? He was in this blasted wagon by himself, so he could do as he bloody pleased. Even Jenny must have realised he was not worth keeping as company since he'd failed so spectacularly. Why else would she have gone off in such a hurry? Smart lass, really. Newbury spat out a gob of blood-tinged wine - damn his tongue for being split - and sighed. Most of the throbbing in his head and everywhere else had faded down to a much more tolerable twinging. This wasn't so bad now, was it?

The empty bottle slipped noiselessly from his fingers as he sank back onto the leather mattress, his eyes drooping close in relieved sleep. He would wake up in a roaring state of pain in the morning, as he was lying on his broken ribs, but for the present he was drunk and much too tired to care. The surgeon was going to go spare, for sure...

( arrived from the meeting with Jenny )

The path he took was short in bringing him to the surgeon's wagon in which he knew Newbury to rest. It wasn't hard to tell it from others as there was several men there. They guarded the wagon as if a man of riches was hidden inside. It was Newbury, the wounded rifleman who had received his beating mainly not from the enemy but from their own side. Pye yawned and stretched. He dragged his knapsack close to the fire, that still shone soft and subdued, given to remain contained not only by stones but also by wet earth and grass.

Unfolding his blanket he sat onto the ground. Had it cover himself, while he rested his head on the knapsack. His bread bag was opened and the little chick let out. He tied a small string around her leg, gave her some water to drink. She did this thirstily, chirping happily. As her beak opened and she pleaded for food, he took a short knife, cut an earthworm, of which he had found plenty, drawn out by the rain. Then he gave small bits and pieces to feed the bird. Peggie seemed thrilled , gulped the bits down. Once fully fed, she nestled herself down, close to the rifleman. Pye lay himself down, a hand protectively shielding the chick from view and was soon sound asleep.

The little thing watched him silently. She got to her feet, walked a short distance, snuggled up under Pye's chin, puffed up and then she too was fast asleep.