1 June; Aches and pains

It hurt.

That was the chief thought in Burr's mind. His shoulder and chest throbbed without mercy and his whole arm tingled painfully. Whatever the surgeon had done to him, it had left him hurting almost more than being shot had. He would not have minded any of it, had not their regimental surgeon been such a thoughtless brute.

Of course, Burr's taking a swing at the man after he'd finally finished digging out that ball probably hadn't helped. Not a drop of brandy for relief at any point. It had tried even Burr's patience to the breaking point. The sergeant was paying for it now, though. That rat-faced bastard had refused him laudanum, claiming it was only for patients in need of it. Selfish no-good...

Burr shrugged, cursed, and kept walking. He was fit enough for that, at least. Alongside him, the wagon creaked and groaned. It was hard going, back over this miserable road. It wouldn't be so bad if he had a bit of wine to moisten his tongue. Maybe if he joined up with another regiment's surgeon? Burr glanced up at the surgeon on the wagon's seat. Not like he'd be missed here.

Without a word, he dropped back and waited until another wagon had lurched slowly past. Then he fell into step behind it, glad suddenly to be missing his jacket. It had only gotten in the way of the sling his wounded arm was currently supported in. Now to catch the eye of somebody in this wagon...

Retreat. James Todd couldn't believe it. After days of relentless pursuit, they were suddenly now the pursued. It defied crediting. Worse was the burden of wounded. There was one of those riding beside him on the wagon bench, and two more in the wagon itself. That poor fellow Newbury had to share space for now.

There were more walking wounded spread out amongst the baggage as well. Some of them could barely walk, which made Todd wonder how badly off their comrades were. A sad state of affairs indeed.

"You, man," Todd said abruptly, spotting a jacketless soldier eying the wagon closely. "Keep clear!"

Poor fellow was probably one of the luckier ones. A shoulder wound by the look of it. Trifling indeed if he had not lost the arm. Yet.

At the sharp command, Burr stepped immediately to the side, moving solely out of instinct.

"Wine, sir?" The sergeant rumbled, once he realised it was probably a surgeon who'd addressed him. "Or some laudanum?"

It was not in his nature to beg but he was feeling tempted to do just that. Damnable butcher they had for their surgeon!

Wine. Laudanum. Todd glanced at the man perched on the bench beside him. He did not have ready access to his supplies, but it would be easy enough to get to them.

"Of course," Todd said, hanging the reins to the wounded greenjacket beside him. He could not in good conscience let a soldier go long in pain. "Let's have a look at your shoulder first, my lad."

It would not be too hard to check the man's wound, since he did not wear a jacket.

Excellent, Burr thought blandly. More poking at his shoulder. Damned sawbones!

He waited all the same, when the surgeon hopped down from his wagon and approached. Standing motionless while the man pushed aside the tatters of Burr's shirt and the bandage underneath them was less easy. That hurt, dammit. Fortunately, it didn't last long.

"Well," the surgeon said presently, stepping back. "It looks clean enough. A good sign. Now. Some laudanum. You shall have to ride in the back once dosed, I'm afraid. Can't have you falling into the ditch for the French to find!"

No, not at all. Burr nodded. "Yes, sir."

There was a drumming of hooves over the rough ground nearby. Many faces, some of them bandaged, turned toward the mud-splattered horseman. It was a young wild-eyed British trooper with powder burns on his face. He stared about him in something close to terror.

"Frogs!" He bellowed, slowing his well-lathered mount long enough to be clearly heard. "Frog cavalry!"

Then he was gone, galloping headlong away toward the tail of the army, his shako tumbling away behind him in his haste. In his wake was instant panic.

Jenny urged her horse closer to the wagons and stood in her stirrups to look around for Christian. Where had the blasted fellow gone? "Mike!" she shouted. "Mike!" Well damn the fellow, but he could sort himself out. She spurred her horse to a gallop, but her way was quickly blocked by a pair of clumsy wagons. The road was cut into a hillside, and it was too steep at this point to move around the jam on horseback. "Move your cart!" she bellowed at the driver, though it was evident that he had tried and failed to bypass his neighbor, and now he was stuck.

Cavalry. Dammit. Newbury stirred, feeling heavy-headed from a recently given dose of laudanum. Cavalry. That was something to be repelled. His brain knew that much. It was no easy task but somehow he levered himself upright and managed to slither awkwardly out of the wagon. His rifle and kit were close by. The surgeon had made sure of that.

It was for the best now. Newbury grabbed his rifle and, after a moment's thought, his waistbelt. He might need his sword bayonet. With his cartridge box slung from his left shoulder, he headed off. There was shouting and chaos everywhere. The whole baggage was in a high panic.

"What are you doing?" Mister Todd demanded.

Newbury turned, slowly. The surgeon stood with a man in a bloodied shirt. "There's cavalry, sir," he replied, as if that hardly needed explaining.

"Stay here," the jacketless man said. "I'll get some other lads." He hurried off, leaving Newbury behind to load his rifle and try to keep out of the way of the terrified camp followers.

“Jenny!” Of all the times for her to go running off! Christian unslung his musket, looking around frantically for any sign of her. Up ahead he thought he caught a glimpse of Eris and broke into a run. It was Woodmarsh’s mare. And her rider, thank Christ.

“Jenny!” he called again, stumbling to a halt beside Eris.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," she assured him. She was already dismounting and preparing to lead her horse up the slope. "I can manage." She assumed that he would want to assist the rearguard. Weren't the rifle companies back there? She shouted at the cart drivers. "If you can't get them moved, you should push them down the hill!"

“No. Get on. I’ll lead you ‘round,” he said shortly, ignoring any protests and reaching for Eris’ reins. The animal, aware of the sudden tension around her, shied away from him. “It’s me, you idiot,” he addressed her in a soft monotone, “Now you stop that right bloody now or it’s the stew pot for you and to hell with what the lieutenant says.” When he tried again, the mare remained still and allowed him to coax her up the bank and around the wagons.

Once on the other side, he returned the reins to Jenny. “Wait,” he said, before she could take off. Fumbling with his belt, he managed to get the bayonet off and handed it up to her. He wasn’t sure if it was a good idea, but he hated the thought of leaving her defenseless. He hated the idea of leaving her at all. A hundred things to say were running through his head – If she got overtaken.... Stay down. Stay behind something. Stay out of the way. Don’t do anything stupid. Aim for the belly with the bayonet, not the ribs, because it might glance or get stuck or – But all he managed was, “Be careful, aye?”

"I will," she answered, anxiously scanning the road behind her. Then she met his eye and nodded. "I will. And you too. Go!"

The surgeon was nagging at him. Blathering on about how Newbury was going to do himself worse injury. Words. It was all nothing more than words.

"You get a rifle then, sir," Newbury snapped testily, which served to shut the man up. It was funny how Mister Todd could find time for such admonishments when his wagon was leaving without him.

A horse and rider appeared on the hillside close to the road. The rider wore a tall crested helmet. Newbury stared a moment. Crested helmet and what looked like armour on his chest. A Frog.

Bringing his rifle to his shoulder hurt more than he cared to think about. The recoil as he fired didn't help. His shot struck home though. One less Frog horseman, but there were probably plenty more to replace him.

Panicking camp followers fled from the road as the exchange of fire began, some clambering higher up the hillside and some attempting the lower slope.

Even in the midst of her own confusion and fear, Maggie wondered where Cotton was. Hadn't the riflemen been behind them, guarding their escape? How had the French come so close now? She wondered absurdly if the riflemen had gotten lost on the hill, or even climbed over to the other side. Anything but the alternative, that the French had already killed them all. Where was he? The rifles were supposed to be protecting them. He was supposed to be protecting her.

She had been pulling on her donkey's harness, resolutely leading her as fast as she could. On the donkey's back were loaded nearly all the possessions Maggie owned in the world, all her merchandise and her livelihood. But now she let go and rushed for safety, even if the only safety was in scattering. A young woman fell in her haste and slid several feet down the slope. Maggie grabbed her arm and hauled her up again.

He hadn't heard the words that stirred the baggage train up into such a terrified fervor, but it was obvious something bad was happening. Charlie leapt down from the wagon he'd been sneaking a ride on and set to running, heading along the road through the mess of stuck wagons, scurrying people, and braying mules.

Somewhere ahead, far ahead, was the main column. If he could reach it, he'd be safe. So Charlie ran, his short legs carrying him over the rough road and through the tangle of vehicles and people.

There was to be no laudanum. Not for him. Somehow, in the circumstances, Burr found he didn't care. There were more important things to worry about. Things like finding every able man he could and getting them mustered. Even a ragtag defence was better than nothing.

"Hurry up there!" Another sergeant, from the Seventy-fourth, had appeared to join him. The man could hardly walk for the wound to his leg, but he was pushing himself anyway.

Burr hefted his musket and checked his cartridge box. Not much left. They'd have to take the boxes from men who couldn't stand to fight. Not that they stood much of a chance either way.

"There they is," somebody called.

The sergeant from the Seventy-fourth was relentless. "Silence in ranks! Load firelocks an' face your front!"

"Joe. Newbury." Jenny was behind the rifleman now, speaking insistently into his ear. They were not far from the surgeon's wagon. "Joe. Come on, we have to get out. I've got a horse."

The unexpected voice behind him made him start and nearly lose his aim. It was Jenny Ross. Well! What was she still doing back here? And with a horse?

"Can't," Newbury offered by way of response, firing at another Frog cavalryman who'd passed into his line of sight. She had a point though. About getting out. He glanced at her as he tried to reload his Baker without seeming like it pained him too much. Why was she here, of all places? Beyond the obvious, which was a thought he found himself grappling with.

"There's Frogs around."

The chaos of the baggage train was a sight to behold - a chaos of gunshots and wagons and frightened women. Polly was not sure what to do, and stood struck for a moment. She saw a woman with a horse head for the surgeon's wagon, and other women race off the road, and was not sure what to do. Then, she noticed the small form of the boy she had befriended the other day hop off a wagon and start running.

"Charlie!" She shouted, running after the boy. He was headed right for the soldiers, and she was sure that was the last place they wanted to be just now. "Come back! 'S not safe!"

Jenny looked around and the various people running and shouting around them, but they were not her concern at this moment. She had come to take Newbury away. He was too muddle-headed with laudanum or native stupidity to know when it was time to retreat without an officer to tell him so. And yet his aim seemed to be true. His firing was effective. She had seen him bring down two Frenchmen already, even though he could scarcely load his rifle.

"Let me do that. I can load. I've done it before. Give it here."

Someone was calling his name. Charlie did not pause in his flight, but glanced quickly back over his shoulder. The distraction cost him. He ran smack into the back of a stout woman's legs and toppled over with a surprised curse.

Obviously it wasn't safe! He scrambled to his feet and headed back toward the girl who'd shouted to him.

"Can't stay here neither," he burst out, his eyes going wide as another volley of shots cracked out from within the train. It was impossible to tell who was firing, but it hardly mattered.

Let her load the rifle? Newbury fumbled another second with the pan before relenting. "Pan's primed," he said, holding the half-loaded Baker out. It felt unnatural to be without the weapon though, once it left his hands. There was immediate danger from French cavalry and for a few seconds he didn't have the means to defend himself.

Mostly. His sword-bayonet hung comfortingly from his waistbelt. There was also the ragged volleys from the redcoats some yards away. It was better than nothing, anyway.

She carefully took the rifle and cartridge from him and fumbled her way through, pouring the ball and the rest of the powder down the barrel. She had to stand up, which left her feeling rather exposed. It had been a very long time since she had learned this from Scots Johnny. "Like this?" she asked, reaching for the ramrod.

Polly reached out to snag hold of Charlie's arm, intent on getting both of them off the road.

"Not sayin' t'stay here!" she retorted. "But iff'n y'run to them soldiers, ye'll be right in th'middle o' the shootin'!"

Now how was that something to avoid? Charlie followed Polly anyway, deciding it was wiser to let somebody else lead. There wouldn't be any easily getting through the hopeless snarl of wagons, mules, and people, anyway.

"Gonna run to the main column or sommat?" He gasped, realising he had no idea how far ahead the army was.