Wounded in action, 1 June

It had been a complete disaster from beginning to end. The Rifles had been charged by cavalry and had successfully kept them from getting to the column - or mostly prevented them from getting there, anyway. They had not been able to prevent the infantry from getting around them, however.

He wasn't sure what had happened, exactly. His side hurt, and he couldn't remember if he'd been shot, stabbed or what. He was leaning rather hard on poor young Cavender, but every time he tried to straighten up to take his own weight, his side pulled too much. He'd managed to sheathe his sword - he'd have to remember to get it cleaned as soon as he could - and found a rifle. He didn't know whose it was, but it was coming in very handy for a crutch.

Cavender had a rifle too, Vickery noticed in some surprise. He wasn't old enough for a rifle yet, so why was he carrying one? He'd have to ask Cotton to teach the boy to shoot with it. He wondered where Cotton was.

Cavender was chattering in his ear, and he frowned, trying to make out what he was saying - the words sounded as though they were coming from a long way away.

"Here, sir, there's a couple of redcoats here. Maybe they'll help you, sir."

There was movement, which made Vickery groan and press his hand to his side.

"Careful there! He's wounded, you!"

Whoever had hold of him now smelt of woodsmoke and powdersmoke and a few other things Vickery preferred not to think about. He was taller than Cavender, though, closer to Vickery's own height, and he wasn't sure whether that was better or not. He just wanted his side to stop hurting and to find out where his Company was and what was happening.

“Sorry, sir,” Hawley mumbled, awkwardly shifting the officer’s weight from the boy’s shoulders to his own. Where exactly he was expected to take him, what with the baggage being overrun, was unclear. It wasn’t as though he could take him to his own company, either. Assuming the man even had a company left. The thought made Hawley shiver. Poor bastards.

“Ain’t goin’ to fast, am I, sir?”

"No, that's not too fast," Vickery managed, wondering why he was being foisted onto a redcoat. Where were his men? And dammit, his head hurt, too. He didn't remember getting hit in the head, but he must have.

"Cavender, you stay with me, all right?"

"Yes, sir," the lad said, sounding worried. "'Ere, Mister. He knows the Captain of the Second Guardses Light Comp'ny, if that'll help at all?"

Well, that was something. "Didn't 'e go past not too long ago?" asked Nickerson, trailing uncertainly beside Hawley. "Thought so. See if you can run an' catch him up."

Hawley watched as his mate took off at a run, then turned to the boy, “What happened back there, lad?”

Cavender looked up at the redcoat with a worried expression. He slung the rifle on his thin shoulder and tightened his grip a little on the bugle that was his reason for being in a green jacket.

"Frog cavalry got us. I 'eard that it was infantry or somefin' that got round us, but we was tied up wiv the cavalry. Not sure what 'appened, but the Capting got sliced with a sword by one of 'em - only there was such a mess I couldn't see what was goin' on, not reelly. Got the Capting out of it - he got hit in the head too - think 'e got knocked out for a moment or two." He shrugged, and bit his lip. "Hope he's gonna be all right, like."

Hawley shook his head, cursing under his breath as the boy described what had happened. “It were good what you did, gettin’ him outa that,” he said after a moment, trying to smile at the lad, “We’ll get him sorted. You ain’t hurt yourself or nothin’?”

Cavender frowned and shook his head. "Don't fink so. Was more worried about getting the Capting out of it all. I stuck to him like always, though." He shrugged. "Prolly I'm too small for 'em to worry about after the officer went down."

Vickery groaned and fumbled a hand to his head. It felt as though there was a cannon duel going on inside his skull.

“Steady...” Hawley kept moving, hoping to catch sight of someone --- anyone --- more competent than himself. Where the hell was Nickerson?

[From hereabouts]

Maggie gazed across the hillside and saw a lone redcoated figure running intently toward them. "Sir, look," she said to Blackwood, pointing. When she looked a further distance beyond, she could see the reason why the man was running. One of his mates was trudging more slowly behind, supporting a man she presumed must be injured. She shaded her eyes with her hand and squinted enough to see that the man was wearing green, as was the smaller lad at his side.

"Sir!" She grabbed Blackwood's arm in her excitement. "That's riflemen!" And immediately she was off, running down the hill toward them.

“Well, looks like he found someone,” remarked Hawley, catching site of the figure sprinting towards them. A woman, not what he had been expecting, but she could have been a dancing bear for all Hawley cared, as long as she knew what she was doing.

"Looks like Missis Cotton," young Cavender said.

Vickery heard the words but wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry - she would be as good as anyone, and probably better than some, but he didn't know where Cotton was. Good, steady reliable Cotton. And he didn't have a clue what he was going to tell her...

Riflemen? Blackwood halted and looked back, at once both curious and concerned. There were indeed Riflemen behind them. Two of them, in point of fact, accompanied by a redcoat. A second redcoat was flying toward them, running as best he could over the poor ground.

The latter two must have been sent along by Major Croft. Poor beggars. Blackwood pulled himself back up into the saddle and spurred his horse into a trot, the better to keep pace with the woman who was determinedly making her way toward the pair of greenjackets.

As Maggie came closer, she was able to recognize the pair in green. With a pang of regret she saw that neither of them was Cotton, but rather it was the captain and young Joe Cavender. Where were all the rest? What had happened?

"Captain!" she called as she ran. Her side ached from running, but she barely noticed it now. As soon as she was close enough, she gasped out, "Captain, what happened? They took the baggage. Is Gabe with you? What's happened?" She stared at him, at Cavender and the redcoat, trying to read their faces for news good or bad.

His Company had been routed. That was about the only thing that Vickery was able to put into words.

"I don't know," he managed to say. He didn't want to think that Cotton might be dead. And what of the others? "It was rather confused. He'll be all right, I'm sure of it."

He sounded worse than a private soldier trying to give a report - and the news that the baggage had been taken made his heart sink even further. That was why his Company had been behind them: to protect them.

It was an officer and a private, Blackwood realised as he got closer. Were they the only two survivors? He shuddered. Please God it wasn't so.

"Sir," he greeted, drawing rein. Then he faltered. What could he possibly ask that wouldn't sound coarse?

Vickery looked up and tried to straighten up a bit, which only pulled at his side. "Captain," he said. He didn't dare ask if the other man had seen any more of his men - he didn't think he could face the news if he hadn't.

He clung obstinately to the hope that they were Riflemen, and sensible enough to know how to get away from cavalry.

Maggie gaped, staring at Vickery with her mouth hanging open. He didn't know? What was that supposed to mean? She was about to question him further when the other captain rode up on his horse. She could not remember his name, or if he had given it. Made bold by the urgency of the situation and perhaps an instinct of care, she blurted, "Sir, it's Captain Vickery, he's hurt!"

It seemed they were both at a loss. How curious. Missus Cotton, as she had named herself, was, however, not.

"So he is," Blackwood agreed, belatedly observing Vickery's state. He would need a surgeon... ah. Oh. Hell.

She looked up with anguish at the guards captain before moving to Vickery's side. "Right, sir, that looks a bit raw. Can you ride? Joe, what happened?"

Raw? It felt it, too. "Ride? Yes?" Only, ride what - he had no idea where either of his horses were. Probably taken by the French for remounts, poor things. He could do with a sit down, though that would hardly help anything.

"The Frog cavalry got through our line, Missis," Cavender said, looking nervous. "Mister Cotton was fightin' 'em summat fierce, I seen that. An' the Captain got sliced by a Frog." He wasn't sure how the Captain hadn't been killed.

A lone rifleman, cradling his arm with a vague expression on his face, was wandering towards them. He stared at them like he was surprised at their existence, before snapping out of his daze, seemingly remembering what he was there for. "Pvt Bertschinger, sir, begging your pardon sir. Oh," he said, seeing Vickery's blood.

She did not like the sound of Cotton fighting them fiercely. No, not at all. That was just like Jem at Vimeiro. She would have much preferred to hear that he had been running for safety when last seen. But now the poor captain looked ready to collapse. She turned and gave Blackwood a significant look. "Sir?"

And then another rifleman appeared. Again, not Cotton. One of the German lads. Yes, Bertschinger, the one they sometimes called Bert. "Bert, have you seen Cotton?" she demanded.

"Looks like we're in the same boat, Rifleman," Vickery said, noticing how Bertschinger was protecting his arm. Thank Heaven at least one man had managed to get away. He hoped Cotton had, too. And Newbury and Pye. Hell, he wanted them all to have managed to get away.

And damn, his head hurt.

"Taken prisoner, Missus. He's alive yet," said Bertschinger.

Well, that was better than the alternative - though not as good as it could have been.

He pressed his hand to his side and tried to concentrate, which was easier now that he had some news, and something other than himself to concentrate on. "What happened to your arm?" he asked Bertschinger.