Wounded in action, 1 June

A private word? Friedler was dying, Vickery knew he was, and couldn't think why else the surgeon might need to talk to him. He steeled himself against the pain that moving was likely to cause.

"Help me up," he said, looking at Cavender, who was still blurred, dammit.

What he wanted to do was lie down in the shade and get over this headache. And then go and find out what the hell had happened to his men.

"There's nothing I can do for him," the surgeon said once Vickery had been helped to a nominally discreet distance. He was of no mind to mince words. "But that is not my concern. I can do nothing for anyone here without rejoining the column."

His meaning, he assumed, was clear.

Vickery had known that Friedler wasn't going to make it. That would take a miracle... or far more luck than Vickery and his men had had so far today. "We will be rejoining the column as soon as we can. They know that there was going to be a fight with the French; they'll be waiting for us."

At least they wouldn't have too much ground to cover, and it would be easier for Sharpe to find them with whatever men he had brought away from the disaster.

"Sooner than later, sir," the surgeon told him flatly. In his opinion they had dallied quite long enough.

"Friedler is dying, and he will be more comfortable doing it here than being carried back to the column," Vickery pointed out. He pressed a hand to his head, trying not to let the movement tug too much at the stitches in his side. This headache was really getting annoying now, and the pain meant that he was being short with people, a bad fault of his. Blow it all.

The surgeon made a face. "I do not propose moving him at all. Sir."

Well, that was good news. Though if the surgeon didn't plan on moving him, why drag Vickery away, when all he wanted to do was give what comfort he could to the dying man? They could get moving afterwards; with the way poor Friedler was, he was hardly likely to hold them up for long.

He did his best to glare at the surgeon, though the effect was rather diminished because he couldn't focus properly on the man's face.

"He won't take long to die and then we can get moving again," he said, resenting the bitterness of that knowledge and the fact that it was his fault - and he didn't want to think what the General was going to say to him about it all.

What a mess.

His meaning, perhaps, had not been as clear as he'd thought. Damned officers.

"It won't do to linger here so much longer, sir," the surgeon said, striving to contain his exasperation.

Did the surgeon just expect him to abandon a dying man? Heartless bastard.

"I doubt he'll be lingering so much longer either," he pointed out, still feeling that he wanted to punch someone. Or something.

The surgeon shrugged. "Very well." He was in no hurry to stay here and risk capture. Not a second time, anyway! "Good day, sir."

With that, he was on his way, heading up the road toward safety.

The French weren't that close, were they? He shrugged and turned to head back to his man.

Time was indeed running short for the unfortunate Rifleman. Hawley had been watching him closely, unease scrawled plainly on his face, and the greenjacket officer's return was some relief to him.

"He's quietened some, sir," Hawley reported in a low voice, hoping this utterance would not earn him a rebuke.

"Thank you," he replied, squinting at the redcoat a little in an effort to see him more clearly. He eased himself back down by the dying Rifleman's side.

He had indeed quietened, though Vickery could still hear the occasional murmur as he asked for his mother.