Wounded in action, 1 June

Grey Coat unscrewed a small flask and held it to Vickery's lips. "Drink this. You'll be fine, sir, you're in good hands; just hold still."

After taking a swig of brandy himself, he withdrew a rag from his satchel and folded it twice before pressing it against the wound, replacing the bloody improvised cloth padding. Turning to Maggie, he said, "Miss, if you would. Apply pressure as you did before, it will slow the bleeding. Now where's that water?"

He emptied his satchel while he waited impatiently, laying his tools out on the ground within easy reach.

"Aye, I got it," Hawley replied, finally producing an old, chipped flint. "D'you got a tinderbox, sir?"

Blackwood nodded, returning to his saddle bags to retrieve the item. They would almost have their own little bivouac established before long. "There's a canteen right there, sir," he told the surgeon as he held the tinderbox out to Hawley.

Vickery took a good swig of the offered brandy. He thought vaguely that it would take more than one mouthful of the stuff to dull the pain of having someone sew his side together. Why couldn't they just get on with it, instead of fussing around like this?

"Got... Got my canteen an' all," Cavender offered, shy at speaking out of turn in front of the surgeon and an unknown officer. He hastily slipped the strap over his head and held it out. "It's mostly full, sir."

"Thank you," said the surgeon, taking the canteen, and after waving Maggie aside carefully peeled off the rag. The wound was jagged and ugly, but at least the ooze had slowed. Good enough for him. He then selected a curved needle, and once the fire started, he perched Blackwood's mug in the middle of it.

While he waited for the water to heat, he gave Vickery an apologetic look, and then doused the angry red gash with what was left of the brandy.

On the road, approaching from the direction of the army, came the distinctive rumble of many hooves.

That stung like ten thousand angry bees. He twisted with the pain of it on top of the dull burning of the wound itself, and managed not to swear, though how he kept it in, he didn't know.

"You could have warned me," he managed in a low voice once he'd got over the shock of it and was lying still again, though he was breathing more rapidly now.

"It's the French coming!" Maggie gasped.

Vickery could feel the sound through the ground he was lying on. He shook his head. "They're heading the wrong way to be French," he managed, and even putting his thought into coherent words was a bit of a struggle, let along trying to explain it. He felt vulnerable lying down here, and wished he was standing, where he could see things and know what to do in response to them.

If he had his men, anyway. Where in Heaven's name were they?

"No." Blackwood listened to the approaching rumble and shook his head. "That's coming from up the road. The direction we were coming from when we found you, Missus."

Hearing the noise, the surgeon bit his tongue, and concentrated on his patient. The jagged edges of the wound made it difficult work, but he went as quickly as he could, murmuring as he went. "Sorry about the brandy, sir, figured it was better to do it quickly. But considering, you are a lucky man, sir. Could have been much worse; that sword could have gone deeper, pierced your innards." Though the technical term might have been more comforting, he did not know it.

Some minutes later, he straightened up and felt around for his knife to cut the thread. "I'll need you to sit up, sir. Carefully now. Cotton pads and bandages, if you please," he ordered, helping Vickery move. "Side compartment in the bag."

"Waste of good brandy, that," Vickery said, and found himself biting his lip and clenching his fists at the repeated stabbing pains of the needle as the surgeon patched him up.

Lucky. Maybe, in some ways. Definitely not in others, though.

He accepted the surgeon's help to sit up. It still hurt, but not as much as it had done earlier, thankfully.

Cavender goggled at him a moment before hastily pulling open the surgeon's bag and finding the requested items, holding them out nervously.

"He gonna be all right, sir?" he asked, glancing between his Captain and the surgeon.

"Yes," said the surgeon, as if irritated that his work had been questioned. He took the proffered bandages and began wrapping them around Vickery's torso tightly. "Provided, of course, that he gets the proper rest and does not move unless absolutely necessary. Beyond that, there's nothing I can do."

When he was satisfied with Vickery's bandages, he said with an air of finality, "There, sir."

The approaching horsemen had since arrived, clattering noisily to a halt some yards away.

"What has happened?" The troop's captain wanted to know. Blackwood offered a quick explanation, which served to cause the hussar officer to bark orders to his men. In only a few moments the troop were off again, trotting quickly in the direction Major Croft and his column had gone.

It seemed they were gone no more than a few minutes before two hussars came galloping back. One had a greenjacket propped up before him in the saddle.

"Surgeon!"

Stay still? What the hell did they take him for?

"Let me up." He was feeling dizzy, but squashed it. Now was no time to have a fit of the vapours like some lovesick girl. He had to find out what had happened to his men.

"You sure about that, Captain Vickery?" Maggie asked.

Sitting here was not going to find his men for him, was it? "Certainly I am sure about it. I have a Company to muster."

"Sir, I'm sure Mister Brady will deal with that," she said, putting a hand on his shoulder.

The surgeon gathered up his things and hurried attend to his next patient, but not before saying to Vickery, "I beg you will not be foolish, sir, you would only do yourself an injury by rushing off. I understand that you are a man of duty; many of my patients are; but what good will you be to your men, and on the field of battle, if you prolong your injured state?"

He nodded to Maggie and Cavendar, trusting them to take care of Vickery, and left.

The two hussars were struggling to lower their greenjacketed charge to the ground without jostling him unduly. They had been told in no uncertain terms to be careful with the poor fellow.

"There's a couple more wounded back aways," one of the troopers said, cradling the greenjacket's bloody head and shoulders as the two cavalrymen laid the wounded man onto the road.

He was hardly capable of rushing anywhere, with only God knew how many stitches in his side.

"Has anybody seen Mister Brady?" he asked. The answer was probably 'no', of course. "Has anybody seen anyone else in green at all, in fact?" He sat up, looking in the direction the surgeon had gone. "Ah."

"I don't think you should go sitting up just yet, sir. Not until the captain there says so." Maggie looked across at the newcomers and saw that the injured man was another rifleman from the 60th. She did not think it was someone she knew, but they ought to find out all they could. "Joe, go and see who it is." She did not want to leave Vickery yet. He would probably go running straight off into battle if left unattended.

Vickery glared at her as best he could while dealing with an almighty headache. "Well, I'm sitting up now, am I not?"

Maybe standing up would be pushing it, but he didn't feel quite so vulnerable now that he was no longer horizontal. His side still hurt of course, but it was nothing that he couldn't cope with.

Joe Cavender gave them both a worried look before running off to see who it was, hoping that it wasn't anyone he messed with.

He was back a moment later, looking worried - and even paler. "It's Friedler, sir," he said, and put his hand to his mouth in an effort not to throw up.

"Joe Cavender, go and be sick. Over there," Maggie commanded. She was not interested in witnessing the process, not while she had the captain to worry about. Friedler was not one of the men she knew well at all, only enough to exchange greetings in passing. But Vickery of course would be more concerned. "I'm sure the surgeon will put him to rights, sir. Do you want another sip of water? Your eyes do look off, sir. I wish you'd lie back, close your eyes and take a little rest." She herself looked ready to drop.

Cavender nodded, mumbled, "Yes'm," and vanished out of Vickery's line of sight.

"I do not have time to rest," Vickery said, and wished that Maggie's face didn't look so blurred. He turned his head to see Friedler, swallowing in case he would disgrace himself somehow as he realised just how giddy he felt.

Damn it all. He didn't have time for this, not with his Company gone who knew where!

The two troopers hovered nervously nearby, their chalk-white faces betraying their own feelings.

Blackwood did his best not to look in the wounded greenjacket's direction. He could easily guess somehow what he might see if he did. "Major Croft will see to your lads," he said to Vickery.