Wounded in action, 1 June

"Friedler?" Now he had to get up - one of his men was nearby, wounded and possibly dying, judging from Cavender's reactions, blurred though they had been.

"Let me see him!"

Maggie looked at Blackwood questioningly. Maybe Vickery should be allowed to see his injured rifleman and offer an encouraging word or two. "What do you think, sir?" she asked.

This was a point on which Blackwood was torn. On the one hand, he could understand Vickery's desire to see to the welfare of his wounded man personally, while on the other, he knew it was better for the Rifles officer to avoid moving about too much.

"I think you had best move as little as possible, sir," Blackwood said. "Here, Hawley and you two troopers. Bear a hand."

It was unconventional and not a little shaming, but it was the only solution that came readily to mind. With the four of them, it ought to be possible to lift the Rifles officer between them. A human approximation of a sedan chair. Sort of.

"Oh for God's sake. It's my side that's injured, not my legs damn you," Vickery said. He refused to admit for a moment that it was probably a good thing they weren't going to let him walk, but it felt ridiculous. Men far more injured than him had walked from the battlefields of Rolica and Vimiero - and Oporto, just over a week ago.

If they kept this stupid charade up, he was going to lose his temper with them, he really was. He was barely keeping it in check now.

Hawley drew back sharply, releasing the greenjacket officer’s arm. “Sir?” he said, looking helplessly at Blackwood. Why did officers have to make everything so bloody complicated?

His outburst was too much for Maggie's emotions. "Don't you dare, sir," she said, fighting back hot tears of anger. "Don't you know how lucky you is to have them stitches in your side? I coulda put my hand in there," showing him her small fist, "And if you rip 'em out it'll hurt double. So don't you dare go cursing off help when it's offered, when there's others what don't get no help at all. Sir." She wiped her nose on her sleeve and stormed away to find young Cavender.

Now this was becoming too much. "For a fellow who required another's help to walk, sir, I should think this is perfectly necessary," Blackwood retorted sharply. "You may accept our aid or you may sit here and not move at all."

"You... you...!"

There was nothing wrong with him aside from a thumping headache and a gash in his side that had been stitched up, and Vickery couldn't see what all the fuss was about.

But if Blackwood was going to blackmail him in this fashion and think he could get away with it, he was very much mistaken.

"Oh, very well. But don't think you've heard the last of this, sir!"

As soon as he was fit enough, he'd send a second to wait on Blackwood, he swore he would.

Cavender turned, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, as someone approached. He had heard the raised voices, but had taken no notice of the words - nobody had said his name, which was all he was worried about.

It was Missis Cotton, and she looked angry, and upset. He straightened, still feeling off-colour.

"Missis? You all right?" he asked, uncertainly, not wanting to get a tongue-lashing from her - he was sure he'd heard her voice among the others.

She said nothing, but she squeezed his shoulder and then wrapped her arms around him, holding him tight. She was several years older than him, but he was already taller than her. Still, he was only a boy, poor thing. She released him and said, "Have a drink and you'll feel better," as she wiped her eyes.

Cavender gave her a watery grin, and stiffened as she unexpectedly put her arms around him to hug him. It was strangely pleasant, motherly almost, and he had just relaxed when she let him go and stepped back.

"I would, Missus, but me canteen's back there wiv the Captain," he said, and looked at her a little more closely. "Here, you all right, Missus?"

Maggie shook her head, new tears flooding her eyes. She was not all right at all, but there was nothing that Cavender could do about it.

"Go on and get it then. And mind he don't bite your head off, he's that cross."

"Here, Missis..." He broke off. "Oh, Lord." It was obvious what was wrong, wasn't it? She wanted Cotton, but Heaven only knew where he was by now.

He darted across to where Captain Vickery and the other officer were, with the redcoat soldiers standing there looking puzzled, and scooped up his canteen before running back to Maggie.

"Here, you 'ave a bit," he said awkwardly, holding it out to her and wishing he could help, could tell her where Cotton was.

She gave him a weak smile and accepted the canteen, taking a couple small gulps before handing it back. "Here. You need it more'n me. And then we'll go back and look after your captain."

He took the canteen back and rinsed his mouth out, spitting the water out afterwards. "Ugh." He looked at her. "He ain't hisself. Dunno why he's in such a grouchy mood, neither. Ain't no reason for it. You sure you're gonna be all right, though?"

Blackwood was able to ignore the Rifles officer's indignant sputtering. It was only to be expected, after all.

"Lift him up, you lads," he told the waiting men. Doubtlessly some of Vickery's temper would cool once he was close to his wounded man.

"Dammit." He wasn't a God-damned sack of flour or something. Just because he had stitches in his side did not mean that he had completely lost the use of his legs, despite what Blackwood seemed to think.

On the other hand, maybe it was better to get carried. He pressed his hand to his side, and hoped that it was just the soldiers' clumsiness that had made the stitches pull, rather than his own movements.

"Be careful, can't you?"

The two hussars flinched at the reprimand, but the expression the redcoat officer's face was enough to cow them into silent obedience. They carried him, awkwardly, toward where the surgeon was diligently working on the other wounded greenjacket.

"Mind yer... footin', sir," one of the troopers said hesitantly as they carefully set the officer down. If they ever did something like this again, it'd be too bloody soon!

Vickery nodded at the two troopers, slightly ashamed of the way he seemed to have cowed them, but not ashamed enough to apologise.

Maybe he should sit... the world seemed to be spinning around a bit. He tried to ignore the blood that the Rifleman seemed to be covered in, and the wound that the surgeon was trying to treat, and took his hand.

Somehow he could still remember how to speak German - for a moment he had been worried in case he might have forgotten it all. "Walter? It is me - no, stay still. Herr Doktor is looking after you."

There was a murmur, nothing more, from the wounded Rifleman, and Vickery wondered if he was too late.

Corporal Tunney, one of the hussars, stared in morbid fascination at the wounded Rifleman. He couldn't help it. The wretched fellow's wounds looked a great deal similar to what he had seen delivered by curved sabres. This poor beggar had been slashed badly. Worse. It almost looked as though he'd been ridden over as well.

There was a faint murmuring garble from the greenjacket. It sounded like nothing sensible to Tunney, but perhaps this officer could make head or tail of it?

"Let me do that, sir," Maggie said gently into Vickery's ear. She had returned, still crying but now oblivious to it. This was a man whose troubles were far greater than hers or Cotton's right now. She must think of those things later.

She took his hand from Vickery and gave it a gentle squeeze. "Hello Walter love. It's Maggie Cotton." She leaned over, lifted his hand and gave it a kiss. "Doctor's gonna take good care of you, just like he did for Captain Vickery here."

Dammit. Why wouldn't anyone leave him alone to do his duty by his men?

"Mütter...?" the Rifleman muttered weakly, as Maggie took his hand.

He shook his head, leaning closer to be sure of being heard. He glanced up at Maggie before looking back down. She might not understand their words, but she would understand that Vickery spoke the Rifleman's language and would comfort him as best he could. "Nein, Friedler. It is Maggie Cotton."

"Ah.... Mein Herr...?"

Vickery looked up again. The man didn't seem to be quite aware of where he was, although he seemed to know it was Vickery with him.

"It's Captain Vickery come to see you," Maggie said soothingly.

"He knows," Vickery said, glancing at Maggie.

The rifleman muttered something else and Vickery had to bend lower to hear, pressing his arm to his side as he did so.

"Tell my mother, sir..."

"I will, Walter. But you will be all right, the surgeon will make sure you will be all right."

The surgeon in question had been ignoring the conversations going on above him. They lacked any importance next to the severely wounded man he was presently tending to.

At length, however, the surgeon stood up. "I'll need a private word, sir," he said to the man's officer.