13 June; Visitors at Dawn

"O' course we'll see him right," Cotton added, wiping his hands on his trousers. Newbury was one of them, after all. And they just had to get him back to the surgeon before Captain Vickery heard about this, or they were all going to be in some extremely hot water, Cotton no less than anyone else.

His blanket was suddenly gone and Newbury very nearly cursed the fool who'd snatched it away. Judging by the tone, it was that strange officer responsible for the abrupt removal of his only source of warmth. Stupid bastard!

Then again, one couldn't expect much from an officer wearing a black coat. Newbury shivered and tried to make himself as small as possible, despite the pain in his ribs and head. He paid no mind to what the others were saying above and around him. All he wanted was a little bit of peace. And another blanket.

Probably to the end of his days Edward would wonder why the statement that the injured man wasn't talking sense was supposed to lessen his concern. The general behaviour of the group, especially Cotton's underlying nervousness, did nothing to set his mind at rest either.

By now it was quite clear that he wasn't wanted here; but that fact left Edward in a quandary: He did not want to intrude and would have preferred to go and leave it to the riflemen to sort things out. But on the other hand he was an officer and now part of this company; if there was something going on, he could not turn his back before he hadn't satisfied himself that it was neither dangerous nor illegal nor did require any other action on his part.

Reluctantly, but with his jaws determinedly set, Edward reached out to feel for the invalid soldier's pulse. The skin he touched was clammy, and his fingertips felt the shivers coursing through the curled-up body.

Standing again, the engineer fixed Mayden with a cold glance. "Find a stretcher and another blanket. This man needs to see a surgeon immediately!"

He turned to Maggie; his features lost much of their stern demeanour, but the look in his eyes was still far from pleased. Still, there was no trace of anger in his voice now, only polite indifference: "I believe some tea and a few hot bricks or stones might help, Ma'am. He might be running a fever. If there is none here, my batman left some tea ready to brew in my tent."

Then he finally turned to Cotton; all polite veneer he had donned for Maggie's sake fell off again. His tone made it quite clear that he would not be satisfied with less than a thorough explanation.

"How does it come that this soldier is lying here?"

God damn it! He came to attention. "I got no idea, sir!"

He hadn't, either. As Maggie had said, Newbury could hardly have walked all the way up here from the surgeon's wagon. Cotton and the others certainly hadn't brought him up here themselves - they had all been sound asleep, after all.

He wanted to know why, just as much as the officer did - although for a totally different reason, of course.

The officer's brusque tone made Mayden stare, but he had the presence of mind to realise he was best served to obey the order immediately. He saluted and was gone in an instant, heedless of the darkness. A stretcher and another blanket. That meant a dash back to the surgeons' train. Damn!

There was still a bit of water from last night. Maggie generally tried to keep some that she jealously guarded in her own small kettle, so it could be made ready in the morning before a visit to the stream. She built up Cotton's fire and waited impatiently for the water to boil, which of course seemed to take forever.

Hot stones, hot bricks? A wonderful idea, certainly, but she didn't know where to find them in the dark. She set young and sleepy Joe Cavender to the task.

Meanwhile, she could try to offer the next best thing. "Flint. Flint dog, c'mere." She clicked her fingers at the dog and tried to direct him towards poor Newbury's shivering shape. "Here, lie down here. Here Joe, this nice warm Flint dog can curl up next to you, can't he?"

That damned dog... though the creature was much less a nuisance than that officer right then. Newbury mumbled something meant to be agreement and was glad the blanket had been draped back around his shoulders.

Perhaps surprisingly, the dog sniffed about him for a moment before resting its muzzle on Newbury's arm. The beast was warm, he thought grudgingly, and was glad for it being there.

"That's right. You're a good dog," Maggie cooed quietly. "Tea'll be ready directly minute, Joe." Goodness, she was starting to talk like Gabe.

Edward gave Cotton a sharp look, but it didn't appear as if the man was hiding anything. He seemed as confused by the man's appearance as the rest.

Which left only the soldier himself as a source for information. The question was just whether he was able to give it. Turning once more to the fireside, he saw that the young woman had not only directed someone to get hot bricks, but also improved on his idea. His respect for her increased sharply. A woman who could think practically during a crisis and wasn't flustered by either his rank or title! When he addressed her next, real warmth was in his tone:

"A brilliant idea, ma'am! Has he said anything himself how he ended up here? Who is he, by the way?"

"

Maggie was too flustered by his questions to take pride in his praise. She opened her mouth to answer, but no answer came to her mind. "Uhh... sorry sir, he hasn't said." Perhaps that would serve to answer both questions.

Well, there was no help for it. Edward kneeled down once more besides the man and gently tried to raise him a bit.

In a gentle, but firm voice (he faintly remembered that his nurse had used the same on him and his brother when they had been ill), he said:
"Rifleman! Can you hear me?"

"Oh sir, what are you doing?" Maggie cried in distress. And then added another "Sir?" for good measure.

Edward looked at himself, the injured man, than finally at Maggie. Slight confusion in his eyes, he answered: "We need to know where he came from."

"Uh. He came from the surgeon, sir. He don't know how. Hadn't he better just rest a while?"

Newbury shied instinctively away from both the presence of a hand on his arm and the voice that came too close to his ear for comfort. Yes, he could hear the officer all right. Damn it!

"Come from the surgeon's," he rasped, reluctantly freeing his hands from the blanket to cover up his ears. It was a futile attempt to stop the sudden thunderous ringing the officer's over-loud voice had caused.

Rest. That would be ideal. It was all he'd been after since yesterday, in fact.

Edwards brows furrowed; on the man's violent reaction, he lowered his voice, but his tone was commanding an answer when he asked:

"How did you get here? Did you walk here on your own?"

"Oh sir, he can't barely walk," Maggie again interrupted. She knew she should hold her tongue, but why couldn't the officer just leave the poor man alone? But the water was hot now, and the making of tea claimed her attention. "Tea's almost ready, Joe."

Edward's frown deepend. Hadn't the woman said she didn't know who the man was? Or at least implied it? Something shifty was going on here. And if the man hadn't come this far by himself, there was of course the big unanswered question just how he had managed to end up in the middle of the rifles' camp.

Feeling that by now a stage was reached where having Captain Vickery roused was a lesser evil than keeping this from him, he gently laid the man down again. Stepping back to give Maggie room for her ministrations, he addressed Cotton:

"My respect to Captain Vickery, and I apologize for disturbing his rest, but I believe this needs his attention."

Could things get any worse? Cotton very nearly groaned at this pronouncement, but managed to hold it in check.

"Yes, sir," he said, and turned to his wife. "Um, Maggie, you'd best make sure there's a cup of tea waitin' for when he gets here." Or he was liable to take someone's head off - and Cotton wouldn't have dared bet a bent farthing on whether it would be his head or Newbury's. Or both.

He threw a hasty salute and headed off for the Captain's tent, hastily unlacing it to let himself in.

There was an insistent hand shaking his shoulder and Vickery groaned as he opened his eyes. "What's wrong?"

"Um, sir, Captain Torrin'ton sends his respects an' would you come, please?"

Cotton sounded... nervous, somehow, and Vickery frowned, before sitting up. He grabbed hastily for his jacket, pulling it on - it was cold this morning, before throwing the blanket back and fumbling for his boots.

It was only a minute or two later when he emerged from his tent, fighting back a yawn, and looked around. There was a group of figures huddled around the nearest fire and Vickery made his way across to them. "What's..." He had to stop to clear his throat. "What's all this about, Captain?"

Maggie sighed unhappily as she poured most of the tea into her mug for Newbury. The captain could have whatever was left, and Cotton could give him his own cup. She was not inclined to think favorably of officers at this particular moment. She added a little bit of the fresh water to cool it down for Joe. He didn't need a scalded mouth on top of everything.

"Here, Joe, some nice hot tea for you. Sit up a bit. No, dog, it's not for you."

So the woman was 'Maggie' and Cotton was obviously quite familiar with her. Well, it certainly was another proof of the man's common-sense.

Edward shook his head and mentally went through the list of his orders. Was there anything else he could do before the Captain appeared? Yes, there was one thread still open, he realized.

Looking into the direction of the surgeon's waggon, he inquired somewhat angrily:

"Is there any chance that this d..", he caught himself just in time, "Pardon, ma'am. That this stretcher arrives before this man dies of old age?"

When Captain Vickery's voice reached him, however, he quickly turned, all anger whiped from his face. Straightening to a salute, he answered, his diction clear and non-committal:

"This wounded soldier appeared here, apparently from the surgeon's waggon. No one, not even he himself, was able to give any explanation for this change of location. He appears to be in pretty bad shape and it is unlikely that he has walked here himself. I have already send for a stretcher, Sir."

Wounded soldier. Surgeon's wagon.

Vickery was awake now. There could only be one man in his Company who was in such bad shape that he could barely walk, who had been with the surgeon's wagon - who should still be with the surgeon's wagon, indeed.

"Would anyone care to tell me precisely how Rifleman Newbury got here from the surgeon's care?" he asked, looking around, his words clipped and precise. "I presume somebody must know, after all. Unless he sprouted wings and flew here in his sleep."

Oh dear. Captain Vickery didn't sound half upset. Maggie hurried back to the fire and scrambled for Cotton's mug. "Cuppa tea, sir," she said quietly, handing it to him as unobtrusively as possible.

"Thank you," Vickery murmured absently, accepting the mug. He blew the steam off the contents, before gratefully taking a mouthful of the hot, bitter brew.

"Well?" he demanded, slightly less impatiently than before. "I am waiting for an answer."