13 June; Visitors at Dawn

A mug of steaming tea was shoved at him, and despite the splitting ache in his head, Newbury lowered his hands to claim it. Whether he could actually stomach the drink was as yet unknown but for the moment it was enough to have something so wonderfully warm in his grasp.

Then that fleeting sense of relief vanished when he became aware of Captain Vickery's presence near the fire. Of all the... Newbury let out a shuddering breath and wished he was dead. Or disappeared. He might as well be the former, he supposed. Why was he here, when the only thing that mattered was being in that grumpy surgeon's wagon where it was safe?

He fixed his gaze on the dirty yellow-brown light of the fire and kept silent. He didn't trust his voice to hold should he speak.

Everyone seemed to be avoiding his eye, which was no more than he had expected. He swung around to fix Cotton with an icy glare. The Rifleman gulped and came to attention, standing rigid.

"Well?"

"Sir. We woke up - we'd all bin asleep, sir - an' found him by the fire, sir. n' he was asleep, an' all, sir. We none of us know how he come to be here, sir, I swear we don't."

If he was worth a damn, Newbury thought, he'd say something. Even though he knew very well that anything he did say would be wrong. Why should it be otherwise? He'd scarcely been out of trouble since taking that glancing bayonet thrust in Pombal. Some Rifleman he'd proven himself to be!

"Sir," he managed, his knuckles going white as he gripped the scalding hot tin mug for support, "I dunno's how I got here but I'd like t'go back t'me wagon, sir."

Pathetic. But it was as coherent a sentence as he could muster.

If confining Newbury to the surgeon's wagon wasn't going to keep him there, Vickery had only one way of keeping him there, short of ordering the man to be cuffed to the vehicle like a common criminal. The last time he had ordered someone to keep watch over Newbury, two Riflemen had ended up in trouble, very nearly dragging a third one into it with them.

"You will be going back there, as soon as it can be arranged," Vickery told the man. "I will be sending a Sergeant with you. It seems you have a singular talent for getting into trouble even in your sleep." He could ill afford to lose a Sergeant, but he had no other option.

The prospect of having a sergeant sent along with him didn't affect him. All he cared about was getting back to his wagon and staying there. If he was lucky, it would be warmer there than it was here.

Captain Vickery's expressed displeasure was perfectly correct. If Newbury could not even stay in one place while sleeping, what good was he to anyone? He closed his eyes against an unwelcome prickling feeling and hated whatever had caused him to be here.

Maggie saw him close his eyes, and she took the untouched tea from his hands. "Just lie back now," she whispered. "You'll be all right."

She gazed dolefully up at the captain in response to what she viewed as punishment for Newbury. She considered that the rifleman had saved her life, and it pained her to see him unfairly condemned when he had not done anything wrong.

"Captain," she said, feeling bold because of the perceived injustice. She spoke with a hushed firmness. "He couldn'ta done it hisself. He can't hardly walk on his own. He was knocked on the head. Like you."

There was a very slight emphasis on the last two words. Propriety be damned; the captain needed reminding that he had been in the same state, and she had witnessed it. She had seen him act in ways that he probably couldn't remember and would have been ashamed of if he did.

She relented a little. "Maybe the surgeon sent him back."

Edward stood silently next to Vickery. There wasn't much he could contribute, and he didn't think that a testimonial that indeed no-one had shown anything but surprise would be of any help either to Captain Vickery or to the riflemen right now.

Although ... That woman, Maggie, did seem to know quite a lot about Newbury and where he came from, and she had hid her knowledge rather well before. She had already shwn that she could keep her head under pressure, too, and was just now taking charge again. Was it possible that she ...? But the capability to successfully run such a scheme was of course no proof that she was actually involved into one.

He would certainly not make any remark now and get her into any trouble with the Captain, but it might perhaps be neither the worst nor the least enjoyable idea to keep an eye on her.

Her mentioning of the surgeon brought his mind back to their current problem. It had been quite some time now since Mayden had gone for that stretcher. If Newbury had been stabbed, he would have bled to death by now, and still neither surgeon nor bandsman was in attendance. Edwards mouth compressed into a firm line. If this was typical of how this surgeon was running his tent, than it was small wonder that his patients disappeared inexplicably.

He cleared his throat and addressed Captain Vickery:

"Sir, with your permission I'd like to see whether there is any problem at the sick-waggon. It appears that its services are somewhat irregular this morning."

Finally. Mayden came trotting back, drawn to the firelight like a moth. In his wake trailed the 60th's temporary surgeon and an assistant, the latter carrying the requested stretcher. Mayden himself carried nothing but his rifle. It was not for him to do the surgeon's work for him, after all!

"Surgeon, sir," the Rifleman reported stonily, coming to a halt and saluting. The bastard was the reason for his taking so long. Bloody crossgrained fool!

"Maggie, I know that he could not have walked here on his own," Vickery said. "Which is why he should be with the surgeon, where he can recuperate. It is highly unlikely that the surgeon would have sent him back here at this time of day when he cannot walk. The fact he is here and not there points to some outside agency helping him get here." He sighed. If the others didn't know how Newbury had got here, and Newbury himself didn't know how he had got here, then it was going to remain an unsolved mystery. At least for now.

Newbury not only was not getting better, he was getting worse every time Vickery had seen him recently, whether through his own fault or through someone else's. He was starting to seriously consider sending the man back to Lisbon, to recuperate in the military hospital at Belem, well away from the Second Division.

He looked across at Torrington. "Thank you, but it seems that will not be necessary."

He sighed, wishing yet again that they didn't have to have such a fool looking after his men as this surgeon was. After all, if he had been less set in his ways and more wide awake, this whole mess need not ever have happened.

"Yes, Sir!"

Torrington positioned himself behind Captain Vickery's shoulder. He was curious what kind of man the surgeon was and whether he would be able to give any explanation.

Having escorted his two half-awake charges to the camp, Mayden took himself out of the way. This was going to be good. Well. Not for the surgeon, that was.

"Sent for," the bleary-eyed surgeon said, blinking at the shadow that was Captain Vickery.

At least, Mayden thought, the sky was growing steadily lighter. They'd all be able to what state the Rifleman by the fire was in before too much longer.

"There now, surgeon's here," Maggie whispered to Newbury. "And you'll be off to sleep in your own wagon again, quiet and snug. C'mon, Dog." She gave the rifleman a small kiss on his cheek and then moved aside to stand with her husband while the stretcher was laid on the ground.

"Would you have any idea how this man managed to get from your wagon to our camp?" Vickery asked. "Or rather, who would have brought him hence. He is unable to walk and is severely concussed."

Vickery was no surgeon, but if Newbury wasn't severely concussed after three separate knocks to the head, the Captain would eat his hat.

"How long will it be, in your opinion, before he is fit and well again?" he asked, adding dryly, "Supposing he is able to keep from any further escapades until then."

Surgeon Aimes looked at the Captain through narrow, sleep-encrusted eyes. By now he felt a severe loathing towards any soldier in a green coat, and that particular soldier that always managed to make trouble ranked very high on the surgeon's personal list of people who could just go to the devil. Especially just after four o'clock in the morning.

Irritably he answered:
"How am I supposed to now? He's hardly a regular patient. Might be a week or a month. What is he doing here anyway?"

Newbury found he had no interest at all in whatever was going on above him. All that mattered was the appearance of the canvas stretcher near him. Even the fleeting surprise at Missus Cotton's having kissed his cheek was not enough to keep him still. With a graceless shuffling flop, Newbury dropped himself onto the stretcher and did his best not to groan at the motion.

There. Could they go now?

As he heard the slight groan and saw what his patient had done, the suregeon amended his last grumbling with an even more exasparated:

"There you see! He can't keep still for even half a minute."

"With a seriously wrenched knee and after taking several knocks to the head, that is probably all the motion he is capable of right now," Vickery said. "He certainly could not have got from your wagon to our camp without help, and he doesn't seem to recall getting here. Maybe you should take better care of your patients if you want to be sure of their whereabouts?"

The surgeon glared at the Captain belligerently:

"My patients do not normally walk away by themselves, and even fewer get transported by pixies. And if someone else takes them away, that is the damn problem of the sentries, not me. Now am I to take him back or would you prefer to keep him this time?" As a sop to politeness, he added a belated "Sir!".

"What sentries?" Mayden was compelled to ask, an unhidden note of derision in his voice.

"Those sentries that obviously should be posted if someone is doing mischief here!" the surgeon, his face by now a rather apoplectic red, snapped back.

Vickery wished to God he could keep him; he had next to no confidence in this surgeon's skills. It just wasn't feasible, however. Newbury needed to rest, so he could recover.

"At least let him finish his tea before taking him back," he replied, wondering how on earth Newbury had got here. If it wasn't his Riflemen who had done it - and it certainly wasn't pixies! - then who had it been?

"And Mayden is quite right," he added. "What sentries there are are posted to look outside the camp in case of another French attack."

Something like a sneer passed over Mayden's face, though in the gloom it would be hard to see. "They'd have to be awake first, sir," he grunted. There had been a couple sentries, but both had been sound asleep. One had settled down against a wagon wheel and the other propped himself up with his musket. Bloody disgraceful. Mayden had been tempted to kick the man's musket out from under his hands. Would have served the stupid bastard right!

"There you see!", the surgeon burst out, then speechlessly glared at Vickery, his patient, Mayden, and at everybody else, obviously furious that not only had he been required to get up for this incident, but now was hindered to get back to his bunk because someone else was still drinking tea.

Edward shifted his weight and pinned the blustering man with a direct look when his turn to came to be glared at. Very calmly, but with the long line of his ancestors looking over his shoulder, he said:

"But sentries do not commonly attend to patients. This man is running a fever and is confused from a sever blow to the head, I believe. There should have been a watch set lest his condition worsens."

The sharp words being flung back and forth above him were making his head throb afresh. Newbury tugged the topmost blanket over his face, letting the empty tin mug drop wherever it may, and stifled a whine. If only they would all just shut up and get him back to his wagon.

Something warm and fidgety pressed up against him. It took a moment for him to realise it was the dog. Whatever dislike he had of the creature was fading fast. He couldn't explain its apparent acceptance of him but right then he didn't care. Anything that helped warm him even a little was welcome.

Damn it all. Vickery was beginning to wonder if there was any chance at all that Newbury would be given time to recover before he hurt himself again - or someone else hurt him. The list of Newbury's injuries had grown worse, rather than better, since Oporto. Since before Oporto indeed; he had ricked his knee before Oporto.

If there was any way he could keep an eye on Newbury personally, he would.