10th June: The misplaced

"My dear Etienne, I have the dreadful suspicion that they would be terribly, distressingly upset if we don't disturb them. And because they would probably be mostly terribly, distressingly upset with me, I would strongly advise against any such action. It isn't as if you have to report some deal with the English or such, is it?"

Bastien spoke jestingly, but his eyes were still sober, and he studied Etienne's face very closely again.

"...I have not made a deal with the English.." Saint-Hilaire answered and averted his gaze from Prayon. "...I have had to deal with them however." He murmured and sighed. "..And..perhaps I shall need make a report of my time while I was indisposed.. and of the men under my care, that have been lost...be it dead...or prisoners." He lifted his gaze again.

At that time he looked at Prayon and frowned. He did not look forward to a meeting with his superiors though he knew it was about time that he had returned. The abrupt motion though, had caused him to feel dizzy, so that he stumbled and grasped at Prayon's shoulder not to fall.

"'scuse me..." He spoke apologetically.

Reflexifly slinging one arm around Etienne's waist to steady him, Bastien gasped: "Don't faint on me, Sainty. I was only joking!"

Shifting to place his shoulder more firmly under the other man's arm and take more of his weight, he looked around at the starring soldiers.

With apparent insouciance, he smiled at them and said lightly:

"I'm quite sure the Emperor does pay you for some more useful task than watching slightly incapacitated officers, gentlemen. After we now provided for your entertainment, I suggest you all go and do it."

When some of them didn't take the hint, however, a sharp little gesture to those of his own men standing nearby quickly dispersed them by other means.

Sergeant Fernet, a homely, sturdy individual, appeared unasked on Etienne's other side; when Bastien opened his mouth, he only gave him a deadpan stare and placed Etienne's other arm over his broad shoulders.

"Your tent should be standing by now, Sir, and I even managed to get you some decent bed-things. Perhaps you'd like to have a nice sit-down there and have a bit of coffee?"

"..." Saint-Hilaire glanced from Prayon to sergeant Fernet and back. He had noticed some of the men wishing to linger, but clearly taking the hint when they had seen the sharp gesture, the glare and the presence of the sergeant. They did not wish to draw attention, that might cause them to be first to the detested duties the next time they were needed to be done.

"Thank you, Sergeant." He spoke and gave the sergeant a nod. "Fernet, is it not?" He murmured, glad for the assistance, though somewhat embarrassed to need it as well.

"I think I will be able to handle to walk now..." He spoke." Could you point us to my tent? And.. I think I would like some coffee..." He glanced at Prayon. "Yourself?"

He did not want to burden their sergeant for that task, and spied a curious face still looking their way. "..You.. there. Morel?" He thought he recognised the young man. "Be so kind to bring us some coffee." He was certain that could be had, and if not, the lad could follow the sergeant and get the hot water to make such a drink.

"You know, Sainty, what you euphemistically refer to as coffee is very likely roasted and ground mud, and I would be very remiss in my care for your health if I allowed you to drink it in your weakened state without constant supervision."

Bastien laughed and relaxed his arm a bit to make his posture more consistent with the attitude he usually projected.

"I believe your tent is the one over there. I'm quite relieved to see that it appears to have the usual amount of posts, rope and canvas and roughly conform to the shape the Emperor thinks appropriate for the housing of his valiant soldiers."

-

Fernet, after having established that the officer was not likely to immediately faint, relaxed his hold as well and nodded.

"Yes, Sir. Sergeant Jules Fernet, Sir", he inserted quietly when Prayon had managed to bring the first of his winding sentences to a close.

" There is no getting rid of you, dear friend." Saint-Hilaire spoke in jest, smiling. "If you are thus concerned about my well being, I can do nought but follow your order to have you accompany meand serve the mud that might be my undoing."

He looked in the direction that indicated the placement of his tent and eased himself into a somewhat crooked stance. He stopped for the moment, grateful for the pair of hands holding him, though he was unwilling to show it. "Indeed, the tent appears quite safe. I hope it is not merely a ruse, that will have me enter, just to be doomed by the heavy weight of the canvas falling down."

He looked to Fernet and gave him a slight nod. "I recall that you have fought bravely on many an occasion, have you not, Sergeant Fernet? Risking your life even against the enemy's rifles?"

Fernet shrugged with an unassuming face.

"The lieutenant has a way to get you in positions where going forward suddenly seems the best choice. Besides, he's got us out ..."

He was interrupted by Bastien; appearing not to have heard that the sergeant was speaking, the young man said cheerfully:

"Of course he has. D'you think I'd accept anything less as a sergeant? They even pinned a nice shining cross on him for doing something incredibly stupid and getting an even more stupid wounded officer out of the frying-pan instead of running for his own life."

The sergeant shot an annoyed glance over Etienne's head, but Bastien suddenly was very concerned with a perfectly normal tent-flap that for some reasons needed to be tied back very methodically.

"I expected as much. There is no keeping you out of trouble, is there?" Saint-Hilaire chuckled, amused at the look the sergeant had given Prayon. "The poor man here should have been made general with all the trouble he has with you." He indicated the sergeant and then had to lean against the support again as his injured leg made itself very well known and very painful at that.

He grit his teeth and tried to steady himself again, with all his weight on the other leg. "So, why is he a mere sergeant still?" He tried to distract with that question, wishing for some respite from his injuries as well.

Bastien already had opened his mouth to answer, but this time the sergeant was faster. Taking most of Etienne's weight on his shoulders and ducking into the tent, he left the lieutenant standing outside, hindered by the still not quite fixed tent-flap. While he helped Etienne to a camp-stool, he answered:

"That's not for me, Sir. I can carry a wounded man, but it was still him giving the orders to get us out."

Seeing Bastien, who had abandoned his task and come into the tent as well and now tried to loom impressively behind the considerably broader and larger sergeant, Frenet straightened and saluted briefly. "Dismissed, Sir?"

Saint-Hilaire listened and relaxed right into the chair, though he was again shifting his weight to the side, not fully sitting, but certainly not having a chance nor choice to lie down or lean back. It was still a lot easier to sit than it was to stand, and he breathed out a bit of relief having been enabled to do so.

Since Prayon was highest ranking of the two, he kept silent when the request came, and rather concentrated on having himself more comfortable. The other man could deal with the formalities. He looked about his tent. Good. The tent still stood.

Bastien studied the scene for a moment, then laughed out loud.

"Sainty, you've just made good your debt to me. He never asks me if he can help it. He only grumbles that I'm keeping him from his duties."

He came forward and clapped the offended looking sergeant on one shoulder. Then he assumed the most dignified manner he was capable of, which strangely looked like the caricatures about General Wellesly which sometimes were circulated in camp, pointed with an impressive gesture to the entrance and thundered: "Dismissed!"

The sergeant only imperturbably repeated his salute and went out, saying: "I'll see to that coffee, Sir. One of those superstitious fools may have put rats' tails in it. Against revenants, you know."

"Will you never tire of that nickname? I am hardly a saint even if my surname gives such promise." He smiled. Well if a debt was considered repaid , even in jest, it was perfect with him though he doubted he could ever truly return all that he got.

He tried, but failed, to stifle laughter, when he saw that scene. He shook his head, seeing the sergeant depart, still trying to hold in chuckles that refused to remain unheard.

"I do hope I don't have an added bonus of rats' tails in my coffee. ...I prefer to eat and drink, separately."

Bastien had remained standing, watching the retreating back of Fernet with a small, thoughtful smile on his lips. Now he came over to Etienne, looked thoughtfully at the dilapidated chest in one corner of the tent, then carefully draped his coat over it and sat down on the side of the bed.

"I think I will tire of it when I find one that infuriates you more. You seem already rather used to it. Perhaps some of that famous saintly patience showing? How about 'Patchy' for a change?"

The words were spoken without much attention, a pure reflex to Etienne's complaint. Bastien's thoughts were obviously still somewhere else. After a moment he shook his head vigorously, however, and nudged one of the tent-posts with the tip of his boot. In his customary style, he announced:

"They must love you more than me. It actually appears to hold and even the ground is level. I think I must find some clever reason to change tents with you."

"I shan't change my tent with you. That you should know. That I must be more popular among the men than you.. can only be due to my respect for them and not the flamboyant struttery of their other officer." This was a tease meant for Prayon. He had noticed however the thoughtful look on his friend, which was not usual when the world was his stage and there was no time to be sober and withdrawn.

"Prayon,... what is it?" He asked, though he was certainly just as well, if the man would not answer his question. He gave him the chance to speak, but if he refused, he would not press.

"...Patchy?...." He asked and touched at his tample, drawing his hand to where the patch covered the mess behind it. "...do you know of my injuries..sir?"

Bastien let himself fall backwards onto the small cot and sighed heavily. "Why is it that you only call me 'Sir' if you say something I don't like?", he complained querulously. "Can't it be simply 'brilliantly done, Sir!' for once in a while? Or even better ..."

He passed a hand over his eyes. "In case you haven't realized: In the last hour I have seen more of your body than I would ever care to admit. My memory is very adaptable, but ... "

Bastien paused for a moment, frantically searching for another light taunt.

"... You insisted very forcefully that your patch wasn't just to impress young maidens."

Rather incoherently, he added, his voice barely a whisper: "I'm sorry."

"....Why do you apologise,... what do you apologise for?" Saint-Hilaire murmured. He observed his cot be taken by the other man, but failed the strength to protest , or claim it as his own. He could not exactly lie on his back there any how.

"I will not haunt you with them, then." He spoke of the injuries of course, and turned from the other man to study the canvas of his tent. It was a pleasant, homely place now, his own tent, his own little world in which he could remain safe, content and without anyone daring to barge in without permission.

Except Prayon of course. Nothing could stop that man from entering when he put his mind to it. "I am glad you were spared. Prayon. It does fill me with joy to know atleast some of the people I know...have not succumbed or been ..there."

Bastien remained silently on his back for a moment, then struggled to his feet.

"I've got one bottle of good brandy left, and I think we may open it after dinner tonight. There are some persons to drink to. I certainly won't ask you to, but perhaps there are even some stories to share."

He shrugged into his jacket and took his hat.

"And now you admire your new home. You can even scream a bit for your coffee. Either they have to roast the mud for it first or they are already standing outside with their ears on the tent-cloth."

"I may assume that I am invited to this dinner?" He asked. He struggled to stand, and used his chair as means of support. Shifting from it he moved towards his cot.

"I will....I might be willing to tell stories, but not to all." He glanced at Prayon. "Will you not have coffee with me, before you return to your duties? You are invited, but I shall not press you, if you feel you cannot."

Bastien studied the other man for a moment, his hands paying with the rim of his hat. Then he suddenly slapped it into his hand, came back in and straddled the camp stool.

"Then I will accept your kind invitation with the greatest pleasure. As long as you refrain from any more serious talk; it gives me quite a headache. Besides, I still need your advise on a small matter of duty before I - very reluctantly, of course - return to it."

"Since you have robbed me of my favourite topic of conversation. " Not true, but it was pleasant to tease the other man. "I shall then ask, that you tell me what advise you need from me, so that I might make myself as helpful as I possibly can, having been away for so long." He tilted his head a little.

"What is it, that troubles you so greatly?" He asked shifting to lie on his cot, resting for the moment, but of course not on his back, as that would have been certainly stupid of him to do.

"I'm at a total loss regarding one of the finer points of protocol: What is the correct procedure to revive someone from the dead?"

"...Uh...." Saint-Hilaire arched a brow. It was so like Prayon to ask a question like that. He had thought it would be serious, but of course not. "Depends..." He spoke, trying to look serious even if the other man was clearly not.

"Do you want to revive them, or inform others that you have done it?"

"Whatever brings more glory." Bastien grinned affectionately "It is of course a sore disappointment that I have only you to produce, but I must trust that your very pirate-like appearance will make a suitable impression."

He angled his head:

"You wouldn't by any chance consider reporting that I snatched you away from under an evil surgeon's deadly scalpel?"

"I am sorry that I could not bring you a greater person to bring to life." Saint-Hilaire murmured, sounding more relaxed. "If you do not stop with calling me pirate-like, I might just have one of yours to see if it fits me. And then you can wear that patch."

He chuckled at Prayon's suggestion and shook his head slowly. "No. I am afraid that were I to need to name that surgeon, I would be unable to lie. And were I to name him, the next time I would need his services... well, I would not be on the list of the ones risen from the dead any more.. or ever." He smiled. "It would be rather...unwise of me to turn myself into a distressed maiden, just for your sake, dear sir."

Bastien modelled his face to the sweetly innocent, begging look of a puppy.

"But it would be so much fun!"

He laughed and and angled his head to peer out of the tent:

"I have a sinking feeling that they do not only have to roast the mud, but catch the rats first as well."