10th June: The misplaced

"Come in and stop being as impatient. You'll never make a marshal with that sort of fidgety behavour." Saint-Hilaire spoke, amused. He closed his eyes. Safe. He felt so safe now, though he feared that he might return into the mindset, triggered by his captivity. He did not wish to have Prayon see him that way.

"I'm no maiden.. Prayon. A man, is what I am, through and through." Which he nearly would not have been any more if ...he shuddered at the thought, and gazed at the canvas of the tent.

Bastien settled down on the stool again, crossed his arms over his knees and rested his chin on them. Through half-closed eyes, he watched Etienne.

"But patience never gets things done faster, and impatience frequently does", he complained. "I can't see why patience should be a required attribute for a marshal. Its only good point seems to be that it is a virtue, a trait it shares with most other things nobody would otherwise bother with."

Shifting his head like a restive horse, he asked:

"If you are so much of a man, then perhaps I was a bit hasty to bring you back here? Not that I would mind the competition in any way, as I must point out that there are worlds between us, even with the aid of your patch, but you will certainly understand that any girl who has seen me will be very difficult to persuade, and I wouldn't want to be in any way responsible if you overtax yourself."

"Do not worry. I think I shall take a rest from all these women. " As if he had many, words the men liked to brag about were too often just that. Words. "..and let you have your fun while I get better until I am completely healed." He smiled.

Sometimes Prayon reminded him of a fidgety animal, worse than a hunting dog, more dignified perhaps, a bit like a steed, shaking his head this and that way. "I see you have not yet been able to train your men to bring coffee on time, made of mud or otherwise."

Bastien sighed once again feelingly.

"Yes, it appears that I will have to device new disciplinary measures ... Only it is always so exhausting to have to put them through it. And it takes so much time that could be far better spend with the charming girls you so magnanimously left to my entertainment."

He spoke the words with as much disgust as if he himself had to do the punishment. Kicking the tent flap open with one leg without bothering to rise, he called to a passing soldier:

"Ola, Muriette, have a look and see what Morel does, will you? He may have fallen into the coffee-pot by the time he is taking. I don't think it would reflect particularly well on us if I had to tell the Colonel that Sous-Lieutenant Saint-Hilaire finally made it back to camp only to die here of thirst."

The flap fell back into place again as the the leg was removed and settled over its mate. Tilting the stool back at a dangerous angle, Bastien leaned back against the side of the tent and grinned.

"That should set them running. They were probably all about and told everybody who did or didn't want to hear that you are returned from the dead and thereby ruined my perfectly good surprise. They, not you. Perhaps I should send a note to the Colonel before he hears the news. It wouldn't do for such a dignified person to be informed in anything less than proper style. Perhaps you would be so good as to lend me some of the paper I in my infinite wisdom have hopefully ordered someone to bring here? Or perhaps you would even like to start your future career as company clerk by making the report yourself?"

" Perhaps you should. But do not expect me to sound thrilled about writing a report. I'd be terrible ad doing so now.. under the influence of some of the things the surgeon has given me. I must remind you... what I write might be of such terrible content or quality that... well the Colonel might as well wish to check your sanity, for 'having written' something of the sort."

He spoke that amused. He was not as thirsty, so coffee could wait, but the thought that men would be glad to spread the news, if true, was somewhat warming. He gazed at the flap and then at the pleasant confines of his tent. Having been left in the open with the Portuguese, this did feel a lot more like a shelter, a distant and far away place as compared to that time.

"I was thinking..."He spoke. "....We should do something about the cursed irregulars,...something.." He knew some of those faces. Andres he would delight in catching and ... he shook his head sharply. "Apologies. I promised no serious talk, while you are here....so.. "

Batien had opened the rickety chest and was now rummaging through its contents. His head nearly vanishing in its interior he mumbled:

"The Colonel questions my sanity twice a day already. If I don't give him a regular diet of lunacy, he might well fall ill from the shock. He doesn't take changes as well as he used to."

He looked up accusingly: "Why do you still have a halfway decent mug while I haven't?"

Throwing a towel and what looked like a shirt rather haphazardly back into the chest, he jumped to his feet and looked searchingly around the tent.

"No paper in there, so where did they put it? I'm quite sure I asked for some to be brought here."

"Perhaps some of our valiant private soldiers needed an arse wippin' , and there's no better thing but paper for that. Atleast if you listen to what they swear by." Saint-Hilaire answered not at all ashamed of having spoken with a word hardly decent in such a conversation, nor what it suggested.

"There is also a good reason why my mug appears half decent, and yours does not. Now see.. I am quite kind to my men, so they treat my things with care whenever they are in contact with them, and I do take greater care of my things as is.. while you, yourself, appear to be eager to be as talkative with your hands as you are with your mouth."

He smiled innocently. Prayon was the best medicine for a gloomy mind, as it was hard to keep serious in his presence. It was just so hard.

Bastien looked at the mess he had created, then smiled apologetically and placed the things more properly in the chest.

"I should of course protest now that these things in truth all belong to me, you being dead, but I think I will spare you that rather foreseeable reply."

He closed the lid, then prowled back to his seat.

"I will remind you instead that your last statment was rather selfcontradictory, as it is your paper that is missing."

"Well my paper was your paper while I was being dead, therefor it was in your keep and had it disappeared it is thus in ways.. your fault." Saint-Hilaire murmured, a smile still on his face. "But.. I must say that my belongings are mine again, as I have proven you well that I am alive, rather than that. And I am as much flesh and bone before you, as our coffee is late."

He tapped his hand against his cot's side. "What have you done with your things... if mine seem to attract you so greatly in wanting their posession?"

"It appears they have become ... dispersed somehow. I still am in possession of some sheets of paper, though, but I greatly fear that if I sent somebody to fetch them he and possibly the sheets as well will go the same way as our coffee. If no miracle happens, that means that I will probably have to go for them myself."

He looked disgusted at that possibility. Then his expression switched to a teasing grin again.

"As for your possessions: Hadn't I mentioned that I liked them? Especially that nice pair of stockings. I foresee a great future for those stockings on my legs."

"Dispersed.. not by your own doing, of course." Saint-Hilaire did not sound convinced. His thigh was beginning to ache in the position that he held it, so that he had to shift and even then the ache only dulled, not disappeared.

"You did say you liked them, but dear Prayon.. I believe my stockings are thrilled to see their owner back and would prefer to remain with him rather than be leased again to the brute, who's only using them to fetch a glance of a lady." He hesitated then and after a few moments spoke again. "..Speaking of which... is it true, what I hear, that there are the enemy's women invading our officer's mess?"

An expression of acute discomfort flitted over the young man's usually smiling face, but was quickly suppressed.

"Another point that has me totally convinced that we are fighting on the right side. Some British 'guests' we had brought along had the unspeakably bad manners to disappear in the quiet of the night, but leave their women with us. Fortunately one of them is a veritable dragon who provided some very decent amusement by relegating Charcot to his proper place. I always said that he hadn't the proper taste to appreciate a truly spirited woman."

"I am not convinced we should have let them in our midst. When returned.." he did not know whether they have been yet or not. "All that you have said there, might very well be given to the knowledge of our enemies. Why.. I could think there be a spy among them!" An accusation that was based on nothing, for the young officer had not had a chance to see any of the women, nor partake in the dinners which they had attended.

"But...what happened to Charcot? Had he been struck by the woman?" He arched a brow at the only seeing eye. At the moment, with his memory of the woman which haunted him as much as she... he did not know what else.. he trusted the fairer sex as little as the men.

"Wasn't there, so I can only relate what's been rumored, and that isn't too reliable, but from what I heard he took some liberties with one of the younger girls and the old lady brained him for it. 'Liberties' you may read as ranging from a chaste kiss to the other end of the scale, and the reactions from a light tap on the head to a near-fatal blow, depending on who tells the story, but I have seen him this morning and he is still walking. After that the whole scene dissolved into a boxing match between the two which had to be broken up by Blanchard, or at least that's what I've been told."

Bastien grinned at his own story, but the smile didn't last long; looking down to polish some speck of mud from his sleeve-buttons, he said, his voice at the same time accusing and defending:

"They'd be fools not to keep their eyes open. You can't blame them for that. We should never have brought them here."

"Indeed. It would have been best to leave them with the English, or return them the next day, if possible. They are not good for our men.. you've said yourself that they fought...and they are certainly not good for...."He shrugged. "....And the Portuguese? I have heard that among the camp followers, there were some of those as well......true?"

It was odd to talk about gossip, but Prayon was very willing, and Etienne somewhat curious.

"Yes, some." Bastien shrugged. "Same there. Some need to survive, some even hope that we win, some need to find a way to fight back. Who knows?"

He shook his head a little sadly, then looked up, a mischievous look creeping into his eyes again, crumbled the handkerchief he had used to polish the buttons into a ball and threw it at Etienne.

"Heya, hadn't we agreed to postpone all serious talk 'til I'm drunk? And you should really work on your order-giving-skills. If that coffee doesn't appear soon, I'll be shot for dereliction of duty before I can drink it."

"I'll have you drunk and then ask you what happened with the Portuguese wench.....women." He blinked as the handkerchief struck his face and shook his head. "Hoy, you behave like a child!... come, bring that brandy you have been promising. If it is not coffee that we receive first then atleast let it be a pleasing drink."

He averted his gaze towards the entrance to his tent and thought he heard noise at last outside. Though he was not sure if it was from the coffee bearer or someone else. "Or let us join both together...? Would you care for one? Or must I first see the colonel and should then be enjoying the sort?"

Bastien scratched his head reluctantly, then said:

"Colonel first, drinks later, I'd say. As much as it pains me to admit it, I will have to see to some things later if I want to keep that very nice decoration on my hat, and I don't think the Colonel will be overly joyful if you sing when I carry you into his tent drunk. My back won't be either, come to think of it."

Snatching his handkerchief back before Etienne could put it away, he suggested:

"How about coffee now, if it ever appears, then a civilized stroll over to the commander's tent, some polite conversation there, after which you probably will want to inspect your quarters a bit more closely, while I enjoy the beauty of Portuguese landscape and the never-ending exhilaration of inspecting the piquets, before we meet again for dinner and some heavy booze?"

Just as Saint-Hilaire was about to aknowledge that coffee would come first, if it came at all, the flap of his tent was raised, and a tray precariously balanced on a palm of one hand, appeared there. The man carrying it was as careful not to spill the coffee as he could be, and hurried to set it down on the closest flat surface that was not too low for the two officers to reach for.

First mug went to Prayon, as he was higher in rank, and second to Saint-Hilaire.

"I'd have hoped..to not remember my going there, actually. But if you insist. I'll go sober." He nodded. "bring a report of the Portuguese land back, shall you? .. No entertaining our enemy."

Bastien raised his mug in as high a salute to Etienne as if he was drinking the finest wine, but he also spared a grin and a 'Thank you, Morel!' for the soldier who had brought the mugs.

Then he sighed contently, relaxed back and looked as if he was going to sleep, the mug balanced on his stomach. When Etienne had finished his sentence, he lazily opened one eye again and drawled:

"Either you or I are already drunk now, it appears. I haven't the faintest clue what you wanted to tell me with your last sentences. Please remember that I am exceedingly bad following orders, so if you want me to do something, please use simple, monosyllabic words and perhaps pictures."

Morel inclined his head and was out about as soon as he had entered, empty tray left inside, so that the two men could lay their mugs down, once finished.

Saint-Hilaire took his mug and brought it to his lips, taking a few sips of the broth. It was not the sort which would have someone sing it praises, but it would do. "Please, come back and tell me what you saw." The young Frenchman spoke very slowly, emphasizing each word. "I would draw it for you but you lost all my paper." He said sweetly, and smiled.

Bastien replied with a very angelic smile of his own:

"Or rather: Even before you have properly settled down, you lost the better part of my paper! But since you took admirable pains to make your meaning clear without recourse to any other didactic instruments than words, I will honor this very commendable endeavor in a manner which befits a superior officer who wants to further the competence of his subalterns, and give you a thorough report tonight."

Having managed to wind his way through this monstrosity of a sentence, he then took a sip from his own mug, swirled it around in his mouth appreciatively, and commented:

"Mud, decidedly! Mostly, I think, from where that big pine stands. But I also can trace a lighter, fruitier note, so they surely blended it with some first-grade dust from that rocky knoll in our backyard, where those nice poisonous flowers grow."

"Excellent. I shall be most honoured to carry with me the report of a man superior to my station, of such grand fame even, as yourself. It will amuse me also, how you shall write this report at night, when you promise to join me with the drinking of fine brandy. On which account I now debate... ought it be a private affair, or should we invite officers of our fellow regiments?"

He chuckled at the struggle that Prayon had faced in his sentence and then was able so quickly to turn about into a decisive joke and critique of their brew. "I marvel at your talents. Dear Bastien. For you speak with the words and mind of a professional describing this.. brew. You would be finer even when speaking of wine, I expect?"

Bastien acknowledged the compliments with a deep bow, hand over his heart, which was only slightly hampered by the fact that he was still sitting.

"I wouldn't be speaking of fine wine, I would drink it. As for tonight: As it is your glorious homecoming, I suspect my impassable politeness prompts me to leave that decision to you. Whom did you have in mind? I'm sure, though, that no-one will misgive you if you prefer to have my fine brandy all to yourself tonight and to see their faces only when your feet are properly healed so that you may run if the conversation becomes too tiresome."

"I did not have a man in mind, though we do have a fair assortment of officers in our camp." He smiled at that. "You speak wise words however." He was tired now and he was certain that once they had come from the Colonel he would sleep, or at the very best, attempt to do so. To host a great number of men or even attempt to take part in conversation was something that was perhaps best done in a couple of days. When he was settled, all things with the 86th concluded, and the soldiers notified of the surprising change.

"All to myself though? Have you not promised to keep me company. Make certain that I do not sleep by my cot, in my drunken stupor. Or that I do not fall and... poke my other eye out?" He tried to make a jest of that.

"And.. then in a couple of days, I think, we should have a much grander dinner together with the others, some, I would suppose, also from the 86th and perhaps others." He tilted his head. "But with none of the enemy's women." If they still had any, anyhow. He mistrusted anyone who could speak even the least passable French and was not on their side.