10th June: The misplaced

"..Yes, sir." That was a lie. He actually wished that he needn't make a report at all. But there it was. He hesitated. What could he do? Just say as it was? He braced himself. If he spoke long enough perhaps the colonel might loose interest and then... he'd already been surprised at whom he saw as the colonel, but tried to ignore that for the moment.

"...When they cut us off at Oporto, we were taken prisoner by the British. Upon learning that they would deport us to England, I chose to denounce my parole. This returned me to the hold, where our soldats were held. Here a plan was made and put into action, having us escape successfully the next day." He mentioned dates with fair precision, though the memory was being tempered with, thanks to the cursed medicine which kept his pain at bay.

"We were intent on returning to our Grand Army. But were ..."And he spoke of the house that they had found, whereupon they stayed, having found shelter and food. Where then a man called Hunter arrived. He was dreading the part that he was to speak of next. Knowing full well that it was his responsibility to bring his men back safely. Yet it was only he and another that....were left alive, the rest slain by one man.

He felt his knees grow weak, and himself become faint as he described that part. His fault. His responsibility, his great failure. Then he continued, explaining how he was at last able to escape this man to whom he had become prisoner.

He paused before the mention of the Portuguese, near hopeful that the Colonel had had enough.

The Colonel watched Saint-Hillaire with calm eyes; occasionally he put in a question to clarify a date or place, but otherwise he seemed content to just listen.

When Saint-Hilaire's face turned paler and paler, Bastien tried to sneak an unobtrusive hand under the other's arm, but the Colonel stopped him with a sharp glance and indicated a chair instead.

"Please sit down, Sous-Lieutenant! Lieutenant Prayon certainly won't mind."

The look he levelled at Prayon made it obvious that he better wouldn't. The Colonel then waved Saint-Hilaire to continue, from time to time making a note on a sheet of paper. When Saint-Hilaire stopped, he continued for another two lines, then looked up expectantly.

"And after that?", he prompted.

Saint-Hilaire breathed in sharply. He was seated in the chair, at a bit of an angle. No luck in expecting that the Colonel would be satisfied with a portion of the report, and let the rest be ignored.

He was quiet for a few moments, his knuckles pale as his fingers clutched on the chair's handles, but all this remained unseen under the bandages. "...Then...when I have been...ambushed by the British officer... the Portuguese came down on us. They did not believe him English at first." He continued. "..But he was able to prove his identity .."And he had claimed some protection of the young officer only the Portuguese wanted none of it. Saint-Hilaire described his attempts to flee.

The first, which ended with a dagger in his thigh. Then the next, when he had managed to rub down his ropes so thin, that they broke off under his weight. He omitted the mention of a woman as one who managed to bring him down on that occasion. He began to tremble and had to stop again.

He looked at the Colonel, pleadingly, then averted his gaze. He described how his eye had been lost, his shoulder sliced, each moment his voice more halting, his words spoken more reluctantly. He had omitted his lie of his name and his rank, but spoke of their feelings to the extent that he knew. He mentioned the pulling of his nails, the burning of his back but at the very last he grew silent. There was that one thing he did not want to mention, not to the Colonel nor to Prayon and so without that final act he jumped in his story to: "....I was found by the 86th...I do not remember quite how....but I thought I was dead. I had been with them since then under the ministrations of their surgeon. ..Sir, I've meant to return sooner.. only...only I could not." He knew he should have sent a message, a note, and he could not say why he had not.

"...I am here now."

During the whole of the gruesome report, the Colonel's sharp eyes had left Saint-Hilaire's face only to stop Prayon from interfering. Now he leaned back in his chair, still looking at the sous-lieutenant, his hands lying calmly on the armrests.

He let half a minute pass before he spoke again; when Prayon opened his mouth to say something, the Colonel just held up a hand. He was obviously thinking the report through methodically and did not wish for any interference.

Saint-Hilaire feared this. Colonel's silence could mean too many things, of which he could not imagine any good. The wait was also a terrible thing to go through, the not knowing whether there was a wrath to be suffered under the Colonel, whether there was a demotion to be had. One so complete that he would stand there as a soldat, or to be condemned and punished for his inability to bring his men and those other men under his command, back , alive.

He wished for some word, any word and yet Prayon was ordered into silence and all he could hear was the noise from outside. He felt his throat dry and was grateful for the chair, as he doubted he would have been able to stand for so long under the scrunity.

Prayon obviously wanted to bring this silence to an end and grew increasingly fidgety, but the Colonel simply nailed him with a look to the spot.

Finally he addressed Saint-Hilaire again:

"You will of course have to file a formal report on this, stating dates and places as best as you can remember. It will also have to include a description of the enemy leaders and any other intelligence pertaining to their organisation, personnel and tactics. Until further orders, you will do only light duty. Prayon!"

He raised his voice, but didn't look at the lieutenant, only waited until he heard him straighten up. Scribbling something on a piece of paper and folding it, he said:

"Please go to the quartermaster immediately and see to it that M. Saint-Hilaire is put back on the lists. You may also request a new musket and the usual accoutrements for him."

He held out the folded note. Prayon looked rather reluctant, but there were few things he could do now that he had received a direct order, and even less now that the grey eyes were drilling directly through him. Still, he managed to linger until the Colonel, pronounced, a trace of warning in his voice: "Dismissed!"

Only after the back of the lieutenant had vanished and his footsteps disappeared did the Colonel turn back to Saint-Hilaire and asked:

"Is there anything else you would wish to add to your report, Sous-Lieutenant?"

Saint-Hilaire dropped his gaze. He had dreaded this. When he heard that Prayon was being sent away, he knew something like that would have happened. He had wished he could have left with Prayon and now that he could have just disappeared, or fainted, or returned to his cot. He stared at the floor, which appeared to be terribly interesting.

Then he shook his head twice, wincing. He knew he was trembling but try as he might, he could not stop it.

"N..no..sir." He answered at last. There was a silent plea there, that the Colonel would not inquire further. If an order would have been given he knew he could not say no nor keep silent.

"You think now that you did everything wrong, Saint-Hilaire."

The Colonel's voice was quiet, but unbending.

"In hindsight you certainly have done things that you shouldn't have. But before we carry this conversation any further, I want you to accept three things:"

Beuret caught Etienne's gaze with his own eyes and held it, ticking off the points on his fingers.

"You are neither the first nor will you be the last officer who had to make decisions on an uncertain basis that turned out wrong. Everyone breaks under torture and does things he wouldn't otherwise do sooner or later."

He paused for a moment.

"Most importantly: You are only human, like the rest of us."

He relaxed back in his chair and let his words sink in for a moment, then repeated calmly:

"Is there anything else you wish to add?"

Saint-Hilaire listened. The words were comforting and yet they made him only loose more to the strong emotion which was forcing him again to grip at the handles of the chair. He was struggling to keep his face under what little control he was left with. He had wished that that pause would have lasted so much longer, yet the question was given again, was asked again.

His hand jerked from the chair to his chin, then it was pressed against his forehead, pinched at his nose, rubbed against the side of his face, returned to his chin. It was trembling all this time, and even as it crossed over his eyes, then it was dropped.

He looked down in shame, knowing he looked a sorry state. He would not have wished Prayon to see him as such, less so, the Colonel. He sniffed and touched the tip of his nose, with the back of his hand which was yet again forced down. "..I..."He started. He wanted to say that he had nothing more to add, and shook his head sharply, jerkily.

"I couldn't ..."When that began, perhaps even before it, when his back had been scorched he knew, he could not have gone any longer. "..it was.."He cursed himself for being so incoherent but he was just shaken, shattered and it was not so easy, and he had hoped that the time back with the 86th, away from everything, would have healed him. Only, he was far from it.

".. it was too much. What they did...what he did.."The man he described earlier, one of the monsters that he feared even now."I'm.. I'm sorry, sir. I couldn't..anymore. They ... I broke..I can't say...but I broke....I couldn't hold out any longer." He had wanted to die, and would the chance have been there to take that poison, he would have gulped it down like it was water. The final thing, and perhaps the one just before it had made him cross the line.

He felt something warm on his cheek and saw that his vision was blurry, moist. His voice did not sound anything like he was used to, and this brought only the greater feeling of shame. He broke then, he broke down now. He drew the back of his hand roughly across his cheek, leaving a red mark on the skin.

"They thought I was LeFevre..."The man had been unable to say more. It was still too fresh. He thought he had said more than he had wanted to. But it was like then, when he would have begun saying anything they wanted to hear, anything they did not, just to make it all stop unless ordered into silence.

The Colonel listened without moving; when Saint-Hilaire's tale came to its end, he stood up without comment and went over to a chest of drawers on one side. After a moment of quiet rummaging there, the Colonel stopped by his subaltern's side; reaching over the younger man's shoulder, with an audible 'click' he placed a small glass full of clear liquid on the desk.

In a voice like a professor passing on some trivial bit of academic knowledge, he said:

"Most men tortured by the Portugese are dead after three days; by then they have told everything they know, everything they could make up, everything that passed their brain as they went mad."

The Colonel went back to his own chair and sat down, steepling his fingers in front of him.

"They haven't won yet, you know. You were forced to give ground, as it can happen when waging a war, but you managed to get away alive. Now you need to make sure that a temporary defeat doesn't break you. You have spent much time in the enemy's camp. If you can turn the information you gathered there into a weapon, they may even regret their small Pyrrhic victory."

From outside the sound of nearly running feet approached and Beuret got up abruptly and went out. The following conversation was for the most part too quiet to be understood inside the tent. Only one time Prayon's voice rang out, clearly objecting 'But Sir, he is ..."; the Colonel's reply was inaudible, but it must have been effective, for it cut the protest short even before it was fully uttered.

Quiet solitude. Saint-Hilaire stared at the small glass. The liquid still gently stirred in it, until at the very last it became still. He could swear that he could hear the beating of his own heart. There were small details that he now noticed, as breaths became less hitched, slower and less erratic. Sounds like the soft rustle of grass, the loud thumping of feet until they came to a stop. He could hear murmurs, but the whispers soon were too quiet for him to understand. The voice rose and fell, and he knew who it was standing outside that tent in conversaion with Beuret.

He wiped at his cheek, scolding himself with bitter irony that he tried wiping the tears of his nonexistant eye as well. His cheeks burned, both with the recent abuse of his bandaged hand and with shame at what poor character he had shown. He tried to smile, but instead his breath only hitched again and he felt the burning of tears.

Gratefully he stared at the glass, alone. He had time. Their colonel who he knew he would have given life for, even if sometimes he was harsh and often stern, had bid him time to make himself presentable and to calm down. His words were inspiring, comforting and not judgemental as he had feared them being. He knew he was crying now even if he observed himself almost at a distance, his mind confused and rattled.

He survived and his knowledge might become useful so that revenge was possible, and the saving of many more man who could have suffered the same fate. He gulped again and willed his breathing to slow, then reached for the glass. Holding it under his nose first, he recognised the strong alcoholic essence of the drink. Of course it was not water. With another moment of insight and thought, he at last gulped the liquid down and felt the strong burning sensation begin and ebb and with it, his emotions began to calm. He was getting his control back. Boy would he get drunk that evening, but right now, this much, was enough to slowly begin his process of healing, anew.

Would he be punished? He would accept anything that the Colonel deemed deserving and he would hope to be the better for it. He smiled, though it had not yet reached his eyes, just his lips curving in the right way. It was a way to make himself relax unwilling to show his friend how poorly he had managed the conversation. He touched up his cheek, this time gently, used the cloth of his wrappings to dab his eyes dry. With his hand in the pocket of his coat he struggled to bring from it a handkerchief. With some wincing he succeeded even in that and cleared his nose as quietly as he was able.

Folding the piece again he took a few deep breaths, releasing them very slowly. Mentally he thanked the Colonel for allowing him this time to collect himself. With a final tip of the glass he made even the last drops land on his tongue. He placed the empty glass then back onto the desk, shook his head, drew his hair back, and closed his one seeing eye. His breathing was calmer now, even, and he felt that perhaps give a few minutes more and he would manage, even to sleep.

Finally the Colonel came back in, alone.

Sitting down behind his desk again, he quickly wrote out some orders, then handed them over to Etienne.

"As I have no intention to lose one of my subalterns to Major Ducos and his ilk, you will make a full report in writing to me and not speak to anybody outside this regiment about this without my express permission. Until further notice you will take over such light duties as you injuries permit, but consider this report your most pressing concern."

He paused once more, his grey eyes drilling into Etienne's.

"I will not order you not to leave the camp alone or keep you away from our daily work. But you may expect that some people will ask how it happened that you got away and take reasonable care not to place yourself in any compromising position. Should you find that someone connected to the enemy approaches you for information or other services, you will answer them at your own discretion, but come to me immediately afterwards."

His eyes didn't leave Etienne's, but the Colonel's voice became almost compassionate.

"It doesn't matter what promises you made to them or what pressure they can now bring to bear on you. If they approach you, you will come to me, privately, and we will sort this out. Understood?"

"Sir." The young sous-lieutenant aknowledged the given order. He feared that the report might take a long while and there was still the gray area of the very last moments that he knew he would wish least to write. But then, he had been successful in escaping not once, but three times at the very least, as one escape from the British into the hands to the Portuguese could hardly count as such. But the other three. Those were certain.

He lowered his gaze when he could no longer stand the sharp gaze of his superior, having submitted visibly as well. "Sir,...I did not survive...because they granted me kindness in return for... for payment." He wanted to sound reassuring, but fell short.

"...Understood." This sounded much more convinced as well as convincing. He would come and he would speak or try to, but he would hope that he was not free of that haunting past and tonight he would drink till he was senseless and only then, sleep.

The colonel brought the interview to an end with a decisive nod.

"Good. You may retire now. Send Lieutenant Prayon in for a moment on your way out."

The Colonel stood up.

"It is good to have you back with us, M. Saint-Hilaire."

Saint-Hilaire smiled, feeling relief near overwhelm him. It was over. At last. It was all over and done with. He could now go and he was still with his head on his shoulders too.

"I thank you,monsieur Colonel Beuret. " He spoke with genuine feeling. "I shall send lieutenant Prayon in immediately." With a salute that was sharp enough considering his present state, he turned and tried to hide the limp on the way out, wanting to appear worth the man's trust and kindness.

Once outside, he searched out Prayon and keeping that smile, as made up as it was on his face, it is now your turn at the guillotine." A stepped aside to give the other man space, staggering a little as balance seemed to elude him. Straightening again he only hoped that his face did not look as much a mess as he was feeling.

Bastien was leaning obviously unconcerned against a tree, chewing on a blade of grass, but when he saw Etienne, he immediately pushed off and came to meet him. When he heard the Colonels order, his mouth twisted dolefully, while his hand closed firmly around Etienne's elbow.

"It would have been too much to hope that he would have forgotten about me. Hopefully he is a good executioner and makes it quick and painless."

He indicated an assortment of gear piled next to a tree-trunk.

"Here! Your stuff. Or at least as much of it as I could remember and the quartermaster produce at short notice. To get any money, you have to appear personally. Not even the Colonel's orders helped there, which I take to mean that you do not need to trouble yourself with it at the moment because the pay-chest is empty. Either you wait until they bring my lifeless body out of the Colonel's tent again and my pale-bearers can help you, or you commandeer the service of a soldier. I can strongly recommend not trying to carry all by yourself. Your new canteen has taken up a life-and-death-feud with your blanket and refuses to be carried anywhere near it."

"I believe I shall wait here and hope that you carry my things back for me... or at the very least.. that your soldiers do so." Saint-Hilaire was quite ready to sit on his things, especially the blanket looked inviting, and wait for Prayon's arrival.

Of course, what he was not aware just yet was, that the moment he was to sit down - as he had made his way towards his little pile now - he would curl to the side and then sleep as well as if he had been lying on a bed fit for kings. Alas, the light infantry was the sort that could sleep about anywhere and often did it, even more frequently than the line.

"..Here..., do not be long in relocating your head... alright?" The sous-liutenant said, having sat himself down in part atop his blanket, but with a great portion of it, still free.

"It is my firm endeavour to make this a very quick interview."

Bastien grinned.

"Which will probably be even quicker if I go now. Should it turn out badly, I want three nice songs at my funeral and you may have all my worldly possesions and debts."

Without further words he crossed over to the tent and ducked inside; there he remained for a considerable time, however.

Saint-Hilaire waited for Bastien just as he promised. But the longer he sat half lay on his blanket the mor his eye seemed insistent on closing. With time passing at a snail's pace and the sun being quite pleasantly warm, the sous-lieutenant at last succumbed to exhaustion. He curled on his cot, pulling the blanket half heartedly over his legs. His hand clutched at the canteen, which was deemed empty. His head rested on one of the folds of clothing, leaving the young officer with hardly an officer's appearance.

Still he slept on. Not even the chirping birds could disturb him, nor a pair of French soldats, arguing over who had drunk the canteen dry, or was it, who has lost the sausages that the other had carried, or perhaps it was an argument of a completely different nature. He just slept, his breaths even an calm.

When Bastien finally came out of the tent again, he wore a rather thoughtful expression. Just outside he paused for a moment and shook himself like a horse wanting to dislodge a fly, then looked over to where Etienne's gear was now added to by a large, softly breathing bundle.

Considering the sight for a moment, the corners of Bastien's mouth kicked up in a mischievous smile and he came prowling over on silent feet. There he bend down and for a moment it appeared as if he wanted to pick the other man up, but before the tips of his fingers could touch Etienne's back, the smile around Bastien's mouth turned bitter and he reconsidered. He remained hunched by the sleeper's side for a long moment, obviously considering his next action, then the usually so fidgety lieutenant quietly retreated to the pile of things, retrieved several sheets of paper and a Sabretache from it and dropped down cross-legged in front of the tree-trunk. Resting his back against it, he took out a pencil and began to write, but paused again every so often, biting on the end of his pencil and starring into the blue sky.

Saint-Hilaire was fortunate to have slept through Prayon's abandoned scheme to surprise him, for the man might have yet lost his heart and Prayon his teeth, should he had woken him then in such a sudden manner.

Being allowed to wake up at his own pace and time, the young sous-liuetenant stirred slowly, his eye opening ever so little. His breathing was calm, his expression sleepy.

He blinked again when he realised he had fallen asleep outside and remembering the promise of his friend, that he would return soon, he struggled to get back up, looking about himself for the sight of his friend.

He found him by the tree, writing something , and surprisingly thoughtful and serious. "...Have I made you wait long?" Etienne asked struggling into a half seating position. "I see you have managed...to live through." Though what did Prayon learn to sober him up so?

Bastien quickly jumped to his feet and came over to Etienne, folding the sheets and placing them in his breast pocket.

"Sleeping beauty has finally awoken!", he teased, quickly establishing his customary insouciant expression on his features again.

"Yes, I'm still alive, but still not sure whether I wouldn't have preferred a quick beheading."

He tilted his head and considered the other man's still sleepy face.

"Hmm, are you ready to get up or do you want to continue to grace the camp in this buccolic fashion? It's still some time until dinner, you slept only for about an hour or so."

"I believe I would rather sleep in my cot, than on the ground. It is not often that I might be given the opportunity and ..one does need to use it, whenever possible." He smiled. There. This was the Prayon he was used to and the one he had known.

"But I would certainly not mind, should you be so kind as to carry my articles of clothing and person, as you know full well that I am not in a state in which I should carry much but the clothes that I wear." He was tempted to ask, yet thought that Prayon would not have given him an answer. Or would he?

"So.. good sir, what has it been that took you away from my company and lead you into the lion's den?"

Bastien parried gracefully:

"Said lion's express command, of course. You can't expect me to volunteer to have my teeth drawn without any opium."

He collected most of Etienne's gear in the blanket or slung the respective straps around him, but offered the canteen to the other man with a flourishing bow.

"Here, you take that. I'm already asked to second the blanket."

"Indeed, an order. But may I inquire what you have discussed, or is it confidential and you will now claim to be a spy to our cause as well as an officer of the Grand Armee?" He took the canteen, responding with a simple inclination of his head. Unlike Prayon, he was not able to bow just so low at the moment without the fear that he might either cause himself some excruciating pain or to fall over and be unable to come back up.

"Thank you. You are most kind." He then began at his own pace, with the limp more pronounced as his leg decided that rest offered her time enough to begin complaining. "Speaking of opium." He spoke conversationally. "Is there any chance.. that I might receive some laudanum in due time? I cannot return to the surgeon's wagon today.." because he was too tired to and he could not get drunk and go there.

".. just to ease some of the discomfort in this spoiled corpse." He indicated his body.