10th June: The misplaced

Saint-Hilaire took another deep gulp from the bottle, not caring any more what it contained and how strong or weak the liquid was. He lay back, careful not to apply any pressure to the wounded eye's side. Because his head was tilted around so that the side that was unharmed was resting against the bed, he was quite limited in what he saw.

"I can tell you in advance that none of this feels good." Saint-Hilaire answered honestly. "But, it's a good effort." He could not say that it mostly felt terrible and only rarely, tolerable. Poor Bastien suffered enough without it being rubbed in unintentionally.

He was quiet again, knowing that it was the only way. If he spoke, the tension and the pain would easily have been spotted in his voice. The Créme was soothing, cooling, quite unlike the alcohol earlier. He had tugged his sheets over the lower part of his body. It made him feel more at ease that way, and if there had been an injury that bled there, it would remain concealed. He had forgotten that he had mentioned any of them earlier. While his upper body was near fully lying on it's belly. His lower part was somewhat twisted, so that there was little to no pressure to the front. His weight rested on the knee of his uninjured leg. His feet were turned about so that they did not touch the cot either.

"If I ..become feverish 'gain. Will you be there? You won't..disappear..and make this all just a wishful dream?" He hesitated and gave a strained laugh. "I mean.. being back with the regiment and seeing my friend.. not the injuries that come with it."

"If it was that easy to get rid of me, half the regiment would probably have developed a fever by now. And you can be quite sure that now that we have you back with us, we won't let go of you that easily either."

Bastien put a last dollop of creme onto one shoulder, spread it out, then recorked the jar. He carefully put it back into the satchel, giving himself a moment of time, then let himself fall cross-legged to the floor next to the cot. He picked up one of the spilled apples and idly tossed it in the air.

"Soooo... Now that I'm done torturing you, perhaps we can turn to some more pleasant things. You could for example finally comment on the excellent dinner I have provided tonight." He grinned one of his big teasing grins. "Or, failing that, tell me why you did know that the cook had something special stowed away."

Saint-Hilaire relaxed. The salve was still soothing, even if it made the skin tingle a bit. "Do you think it would.. be good I have some of that on my wound here, on the face.. or better have that covered until it needs to be redressed?" He did not want to move. Not just yet.

"...mmm..compliments to t' cook and t' finest food I had in a long while." He shifted a little, so that his body was not as uncomfortably twisted. "And...every French cook has things stow'd away. Bastien. Do you not wonder why the cooks are always the fattest men of the army? If they're good, such ours, French cooks, they've got ways to get heavy."

He sighed. "Can I get my bottle back. I've... I should finish it." He looked hesitant. "My tongue feels funny when I talk." Of course, all that he said was still slurred and slow.

Bastien handed the bottle back to him and peered at the wound around the eye hesitantly.

"Better leave it dressed, I think. No need to disturb it, unless it feels funny."

He bit into the apple and munched.

"You drunk enough already to finally tell me what that row with Debrigney was about? I always wanted to find that one out, but no-one was willing to tell me. What for heaven's sake did you do?"

"I do?..Debrigney?" Saint-Hilaire appeared to have a hard time remembering. A row, that he had with him. He tilted his head and looked thoughtful. "AH...that row? The one where he had been left with a bloody nose, a bruised eye, a few teeth less and a good lunch come out o' his stomach lighter?" He asked and chuckled.

"When was that again...?" He closed his single good eye and rested a little. Talking was a great effort.

"Two or three weeks before Oporto, I think."

Bastien gently took the bottle before it slipped through Etienne's fingers and hit the floor. He considered the contents, then with a sigh and a quick motion he put the stopper in.

"When I asked why he was sporting such a strange war-paint, he nearly ripped out my throat and suggested I ask my 'friend Saint-Hilaire'. I didn't exactly like his tone, but some friends of his came between us, although they were even more close-mouthed."

"There were things that I and him had not seen eye to eye to." He chuckled, sounding amused. "Oh, war paint indeed. Well, was his fault. He said things he shouldn't." He shook his head, his voice muffled. "He suggested things that were outright dumb. ..Started all the usual way. A girl... No.. really, that was not it. He said things about you, that were insultin' to your character! He had accused you of things you'd not have done." Even now he had spoken in the heat of the moment, with intense emotion. Or perhaps, it was because he was drunk that he spoke of it at all.

"An accusation such as his could have you killed, not just your career, but you physically! And he did not spare on them, the blackguard!"

Bastien stilled, then ask, his voice carefully controlled:

"What did he say, Etienne?"

"Oh, things. " He was too drunk to know to keep his mouth shut. "Things like,.." He mulled over it. "Like..that were with some Pole, and you were not just talking." He shook his had. "Other things, but that one alone could have gotten you killed!"

He shook his head. ".. He'd been dealt with. "

(Because Saint-Hilaire got so drunk he actually thought he was a rifleman)

For a long second, Bastien didn't move at all. He didn't even breath. Then he slowly exhaled and said softly:

"Thank you, my friend."

Then for the first time that evening, he took a long, deep draught from that bottle.

"The only Pole with whom I had ever more than a passing acquaintance was Lt. Prezowsky, and he died at Somosierra. So should I ever hear Debrigney mention his name with anything less than respect ..."

"You need not thank me. Debrigney had tried to ruin the reputation of two valiant men. Yourself as well as the Polish lieutenant." He looked amused about that. He was drunk though, so amusement came naturally.

"Why did he say that? Did you do something to provoke him?" He asked, his voice sounding softer, quieter.

"Debrigney and I never got along ... Don't really know why. He lost a bit of money to Prezowsky and me, and I think he wasn't exactly pleased when we played the final rounds without his participation, but he was such a miserable loser, and thoroughly cleared out. It wasn't exactly our fault that he has no head for chess."

Bastien sounded sullen, and he didn't look exactly happy either.

"I see. His behavour may only be deemed childish." Saint-Hilaire said with greater vigour and loudness than he intended. But, he was drunk, and as such he did not seem to care or notice.

"Do not worry 'bout him. He's taken care of. Right so." He nodded with a bright smile. "Taken care of. He is." He relaxed again. "...Don't worry. I'll always have your back. "

"Thank you, Etienne."

Bastien genuinely smiled and gently nudged Etienne to lay down on the cot again. Then his smile turned teasing again.

"I only just hope you meant 'watch my back' there."

Whatever was troubling him hadn't passed away, but he had forced it back far enough that it was no longer obvious in his behaviour.

Saint-Hilaire lay down without a struggle or protest. There he breathed evenly and fairly calmly. "Yes.. of course. What else could I have meant? " He asked, utterly bemused, and quite drunk.

He looked at Prayon, urging him to explain himself. He could not get up of his own accord, so lay there, waiting.

Bastien slowly took another gulp from the bottle. He wasn't drunk yet ... At least not that kind of drunk he usually was, all loud and boisterous and singing the wrong lyrics to a mangled tune. He was becoming quiet, a bit sad even, and suddenly looked rather tired.

"Never mind. Let's talk about something different. Or go to sleep, if you prefer. If you're not too drunk, we could even play checkers."

"...Bastien. You're m'friend. You can trust me. Always." He whispered softly. He shifted slowly. "You helped me." He murmured. "...You always did..and here you are all promoted. You deserved it. " He began to try shuffle closer.

"..If there's anthin' ever you need....... I'll try to help you....'s right. Only right. Always right. For you."

"Oh, yes. That promotion."

His voice was harsh. He pulled at his collar, as if it had suddenly become too tight.

"I'm sorry, Etienne. It was just luck that I was in a position to do something and get part of the company into a position to cover the retreat; and even greater luck that the enemy never realized how few we were. I won't say that I won't defend my new position with tooth and nail, or any such stuff like that I don't deserve it, but ... I guess staying sane and getting away from the Portuguese again deserves the same recognition. I'm sorry that it is probably considered not politically wise to admit that."

He took another sip of brandy, than offered the bottle to Etienne.

"..Luck perhaps that you were in the right position, but the choice was yours to get there, or .. or how to react." He accepted the bottle and drank from it greedily. He had spilled some over himself, unintentionally.

He laughed: "..Prayon.. I did nothing. Nothing commendable. I nearly died. Had you not found me, I'd'a been dead. I did nothing. I lost those men I meant to bring back. They were all killed, because I misjudged it. " His laughter became bitter. "Misjudged our prisoner. They all died....I should have brought them here. I should not have been caught by the Portuguese. But I failed even in that. I deserve to be disrated for incompetence... Bastien. Only that." He finished, taking a deeper swig. Again more of the brandy had stained his shirt than entered his mouth and his arm shook.

"Easy there!"

Bastien quickly layed an arm around his friends shoulder and with his other steadied Etienne's hand. Then he very reluctantly asked:

"Which prisoner?"

"An Englishman. I think.... He was with the English. Hunter... that was his name." He looked thankful for the help in steadying his hand. He slowly leaned forward to take a small sip from the bottle. "We took him, thinking he would be a useful commodity, a guide.. because he spoke French and we were lost." He looked wretched. "....he was just... just one.." He would have not told Prayon that if he had been sober. But now, it just came rushing out of him, without him meaning to.

"Then it wasn't a mistake. It was a calculated risk you had to take. It went wrong, but that doesn't matter. You had to risk trusting him, because otherwise you and your men would have been lost anyway."

With a gentle hand, he helped his friend to another sip of brandy.

"Did you tell the Colonel?"

"....But I should have known. Taken him... maimed him even, just enough that he would not pose a danger to my men. We were all tired.. we had not eaten much, but that is not an excuse. They died because I failed to judge my enemy." He remembered with a faint shudder how he had engaged in a fight with that man. He had lost even then, but later managed to escape him. He was surprised that he was able to do so.

" I could not.. bury them." He murmured. "I could not go back to bury them decently..."

He shook his head.. then slowly nodded. "I told him...Not everything... but I've told him about it.."

"As far as I can tell, he neither ripped your head off, nor called in the execution squad; he didn't even threaten demotion. So perhaps this might be a small pointer that the army considers your sins more forgivable than you do. And forgive me, but I would strongly advise against maiming anybody just on the off-chance that he might be a traitor."

Bastien was teasing again, trying to lighten the mood and making a jest out of it, but his eyes looked angry now, although it was not clear against what or whom that anger was aimed.

"..He was not a traitor, Prayon. I knew he was an Englishman. He betrayed noone for serving his own army in ridding it of the potential danger and freeing himself. He was.... a civilian of sorts." He had to drink more. Seeing Bastien's expression he flinched and withdrew somewhat.

He might have misunderstood his displeasure, but in his drunken state he certainly had made little reason. "I don't know why the colonel had not done it..." He blinked. Where was his bottle? Moments before he had seen it, but not.. whoosh, ... it was not there.

He struggled to get more upright again. "Sing somethin'...Bastien. You've always had the voice of an angel." Which was far from the truth, so far in fact that horses would have become unicorns sooner.