10th June: The misplaced

"I would be delighted to have some fresh air, if the officer would not mind a man of my rank, as company." He did prefer having time outside his wagon. He had known every nook, cranny, every indent in the wood, every nail and possibly even how old the wood had been when cut for the makings of the wagon. It was a wonder how much a man would learn, when bored enough, and how much he would observe and study, and in his case, even count.

"You would not mind if i go.. barefoot as this?" He was almost tempted to take a second set of bandages - which the surgeon ought know nothing about or else he would indeed be terribly upset - and use them as makeshift soles, protecting his stockings from getting filthy. It was certainly an enjoyment to feel dressed properly again. A sheet was no great company for the trips outside.

With a heavy frown Bastien looked down at the bandaged feet, chewing on his lips. Suddenly his face cleared.

"Oh, I think I do. As I said, white is definitely not your colour, and I think we all want to be spared the smell. Stay right here, I'll be back in a second!"

Without giving Etienne any time to respond, he jumped out and down from the waggon again. Before he went away, his head reappeared for a few seconds, however.

"To the best of my knowledge, only one girl ever pinned after me, by the way."

"..Right, I do not bel..." Saint-Hilaire answered, before the head disappeared again."...ive you." He was curious what Bastien had in mind to bring. It would not be white, that he was certain of. But he did hope it was not a prank that he would pull on him now, by bringing something terribly inappropriate.

Well, he did have to wait, because the damn officer decided not to betray or give time to be asked, what the desired object would be.

It took some time before Bastien reappeared again. When he did, he held in his hands a very strange assembly of objects: Some bark, an extremely tattered horse blanket that appeared to consist more of holes than of cloth, a bundled-up handkerchief from which blades of grass escaped, and various short ends of rope that spiralled down from between his fingers; the whole assortment looked as if he had randomly snatched up every bit of rubbish in his path.

Dumbing the collection gleefully into Etienne's lap, he angled with his boot for the chair and sat down again. With the tips of his fingers, he gripped the lower end of one trouser leg and raised one of Etienne's feet onto his knees again, studying it like it was a newly discovered species.

"...Are you thinking to make a stew out of this?" Bark, horse blanket that looked unfit for an ass, let alone a horse. Then there was a handkerchief and grass bundled in it. He arched a brow. Grass was not good for a soup but with great imagination it could go for salad? Honestly, he would prefer not to try it. Was this perhaps some sort of a herb, and he just did not recognise it?

Rope was next, and rope was usually used for tying things. "Hm..." He murmured softly. "..I do hope you do not want to tie me up to somewhere.. "

"Nice idea, but no. I rather thought to tie some things to you."

Bastien shredded the blanket even more, until there were only stripes and patches left, then wrapped some longer ones around Etienne's feet.

"But of course, if you would prefer stew, we might also cook these. From the smell, at least half a horse has to hide in there somewhere."

The grass was placed on two patches, then these were wound around the feet as well.

"It is... the most peculiar foot wear. I must give you that, Dear Prayon. But... I thank you for thinking of my feet and socks." He laughed softly, and studied the remains of the blanket. It indeed had a distinct scent of horse. "Almost as If I was just joining the cavalry." He commented on that.

"May inquire on the necessity of the grass? Is it to add colour, or you have decided that it might stem some of the smell?" He teased, pleased however that he could walk even if he doubted that it could be considered good footwear for long. Especially the grass would become foul and mashed in a day. But then, they did not think to go on a long march and rather to have a stroll.

"And if I am so bold to ask, whose unforunate man did you take this blanket from?"

"You may not. A man would truly be unfortunate if his name ever was connected with this rag. I'm quite sure he won't miss the smell in the tent."

Tying off the last bit of cloth, he placed a piece of bark under the sole and tried to sling a piece of rope around the foot and bark. As this necessitated the use of his teeth to hold the other end of rope, his next barb came out rather indistinct.

"Furthermore, I would like to remind you that these are my socks now and I'm only trying to protect my own interests."

"Yours? Did they not come from my pack?" At last, the strange soles, the softer 'shoes' were near finished. He could not wait to be let out outside and to enjoy some more of the sun.

He did not test his new shoes just yet, awaiting permission from Prayon and perhaps just a little bit worried that the whole scheme might not work. Though if it did not, he could still only walk with the rags. They protected his feet quite well.. if a bit smelly.

Unfortunately, Bastien could only grunt until he had finished the knot, but then he spat out the rope-ends with a disgusted face and protested:

"Do you ever for once in your life listen, Etienne? I recall stating quite clearly that the laundry you formerly owned is excellent and has been of great help lady-wise. The only reason why you were allowed to wear it now is because I'm quite sure that the smell will counter any attraction they might have and that these rather elegant shoes you now own are not designed to quickly follow any young maiden anyway, but should be used for a dignified pace."

Swinging the chair out of the waggon to provide an additional step, he then sat down on the edge of the waggon, leaned back negligently and assumed a rather bored voice:

"And now come on. If you provide your tent-party with any more time, they will probably have cemented in the posts just to please me."

"If you are to wear my garments.... what then, will I wear?" Saint-Hilaire asked nonchalantly, as he existed the wagon. Truth be told, he still had a bit of a stagger and sway in his gait, and testing the strange shoes, though them somewhat ungainly and quick to fall appart.

But they were there and for as long as they might last him, it would all be more than he expected them to.

"I cannot remain a pauper because somebody had commandeered all of my things!"

"Didn't I promise you a silk sheet? Besides, you can always hope that one of these fine days oen of the British manages to put a bullet through me, in which case ... no, I think I will come back and haunt you if you do. Where to?"

"Silk sheet is still a sheet. I would like to return to duty,.. and then I cannot possibly lead my men into battle wearing a toga." He arched a brow, steadying himself beside the wagon.

"..Nor do I want you dead." He said honestly, and glanced about them. "Well... I would like to see this tent that is being made for me, if you do not mind. So that I might see in what haste I might decide to return to the 17th." He smirked.

"Well, then come along!"

Hefting the knapsack he had brought and throwing the remaining things into it, Bastien yawned and set off in the direction of their own camp, sending some young girls, most likely children from camp-followers, jiggling by doffing his head to them in his usual exaggerated manner.

"I should warn you, though. You'll create quite a stir, even without toga. We all thought you dead. Our esteemed Colonel will be quite pleased to have you back. He is rather short on people to scream at at the moment."

Fishing the sabre out of the sack again, he offered it hilt first to Etienne, looking straight into the other man's eyes, his own unusually sober.

"...Thank you." Saint-Hilaire murmured and took the sabre from Prayon's hand. He studied it quietly. As much as he had wanted to say that he hardly looked forward to hearing the loudness of the Colonel, what touched him was something in those words before his mention. It felt strange and undeserving to be welcomed back after such a long time. As if he, who had survived while other perished, should not have been so pleasantly treated. He knew he had been responsible for those men and somehow he ought to have seen through Hunter, the bastard who had been the death of several.

If he had not taken him along, perhaps things would have ended up different. He pulled the sabre half from it's sheath and silently observed the gleaming blade.

"It is too much." He whispered, his only eye kept on the weapon. "...Prayon...Bastien, I do not ..." He hesitated. "I do not deserve it."

Bastien looked at the other man for a moment, then he roughly pulled him behind the next bush, where there was at least a modicum of privacy. There he turned on Etienne, and in a voice that had lost all amiability hissed:

"What you deserve or not is between you and your maker. If you think that getting an eye cut out and your backside reduced to cinders is not enough for whatever you might have done, then fine. If you want to be an idiot, be. But men who survive need something to cling to. Even if it is only the hope that perhaps they might make it back as well and someone else is still there. You will take what we have to offer and you will endure the Colonel's reproaches as well. Because that's all he and we can do. Do you think we liked the knowledge that you were missing, no body, no trace, not even a mentioning on that damn list of prisoners we got three weeks after Oporto? Do you think I liked taking your chest along, not knowing whether you were alive or dead? Looking into the face of every dead, not knowing whether to be glad or despair when it wasn't you?"

With a violent jerk of one hand, Bastien abruptly turned around and strode off for some paces. There he remained standing for a time, his back to Etienne, his shoulders stiff from the effort to rein in his emotions again. Without turning around, he finally said quietly:

"Don't ever dare to think that you own me something. And don't blame yourself. You suffered enough."

Prayon's words left the young officer speechless. How could he have anything worthy to say after all that? Prayon's words had touched him and he was almost glad that the man moved away, turning his back to him so that neither could see the face of the other. He breathed in sharply.

Slowly he approached the other man, stopped behind him and lay his hand on his shoulder. More as a friend than as a fellow officer. "..I did not know..." He began then shook his head. "...Thank you." It was not the thank you for changing his mind, as Saint-Hilaire did not know if that was changed, but it was the thank you for all the care, and the worry and all that was said and felt and done.

".." He stared past the man, and stood there, just stood really, in silence. He might have searched for the right words or perhaps tried to have the said sink in until it could not go any deeper. "...You..did say you will make me do paperwork.."He tried on a lighter note, which though did not take away the gravity of the earlier outburst. "....did you not just say.. I have suffered enough dear Bastien?"

When Etienne's hand had touched Bastien's shoulder, for a moment it had jerked as if the man was going to shake it off. Then it stilled. Only the slight trembles that ran through tense muscles betrayed the unease Prayon felt at Etienne's words and affectionate gesture.

When Etienne finally shot of his barb, the muscles relaxed slowly. Bastien took a moment until he answered, but when he did, his voice was creditably bantering:

"Alone for the fact that you unnecessarily mentioned paperwork in my hearing deserves a year of it. Besides, you still wear those lady-killer stockings and that way you have to keep your legs under a desk."

"You are a cruel man. Prayon." Saint-Hilaire spoke and moved to the side of him. Only it was the wrong side so that after a few moments he had to turn to see him. "You ought to rather have seen my attire as one that will attract the right takers... lure them to your humble abode where you might be glad to take them under your wing, while I return to my tent and rest."

He did grimace at the thought of so much paperwork for such a long time. It made him want to get better just so much more. "Instead of concealing them.. you ought to exploit the present situation." Only it was all joke and game.

Bastien laughed.

"My dearest Sainty, the only way your girls or your stockings can prevent me from loading you with as much of my paperwork as I can, is if they do it themselves."

As they now reached the first tents of their own camp, he straightened his own collar, then did the same for Etienne.

"So, now let's see who's the first to notice you. I'll lay you 5 franc that the first sentence addressed to you will be 'oh my God!'. A terrible misnomer that would be."

"And I shall bet you have already told them to say so, so that you may rob an honest person of his money." He said with a slight smile. Entering the camp was not as familiar as perhaps the tents themselves and the people that he could spot about them.

He glanced around and walked on awkwardly, feeling already tired, but wanting to press on. He had been lying in bed for long enough, it was time for some exercise. That he would see his own people was an certain great bonus.

"I never would rob an honest person. 'Sides, your sheet does not appear to have any pockets, and I'm quite sure that there were no big sums of money hidden in your chest. Not being dead probably qualifies for stipend and bat money, though. I'll make sure to do this part of the paperwork myself."

Bastien grinned and rattled on, apparently totally unconcerned by the stir that began around them. The soldiers assembled in little groups, whispered, pointed, but no-one yet had dared to approach and take a closer look.

"Does this mean I may even be able to purchase myself several new pairs of stockings?" Saint-Hilaire asked as they walked on. He was more aware of the pointing and of the glances that he was receiving. It was quite a different thing to the one at the 86th camp. There nobody knew him and so he was just another wounded soldier.

"...Did they all think I was dead?" He asked, a little surprised. He averted his gaze to look at Prayon. "..I feel almost.. as if I had been promoted... with the amount of attention...I seem to be receiving. I do hope..the good sort of it?"

Bastien whistled soundlessly between his teeth.

"Savrín and DeLonghi were killed at Oporto, Cermontaine died four days later from his wounds. Some damn Portuguese shot Steierhuber - you knew him, didn't you? That small Swiss guy? Beauchamps - he was your replacement - lasted two weeks before a bullet and gangrene got his leg. He'll be back in France soon. You can see why it wasn't too difficult to believe that you might have gone to some better place as well."

He shot a stern glance at a group of soldiers who were ogling Etienne too noticeably.

"We better make straight for the Captain's tent, or even directly to the Colonel's. It would be terrible if someone spoiled our great entrance - and your resurrection nonetheless - and told him before we can."

"..Ah.." The names he knew and was able to connect to faces and often even to the character, the type of person that the man was. He nodded when Steierhuber was mentioned, and nodded again as the question was asked. Yes, he knew him. It was a pity they had lost him. Well it was a pity for the loss of most of the men that Prayon had mentioned.

"...Should we really disturb them at such an important part of day?" Not that the time of day was anything special compared to any other time. "They might be terribly, distressingly upset about it. Not the finest way to restart his career!