10th July, late evening; A surgeon's summons

Vickery had to hide a smile at Todd's slightly undignified dismount, dismounting from Phoenix with an easy, unconscious grace that had been schooled into him from the time he rode his first pony. He tied the reins to the nearest wagon before following the surgeon, trying to prepare himself for whatever he might see.

Mayden was last seen here.




"They're just here, sir," Todd said, gesturing toward the back of the waggon. He had given strict orders to his assistant not to let the wounded Rifleman into the waggon itself. These orders had been followed, he saw with private relief, and the taller Rifleman sat huddled against the back left wheel of the waggon, a blanket pulled tight round his shoulders.

Two lads of the Twenty-seventh stood nearby, with telltale white patches of bandages on their arms and heads, respectively. Both had their muskets. Their two comrades weren't immediately in view but Todd knew well enough they were around.

"Rouse up, lad," Todd said to the wounded Rifleman. "Your captain's here now."

After a moment, the lad looked up. It was difficult to see his face because of the shadows cast by the lantern hanging from the back of the waggon. Notably, he made no attempt to rise, as no doubt he was supposed to.

"Sir," he said tonelessly.

"All right, lads, we're not going anywhere," Vickery told the two guards. He sighed, and crouched down beside the blanket-wrapped man.

"All right, then, Mayden. Tell me exactly what's been going on," he said conversationally. "Starting with why you... left."

Bringing out the word 'deserted' in this conversation was going to help nobody. Vickery could only help if he knew as much as possible about what had happened in the first place.

There was a long pause before Mayden answered and when he did, it was in a slightly halting voice. Todd noted that the Rifleman was staring off into the darkness past them, which was perhaps understandable.

"I went off 'cause Jack did. His wrist was broke, wasn't it, so he wasn't in top form. Anyway, he's a Ninety-fifth lad, so where he goes, I'll go, too. Sweeps gotta stick together an' all."

"Mayden." Vickery did not sigh, though he felt a headache beginning to gather. "You might not be 60th, but you are a Rifleman, as I am an officer of the Rifles. I want to be able to help you, and right now, the only way I can do that properly is if you tell me exactly what went on between you and Kirridge."

Kirridge's wrist was broken? When and how had that happened, Vickery wondered.

"He said he were in a bit of a scrape an' needed to hoof it, so I went 'long too. We ditched our kit in some lad's cart an' got some of the muleteers' duds instead. Our rifles are prolly still where we stowed 'em, in that cart." It sounded fairly pathetic to Mayden's ears but he didn't know exactly why Jack had piked and neither had he asked. Some things were better off not known.

His gaze dropped to his shoes. "We was a'right for a few days. Then that redcoat bastard turned up."

"Redcoat?"

Something more intriguing needed answering first, though. "How far did you get, and where have you been for the past few days?"

He felt in his pocket for his hip-flask. "Have a nip of this," he added, holding it out. "And I will see about some food as well - unless you've eaten already?"

He was going to have to check on Kirridge, too, of course.

How far? Any other time, Mayden might have chuckled dryly at the unintentional joke, but now he was too tired and aching. "Not far, sir. We was in the baggage, ridin' in a waggon. Wasn't... ready to do a proper runner, Jack wasn't." He paused to shake his head. "I ain't thirsty. Or hungry neither."

"You were still with the baggage... with the Army? Had you intended to 'do a proper runner'?" Intention might not mean much, but it might mean everything.

He screwed the top back onto the flask.

"And what was this about a redcoat?"

If he was honest, his intentions would have been not to leave the company at all, but he'd not listened to his better judgement on that count. But Jack had been close to piking properly and Mayden knew he'd have gone with him, regardless of his own reservations.

"Aye," he said and stared off into the darkness. "We was set on by a redcoat this same evenin'. Cut us both up like a proper hackum. Bastard weren't half fond of kickin', neither."

"Kicking...?" That stirred a memory. "Did you see his face at all?"

Chances were, the answer to that question would be 'no'. "Or did you see his jacket - do you know what regiment he was from?"

"He's from the Thirty-third." Mayden managed, somehow, to keep the hate from his voice. Perhaps he was too tired. "How's Jack doin', sir?"

He would be!

Vickery had dreaded the next question. "The surgeon doesn't think he's going to make it; I'm just going to check on him now."

Mayden's head came up sharply, but just as swiftly his shoulders slumped. It was really no surprise. That redcoat bastard had gotten Jack too well.

At the back of the waggon, Todd tried, unsuccessfully, to suppress a grimace.

"I am sorry." He paused. "I will come and see you again once I've seen him - if there is anything I can do, please let me know." He straightened. His knees and feet protested a little; he was not used to crouching, especially in boots.

It was a bit late to be asking any officer, never mind this one, for favours, so Mayden just grunted in reply. He gazed sightlessly off into the night and wondered if they'd have been better off doing a bunk properly, instead of hanging about waiting for trouble. What the hell had Jack been thinking?

~

Todd waited uneasily round the back of the waggon, aware that his deceit was about to revealed. It didn't make him feel any better about the situation. "Sir," he began, then faltered.

Vickery grasped Mayden's shoulder for a brief moment, before turning to the surgeon.

"Mister Todd," he said. "How is the other man?"

How is he, indeed.

"Gone, sir," the surgeon answered eventually in a low voice. "He was... already dead when his mate brought him to me."

Vickery closed his eyes momentarily. His first thought - "And you could not have told me earlier?" - died unspoken; it sounded too accusatory by far. And Vickery was not an officer who was happy to abuse his position to make others feel bad.

"How? I mean, what was the immediate cause of death?" he asked, keeping his voice low, mentally running through the likely candidates: a knife wound or similar would be most likely. "Did you know there was a third man involved?" he added, wishing it was not so dark and that he could see Mister Todd's face a little better.

This was an easier question to answer. Barely. "A wound under the armpit, most likely from a bayonet, as the weapon used was sufficiently long enough to pierce his heart." Todd sighed. "Unless that lad there is being completely mistruthful, I should indeed expect a third man to be involved."

"A bayonet? Not a sword-bayonet?" If it was one of the triangular-sectioned bayonets carried by the Line, that confirmed it.

"I don't suppose the perpetrator hung about for long after inflicting that, though," he added, a little sourly. Why did it keep coming down to the Rifles against the Line infantry?

"Isn't it enough that we have to fight the French without having enemies among our own army?" he said, more to himself than the surgeon.

Todd hesitated, then shrugged. "I could not speak to what sort of bayonet it was, but it could only have been a long blade to cause such an injury. Not a sword as officers carry, however."

He thought it best to pretend not to hear Vickery's other remarks and accordingly gave no sign that he had.

"What makes you say it was not something like an officer's sword?" Vickery asked curiously, adjusting the hang of his own as he spoke.

"It would have gone a good deal deeper than a bayonet," Todd explained, his voice still lowered. "Likely would have exited the opposite side, I should think."

"What about a sword bayonet? They're a good two feet long," he indicated the length with his hands as he spoke. "Would that have done likewise?"