9th July, evening; Skulking

The lad was last seen here.




He had only been able to recover his trousers and one of his stockings. The shirt and other stocking had eluded him, having been borne too quickly out of his reach by the river's current. It was not a total loss but he was all too aware that he was in big trouble for losing so many articles. And his shoes. Or at least one of them. That vile wench had chucked one of his shoes into the river too. He'd searched the bank and the river bed until the daylight had gone, without success.

Thus, wearing his sodden jacket and trousers, with his forage cap carefully hiding his damp, sandy hair, the lad crept back toward the Coldstream's bivouac. There was almost no chance of returning without somebody spotting him, but he held out hope for just that anyway. One never knew. Of course, in a regiment that prided itself on smart turnouts no matter what the situation or circumstances, he knew very well that he stood out. Wet clothes, no shoes, no shirt or stock...

"Shit," he muttered under his breath, hastily tucking himself into the shadows of a tent to avoid being seen by a passing officer. It'd be a miracle if he could get to his company's part of the bivoauc without being rumbled. Not for the first time, he cursed his luck at being part of the headquarters company. If ever there was a night he did not need to be anywhere near that many officers, this was certainly it!

Right. Go. Steeling himself, the drummer scuttled out of the shadows and moved as briskly as he dared past the neat lines of tents and camp fires. Just don't be noticed, just don't be noticed, just don't be -

The heavy tramp of boots nearby brought him to an abrupt halt, just as he was about to hurry past the Light Company's area. He was not completely in the open but it would take nothing at all for whoever was walking past to see him, should they look. Run. Run. But running would immediately mark him out as being up to no good.

Oh hell.