Lord John and the Hand of Devils by Diana Gabaldon Page B

said politely. “One would hope that your troops are fed as well, after the effort I saw being expended.”
    “Oh, that.” Hiltern’s cherubic countenance lost a little of its cheerfulness, but not much. “Poor sods. At least it’s stopped raining.”
    In answer to Grey’s raised brows, he explained.
    “Punishment. There was a game of bowls yesterday, between a party of men from Colonel Bampton-Howard’s lot and our lads—local form of skittles. Ruysdale had a heavy wager on with Bampton-Howard, see?”
    “And your lot lost. Yes, I see. So your lads are—”
    “Ten mile run to the river and back, in full kit. Keep them fit and out of trouble, at least,” Hiltern said, half-closing his eyes and lifting his nose at the scent of frying potatoes that had begun to waft through the air.
    “I see. One assumes that the French have moved, then? Our last intelligence reported them as being a few miles north of the river.”
    “Yes, gave us a bit of excitement for a day or two; thought they might come this way. They seem to have sheered off, though—gone round to the west.”
    “Why?” Grey felt a prickle of unease go down his spine. There was a bridge at Aschenwald, a logical crossing point—but there was another several miles west, at Gruneberg. The eastern bridge was defended by a company of Prussian artillery; a detachment of grenadiers, under Colonel Bampton-Howard, presumably held the western crossing.
    “There’s a mass of Frenchies beyond the river,” Hiltern replied. “We think they have it in mind to join up with that lot.”
    That was interesting. It was also information that should have been shared with the Hanoverian and Prussian commanders by official dispatch—not acquired accidentally by the random visit of a liaison officer. Sir Peter Hicks was scrupulous in maintaining communications with the allies; Ruysdale evidently saw no such need.
    “Oh!” Hiltern said, divining his thought. “I’m sure we would have let you know, only for things here being in a bit of confusion. And truly, it didn’t seem urgent; scouts just said the French were shining their gear, biffing up the supplies, that sort of thing. After all, they’ve got to go
somewhere
before the snow comes down.”
    He raised one dark brow, smiling in apology—an apology that Grey accepted, with no more than a second’s hesitation. If Ruysdale was going to be erratic about dispatches, it would be as well for Grey to keep himself informed by other means—and Hiltern was obviously well-placed to know what was going on.
    They chatted casually until the host came out with Hiltern’s breakfast, but Grey learned no more of interest—save that Hiltern was remarkably
un
interested in the death of Private Bodger. He was also vague about the “confusion” to which he had referred, dismissing it with a wave of the hand as a “bit of a muddle in the commissary—damned bore.”
    The sound of hooves and wheels, moving slowly, came from the street outside, and Grey heard a loud voice with a distinctly Hanoverian accent, requesting direction “
Zum Englanderlager.
”
    “What is
that
?” Hiltern asked, turning on his stool.
    “I expect that will be Private Bodger coming home,” Grey replied, rising. “I’m obliged to you, sir. Is Sergeant-Major Sapp still in camp, do you know?”
    “Mmm…no.” Hiltern spoke thickly, through a mouthful of potatoes and eggs. “Gone to the river.”
    That was inconvenient; Grey had no desire to hang about all day, waiting for Sapp’s return in order to hand over the corpse and responsibility for it. Another idea occurred to him, though.
    “And the regimental surgeon?”
    “Dead. Flux.” Hiltern spooned in more egg, concentrating. “Mmp. Try Keegan. He’s the surgeon’s assistant.”

    W ith most of the men emptying out of camp, it took some time to locate the surgeon’s tent. Once there, Grey had the body deposited on a bench, and at once sent the wagon back to the Schloss. He was taking no