do—I’m better at surgery, and the quick and clean amputation.”
Will shuddered.
“It’s an important skill, Sergeant,” Mr. Timperley chided. “You wouldn’t want to drag a useless, mangled limb behind you wherever you went.”
“If I can’t live whole, I’d as soon die.”
“You would die. Slowly, of inflammation or gangrene. If it were your friend, that other sergeant, would you want him dead?”
“No,” Will admitted.
“Doubtless your friends would say the same of you.”
“I hope it never comes to that.”
“As do I. The fewer opportunities I have to practice my skills, the happier I am.”
They walked in silence for a few moments. The French soldiers who marched alongside them sang a song. Even without understanding a word of it, Will knew it was triumphant, and his bitterness grew.
“Sir, would you ask that the women, Mrs. Arrington and Juana Martínez, be given leave to nurse our soldiers?” he asked. “I’d feel better if they were where some of our own people could keep an eye on them. Anything you can do to keep Mrs. Arrington away from Colonel Robuchon, in particular, would be a blessing.”
“I’ll do all that I may, Sergeant. I take your point. They are both remarkably pretty, and it would be a shame if anyone took advantage, with the one so newly a mother and the other so freshly a widow.”
Will thanked him, though Juana’s motherhood and Mrs. Arrington’s widowhood were hardly the point. But at least the surgeon was willing to help. The more people there were between Mrs. Arrington and that colonel, the better.
Mr. Timperley excused himself to consult with Mr. Grant. Will kept to himself for the rest of the journey. Out of habit he noted the terrain—there to the left a bit of woods that offered good cover, to the right a steep, rocky outcropping that would slow both flight and pursuit—though he saw no use in trying to escape.
The shame of the surrender still smoldered, and he was half-frantic with his fears for Mrs. Arrington, but he forced himself to stay clear-headed. He must see to it that his men and the British wounded were treated well. He must also make it clear to the men of the company just how important it was that they behave themselves.
He glanced at Mrs. Arrington, not daring to let his gaze linger. She walked with her head high and her jaw set defiantly. Will admired her all the more for her pride and anger.
They entered the village, and Will noted its layout, typical of larger villages in the area. Several streets of houses and shops clustered around the inevitable church. By now it was midafternoon and hot, so there were few locals about, but Will sensed many eyes peering at them through half-shuttered windows and doorways left open in hopes of catching a breeze. How must they feel, made to play host to their enemies, especially now that they saw their allies led in as captives?
Colonel Robuchon met them in the village square. He and Commandant Pelletier conferred, and Pelletier spoke to their junior officers, who began barking orders. The wagons full of English and French wounded trundled toward the church—ever a popular choice for a field hospital. Will and the rest of the company were led, with a certain amount of jeering and shoving, to a barn behind the largest house. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Mrs. Arrington and Juana enter the house itself. Colonel Robuchon had Mrs. Arrington on his arm, though she touched it only with the tips of her fingers. Fear and distaste radiated from her frame. Will swallowed hard.
The French had emptied the barn, but hadn’t mucked it out. It was a small space, divided into half a dozen stalls. The seventy non-wounded riflemen would barely have room to lie down. The only light came from two high windows at opposite ends of the barn and from the open doorway, where two soldiers stood guard.
Will spoke briefly to the men, telling them that if they provoked their captors now, it would only lead to empty
Will shuddered.
“It’s an important skill, Sergeant,” Mr. Timperley chided. “You wouldn’t want to drag a useless, mangled limb behind you wherever you went.”
“If I can’t live whole, I’d as soon die.”
“You would die. Slowly, of inflammation or gangrene. If it were your friend, that other sergeant, would you want him dead?”
“No,” Will admitted.
“Doubtless your friends would say the same of you.”
“I hope it never comes to that.”
“As do I. The fewer opportunities I have to practice my skills, the happier I am.”
They walked in silence for a few moments. The French soldiers who marched alongside them sang a song. Even without understanding a word of it, Will knew it was triumphant, and his bitterness grew.
“Sir, would you ask that the women, Mrs. Arrington and Juana Martínez, be given leave to nurse our soldiers?” he asked. “I’d feel better if they were where some of our own people could keep an eye on them. Anything you can do to keep Mrs. Arrington away from Colonel Robuchon, in particular, would be a blessing.”
“I’ll do all that I may, Sergeant. I take your point. They are both remarkably pretty, and it would be a shame if anyone took advantage, with the one so newly a mother and the other so freshly a widow.”
Will thanked him, though Juana’s motherhood and Mrs. Arrington’s widowhood were hardly the point. But at least the surgeon was willing to help. The more people there were between Mrs. Arrington and that colonel, the better.
Mr. Timperley excused himself to consult with Mr. Grant. Will kept to himself for the rest of the journey. Out of habit he noted the terrain—there to the left a bit of woods that offered good cover, to the right a steep, rocky outcropping that would slow both flight and pursuit—though he saw no use in trying to escape.
The shame of the surrender still smoldered, and he was half-frantic with his fears for Mrs. Arrington, but he forced himself to stay clear-headed. He must see to it that his men and the British wounded were treated well. He must also make it clear to the men of the company just how important it was that they behave themselves.
He glanced at Mrs. Arrington, not daring to let his gaze linger. She walked with her head high and her jaw set defiantly. Will admired her all the more for her pride and anger.
They entered the village, and Will noted its layout, typical of larger villages in the area. Several streets of houses and shops clustered around the inevitable church. By now it was midafternoon and hot, so there were few locals about, but Will sensed many eyes peering at them through half-shuttered windows and doorways left open in hopes of catching a breeze. How must they feel, made to play host to their enemies, especially now that they saw their allies led in as captives?
Colonel Robuchon met them in the village square. He and Commandant Pelletier conferred, and Pelletier spoke to their junior officers, who began barking orders. The wagons full of English and French wounded trundled toward the church—ever a popular choice for a field hospital. Will and the rest of the company were led, with a certain amount of jeering and shoving, to a barn behind the largest house. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Mrs. Arrington and Juana enter the house itself. Colonel Robuchon had Mrs. Arrington on his arm, though she touched it only with the tips of her fingers. Fear and distaste radiated from her frame. Will swallowed hard.
The French had emptied the barn, but hadn’t mucked it out. It was a small space, divided into half a dozen stalls. The seventy non-wounded riflemen would barely have room to lie down. The only light came from two high windows at opposite ends of the barn and from the open doorway, where two soldiers stood guard.
Will spoke briefly to the men, telling them that if they provoked their captors now, it would only lead to empty
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