“Kill me! Please!” Lord John spoke in French. “Please!”
“I’m not going to kill you!” the Voltigeur protested. “I can’t do that. It wouldn’t be right! I won’t even take your teeth!” He gave his lordship’s shoulder a sympathetic pat, then went to find more plunder.
And Lord John, lost in a universe of unjust pain, moaned.
Peter d’Alembord lay on the unfolded backboard of a cart that was serving as a surgeon’s table. The wooden boards of the cart were soaked with blood, while the surgeon’s hands were so steeped in it that the skin of his fingertips had gone soft and wrinkled, “Are you ready, Major?” The surgeon had a strong West Country accent.
“I’m ready.” D’Alembord had refused to drink any rum to dull the agony of the surgery, nor would he accept the leather gag to bite on. It was important that he showed no reaction to the pain, for such stoicism was expected of a soldier.
“There are no bones broken,” the surgeon said, “and there’s not even a major blood vessel cut, so you’re a lucky man. Hold his leg, Bates!” The orderlies had already cut away the sash d’Alembord had used as a bandage and slit open the expensive breeches which he had worn to the Duchess’s ball. The surgeon wiped away the welling blood from the lips of the wound with his fingers. “This won’t be half as bad as having a baby, Major, so be grateful.” He thrust a cigar into his mouth and picked up a blood-stained probe.
A pain like a lance of fire streaked up d` Alembord’s thigh and into his groin. The surgeon was probing for the bullet with a long thin metal rod. D’Alembord dared not cry aloud, for he had watched a man of his own battalion lose a leg not a moment since, and the man had uttered not a sound as the bone-saw ground away at this thigh bone. Besides, Patrick Harper was close by and d’Alembord would not shame himself by making any noise in front of Harper.
“I’ve got the little bastard!” the surgeon mumbled past the wet cigar stub. “Can you hear the little devil, Major?”
D’Alembord could hear nothing but the thud of gun-fire and the crash of shells exploding and the splintering roar of burning ammunition, but the surgeon was evidently scraping the edge of the musket-ball with his probe. “I won’t be long now,” the surgeon said cheerfully, then fortified himself with a long swig of rum. “This next moment might be slightly uncomfortable, Major, but be glad you’re not whelping a child, eh?”
“Jesus!” D’Alembord could not resist whimpering the imprecation, but he still managed to lie motionless as the pain gouged and routed about inside his leg. A shell exploded nearby and a fragment of its casing whistled and smoked overhead.
“Here it comes!” The surgeon had succeeded in gripping the bullet with his narrow-bladed tongs. “Your hand! Hold out your hand, man! Quick!” D’Alembord dutifully held out his hand and the surgeon dropped the bloody little bullet into his palm. ,I’ll just extract what’s left of your dancing togs, Major, then you’ll be as quick as a trivet again.”
There was another minute’s excruciating pain as the shreds of cloth were picked from the wound, then something cool and soothing was-poured onto d’Alembord’s thigh. Sweat was beaded on his forehead, but he knew the worst was over. He wiped the bloody bullet on his jacket and held the small missile before his eyes/Such a small thing, no bigger than his thumbnail.
The orderlies bandaged his thigh, then helped him down from the cart. “You should rest for a time.” The surgeon wiped his hands on his apron which was already drenched in blood. “Go back into the trees, Major. There’s some tarpaulins there to keep the damp out.”
“No.” D’Alembord tried to walk and found he could hobble without too much pain. Thank you, but no.”
The surgeon had already forgotten him. A man with an arm blown away and three ribs exposed was being lifted onto the cart. Harper brought the horses forward. “Shouldn’t you rest, Mr d’Alembord?”
“I’m going back to the battalion, Harper.”