“Noo, y know wha’ maun be done, Bass, Rally a’ ye can find and coom back.”
Guy Dodd, ably assisted by a tall, blond, hawknosed young ensign of the Totenkoph Schwadron, had assembled some twoscore troopers, few of them seriously hurt, but all of them thirsty, hungry, worn-out, and grumbling.
With a click of boot heels and a stiff, formal bow, the strange officer introduced himself. “Herr Hauptmann, ich bin Egon von Hirschburg, Fahnrich zu dem Schwadron To-tenkopfr.
“The lad doesnae speak verra mooch Engjsh, Bass,” Guy said, “but he do talk the tongue o’ them slit-eyed de’ils o’ his’n.” He waved at a quartet of short, squat, bandy-legged orientals who had laid aside their crossbows and were rubbing down their smallish, big-headed horses with handfuls of dead grass.
Foster had never seen them fight but, he thought, if they were as mean as they looked, he was glad they were on his side. They had shed their chainmail hauberks and quilted gambesons, and even their shirts—bare to the waist and seemingly immune to the cold drizzle and icy winds. They grinned and chattered constantly in a language at once singsong and guttural.
Two more of the orientals squatted close by, on either side a heap of broken pike and lance shafts. With flashing knives and nimble yellow-brown fingers, they were transforming the battle debris into quarrel-sized dowels for the waiting crossbows. Foster reflected that there were some plus points for the more primitive weapons.
Aside from a few brushes with isolated stragglers of the Irish force, the squadron regained the camp nearby the original field of battle in slow, easy stages, and only nine days after they had left it; since many troopers and even a few officers were afoot, this was fast indeed.
When all of his troopers were fed and bedded down, with those of their comrades who had come back to camp a few days earlier seeing to the surviving horses, when he had personally seen the men of other units who had made the long march back with him delivered over to their respective commanders along with compliments on their bravery, training and discipline; only then did Foster seek his tent, his arrival simultaneous with that of Buddy Webster and Sir Francis, along with an arrogant young officer of the Sussex Legion, William Collier’s personal troops. Save for a modicum of camp mud along soles and heels, his jackboots were as shiny as his polished cuirass and helmet, his rich clothing clean and whole, and he made no attempt to mask his distaste at the filthy, rusty, tatterdemalion aspects of the three other officers.
Sketching the very briefest bow and salute that courtesy would permit, he snapped in a high-pitched, nasal voice, “The Lord William, Earl of Sussex and Grand Marshal of the Armies of His Majesty, Arthur, King of England and Wales, commands that Captain of Dragoons Sebastian Forster and Captain of Dragoons Buddy Webster immediately report to his pavilion.”
This said, he sniffed haughtily and added, “However, I am certain that my lord did not know just how disreputable would be your appearances. You will don clean clothing, wash, and shave before you accompany me to my lord.”
Foster’s eyes flashed fire, everything about the supercilious young noncombatant grating on his sensibilities. Sir Francis noticed and tried vainly to catch his eye, but he was too late.
“So,” he growled from between clenched teeth, “Bill Collier commands that I report to him, does he? And you, you arrogant young puppy, command me to wash and shave and change clothing, do you? Well, boyo, Bill Collier will see me as I stand this minute or not at all! As for you, were I not so damned tired. I’d have your ants for garters, here and now: however, my late father used to say that dogs and damn fools deserved one free mistake. You’ve now had yours, remember that, in future!”
In a few moments inside his tent, however, he removed his weighty, bulging moneybelt, entrusting it to Sir Francis, along with the little gold-chased wheellock pistols, his silver-buckled daggerbelt, and his rich new sword, taking Sir Francis’ plainer one in exchange. He then slipped a full magazine into his Colt and another into his pocket. He no longer liked Collier or trusted him in any regard. On inexplicable impulse, he took the worn finger ring from the moneybelt and slipped it over his middle finger—the only one it would fit snugly, at the dead Irishman had had larger hands.