Post by Bog on Sept 26, 2012 12:00:13 GMT -5
Their week-long assignment to stand picquet was now impossible. One man was dead and five others wounded, including Corporal Gibbons. The seven-man patrol had been sent to the baggage train, where the regiment's surgeon attended them all to the best of his ability. Not that it had been enough to save Tom Hewes' life or John Chester's arm.
Gibbons sat near the surgeon's tent, his left arm bound across his chest. He had been shot in the shoulder but had been lucky. The ball had passed cleanly through. The only danger to him now was infection and the daily application of brandy to the wound all but insured that infection was unlikely. It would be at least a week until the sawbones sent him back to his company, however. That , more than anything, was what made Gibbons irritable. He wanted to be back with his lads, where he was supposed to be.
The others who'd been wounded in that skirmish were with him too, which was the only blessing. At least he was able to look after them. It was just enough to keep him occupied, anyway. He'd go out of his mind if he simply sat here and did nothing. He hunched his shoulders a little and grimaced at the bite of pain the movement caused.
"Scran, Corp'l," said John Lowrie, holding out a tin plate laden with something that smelled like beef. The sawbones was standing a short distance away, watching intently but not, for once, interfering. That could only be a good thing.
Gibbons nodded his thanks as he took the plate and tucked in at once. This was the first actual meal he'd been allowed to have since being relegated to light duties. Around him, his lads were similarly occupied, with George Elder succeeding more in slopping gravy onto his bandaged hands than not.
They were a sorry-looking lot, weren't they? One could hardly imagine they were grenadiers in the best regiment in the army. Gibbons swiped a droplet of gravy from his lip and suppressed a sigh. Of the five of them, only Lowrie looked anything like a proper soldier - but his bandages were mostly concealed beneath his clothes, thus permitting him to wear his longtailed coat. He alone could be immediately identified as a Welch Fusilier.
Gibbons sat near the surgeon's tent, his left arm bound across his chest. He had been shot in the shoulder but had been lucky. The ball had passed cleanly through. The only danger to him now was infection and the daily application of brandy to the wound all but insured that infection was unlikely. It would be at least a week until the sawbones sent him back to his company, however. That , more than anything, was what made Gibbons irritable. He wanted to be back with his lads, where he was supposed to be.
The others who'd been wounded in that skirmish were with him too, which was the only blessing. At least he was able to look after them. It was just enough to keep him occupied, anyway. He'd go out of his mind if he simply sat here and did nothing. He hunched his shoulders a little and grimaced at the bite of pain the movement caused.
"Scran, Corp'l," said John Lowrie, holding out a tin plate laden with something that smelled like beef. The sawbones was standing a short distance away, watching intently but not, for once, interfering. That could only be a good thing.
Gibbons nodded his thanks as he took the plate and tucked in at once. This was the first actual meal he'd been allowed to have since being relegated to light duties. Around him, his lads were similarly occupied, with George Elder succeeding more in slopping gravy onto his bandaged hands than not.
They were a sorry-looking lot, weren't they? One could hardly imagine they were grenadiers in the best regiment in the army. Gibbons swiped a droplet of gravy from his lip and suppressed a sigh. Of the five of them, only Lowrie looked anything like a proper soldier - but his bandages were mostly concealed beneath his clothes, thus permitting him to wear his longtailed coat. He alone could be immediately identified as a Welch Fusilier.