Darcy pried the general’s hands from the wound so that he could inspect it. He took his knife and cut the general’s boot far enough down to remove it without pulling on the leg.
The ball had grazed the general’s calf, but at such close range it was still a deep and ugly wound. Darcy pressed his handkerchief against it and held out his free hand. Without further instruction, he was soon holding three others. He needed all of them to help staunch the bleeding.
“What in the blazes happened here?” he bellowed, and nearly every man other than Fitzwilliam took a step back.
“Damned private,” the general moaned. “He was waving that gun around as if it were a toy!”
“I dinna mean it!” cried the man who was staring at the general in horror. He was small and young, not much more than a boy.
“Your weapon must have been prepared to fire,” Fitzwilliam said, grabbing the man by his collar and taking the gun. “What were you thinking? There were men not ten feet off!”
“I was sitting directly in front of you—the general has probably just saved my life,” Darcy growled from his position at the general’s side. “Is it not enough that the French are killing us in our hundreds? Must you add to their numbers?”
“No sir!” he wailed and twisted, trying to escape Fitzwilliam’s grasp. “The general pushed the barrel down when I dinna expect it! Tis not my fault!”
The surgeon arrived and took over for Darcy, who called for a litter.
“I shall not be carried off,” the general growled. “Not like this.” He waited for the surgeon to wrap the wound, ignoring the pleas of the private who had shot him. “Help me up, Darcy.”
Darcy wished he could protest, but he was not foolish enough to countermand General Bennet. He hauled the general to his feet and then called over to another officer who was shorter, closer to the general’s height. Fitzwilliam handed Darcy the gun whilst the general slung one arm over Fitzwilliam’s shoulders and the other over the second officer’s. Together, they all three made their way to the surgeon’s tent.
Once he was certain the general had been tended to, he walked back to the cowering soldier who had fired his weapon. “What is your name?”
“It’s Vaughan, Major,” another private offered when it was clear the man would not speak.
“Private Vaughan,” Darcy said, “we cannot trust a soldier who does not respect his weapon. You are relieved.”
”′Twere an accident, Major! I swear it!” He was still hollering as Sergeant Edwards dragged him away.
“What’ll happen to him, Major?” asked another corporal. His voice was dry and rough, gravelly, as though he had breathed in too much smoke. Darcy did not know him.
He shook his head. “It is up to the general. The last soldier who intentionally aimed a firearm at his sergeant was hanged for it, and that gun was empty.”
His anger did not drain away as he left the men behind, chattering like matrons at a ball. They were in the war at last and in earnest. It was no time to lose the general.
“Of all the stupid accidents,” he mumbled. He made to follow Fitzwilliam to the surgeon’s tent, but recalled their letters and returned to retrieve them, folding them up and tucking them in a pocket. At the last moment, he spied the dented tin of biscuits and carried them away.
“Sir, I must beg your pardon, but to allow such a man to remain in the ranks is to invite more folly,” Fitzwilliam said seriously.
Darcy said nothing, but he agreed with Fitzwilliam. A soldier so careless would be nothing but a liability on the battlefield.
“He is young, Colonel,” General Bennet said, shaking his head. “It was a significant error, I grant you, but it was an accident. I seem to recall you making one or two mistakes of your own when you arrived as a lieutenant.”
“There is a difference between an illness brought on by bad drink and what happened today,” Fitzwilliam insisted. “I have never shot anyone or anything without meaning to do so.”
The general smiled faintly, then winced.
“Are you certain, sir?” Darcy asked. He had miscalculated a time or two himself, but never had he treated a weapon with anything less than the greatest of respect.
General Bennet nodded once. “The boy is not so much older than my eldest daughter. She is as close to a perfect child as her mother and I have ever seen—but she still makes mistakes. They all do, sometimes rather large ones.” He grunted and closed his eyes. The laudanum was at last taking effect. “I set you this challenge: See what you can make of him.”
The general’s breathing evened out—he was asleep. Darcy followed Fitzwilliam outside.
“I cannot believe he intends for us to keep that boy on duty. What is he thinking?”
Darcy did not know, but whilst he doubted the ability of such a man to improve, he also had a great deal of respect for the general. He would try it the general’s way. “I will do it. He is under my command.”
Fitzwilliam frowned. “Barely. You ought to leave it to the lieutenant.”