It took two days before Thornhill's leg had healed sufficiently to allow the two men to travel. Apart from the lack of comfortable sleeping quarters, the first three nights in foreign territory had passed smoothly — no Boche ambushes, rations enough for each man, and even matches to light a fire, courtesy of Thornhill.
But Davies was restless, insisting they cross the river and search for other people. "We can't live on army rations and river-water forever, sir. We need a town to lodge in," he mused worriedly.
"Let my damned leg rest up, then, will you, sergeant?" was always the irritable answer.
Thankfully Thornhill changed his mind two days later. His youth must be commended here: for it had caused his wound to heal fast, so that on the third morning he pronounced his leg quite stiff and extremely sore, but he was able to hobble along with the support of his companion.
Davies did not waste a minute.
The river proved to be ridiculously difficult to cross. It was too deep to wade through, and the current was too strong to swim without the danger of getting pulled downstream. After sitting down awhile, contemplating how to overcome this, Davies suggested walking down- or up-stream to find stepping stones.
Thornhill suggested they drown themselves and wake up in France.
Ignoring this, Davies dragged the 2nd lieutenant down to some old, slippery boulders in the river that weren't stepping stones, but theoretically the most sensible way of getting across. Thornhill fell off twice, and decided to swim instead. Needless to say, he was utterly exhausted coming out the other side.
Despite the young man's complaints, Davies pressed ruthlessly on, intent on finding civilisation — or at least another poor traveller also lost in those parts. The two soldiers only stopped briefly for meals, taken from their increasingly dwindling rations.
On the third day of travel, they were left with a stale biscuit and five tea-leaves. Thornhill, previously almost useless in the way of providing victuals and comfort, shot a passing hare with his revolver, skinned it and cooked it inside Davies' mess-tin. The resulting meat was tough and unpalatable, but would reach for several meals.
On the fourth day, Davies woke at 2 a.m. — rather, what he assumed was 2 a.m. — to hear his companion complaining that his leg hurt more than usual and would he please change his bandages? A very disgruntled sergeant set about doing this, noticing that the afflicted limb had swelled a little, but was too groggy to notice anything. That night, Thornhill was sweating profusely and his leg was very swollen, the wound having turned a nasty yellow sort of colour.
"Infected," Davies sighed. "Nothing I can do about it, sir. I ain't a surgeon, I'm afraid. Buck up, sir, there's a good fellow," he added, when Thornhill blanched. "We'll keep on going and find a doctor for you." And he changed the dressing and slept.
The poor lieutenant was now feverish, for the infection had spread, and felt it so badly that Davies was compelled to take possession of his revolver, should he shoot himself while his companion was sleeping. The men had walked for five days, now, and there was not a thing to be seen — only the occasional rabbit or crow, which were made use of quickly. Food was reasonably plenty again: Thornhill would take nothing but sips of water.
One night the pain was terrible. The 2nd lieutenant could not sleep, instead crying every few minutes, "O God, take it away, take it away—!" Davies could only give him water from his canteen when Thornhill wanted it (for, thank the Almighty, there were many streams around) and hold his hand to offer comfort. Dear Lord, please may we find civilisation soon. Please God I beg of You. My commander is in great pain.
The travelling became slower and slower. Thornhill dared not put weight on his leg, which was near twice its size. Rest stops were made every hour. Packs were abandoned, except for the revolver, rounds, a mess-tin and a canteen.
Davies made a habit of humming nervously in order to pass the time, though Pack Up Your Troubles really did nothing to lift the mood. As if to thwart Davies' efforts forever, the heavens opened and the rain came in torrents, soaking the men to the bone. There was no hope of a warm meal, if any meal — the last of a rather skinny crow had been eaten for breakfast.
"Davies?"
"Yes, sir. Do you want some water? There's plenty above you." He smiled bitterly.
"No, but — how much longer have we to travel?"
"I don't know, sir."
"How much longer have I to live?"
"Sir!" Davies ejaculated. "Don't speak of such things. It's — very hard on the morale."
"Rather." Thornhill sank back and drifted off to sleep.
If Davies was not so exhausted, he would have grumbled incessantly, but speech was not exactly necessary with nobody to talk to. Two days and still nothing, not even a single person.
Perhaps they had died, and this was what was afterwards. But if they had died, why was Thornhill still wounded? Why did they need to eat? How long had it been since they'd arrived here? If only Thornhill's fever would break.
Davies was carrying him now, and had been for the last hour, for, in spite of the protests of his back and shoulders, the young man had fallen into a febrile swoon and could not walk. It would never end. Bloody funk. I can barely think. One day after another, change bandages, eat, drink, walk.
Horses. Ridden by cloaked things. If he had the energy, Davies would have fallen upon the ground, weeping with gratitude. Never mind his bloody dignity. Horses meant people. If the French cavalry could just stop by and see him there with a damn man strapped to his back, please God, he prayed. See us.
He ran towards them — if quick but unceremonious stumbling can be called running — as if there was a whizz-bang buzzing behind him. See us, see us, see us. One man broke off from the line, cantering straight for Davies.
Thank the Lord Almighty.
"Excuse me—" Davies' voice cracked from disuse. "Excuse-moi, un cheval — un cheval, pour my commander — il est —" He paused, panting. "—il est très unwell —"
The cavalryman stared at him blankly. Boche.
"Mein — Freund — ist fast tot. He needs — hilfe —?"
The cavalryman still made no motion.
"Damn it, man! Can't you see what's on my back?" Davies heaved Thornhill off of him, landing him in an undignified heap before the horse. The jarring of his leg caused him to become briefly conscious, and he moaned with the pain. "He needs help. He needs your horse."
Now, the man seemed to understand. He leaped off his horse, revealing himself to be at least two heads taller than Davies, and said something in a strangely musical language that was at all odds with his brusque tone.
"Sorry, I didn't catch that." Davies shrugged his shoulders theatrically, for this extremely tall man most definitely didn't speak English, or French, or German, or anything else, for that matter.
Ignoring Davies, the strange man lifted Thornhill gently onto the steed — eliciting another stricken moan from the soldier — and clambered up behind him. Without another word, he cantered back to the waiting cavalry. If it was cavalry, that is.
"Bloody hell, and just leave me here?" However, the man returned after a few minutes, saying something else in his language. From the sound of it, he was in a frightful mood and had heard what Davies had said, despite being what Davies assumed was out of earshot. The sergeant barely had time to apologise — not that the stranger would understand him, anyway — before a pair of hands with an iron grip lifted him onto a horse.
The ride was short and unpleasant. Judging from the constant jolting, the horse was going at a trot, which did nothing to help Davies' fear of falling off. There was a brief reprieve as the stranger took his place at the front of the line and said something to the people behind him, but off they were again, trotting.
This quickly became a walk when Thornhill showed signs of extreme discomfort. Lulled by the lack of nauseating up-and-down, Davies fell into some kind of black torpor.
It had been a long, long time.
Author's Note:
For non-German speakers...
Mein Freund ist fast tot = My friend is almost dead
I assume the franglais/ Frenglish is decipherable enough.
Finally, thank goodness, Thornhill's leg infection is able to be cured. I think y'all can guess by whom. For those who can't — well, that's what the next chapter is for, isn't it.
By some excruciatingly crude calculations of mine, it would take three days for Thornhill and Davies to get to Rivendell from where they were, as the crow flies. This only makes sense if they take only one one-hour stop during the day, and a nine-hour rest at night.
However, that doesn't take into account poor Ernest Thornhill's leg wound and eventual infection, which would have not only slowed the going considerably but would have also needed frequent stops in order to change bandages, and to rest when the leg complained. Also the fact that generally we don't travel in dead straight lines. Therefore, I assumed that it would take about a week to get to where they are now.
If you're wondering why on earth Davies assumes the Elves on horses are the French cavalry, this is based on the fact that French cavalrymen wore blue cloaks, and the Elves are wearing cloaks. If this actually isn't true and my memory got it wrong, first reviewer who tells me will get a metaphorical prize.
Thank you to all who reviewed. I'm sorry I couldn't reply to anybody else's reviews apart from TMI Fairy, but I discovered too late that one can't make two reviews for the same chapter. Another stupid mistake on my part, but thank you all, carry on like that.
Queries and nitpicks go in the review box, don't hold back.
A.B.C.
