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I propose to transfer you to Washington. I'll send along orders to have you placed in military quarters there. And"—here the brigadier's face brightened—"I happen to know a splendid doctor there. A very fine gentleman by the name of Jeremy Boulder. He has real medical degrees and everything. Studied under Benjamin Rush himself! I'll also send a letter asking him to take you under his care."
That news did not cheer up Driscol. A real doctor, with real degrees—a fine gentleman, no less—who'd studied under the most famous medical practitioner in the United States...
He might as well just shoot himself in the head.
But he saw no point in arguing the matter with someone from Scott's class. There'd be time enough and opportunity to evade a "real doctor" once he got to Washington.
Assuming he got there in the first place. Driscol looked down at the stump that protruded below his left shoulder. It was all that remained of his arm. The bandages covering the stump were crusted with dried blood, and the thing ached constantly. It would do worse than ache, too, once the last of the laudanum was gone. There was no way that Driscol, even as tough as he was, could survive a journey to Washington unless he gave himself several weeks to heal first.
Alas, surviving several weeks in an army surgical camp was a chancy prospect.
From the look on his face, which was no longer cheery at all, it was obvious that Scott understood as much himself. The brigadier grimaced. "Very well. I'll leave instructions to have inquiries made with the local residents. There might be a farmer nearby who'd be willing to take you in."
Driscol barely managed to keep from laughing aloud. The chance was just about nil that any local resident, such as were left, would be willing to take in a wounded soldier. That was just as true of American citizens living across the river as Canadian ones on this side. The war had ravaged the area for two years—and, to make things worse, the American army had conspicuously failed to make good on its promises to carry the war past the border territories. For the citizens of upper New York, the slogan On to Montreal! garnered as much respect as continental money, bungtown coppers, and wildcat banknotes.
The assurances of the mighty.
Water poured on sand.
Driscol caught a sudden little motion out of the corner of his eye. McParland had more or less informally attached himself to the sergeant since the battle. As was usually the case, he was perched on a stool nearby in the tent.
He turned his head. "You wanted to say something, Private?"
McParland looked simultaneously 車買取 eager and... worried. He cleared his throat. Cleared it again.
"Oh, just speak up, lad!" Driscol growled "I promise I won't have you shot. Neither will the bri 車 買取 gadier."
"Well. It's just. Well...My 軽自動車 中古 family's not far away from here, Sergeant. We live on a farm just a few miles north of Dansville." The young soldier flushed a little. "That's why, uh,
That news did not cheer up Driscol. A real doctor, with real degrees—a fine gentleman, no less—who'd studied under the most famous medical practitioner in the United States...
He might as well just shoot himself in the head.
But he saw no point in arguing the matter with someone from Scott's class. There'd be time enough and opportunity to evade a "real doctor" once he got to Washington.
Assuming he got there in the first place. Driscol looked down at the stump that protruded below his left shoulder. It was all that remained of his arm. The bandages covering the stump were crusted with dried blood, and the thing ached constantly. It would do worse than ache, too, once the last of the laudanum was gone. There was no way that Driscol, even as tough as he was, could survive a journey to Washington unless he gave himself several weeks to heal first.
Alas, surviving several weeks in an army surgical camp was a chancy prospect.
From the look on his face, which was no longer cheery at all, it was obvious that Scott understood as much himself. The brigadier grimaced. "Very well. I'll leave instructions to have inquiries made with the local residents. There might be a farmer nearby who'd be willing to take you in."
Driscol barely managed to keep from laughing aloud. The chance was just about nil that any local resident, such as were left, would be willing to take in a wounded soldier. That was just as true of American citizens living across the river as Canadian ones on this side. The war had ravaged the area for two years—and, to make things worse, the American army had conspicuously failed to make good on its promises to carry the war past the border territories. For the citizens of upper New York, the slogan On to Montreal! garnered as much respect as continental money, bungtown coppers, and wildcat banknotes.
The assurances of the mighty.
Water poured on sand.
Driscol caught a sudden little motion out of the corner of his eye. McParland had more or less informally attached himself to the sergeant since the battle. As was usually the case, he was perched on a stool nearby in the tent.
He turned his head. "You wanted to say something, Private?"
McParland looked simultaneously 車買取 eager and... worried. He cleared his throat. Cleared it again.
"Oh, just speak up, lad!" Driscol growled "I promise I won't have you shot. Neither will the bri 車 買取 gadier."
"Well. It's just. Well...My 軽自動車 中古 family's not far away from here, Sergeant. We live on a farm just a few miles north of Dansville." The young soldier flushed a little. "That's why, uh,