“Provincial prerogative forever!” the men shouted. Gremio’s voice was loud among them. The Army of Franklin was in good spirits, if nothing else. However much that would help in the fight against Hesmucet, Joseph the Gamecock had it working in his favor.

Lieutenant General Bell reached for his crutches. Getting out of a chair was a struggle for a man with one leg and one good arm, but he managed. The trick was to lunge forward and upward, gain momentary balance, get one crutch under his good arm for a second point of support, and then get the other crutch under his bad arm, under the worthless piece of flesh and bone that hung from his shoulder but would never be good for anything again.

Oh, it’s good for something, he thought as he swung himself forward and ducked his way out of his pavilion. It’s good for causing me pain. The shattered shoulder still felt as if it had melted led poured into the joint. It hurt even worse than the stump of his leg, and the festering in his thigh had almost taken his life, there after the fight by the River of Death. He remembered the stink of the pus after they’d drained it. The chirurgeons assured him that was all over now.

They assured him of that, yes. But why did he still hurt, then?

Why, in the end, didn’t matter so much. That he still hurt… that mattered. He paused, steadied himself on his crutches, and used his good hand to extract the bottle of laudanum he always carried with him. Bringing the bottle up to his mouth, he extracted the cork with his teeth. He swigged. Laudanum wasn’t made to be swigged; it was made to be taken by the drop. Bell didn’t care. Drops didn’t come close to making his torment retreat.