The lines are formed, precise, neat, exactly the way Thibault likes them. The soldiers stand in rows of three with other soldiers of equal height, which gives a pleasing uniformity to the column.
What is displeasing to his eye are the blood splatters that stain the uniforms, but that, as always, is an unfortunate consequence of war. And this is war. War against an insidious disease.
The cuirassiers would normally ride at the rear of the column, but they are off with Baston, chasing the boy.
It has been a difficult day, but Thibault is at peace, knowing that despite the difficulties, he has done his duty. He waits on his horse at the front of the column. He is keen to move out. To get away from this unbearable place.
The only real concern on his mind is the disappearance of Major Lansard. The village has been thoroughly searched, without result. As he waits, a patrol inspects the circumference outside the saur-fence.
The leader of the patrol, a gruff sergeant, arrives back through the saur-gate at a trot.
“Sir, you must come.”
Thibault dismounts and follows the sergeant down to the river beside the bridge. In the water two privates are retrieving the body of a soldier, and as it is hauled up onto the riverbank and rolled over, he can see that it wears the uniform of a major.
There are gasps of horror from the soldiers who have waded into the river to bring the body out. Were it not for the uniform there would be no way to identify him. Certainly not by his face, which is a bloodied mess. His neck also is a raw red mass, and his nose and ears are missing.
“He has been attacked by a raptor, sir,” one of the soldiers says.
“Or a wolf,” says the other.
“Undoubtedly,” Thibault says.