Upon entering the tavern, the French officer is surprised to note how many of his fellow officers are here this day. So many in fact that the tables nearest the fire are full, forcing several of his comrades to occupy the colder realms of the room usually reserved for the Allied officers. Spying another Frenchman belonging to his Corps, he makes his way to the table and sits down. As he orders a glass of wine, he follows the gaze of many in the room to a table near the wall. Seated in that cold corner is a lone Hanoverian officer, a Major apparently by his rank, who is rhythmically beating his head on the oaken table. Spread out before the Hanoverian are scattered, empty shot glasses, twelve at least.
“What is that daft Allied officer doing, mon ami?”
“He is banging his head on the table; been at it for a couple of hours now.”
“He seems to be repeating something. It sounds as if he is saying Oh Dieu. I am curious to the nature of his affliction? Too much strong drink perhaps? We all know the Allies cannot hold their liquor.”
“I suspect his affliction runs deeper than that, mon ami. I believe it has something to do with our exalted GdB Knox of the Vielle Garde. Although I too have duties to perform, the polishing of my boots and perfuming of my horse must wait today. That Hanoverian is the very one, I am told, that used my sleeve for the cleaning of Marechal Corbin’s baton. No, mon ami, today I shall slowly enjoy my wine as it is a fine compliment to this devilish Hanoverian’s misery.”
