Some one procured a footbath, and ablutions began.

The Medical Officer came in to say that the Colonel seemed to be very
ill. The Subaltern was glad he had declined the offer of his horse. He
then began to shave and wash. Just as he was in the middle of this, with
his boots and puttees off, his Captain came in to say that his Platoon
was being sent off as infantry escort to a battery of artillery. By the
time he had redressed himself, the Battery and his Platoon had both
gone. The streets were filled by French peasants, as usual excited and
garrulous, and by men settling down to their billets. The Subaltern
failed absolutely to discover what route his Platoon had taken, but
pursuing the road along which they had come, he soon left the town.

It was raining and blowing most fiercely; the darkness was intense,
otherwise absolute silence reigned. Suddenly, excitedly, a voice,
saturated with fear, cried out from the darkness, "Who goes there?" A
face, with a bayonet in front of it, loomed up from the side of the
road. "Friend!" this tersely. "Sentry, have you seen a battery of
artillery and a platoon of ----shires pass here?"

"No, sir; you're nearly in the outpost line. There's only Royal
Blankshires in front, sir."

So they had evidently not come this way. Where next? They must be found.
He felt that to lose his men would be a sort of dishonour. Even while he
was thinking, a shout was wafted on the wind out of the darkness and
chasing it, overtaking it almost, a rifle shot. It was as if a match had
been applied to the whole line. With the rapidity of wind the crackling
spread to either side.