to

led around by a stump."
"Sorry." He swiveled, bringing his right arm into position. A moment later, her hand tucked into his elbow, he led her toward the door.
No one noticed them leaving. All eyes were on Sam Houston.
General Ross was out of surgery, and awake.
"And your own defense was most gallant as well, Lieutenant," he said pleasantly. Ross cocked his head on the pillow, studying Driscol. "I suspect we've met before. Have we?"
Driscol cleared his throat. "In a manner of speaking, sir. I was across the field at Corunna. And, ah..."
Ross chuckled drily. "Took part in the very vigorous pursuit afterward. You have the look of a relentless man."
Driscol must have looked uncomfortable. Ross chuckled again, very drily, glancing at his heavily bandaged shoulder. "I had a feeling that volley was targeted. You, I presume."
"Ah. Yes, sir." Before he'd ushered them in, the doctor had told Driscol that Ross would most likely survive. But he'd need to spend months recovering, and would never really be able to use that arm very well again.
And...
Patrick Driscol would do it again. In an instant.
Looking into Ross's eyes, he knew the man understood. So, a crack that one gentleman officer had started, and a gentleman politician widened, was widened still farther by a third. And this one a Sassenach general, to boot.
Driscol began to fear for his soul.
"I was surprised at the time by the professional quality of the Capitol's defense," Ross went on. "Not to detract anything from Captain Houston—a very estimable young man—but that wasn't his doing."
"Ah. No, sir."
Ross nodded. "Good. I feel much better. It's embarrassing to be repulsed so decisively by an inexperienced militia officer. Now, at least, I'll be able to say I was defeated by one of Napoleon's veterans. Even if he was a lieutenant."
"Ah. I'm not exactly a lieutenant, sir. That's