June 6 - Camp, after the ambush

"Worst is over for now. Sawbones is bandaging him up. You, ah... sort of passed out," he finished apologetically.

The blood rushing to his face seemed to make the rushing in his ears more painful. He reached for his canteen in an effort to hide his embarrassment, though hopefully no one besides Kerjean was paying any attention. "Oh," was all he said before he took a swig of water. And after a moment he deftly changed the subject. "How's our Cap here?"

Paol frowned. "Hard to say. He sure don't look good, though." It was the breathing -- like the corporal had been sprinting rather than lying still -- which bothered him the most. He had no idea what it meant, but it wasn't natural.

Foucheaux frowned with concern now, leaning over to examine Saint Laurent's face. "He does look awful white. It were only a ball to the arm, weren't it? Men don't die of that."

If they lost enough blood, they did. Or if infection set it. Or if -- Christ, men seemed to do little else. There didn't need to be a good reason. Or any reason at all. Paol shook his head. "He's lost a lot of blood from the look of it. But I've had it near as bad before and come through it alright," he added, trying to sound hopeful.

"Aye, that time you got it in the side, right? But he were just up and about and talking and all, just a few minutes ago. I had to carry you that time, remember? Or maybe I carried Couture." It didn't really matter. Nothing was making any sense, including his fainting like a girl, and they hadn't even had breakfast yet, and it would be stupid if the corporal died before breakfast just from losing too much blood from his arm.

"Hey. Cap. You awake, man? Can you hear me, Saint Laurent?"

"Huh? No, this was Corsica. Long time ago." Trouble was he couldn't seem to remember much more than that. Nothing that was useful, at least.

"I ain't deaf, Foucheaux." The barely audible growl drew his attention back to the corporal, but St Laurent did not stir or even open his eyes.

"Oh!". Foucheaux grinned slightly, feeling rather relieved that the caporal was at least still alive. "How you feeling, Cap? Sleepy?"

St Laurent shivered and half opened his eyes. "You got any water?"

Foucheaux fumbled for his canteen, which miraculously still had water in it. "Here y'are, Cap," he said, eagerly holding it to St Laurent's mouth.

"Go easy with it," Paol cautioned Foucheaux as St Laurent pulled back sharply, water spilling onto his face and neck.

Foucheaux hissed a curse. "Sorry, Cap," he whispered. "Your face don't look half ugly." He gently, almost tenderly, propped the corporal's head up and tried again.

St Laurent swallowed one mouthful, then another. His mouth felt dry as dust and still coated with the taste of blood and powder; the warm water tasted better than wine. "Thanks, mate," he mumbled, sagging back.

"What happened?" he asked suddenly, though his lips barely moved. "Back--When I sent you back. The shot. I thought..."

It took Foucheaux a moment to understand what the corporal was talking about. And then, because he had used up all his other emotions, he laughed. "Oh! Don't worry about that. It was nothing, a false alarm." He moderated his tone when the surgeon's assistant shot him a glare.

St Laurent's brows knit together as though processing this piece of news only with difficulty. Any other time he would have pressed Foucheaux on it, but he simply let his eyes slip shut again and wished to God his heart would stop hammering.

"Excuse me, gentlemen."

St Laurent tensed visibly at the surgeon's approach, but for once his apprehension was unnecessary. His injured arm was pulled across his chest and settled into a sling. Bandages were wound tightly around his head and beneath his chin, across his face, around his hand. Then the brusque command, "Get him up."

Foucheaux wanted to protest, worried that he might injure the corporal by moving him, but he decided for once to keep his mouth shut. He carefully, slowly, gently eased St Laurent into a sitting position, hoping that was "up" enough.

"The objective being to get him into the wagon, Monsieur Foucheaux," Montreuil amended irritably.

"Oh." He looked doubtfully at St Laurent, but the man was not offering his helpers much help. Foucheaux put an arm around his waist and wrapped the corporal's uninjured arm over his shoulder. "C'mon Cap, up we get. Paol, gimme a hand. Can ye walk, Cap?"

" 'm fine." His legs held him for the first few steps, then he sagged between the two men like a ragdoll.

Paol regarded the opening to the covered wagon somewhat doubtfully. Balincourt was already lying there which complicated things somewhat. "Here, lemme take him," he told Foucheaux, "Hop in an' I'll hand him up to you."

"Let me do that," Desprez snapped, leaving the pile of instruments he had been sorting. Really, why did Montreuil let the men do things like this on their own? It was a disaster waiting to happen. They would climb up and tread on the injured lad's knee, or they would drag their comrade up by his wounded arm. Desprez pushed aside the soldat who had fainted earlier, the baby, and guided the patient into the wagon. "Easy, Caporal, slide back. Bend your knees and slide, there. Now don't roll over onto your arm."

Paol watched as the wagon began to pull away. Laramie was slumped beside the driver, but Navarre, Navarre was nowhere to be seen and Paol knew better than to go looking for him. Fear, concern, whatever ersatz form of energy had animated him before was gone. "C'mon," he said wearily, turning to Foucheaux. The other soldier looked about as bad as he felt.

Foucheaux leaned over to retrieve his musket and had to fight the urge to simply join it in lying on the ground. He straightened and rubbed a bloody hand across his face. He did not even know whose blood it was at this point, nor did he care. "I need a drink." Never mind that he had still not eaten breakfast.

Paol looked around for his own musket. It was slung over his shoulder but it took several moments of staring stupidly at an empty patch of grass before he realized this. He shook his head. Come on, he was about to repeat but checked, belatedly noticing the blood on Foucheaux's face and hand. "You ain't hurt?"

"Nah," he said, shrugging wearily. "You?"