Sur L'bord de L'eau

"A crayfish. Because it hides in crevices or something. Like a little lobster, yeah? Water cricket!" he laughed. Then, "What are you doing anyway? I can hear you, you know, wincing and all."

Paol grimaced. So much for keeping quiet. "Just a burn on my arm, " he said lightly, "Not bad or anything. But pulling the sleeve off hurts like the devil."

Charcot grimaced. "Well I knew you'd hurt your arm. How bad's not bad? Maybe they'll let us see a surgeon today." Well, he himself would probably not be seeing anyone, but to be seen by a surgeon would be good, even an English one.

"You're starting to sound like Roux," he laughed, beginning to tear the scorched shirtsleeve into strips. "It's fine. Just a bit tender." Just as long as infection didn't take, but there was little point worrying about that now.

Dunking one of the strips in the water, he made a clumsy attempt to clean away the worst of the dirt and grime. "Maybe. They'll get round eventually."

Charcot heard the tearing sound and frowned. "You rippin' up your shirt now?"

"Got to wrap it up with something. Keep my coat from rubbing it raw. Hey, if there's enough, you could use one as a blindfold, maybe? The guards might go a bit easier with you if they know."

For some reason the idea made Charcot nervous. "I dunno, what if my eyes come back and I don't know about it?" he protested feebly. "But never mind your shirt, take mine! You gotta have a shirt so your coat don't rub it raw." He held the wet bundle out in front of him.

"Huh? No, no, keep it. I'll bandage it up good as new, won't even feel the coat. But thank you!"

"Go on and take it. Please take it." He looked a bit crestfallen then, edges of the gloom starting to creep in that he had been trying to keep at bay. "I ain't got nothin' else to give you."

By now the guards behind them were shouting out their incomprehensible orders, but the meaning was plain enough. It was time to go.

He'd gone and made a proper mess of it now, hadn't he? Swallowing a sigh, Paol pushed to his feet and waded over to Charcot. "What d'you need to give me anythin' for, eh?" he asked gently. "C'mon."

He hung his head. "Only seems right, you lookin' after me and all. You saved me." He allowed Kerjean to lead him back to the riverbank. "Though maybe you shouldn't have. Ain't no use to no one like this."

Saved? Right. Fine job he'd done of that.

"Oh, aye? And then where'd I be? Look..." he tried awkwardly, scooping up his shirt, both their coats and the canteens, "I ain't sayin' – I mean, if I could wish the lot of us back safe in camp, I'd do it. Well, obviously. But...I'm glad you're here, alright? Truly." He dropped his empty arm around Charcot's shoulders, ignoring the sudden, sharp desire to knock his own head against something hard and unforgiving. "Besides, it don't work like that. Things happen. Reckon you'll save my skin plenty of times 'fore we get back home."

Charcot put his arm around Paol's shoulders as well, in part for support as they made their way up the muddy bank, and in part for his own comfort. "Sorry. Thanks Paol. Ain't no use talking like that anyways. Maybe I will take a bandage for my eyes after all." He was blinking back tears now. When had he become such a baby? But a bandage, even a damp one, would disguise that. "But you can tear it off the bottom of my shirt. Did you finish what you were doin' with yours?" They were on firmer ground now, it seemed. “Here, let me carry some of that."

"Nearly. Here, take this for now," he said, disentangling one of the linen strips from the pile of clothes under his arm. "We'll get it sorted proper when we stop."

Charcot slung his own damp shirt over his shoulder and took the strip of cloth, lightly wrapping it around his head and tying it at the back. "How's this?" he asked. "It feels weird - like if I took it off I'd be able to see now."

Reaching over, Paol gave the band a slight tug so that it sat at a less rakish angle. "Maybe that's a good sign?"

Now Charcot could not resist pulling the bandage down from his eyes, just in case. "No, nothin'." He slid it back into place. "I need a surgeon is what I need. He'll give me some kind of medicine. And you too for your arm. And then - well maybe they'll send us home, like before." But his voice did not sound hopeful.

"Maybe." He tried not to think about what that would mean. "When we get back I'll ask about a surgeon. Maybe someone knows somethin'."

"Yeah," he answered vaguely, his mind elsewhere. Suddenly he stopped walking and turned his head back toward the river. "My canteen! Paol I forgot my canteen! I dropped it in the water and forgot to pick it up!"

"Oh – I got it right here." He pulled Charcot forward before their guards decided to reinforce their objections to the halt with the points of their bayonets. "Sorry 'bout that. Here you go."

"Oh, thank you," he said with relief. "And you got my coat too? Sorry. I'm an idiot. Guess I gotta learn to be more careful, if I can't see my things." He cringed suddenly as another thought occurred to him. "I hope the lads won't try and play tricks on me."

Draping the coat over Charcot's shoulder, he said simply, "They won't." There was a note of finality in his tone which implied what would happen if they did.

"Thanks, Paol," he repeated yet again. A tentative smile crept across his face. "You really oughta come home with me. My sisters would like that."

Paol glanced down at the bundle in his arms, his cheeks faintly pink. "Never been to Touraine before," he said quietly.

Charcot shrugged. "It's a good place. Like any other place I suppose. Prettier than Portugal and Spain, anyway. I bet you'd find work though! What did you do back home?"