30 July, Une maison renfoncée

This was going to be unpleasant, mostly for this poor Rifleman. "Keep as still as you can," Todd advised and went to work.

Presently, with the limb suitably set, he made quick work of splinting the arm. The binding linen was tied firmly, but not so tight it would cause pain. "Can you move your fingers, lad?"

"Hoi," an irritated voice called out. "Don't forget 'bout us in here, a'right? We came off bad too!"

"Michel," Paol had long ago given up on using Bright's surname; it sounded patently ridiculous when he tried to pronounce it, "Be quiet."

There was an awkward-sounding rustle and a slight pause before Bright offered a surly, "Well, if you don't want a surgeon lookin' at your mates..."

Kaufmann opened his eyes again and let out a shaky breath, then attempted to move his fingers. "Yeah, I can move them," he managed to choke out.

He did not look up from his awkward, one handed struggle with Roux's shirt, but was unable to help the faint flush which sprang to his cheeks. It drained almost immediately. "So talk French to 'em."

Roux sucked in a sharp breath as his shirt pulled against the places where blood had dried, tugging them open again.

"Talk French t' who?" he asked, confused. Things just weren't making sense. "I don't know anything else. Just French."

Bright hacked out a laugh that sounded faintly moist. "Does it even matter if I talk English or French to 'em? Long's their sawbones comes to have a look, I don't care."

~



Good. He had not caused any fresh damage when he'd set the broken bone. God willing, the wound would heal without any permanent harm being done to the Rifleman's arm. "That's good. Rest that arm now. You're on light duties for a few weeks so it can heal properly."

"I know. Don't pay me no mind, just talkin' to Michel, here." He cursed as the fabric stuck yet again to the edges of the reopened wound. "Sorry, mate." The skin around the gash, up and down Roux's side was darkening to purple. Christ. But he was just staring now, and that wasn't getting them anywhere. He needed-- Paol looked up sharply at Bright. "You hurt?"

Rest...light duties....heal... Right. That was good. Wasn't it? It sounded good. Maybe. Mittelstaedt pushed unsteadily to his feet. He made it several paces beyond the door, then sagged against the wall, doubled over and wretched into the dirt. Jesus...

Kaufmann watched Mittelstaedt dispassionately, too exhausted to take much interest. His concern for his fellow riflemen's wellbeing could not be entirely shaken, though.

"What's wrong with him?" he asked the surgeon in a flat monotone.

Oh for -

"I don't know." But he was going to find out. Todd snapped out a curt instruction to stay with the Rifleman, directing his remarks to the wide-eyed Guardsman who was, for the moment, his assistant, but did not wait to see if the man obeyed. Instead, he hurried straight outside after the second lad.

"Have you been wounded, lad?"

~



"What? Me?" Bright answered after another brief pause. "Course not. Can't a lad want a surgeon 'cause his mates are needin' one?"

Mittelstaedt choked out a fervent curse and straightened up, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "No, sir. Sorry, sir," he replied quickly, embarrassment temporarily lending his face some color.

"Beggin' yer pardon, sir," Burke said, coming over to the surgeon. "But, there's others askin' fer ye. And, a few o' th' French lads ain't lookin' good at all."

And, thinking of the French prisoners, he had to tell that Major that they had lost one. Burke found himself wishing that some of the others spoke better English, so he could pass the duty off onto them.

It did not seem that this one was wounded, more likely affected by an aversion to medical procedures. It was astonishing how many otherwise stalwart soldiers were so afflicted.

"Sit down and drink some water," Todd told the Rifleman, after carefully checking the man's pulse to be sure. He could not linger with this one, or with the lad with the broken arm. Not when there were others that needed looking to.

Rising to his feet, the surgeon looked around for his bag of kit. "Where?" He asked of the flame-haired Rifleman, who, blessedly, was English. Or at least spoke the language natively.

"Over 'ere," Burke said, moving back inside. Most of the Englishmen seemed to have come off without terribly serious injuries, which was a relief, but a few of their prisoners looked to be in rougher shape.

Inside meant prisoners. Todd suppressed a sigh. For all that the French were the enemy, he felt nothing but pity for them.

"Thank you." He stepped into the barn without hesitation, looking around at the men nearest the door for any obvious signs of wounding. At least his French was a far sight better than his German.

"Who in here is wounded?"

"Here, monsieur," Paol said, indicating Roux. Hell, standing had been a bad idea. But he managed to step back and out of the space the surgeon would need before sinking back to the ground. "And I think..." he trailed off. Had Bright said he was hurt? He couldn't remember. Maybe he really had just been asking because of the others.

"Alain? Here's a surgeon come to take a look at you, alright?" he told Roux.

Water? The hell with that. Back inside the barn, Mittelstaed opened his flask and took a healthy swig before sinking to the ground beside Kaufmann and handing the flask wordlessly to him.

It was easy to see this fellow's wounds right away. That was both good and bad. They must have been trying to treat the wounds themselves.

"His name is Alain?" Todd asked, kneeling beside the man. On closer inspection, the gash in the Frenchman's side did indeed look unpleasant. That would be something Todd took care of first. He fished out a small bottle and a clean wad of linen. Cleaning up that mess was definitely in order.

"Yes, sir. Alain Roux." He could not have said why the question reassured him, but it did. Placing a hand on Roux's shoulder, he watched with careful concern as the Englishman drew several items from his bag and set to work.

Not a bad name, really. "I am Jacques," Todd said, prising the cork out of the small bottle. It felt only a little odd to be giving his name in French, but these were not exactly normal circumstances. "This is going to smart, perhaps badly, m'sieur, so I shall need you to remain as still as you can."

So saying, Todd soaked the wad of linen with the brandy, then got down to the business of cleaning away the fresh blood from Roux's side.

It stung terribly! Roux barely stopped himself from jerking away, a small whimper caught in his throat. Stay still, the man had said. Being still was hard when it hurt.

Jacques. "Paol." He felt Roux tense and tightened his hold on his shoulder, more from a desire to reassure than any belief that he would struggle. "Easy..."

Paol and Alain. Right. "A pleasure," said Todd, unable to prevent an ironic grin from turning up the corner of his mouth. Strictly speaking, it was not a pleasure, but manners were manners.

"Steady now, m'sieur. I am only cleaning the wound so it may be dressed. It looks quite unspoiled, however, and that is good."

~



"Here now," Bright called from where he was slumped against a stall door nearby. "Don't forget about the rest of us in here, will you?"