30 July, Une maison renfoncée

"What's he got to do with any of it?"

"How' d'you think it would be for him if you were killed?" Duval asked, calmly insistent.

Charcot hung his head. Of course Kerjean would grieve. But damn it, that wasn't fair. "Please," he entreated again, though he knew it was hopeless. "He wouldn't have to look after me any more. My life's over. He'd recover."

"You had a sawbones take a look at you yet?"

Charcot pressed his forehead against his knees. "No," was the muffled answer. Bloody sergent always changing the subject. He never should have opened his mouth.

Duval swallowed a sigh. "Son, you're exhausted and you've just come near to bein' killed. You should be resting. There'll be plenty of time to worry about this when you're thinking straight. And after you've seen a sawbones."

A choked little sob escaped from behind the huddled knees. It was hopeless. No one could help him. He would have to find a way on his own. Or maybe Kerjean would take pity and end it for him. Maybe if the sergent asked him. No, that wouldn't work.

"I don't know what to do," he finally managed to say, wiping his nose on the bandage.

Duval placed a hand awkwardly on the boy's shoulder. "For now-- try to rest. D'you want to stay here? Or over with your other mate?"

He shuddered in spasms to fight back the weeping. He would have been mortified with shame had he not already been planning to die. "I want to be next to Paol," he answered in a humble little voice. "Kerjean, the tall Breton one."

Having given both the Guardsman and the Rifleman instructions on how to clean and dress scrapes and cuts, Todd made his way toward the fellow Paol had pointed out to him earlier. There was another prisoner with the lad and the pair seemed to be in earnest conversation.

"Excuse me," said Todd with an appropriate tone of apology for interrupting. "You are Dominic, I believe?" He directed the question at the lad with the loose bandage about his neck.

Charcot shrank into himself. "Who's that?" he asked warily.

"My name is Jacques," Todd replied. "I am a surgeon."

He quickly wiped dirty streaks across his face and turned toward where the sergeant had been. He needed confirmation first. "Sergent Duval?"

With a curt nod to the surgeon, Duval shifted back a bit to give him room. "Be easy, lad. It's like he says."

Todd had lowered himself into a crouch, but now he shifted so he was kneeling. It was a marginally more comfortable position. He nodded at the sergeant, grateful for his endorsement.

"Are you hurt anywhere, m'sieur?"

"How do you know my name?"

"Paol asked me to look after you," answered Todd. "He is close by, resting."

"Oh." Charcot's face crumpled and he hid it behind his knees, ashamed. "Is he all right?"

"Yes. I bandaged his arm and gave him something to help him sleep. Now. Are you hurt anywhere?"

He raised his head and wiped his face again with the back of his hand. His aches and scrapes and bruises were not worth mentioning if this man was as frightening as Monsieur Montreuil. That left only one problem. "I can't see anything."

Hm. Todd held a hand up in front of Dominic's face, fingers outspread, and waved it slowly from one side to the other.

"How long ago did this happen?"

"Yesterday - or no, the day - a couple of days ago, during the battle. The day I was taken prisoner," he clarified sadly.

"Did you suffer any injuries to your head? A bad blow or anything of that sort?"

"You mean before I lost my sight?" He frowned, trying to remember. The riflemen had hit him in the face a couple of times, but that had been after. Had there been pain in his head before they hit him? "I don't think so. I don't remember. I woke up with a horse on top of me."

Todd pursed his lips thoughtfully. This was intriguing, without a doubt. "I am going to feel about your head, in case there are any bumps you might not remember receiving."

He put his hands lightly against the poor lad's temples, his fingers splayed out.