30 July, Une maison renfoncée

"Mind you keep still, my lad," Todd told Michael in French, aware that the poor fellow was unlikely to heed him. No matter. The two grenadiers would keep him still enough. The surgeon threaded a needle with a practised eye, then gave the long wound another cleaning with a dry piece of linen. That would have to do.

He looked at the two redcoats a moment before addressing them in English. "Right. Hold him down firmly. Do not let him move even an inch!"

This was going to be extremely painful for Michael but there was no avoiding it now. Todd drew in a breath and set to work with his needle. Predictably, there was an instant and violent reaction from Michael as the sharp needle pierced through for the first stitch, but thankfully the two grenadiers kept him quite motionless.

~

The unexpected pain in his back made the grenadier carrying the mouthy little Spaniard start and nearly dump his burden to the ground. "Little - " he caught himself just in time. If the grasshopper officer did not pull him up for speaking out of turn now, Sergeant Peters would certainly do it later.

"He ain't a Frog, sir?" Sergeant Peters asked, wishing to be quite sure about this.

Paol clutched at the lantern. Despite being aware of the necessity of his task, it was difficult not to feel completely useless -- while he was able to feel anything beyond the pain beginning to flare in his right arm -- particularly with the two big redcoats pinning down Bright. Logically he knew they were necessary as well, but every instinct seemed to bridle at it.

*

While it may not have been the desired effect, the blow had caused a reaction, which even in his delirium of panic, Matias was able to interpret. Perhaps if he aimed just a little higher... Spitting out another oath, the boy jabbed again at the redcoat's back.

The key was to work as swiftly as he could, without compromising the quality of the sutures. It helped a very little that one of the grenadiers was now using both hands to hold Michael's left arm both out of the way and immobile. This allowed Todd clear access to the wound and he took full advantage of it.

"It'll not be long, m'sieur," the surgeon muttered in French, though it was unclear to whom the remark was directed.
~



With a yelp, the grenadier dipped his shoulder forward and dumped his burden hard onto the ground. He'd had enough of that.

"Don't let him go!" Sergeant Peters barked, at once angry, cautious, and forceful. Letting their only prisoner escape because of one man's inability to bear up to a little irritation... he couldn't fathom it!

"No, he's not a Frog," Vickery said in response to the Sergeant's question, and took a hasty step back as the grenadier dumped his burden on the ground in front of him, practically onto his feet.

"Does anyone have a lantern?" he asked. This would be easier if he could see better.

The fall stunned him, only momentarily, but it was enough. His flailing limbs propelled him to his feet and into a lunge, only to feel his collar bite into his windpipe as something yanked him backward. "No!" The word came out somewhere between a scream and a sob. "Please! Please, let me go," he begged the man in the dark coat.

There was no chance he'd let this little bastard go. Especially not after being used as a pincushion, of a sort. "Here, where're you goin'?" Young Peters wanted to know, having caught hold of the Spanish scamp's collar with his free hand.

"I've got one, sir," Sergeant Peters replied, lifting his lantern.

~



When was this going to end? It was easily the worst agony he had ever endured and it seemed to go on and on. Each time that needle pierced through his skin, it hurt ever worse and Bright was at his limit for how much such suffering he could bear.

"For the love of God, leave it!" He begged in French, frustratingly quite unable to move owing to those oversized redcoat brutes. "Enough!"

"He's nearly through," Paol told him quickly. For all the good it would do. He'd been sewn up enough times to know how much it hurt.

His shoulder felt near to giving out beneath the seeming leaden weight of his right arm, and he cursed his own weakness and the trembling fatigue which now crept into that limb. He should have been able to hold out longer than this, easily.

"Thank you, Sergeant - very efficient of you," Vickery said, clasping his hands behind his back as he looked down at the writhing Spaniad the Guardsmen had captured. "I commend you on your promptitude, lads."

He frowned a little. Yes, their captive was indeed Spanish, as he had surmised - only a deaf man could remain ignorant of the angry invective that he was spouting.

"We are not going to hurt you," he informed the Spaniard, hoping to reassure him a little. He wanted this situation sorted out, and to prevent a like occurrence happening again in the future. If that was possible.

Matias stopped struggling momentarily, regarding the man who had spoken with sullen suspicion. "So let me go."

The hardest part about sewing a wound was tying off the thread once he was done, Todd had found. Blood-slick thread was difficult to manipulate but he had also learned to use the needle itself to help. It was a good thing he'd done this a time or two and thus could make short work of tying off the end of the thread now.

"There, m'sieur. It is done," he said presently, having cut the thread close to the knot. Then, in English for the grenadiers' benefit, he added, "You may let him go now, lads. Thank you."

One of them rocked heavily back on his haunches, his face just a little pale. "Lord, sir, I hope that ever ain't got to happen to me."

Todd mustered a fleeting smile. "Hope is ever a fine thing," he said and set about the business of putting a fresh dressing over the new line of stitches. "Take the lantern from that poor fellow, would you? There's a lad."

~



The sergeant nodded, apparently oblivious to the praise. "What d'you want us to do with that lad, sir?"

One of the redcoats shifted suddenly, taking the lantern from Paol's hand, and he was able to let his arm drop. He slumped forward, relief and weariness momentarily numbing everything else.

Done. He dragged open his eyes which he did not remember having closed. The sawbones had said it was done, but it was far from over and Paol needed to focus.

"Did you mean what you said?" he asked slowly, as if he was having trouble fitting the words together, "About him not sleeping any more tonight?"

Charcot had been in a state of half-sleep all the way through the ordeal, but the quietness roused him from his strange dreams. Bright had been screaming, and now he was not. And the surgeon and Paol were present, plus other English soldiers.

"He's dead," he said, his voice dull and flat. Bright was English. They must have found out and executed him on the spot. And now they were going to kill Kerjean and himself. It was all his fault because Paol had stayed to rescue him and hadn't escaped when he could. Charcot felt no fear, only a heavy sadness at the waste of it all. "Paol, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

What? Paol turned, staring at Charcot with bewildered concern. "No. No one's dead, mate." Except for the poor bastard who was scattered all over the barn. "It--It's alright. Everything's alright." Christ, he was just babbling now. He broke off, dragging in a breath. "You ain't got nothing to be sorry for."

"I'm sorry for getting us all killed," Charcot explained. He was not sure how it was his fault that Bright was dead - or would be dead soon - but it only made sense. He felt incredibly groggy, but that was probably a blessing. It might make the pain less, though with luck the English soldiers would make it as quick and painless as possible. "Are they greenjackets or redcoats?" If they were to be shot, he would prefer the greenjackets. Their shooting was more accurate, wasn't it?

This conversation caused Todd to frown. "There will be no killing this evening, m'sieur. Of anyone."

A strange thrill ran through Charcot's veins at the surgeon's words. "There won't?" he asked, beginning to tremble. "Tomorrow?"

Maneuvering around Bright, Paol shifted along the ground until he could reach Charcot. His good arm still felt heavy and clumsy as he fumbled for the younger man's arm. "Do you trust me?"

"Yeah. I'm sorry." Maybe if he had trusted sooner during that battlefield confusion then Paol could have led them both to safety. He cursed himself.

The poison was acting on him now; that was why he was so drowsy and confused. And Pere Duval had told him that Paol would blame himself if he died! That must not happen. "Paol, it's not your fault. It was poison. At least I won't die damned." He smiled at the irony of it all, that he had wanted to die but did not dare do the deed himself, only to be painlessly poisoned by a British surgeon.

Whatever composure he had managed to cobble together fell instantly to pieces. "What? What do you mean? What poison? Charcot? Sir?" This last, pleading and confused was addressed to the English surgeon. Maybe he knew what Charcot meant.

Todd's frowned deepened. "No poison, m'sieur. I gave you laudanum only. You are merely feeling the effects of it still."

Charcot squeezed his friend's hand, oblivious to the surgeon's words. "Don't cry, Paol. It doesn't hurt." He had to fight to keep his head up. He was sleepy, so very sleepy now, but he mustn't let go just yet.

"No, Charcot-- You're fine. You're going to be fine. It--it's just the laudanum the sawbones gave you." Christ, but what if it wasn't? What if something had gone wrong? Or if something had happened when he'd been asleep? He never should have fallen asleep.

"W-would laudanum do this?" he asked Jacques.

"It can, yes. When a man is tired already and is given a dose, the physic is known to have effects like this. What he needs is rest. In the morning, when he wakes, he will be quite lucid."

"Just for sleep?" he asked, his own voice sounding far away. He felt a little disappointed. "I don't mind," he added, in case poison might be more convenient for the parties involved. His grip on Kerjean's hand relaxed.

"Aye, just for sleep," he said, but he felt no relief, just a sick sense of unease. "Try and rest, alright?"

He reached up to rub at his eyes and his hand came away sticky and stained dark. He stared at it dully for a long moment, then up at the surgeon. There was something, something he was supposed to say or ask or do, but it kept slipping through his fingers. And this was twice again that he was in the Jacques' debt and he couldn't even begin to articulate that.