31st July, early morning; Walking wounded

If he had been thinking clearly, he would have refused the brandy. In his present, weakened, state, the alcohol was too likely to have a great effect on him, which he'd no doubt regret later, but right then all that Stéphane wanted was the blurry warmth that the brandy could give him.

Accordingly, he drank from the mug being held up to his lips and relished the bite of the brandy as it ran down his throat and into his empty stomach. Yes, he'd definitely have cause to regret this later, but he would worry about later when later arrived.

"That's the least terrifying thing I have heard in days," he grunted, for the moment still self-aware enough to recognise that he wasn't going to lose any limbs, at least.

"Poor thing," Marie-Eve said again.  "And walking that whole time on your leg - What was it you wanted wagons for?"  This question was addressed to the surgeon.  "I have a cart.  Should he eat something?  Or have some more water?"

"Food and water, yes. In small amounts -- You have a cart?" he asked, suddenly interested, then shook his head, getting stiffly to his feet. "Space may have been vacated in my own wagons," he elaborated grimly. "I will have an answer for you presently." So saying, he picked up his bag and started off in the direction Foucheaux had gone.

*

Margot, however, was looking carefully at Proulx. Something about the way he had phrased his last statement struck her as odd. "What have you heard?" she asked.

Marie-Eve had been about to go and tend her soup to see if she might give a bit to the fellow, but she stopped when Margot asked her question.

The brandy was working fast. Already he could feel a dulling in the throb in his hands and leg. This was good. He willed his eyes open and drew in a breath, hearing the conversation around him but only truly comprehending that a question was being asked. Of him. What had he heard? That was simple enough. Simple and thoroughly terrible. But how he could ignore it?

"Evil," Stéphane replied presently. "There were many wounded men after the battle. They did not live through the night and they weren't quiet. But the Spanish..." he shivered and closed his eyes, hearing the screams and the harsh clash of Spanish voices all over again. Then the gradual, ominous silence. "The Spanish came in the dark. The English let them."

That too was a stark memory. He had heard English voices moving about, most likely from parties sent to retrieve the redcoat wounded, but they had done nothing to stop the Spanish in their murderous work. The bastards.

It had all made for an eternal night, made all the worse by the necessity to remain completely still. Still as death. The roving Spaniards had taken no notice of him and that was the reason for his having survived that night. That and God's protection, for the Spanish ignoring him had not been certain - they had trod carelessly over him at one point - but he had lived when many others had not. It was something he tried to be thankful for and to forget at the same time.

Foucheaux stopped cold and held up a hand to stop Bertrand and his fellow stretcher-bearer who had followed him.  Proulx was talking at last.  "But you escaped," he said, trying to keep his voice neutral.  "How did you escape?"

For long moment, Stéphane was silent, as in contemplating an answer. In reality, he was striving mightily to keep his composure. The matter of his escape had not been one he gave very deep thought to, as he was too grateful to have survived, but clearly he could not avoid thinking on it any longer.

"It was God's will," he said eventually, having no better response readily available.

There was a faint shuffling sound behind her and Margot turned, drawing in a breath. Merciful heavens. Mathilde was standing there, clutching Philippe, her face pale as death. There was hardly any question as to how much she had heard.

"Oh, little one --" she said softly, getting to her feet. But Mathilde only pulled away from her touch, her stricken gaze fixed on Proulx.

Poor Mathilde!  Marie-Eve shook her head at Foucheaux and spoke to Proulx.  "You're safe now.  You can rest and try not think about it anymore."  It was a silly thing to say, but what else could she say?

He had made a mistake. A very grave one. Speaking of that night had been so grossly unwise. But there was no taking it back. All he could do was refuse to speak on it further. The sight of that fearful face reminded him so of Thérèse, on that night they had hidden, still and silent, in that root cellar while their village died. It had taken him a long time to get past that night. Now here he was visiting virtually that same thing on these people.

Stéphane bowed his head. "I'm sorry." It was all he could say.

"No, no, no," Marie-Eve said vaguely.

No? He could not move or even speak, though speech was something best avoided, since he had said far too much already. There was nothing to be done to make things better either, so Stéphane did not try. It did not help that his thoughts were many miles and years away.

God be merciful, and make all of this go away. Make it not be real. Even as he prayed this, however, he knew it was a futile effort.

Catching sight as he approached of the growing crowd surrounding the wounded man, Montreuil scowled. Despite the fact that most, if not all of them, had a legitimate reason for being there, the – to his mind – large number of them offended his driving sense of efficiency. He lengthened his stride, quickly covering the remaining distance. "You spoke of a cart, Madame," he began without preamble, addressing Bellot's wife. "Is it close by?"

"Oh. Yes, of course, it's over that way, on the other side of Margot's."

A wagon. He should be glad for such a discussion taking place, as it undoubtedly meant he was shortly to be riding instead of walking, but Stéphane was hard-pressed to feel any enthusiasm or even any relief. Given a choice, he would have chosen to walk. What else had he been doing these last three days anyway?

Besides. The pain of walking was the least he deserved, in his opinion.

Montreuil glanced in the direction she indicated. "Is their sufficient room for a passenger?"

"Yes, of course.  Just let me move some things to make room.  Should I bring it here, or can your fellows with the stretcher get through?  I haven't hitched up the mule yet."

Here, Stéphane looked up, just slightly. "I can walk. I will walk." He would rather walk. The idea of being carried on a stretcher was a shade too degrading, even after what he'd just inflicted on them.

"They can manage," Montreuil replied, before Bertrand or the lazy bastard who was with him had a chance to say otherwise. To Proulx he added sharply, "You will not."

*

Mathilde, meanwhile, had pulled away from her mother and gone hurrying after Marie-Eve. "Can I ride with you today?" she asked, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I can help with Rémy-Jean or that man or - or anything you want."

Something in Stéphane's expression hardened. Any other time, he would have bowed to the command but he was feeling just a little too contentious to submit so quietly. He gazed at the surgeon for a long moment before shifting, albeit awkwardly, to his knees and thence to his feet. It was very difficult to manage this without using his hands and the movement was thus slow and unsteady, but he made it.

"The wagon is where?"

"Don't tell me you're blind as well as stupid?" the surgeon retorted. But the man had been walking for three days, a few more steps was hardly going to make a difference. Turning to Bertrand and his assistant, he jerked his head in the direction Bellot's wife had gone and, abandoning the stretcher, they moved to follow her.

"Of course you can ride with me, sweetheart," Marie-Eve said to Mathilde as they walked to the wagon. "Though there's no cover for shade like your wagon. Here, you can help me move these things to make space for him to lie down. Lord help us, he's trying to walk. Just like Rosy! Men."

Without a word, Stéphane walked, just a trifle stiffly, in the direction the surgeon indicated. The bastard. Of course, once he reached the wagon, he realised there was a new problem. Namely, how to get into the thing without using his hands.

Bertrand climbed up into the cart, glancing doubtfully from Gagnon, the assistant to the injured man. He sure was a big bastard, wasn't he? "Foucheaux!," he called, "Give us a hand, yeah? Gagnon, get up here."

"Oh. Maybe he can stand on a box," Marie-Eve suggested, though she could not see one suitable as she glanced around the immediate vicinity.



"Nah, we can get him up," Foucheaux replied, though he was not exactly sure how.