June 1 - Surgeon's Wagon

"An' you lot shoulda laid of t' riflemen!" He hissed, placing his shako back on his head. "None'o it would'a happened if your lot stuck their noses outta other people's business!"

"N' don't ya dare do any of it 'fter we're back with t' Brits. Or I will have your hide." He threatened, but smartly kept his injured hand well away from the man.

Sykes' expression drew into a sneer and he spat at the green-jacket.

"....." Pye stared at Sykes in shock. He wiped the spit from his cheek, still coloured from the bruising that Sykes caused when he tied him to that tree. Suddenly he pushed up and he jumped at the man, throwing his leg over him, so that he sat himself across his chest while his good hand punched at Sykes' face, at his nose and then went for his neck. "You're a bastardly coward! No bloody wonder you were a provost. Too effin' frightened to face the real enemy. Could only pick on unarmed men, weak from hunger!" He hissed through gritted teeth.

“No!” was all Sykes managed to get out before the boy dropped his body weight onto his chest. Pain exploded in his left side. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think; he barely felt the blows raining down on his face. His vision swam as he felt blindly for the green-jacket’s injured hand. He had to make it stop.

“Hey!” exclaimed LeBras, hurrying over. Up until that moment he had thought the boy was quietly tending an injured comrade. But the current scene shattered that assumption. He grabbed for the boy’s collar, meaning to haul him off. “What do you do?” he demanded.

Pye jerked up, startled as a hand suddenly grasped and successfully found his collar and a shadow passed over them both. He twisted around, glaring at Le Bras. It took him a moment to recognise the man.

His raised fist unclenched and with a few sharp breaths he calmed himself enough to speak. "....He was slippin' away....Like dead so. ...I stopped 'im." Though perhaps he should tell him the truth?

Le Bras frowned down at the young grasshopper, whom he had let drop roughly in the dirt. “Do I look like a fool?” he asked sternly, “Why do you do that?”

Pye sat up, dusting himself. "...It's him." He pointed at Sykes. ".... He is t' one who..." He rubbed the back of his head. "... he did it." At very last he lifted his bruised and battered hand. "...I won't kill him." He added simply and sat back, pulling his legs close to him.

"Oh." Le Bras looked in disgust at the prone figure on the ground and shrugged. If that was the case, he would have happily let the boy carry on, but at that moment, the surgeon, having broken off his tending of Turcat, burst into view, shouting in animated French. Le Bras attempted to explain the situation, but the surgeon was having none of it.

"He says," translated Le Bras, "That he does not care if the man.... ****ed your sister. You must not hurt his patients."

"Wasn't the only one was doin' the hurting." The boy changed tact. "....I'll be.. delighted to make amends...and tend to his injuries." his eyes narrowed on Sykes. He then looked at Le Bras: "Tell him that." He paused. "An... I'd want t' talk to you 'bout....'bout that other thing."

Ignoring the snarling protest from the man on the ground, Le Bras relayed the offer to Montreuil and the surgeon seemed to listen, though in fact there was no need. His English was excellent, but he preferred to keep that hidden. Prisoners were more likely to talk if they thought they could not be understood. And so, he had understood the grasshopper's words, nor had the look he gave the other man escaped him.

He approached until he stood before the lad, peering critically into his face. Then, without warning, cuffed him roughly across the side of the head. "Tell him," he snapped at Le Bras, "That he will do just as he says. And if the man's condition worsens, he will suffer likewise."

Le Bras waited until the surgeon had returned to his work before letting out a low whistle. In his broken English, he translated Montreiul's words for Pye, then recalling what the lad had said, asked, "What other thing?"

Pye was still nursing his new bruise when Le Bras translated the surgeon's words. So... he agreed. Only.. he would not be allowed to hurt the bastard. Or, rather, he would not be allowed to see him get worse, but what the taking care of him was concerned. It could hurt more, or less.

He nodded curtly at the order. "...Fine. I will." He eyed Sykes and grinned at him."... You'll get all better." Anybody who had a choice to say no to that, would probably have been very inclined to do so."

"..may we speak private? 'fore t' surgeon sees me?"

“Yes,” answered Le Bras, frowning in puzzlement as he drew the lad a short distance off, “What is it?”

Sykes watched them until they had moved off, then shut his eyes. During the struggle, he had slipped down until only his head rested against the wheel of the cart, but uncomfortable as it was, he didn’t try to reposition himself. Even the shallowest breath sent pain shooting through his chest. The ache in his leg and the new injuries to his face were beginning to register as well. And now that bloody Frog surgeon was going to let the boy tend him? Sykes felt suddenly dangerously close to laughing and bit down hard on his lip to stop himself. If he was going to make it out of this, he had to keep it together.

"..Sir." He began, though he suspected Le Bras as being nothing but a simple private. "....If.... I was perchance t' mean t'.....t'. go, cross .." He bit his lip. " Change.. there.... , what would I need to do?" He studied the man. "Look 'ere... I've got nothin' left there. Nobody back 'ome. Not really. No fortune left behind. " He grew silent with that thought.

“You say....” Le Bras hesitated, the gravity of what the lad was saying penetrating even his natural levity, “You want to leave the English? To join us?”

"...hmm." The boy nodded sharply. He knew at last that this was no longer just a plan in his head. He had taken a step towards making it a reality. A reality he might regret if the plan fails. He hoped he would have more luck this time. His life depended on it.

"Er....well, you need to talk to an officer about that, I think," offered Le Bras awkwardly, not entirely sure how to react. He liked the boy and part of him was delighted that he should think to join them, but he could not help but feel a certain degree of mistrust and regret that the lad should be willing to betray his own.

"...I see. " It was hard. Even now he felt that he was betraying himself, even if all of it was a lie. He felt he was betraying this Frog, for which he should not have cared a dime, but Le Bras did prove friendly, even if the enemy.

He bit his lip. "If I do ...conclude this in such fashion may I..." Was it really so hard, even when he did not mean to change sides? "I'd like to still see that my friends are...treated fairly even as prisoners." He felt wretched. He did not care a rats .. bottom about nations and the greater good. But, all the same the people his loyalty was given to, who had earned his trust, all those men in the rifles, his friends and the captain. He could not see himself betraying them. He owed them as much, he owed the King a flayed back and nothing else. Did these thoughts make it any easier? Hardly.

So the boy did have friends. Le Bras' face hardened. "That will not be your decision. If you join, they cannot be your friends. They are the enemy. Do you still choose to join?"

".. even the enemy ought to be treated fairly." He replied , trying to keep his mind on this one thing. If he succeeded ...he had to do it, or else Newbury would starve himself to death, and Cotton could never see his Maggie again. He had to.

"..They will.. be considered as.. such. No more than that." He promised and tried to sound as if he meant it. Yes, he was certain now he could never desert to the other side. It did not feel right. "If you need proof,.. I would be willing to give it."

"Save if for the officers," said Le Bras shortly, a note of disgust creeping into his voice. Then, relenting, he spoke more gently, "I will speak to my sergeant about how such things are done. For now, you wait." He nodded towards the surgeon, who was regarding them impatiently, "It is best not to make Montreuil wait."

"I'm sorry." Pye flinched and lowered his gaze. Submissively he turned towards the wagon in which the surgeon awaited him. He looked back at Le Bras briefly. He did not understand why the sudden change. The man felt more hostile now than when they were both openly enemies.

Timid, like a mutt whose master had used nothing but pain to keep it detained, he walked further and then, seeing the surgeon so stopped. He waited patiently though he made no move to show his hand or to follow with revealing any further injuries he might have had.

"State your injuries," demanded the sullen faced young man who assisted the surgeon.

"Broken fingers. Bruising.. .on my ...here..." He moved his good hand to point at his belly and chest. "Ache there." Though he doubted anything was broken. He did not mention a bruise and cut on the back of his head where he'd struck a tree. Not really something a surgeon could help with. But the fingers needed to be tended to, for fear they might never heal well. "I dunno else.." He mumbled.

Rolling his eyes, the assistant relayed the information to Montreuil who, without ceremony, lifted up the lad's shirt, probing the indicated areas for signs of broken bones. The fabric was pulled up enough to offer Le Bras a glimpse of the scars crisscrossing the lad's back and the Frenchman grimaced, muttering something under his breath about 'Les Anglais'.

When Montreuil was satisfied that nothing was broken, he let the shirt fall and turned his attention to the boy's fingers. Unwrapping the dressings, he examined them with the same brutal efficiency he did everything else, careful to avoid damaging, but not to avoid pain. He was still deeply angry with the boy and if he was rougher than usual, it troubled his conscience not at all.

Pye grit his teeth. He was stubbornly quiet even when the probing caused discomfort and eventually pain. It appeared worst when Montreuil decided to unwrap his fingers. Blood dried and made the cloth stick to the wound. This eventually made the removing of it somewhat awkward and a good sharp tug had it free but at a cost. He breathed in sharply and pursed his lips tight together.

He observed the man while his attention was on his forefinger. It had to be properly set again. Pye had fallen onto his hand when fighting. The fabric kept it relatively in place, but it was nowhere near perfect. He wondered what Le Bras was saying. There was a soft muttering with a mention of Anglais, and this Pye supposed were the English.

"..Will they heal.. ok, sir? So I can fire again?" He asked quietly trying to keep strain and pain from his voice.