June 1 - Surgeon's Wagon

Pye looked at Sykes and shrugged. "Jus'... bear with it. I have t'." With that he glared at the assistant and shuffled closer to the injured man. He tugged a fold of bandages free from the small pile, checked that it was a clean one, and then laid it on his knee.

He moved forward to tug the man's pantleg away from his thigh, using the tear to the best of his advantage. He hoped Sykes would not dare attack him, while he had a Frenchman as witness.

He bit his lip and used the palm of his hand and his free working fingers to wait at the side which would need less stress and less finger work. "Jus' keep yer mouth shut." He warned as he prepared himself to begin.

The youngest grasshopper had been shepherded away to the surgeon, Montreuil, according to a couple of men loitering near Bright's fire. There were a few redcoats enjoying Montreuil's tender care as well. What had become of the crippled greenjacket, Bright didn't know or care. It was the young one with the mangled hand who interested him most.

He stayed near his fire until his dinner had been cooked and eaten, then he collected his musket and went for a walk. There was an opportunity to create a division between prisoners. He could sense it. A lack of solidarity on their part meant a lack of headaches on the captors' part. Comparatively.

"What's all this?" Bright ambled toward the surgeon's wagon, his musket slung casually from one shoulder. The baby grasshopper was busily tending to a sour-faced redcoat. This was certainly interesting. And something he could very likely use to his own advantage, if he was smart about it.

It was Bright again. Pye knew he should be civil, though he wished he could put his tongue to good use. But deciding to be sensible and now more careful what he would say in the company of a man who understood English perfectly he answered a short: "... the injured bein' tended to." What did it look like? He tried to sound pleasant, but neutral.

"Almost done." No lie in that.

Sykes had gone rigid, but other than a fervent curse, he offered no resistance; the Frenchman’s unspoken threat was quite clear in that respect. So focused was he on resisting the impulse to physically retaliate, that he almost ignored the new voice which joined them. There was, however, something familiar about it and raising his eyes, he half expected to see one of the riflemen, but his dread was unfounded; it was just another Frog. He dropped his gaze, only to look up sharply in belated recognition. “Bright?”

Hearing his name spoken by the wounded redcoat set Bright back a little. He peered closer at the man then shook his head. "Sykes."

Imagine that. "Been a while, yeah?"

“You could say that.” Sykes shook his head in disbelief. “Didn’t figure on seein’ you again this side o’ hell, that’s sure.”

They knew each other? Pye froze. They sounded like pals and though he did have a bad opinion of Bright's character earlier now his mangled hand was withdrawn to his chest protectively, the moment he had finished - and rather ever more gently - than before. He'd applied enough force to the bandage though, so that it would not slip up the moment Sykes moved.

He sat up on his knees, gazing at bright and then Sykes trying to do his best to look at ease about their appearing 'companionship'. Great, of all the French camps, they were prisoners of war in this one. "..Done, Sykes.." He murmured quietly.

Bright smirked. "A bit further from it than your lot, anyways. Didn't know you was close mates with grasshoppers, though. Anybody else from the old mob here'bouts?"

“I ain’t,” Sykes retorted, ignoring as best he could both the boy and the implication he was trying to make. Damn it all, he should have seen that coming.

“Ain’t many o’ that lot still breathin’,” he mused in answer to Bright’s question, “If they got captured, I ain’t seen ‘em. Though, Dunbar up an’ disappeared a while back. He never made it to your lot, did he?”

It appeared to the lad that Sykes would , could be easily persuaded to come to the side of his friend. It was no surprise to the lad that Sykes could have such a traitorous friend. Keeping his mouth shut and holding his tongue however, Pye sat beside the man quietly, staring at the wound that he had just bandaged.

Dunbar. Bright thought for a moment before shaking his head. "If he's crossed over, I ain't seen him. Seen Rooney though. Still's cross as ever, him."

He glanced at the studiously quiet greenjacket and curled his lip. "What're you meant t'be doin' now, then, infant?"

Pye lifted his gaze and gave a grunt of protest: "Ain't infant." Before relenting into a quieter. " I'm ter be taken back t' me own."

There was something else, that he had thought with Le Bras about, but he certainly did not want to mention it infront of this man, nor to this man. The sooner he was safer in numbers, the better. Even then, he did not trust Bright to be any better than Sykes had been. But better speak calm and semi-friendly, than with an obvious distrust.

Sykes laughed at that, or started to. It bloody hurt. “I’ll bet he is,” he managed hoarsely, after a moment.

Turning to glare pointedly at the green-jacket, he snapped, “So start bloody walking.” It wasn’t as though the Frogs would let him go long without an escort.

Madame Bellot approached the surgeon's wagon and saw one of the 86e with a wounded prisoner. They did not seem to be waiting for the surgeon, but they appeared to be having a leisurely conversation. She was surprised to hear them speaking English, and she realized with distaste that it was Bright. She disliked and distrusted the man. "Where's Monsieur Montreuil? Is he free and is he somewhere hereabouts? I need to speak with him," she said in purposefully rapid French. Let the stupid rosbif figure it out.

Hearing his name spoken, Montreuil heaved a sigh. Now what? He gave his hands a cursory wipe on his apron and then made his way to the other side of the wagon. "Ah. Madame Bellot," he greeted her, his annoyance fading somewhat. "What can I do for you?"

Her thoughts about Bright were immediately forgotten. She rushed toward the surgeon and held out her son who was gazing about peacefully. "Monsieur Montreuil, Rémy-Jean's head was hurt. It was a week ago," she began, all maternal anxiety again.

Taking the child, Montreuil examined it critically. "Was it, indeed? What was the nature of the injury?"

If that was the only thing this baby grasshopper was good for, it didn't speak much for the vaunted Rifle regiments, did it?

"Cut along, then," Bright seconded. "One of those lads there'll take you back to your mates." Or whatever they were.

He shook his head and added, "Dunno what you stayed behind for, fella. Seems you ain't done well t'all."

"..I'd like t' see.... LeBras ter it, first." Pye shot back, without much meaning to. He disliked Bright, he loathed Sykes, but ...well, maybe he just had a good reason for it. Now, what was it again? "... Need t' speak with'im.. 'bout us." Food, shelter, something that was none of Bright's and Sykes' business.

Marie-Eve briefly explained her son's injuries and subsequent treatment at the hands of a British veterinarian, but she was distracted by the conversation behind her. "I don't like that man," she said with narrowed eyes, referring to Bright. "Do you think the English women are safe with the 86e guarding them?"

“Eh,” Sykes shrugged one shoulder, “I’ve had worse. ‘Sides, been doin’ well enough for meself ‘till jus’ recently. Run o' bad luck is all."

*

Montreuil glanced up at her, frowning skeptically, “As safe as they would be with any other regiment, I should expect.” He returned his attention to his miniature patient. Despite his misgivings about English physicians, he had to admit that the child seemed well enough.

*

Le Bras slouched back towards the surgeon’s wagon. The boy was sitting back from the redcoat, so presumably he was finished with his task, but who knew with Montreuil. Giving the assistant a questioning look, he received a curt nod. That was good enough for him. “Hey, grasshopper!” he called, waving the boy towards him.

Pye got to his feet. Grasshopper was a much nicer nickname to be called by, than infant. He gave the man a short nod, glanced at Skyes. He'd do alright without him for a long while. Though he would not mind, probably, to tend to him just because Sykes hated so much as to see him there. Get his own back.

Nevermind that however. He dusted his knees, where the dirt had stuck, gave a short: "...Leavin' fer now." With a faint emphasis on the latter. He quickened his pace towards Le Bras. Better him than Bright. "M' here." He murmured and then added: "...That blackguard is.. stayin' live. "

Bad luck. Bright smirked. "I'd reckon s'fair bad luck, innit? Well. Better'n bein' stone dead an' all. Want a bit of scoff 'fore this lot get to it?"

He paid no mind to the greenjacket once Le Bras had appeared to take charge of him.

His forehead creased briefly in surprise, but there was only ever one answer to that question. Sykes grinned, “D’you even gotta ask?”

No, he thought. He certainly didn't. Sykes tended to think more with his stomach than his brain. Either of them, Bright amended.

"Reckoned as much. Need a hand up? Best cookin' fire's some ways off."