June 2(?) - Foraging

"Alright, you may turn him onto his side again," instructed Montreuil after what felt like half an age. He had done what he could for that particular wound. Fate would decide the rest. Moving on, he examined the man's legs, but found only superficial cuts and contusions, much like those on his forearms. His feet, Montreuil noticed with a weary sigh, were another matter entirely. The boy's toenails appeared to have been extracted.

Looking up to retrieve the necessary supplies, he noticed that the soldat had stripped out of his coat and draped it over the young man, perhaps to preserve his dignity – what was left of it – or as a measure against the chill which still lingered in the early summer nights or both.

"You might have spared your coat," he said dryly, bending close over his work, "My sensibilities are not so Spartan that I do not possess blankets."

Saint-Hilaire kept his uninjured eye closed. He felt the burning sensation where the surgeon worked on his toes, but it only mixed with the pain of his other injuries. He was slipping in and out of consciousness again, shivering with cold until someone had covered him with a coat. This made it somewhat better, and he sighed.

"..Thank you..."He whispered not sure whether the man was still there or not, not sure if he was thanking only the man for his coat,, or also the surgeon for his help. Be it that the surgeon's duty was just that. Making soldiers better or at best, trying to.

The sound of approaching footsteps ceased, replaced instead by a low whistle. Montreuil did not need to look up to see who it was. "Before you speak," he cut the other man off sharply, "Think very, very carefully."

Bertrand's eyebrows shot up and he closed his mouth, more from surprise than any characteristic obedience. He gave Kerjean a questioning look, then shrugged when the other soldier simply glanced pointedly at the bandaged figure on the ground.

"Stay where you are," Montreuil snapped at Kerjean, who had begun to rise in order to fetch a blanket. "Betrand can do that. It's what I paid him for."

"Paid?" Bertrand gaped at the surgeon.

"You have a grasp of the perfect tense, how fortunate. Now. Get to work and perhaps I will consider revising the aspect of that particular verb. You can start by bringing this man a blanket."

Rosseau stood alongside in silence. He'd quite forgotten what he had come here for, other than to see what he had heard could've been either truth or lie. Well it proved to be truth that this one was still alive at least. He was not missing limbs however, so he'd have to correct whoever came up with that one. Not that many yet did, seeing as he was freshly arrived.

Saint-Hilaire breathed in sharply and shifted his head a little. He opened his eye slowly blinking at the sound of a whistle which had died down an instant the surgeon spoke. He strained to see the new face and gave up. It took too much effort to move so why bother. He mumbled something first then made it more clear the next try:"Evening." Politely, bizzare for the situation though.

Bertrand shuffled around to the back of the wagon, grumbling furiously about blankets and several far less edifying things, and nearly jumped out of his skin at the sight of someone lurking in the shadows there. "Rousseau!" he exclaimed, lowering the lantern he carried, "What the hell are you doing? Trying to kill me?"

"Bertrand!" barked Montreuil, "Last I was aware, none of our coverings were blessed with the faculty of speech!"

"It's Rousseau, sir!" Bertrand protested, "He was skulking back behind the wagon."

Rousseau cursed Bertrand. "Should have kept your mouth shut, stupid." He cursed quietly and straightened up. No use pretending he was not there now, was it. Not when discovered. "'scuse me.. sir."

"Monsieur Rousseau," called Montreuil, finishing off dressing one of the lad's feet and moving on to the other, "Are you unwell?" His tone implied that he was more than willing to reverse the man's condition should it prove otherwise.

".. Sir." Rousseau hadn't really been ill, though he was thinking there was a distinct uncomfortable itch behind his left ear it was nothing to worry about. That, and a skim of skin on his elbow would hardly amuse the surgeon, if he offered it as an excuse.

"I'm quite well sir. Thank you." He answered cheekily, knowing best to keep his distance now! "How is the man you've been tending to?" He asked then, innocently.

Voyeuristic son of a... It was taking every bit of the surgeon's self-discipline to keep his mounting anger from effecting his work. "That, Rousseau," he said, his voice unnaturally quiet, "Is none of your goddamn concern. Now... what is your purpose here? Out with it!"

"I was jus' passing by, sir. Been itching to tell you all's well with our newly recovered." He was lying, most certainly. "And to see how this one is. The boys are worried. They heard he had it bad. Couldn't you tell me something to calm their nerves? Will he live?" He was as innocent as before, feeding his own curiosity really. "What did they do to him?"

"Their concern is heartwarming," remarked Montreuil acidly. He did not speak again until he had finished dressing the boy's other foot.

"However." He rose, wiping bloody hands on his apron, and began advancing on Rousseau, "If our emperor's little war is so insufficient to your appetites that you must needs come here to sate yourself, I'm afraid the only recommendation I can offer is first hand experience, a matter in which, I do not doubt, the Portuguese would be only too happy to oblige you. Now—" his voice had risen in a slow crescendo until, despite the closing distance, he was nearly shouting, "Get out of my sight."

While the patient stirred at the harsh tone, awake again and aware that something was going on, Rousseau looked ready to run the other way with the assault of words.

"Sir.." There was one thing he definitly did not want to ever experience in his life, and it was almost like calling bad luck by suggesting so, so that the man might have become somewhat paler at that. "Did not mean that.." And then without another word, very much happy to oblige the menacing surgeon the man turned about. He had quite a fast pace when he gained distance between himself, the surgeon, his wagon and his patient.

The injured man - Saint-Hilaire - observed what he could. Perhaps he did not say it, but he was grateful for what had just happened.

Much better. "Bertrand," he called, turning back to the others, "Wipe that smirk off your face and make yourself useful." Reluctantly the younger man complied and began the process of cleaning and packing up the tools and supplies while the surgeon mixed a draught for the patient. "Drink," Montreuil commanded, kneeling beside the boy and holding another small cup to his lips.

Saint-Hilaire responded after a momentary pause. Parting his lips he sipped at the contents until the cup was empty. Once so, he tilted his head just a bit, so that the surgeon would know as well - though he probably had even before that.

He did not ask what it was. Whatever it was, a poison or for healing, he did not really care. If it was poison, like the one he was offered by that Portuguese lass, then it would end his misery quicker, if it was for healing or for pain relief, it was bound to feel good anyway. And if it was just water.. it did not matter either. He only waited to see whether the surgeon wanted more from him, and shivered some, as he still felt rather cold, though his skin was probably warmer to touch. It was dark now, but his eye has somewhat adapted to the darkness so, although he could see little, he could still make out shapes and silhuettes, which was more than when he had stared in the lantern first.

"Bertrand, get the stretcher from the wagon, if you please. Kerjean, help him shift the boy onto the pallet. That's it, now lift him into the wagon." He ought, Montreuil thought, get some fluids into the young man, if he remained conscious. However, he was fairly certain he had used up the remaining fresh water in treating the boy and a closer inspection soon revealed this to indeed be the case. "Bertrand!" he snapped, as though his assistant was the cause of the current dearth of resources, "We are out of water."

"So?" Bertarnd bristled, but the surgeon's expression discouraged protest and, grumbling loudly, he headed off.

Montreuil shook his head. Sometimes he wondered why he employed that boy. "You still here, Kerjean?" he demanded of the shadow hovering in his peripheral vision.

"Yes, sir." The rising intonation of the reply made it sound more like a question. The surgeon shook his head once more. "Go get some sleep, Paol."

"Yes, sir."

Saint-Hilaire lay quietly where he had been lifted and moved. He was not awake for the most part though at times a snippet of conversation did reach his exhausted mind. He heard a name again, spoken. Kerjean. One who has helped and assisted and though it could have meant nothing, he tried and remember it.

He tried to shift, but gave up on it. They were all to go an rest now. Paol Kerjean would. The other might bring something. Water. Why? To tend to the other prisoners.. no.. injured. He was no longer a prisoner and had not to forget that.

"Ker..." He began hoarsely and stopped again, exhaling heavily and then whimpering a little, dazed.