June 2(?) - Foraging

Saint-Hilaire hissed in pain, struggling for a moment longer and then slumping back against Paol. His breathing was shallow but commenced in rapid gulps of air.

His hands were balled into tight fists, knuckles white and gripping at the fabric as if he wished to tear it. He squeezed his eyes shut. What he muttered next was probably a colourful curse against the Portuguese, though part of it was muffled.

"..Easy there. s' he mad?" It was a curious sight, not often seen. Paol carried a man over his shoulder, like one would... well perhaps the scene was not as uncommon. The broad Frenchman studied the youngest of the group. "Weren't you meant to go foraging?...This better not be the rabbit you got."

A sizeable beast as it was, the 'rabbit' was too human for his tastes, and he smelled funny.

"Ought to drop 'im at our surgeon." The man did not look familiar, so he had to have belonged to one of the other regiments or at the very least, had gone unnoticed before. "s' our own, is he?"

"So he says," replied Paol without slackening his pace. The man had a point, though; he could find their own surgeon faster than he could that of the 17e.

"Well, keep him under guard till someone can confirm him as our own." Though, how far an injured man like that could run, needed no speculation. The stranger was only as vigorous now, because of his fear. But even with that his strength were rapidly diminishing and what might have been a strong struggle before, would now have been insomuch as a gentle shove.

"Good luck." He indicated with his thumb where the surgeon's wagon had been left for the night. "Come 'round later to tell us what you've learnt!"

The man slumped a bit across the other's shoulder. He understood them perfectly, which was no surprise. He was French and though telling a white lie or two, he was their own and neither English, nor Portuguese.

If only the journey to the surgeon had not felt like it took them a century. If only his body had not ached as if set on fire, and if only he had had both eyes to see. But none of that could be changed. He was understanding now that he was safe and with his own. No Portuguese would be as skilled in the French language, nor English. He knew he had much to answer for and later... he would.

Montreuil's wagon was easy enough to find, though of the surgeon himself, there was no immediate sign. As carefully as he could, Paol eased the injured man to the ground. "Wait here." It was a stupid thing to say, he realized belatedly; the boy was hardly in any condition to go wandering off.

"Sir?" he called, moving around to the other side of the wagon.

"Are you looking for me?" Montreuill asked, not bothering to look up from inventory of the medicine chest.

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. There's a man hurt real bad, sir. We found him in the woods. Looks like Portuguese have been at him, sir."

Montreuil grimaced and looked up from his crates. "Where is he?"

"Just here, sir," replied Paol, leading him back around the wagon.

Montreuil followed Kerjean and frowned down at the injured man. "Well, young man. What happened here?"

True to the order or perhaps because the young soldier could really not move, Saint-Hilaire remained in the exact spot that he was left in. He had not even moved his arms, and only tilted his head a little so that it did not rest in dirt where there was an injury, and even then it was a faint effort.

He squinted his good eye when he saw there be a shadow cast across him and he heard a voice speak, still in belated French. He struggled briefly to bring himself upwards, but with his back protesting vehemently, his shirt filthy and clinging in places, he gave up on that and slumped back against the ground. "Greetin'..sir."

He was more successful in speech, though even as he spoke his voice was anything but completely normal. "...Portug...their hospitality." He spoke, his voice cracking. He jerked and forced himself to concentrate. He opened his mouth to continue, and give a report of the damage..but halted instead. The surgeon knew better what he saw. But he hoped to warn him if he were to attempt removing his shirt. Begg him to be slow and careful. There were worse injuries concealed under that fabric.

Disappearing once again behind the wagon, Montreuil returned moments later with the requisite materials. "Kerjean. Sit him up, if you please," he said, kneeling beside the ragged form. "Be prepared to restrain him, if necessary." Carefully Montreuil pulled the fabric of the shirt away from the boy's skin and began to cut up the back from waist to collar, peeling back both sides once he had done to expose the wounds on the lad's back.

Étienne struggled at first when being made to get up and chose a somewhat awkward position, where he was trying to kneel, but at the same time withdraw any pressure he had on his cut leg. He braced himself, knowing that the removal of the shirt would come, that it was necessary, but knowing just how awful it would hurt.

Beneath the fabric, once it was begun to be removed, a rather unpleasant smell did grow stronger. The smell reminded somewhat of something that had been burnt rather than cooked. And the man, without meaning to, after a great effort not to move, a greater effort to bear it silently, had made a some struggle when the shirt was being peeled from the damaged skin. His breaths were shallow and fast, his knuckles white, and his one eye squinted tightly shut. He was trembling though this too he did not mean to do.

The small bit of effort placed in the struggle clearly indicated that he only did so, because he could not help himself at times, and that the pain was that great. He opened his mouth to speak, but shut it back up quickly not trusting himself, nor his voice. He felt faint but even then tried to remain awake as if falling asleep would mean his death now.

"Hospitality, indeed," muttered the surgeon. Shifting position, he eased the shirt off completely and continued his examination in silence. Upon conclusion, he rose, repairing once more to the wagon. Up, down, up, down, back and forth... he was getting too old for this. Where had that smirking brat, Bertrand got to, anyway? He kept him on precisely for that reason. Montreuil shook his head. Useless.

"Drink this," he commanded, returning and pressing a small cup to the boy's lips, "All of it." It would help with the pain, though loss of consciousness would be more merciful still.

Saint-Hilaire did not need to be told twice. His trust in the surgeon was so great, that perhaps he could have given him poison, and he would not care but to drink it. Perhaps dying would not have been such a bad option after all. He paused, shook his head to answer his thoughts, but then hastly parted his lips to drink from the cup. He got himself this far, he ought not to give up now, even if only in mind. The taste was not as pleasant as he could have hoped for, but he worked against that until the small container was completely empty.

He nodded with the confidence he did not have. "Drunk it, sir." He murmured softly. Was this against pain or used for a different reason which would protect him against the very possible infection? Whatever the surgeon gave him or would still give him, he would drink it and see.

With a grunted acknowledgement, the surgeon took back the cup. If nothing else, Montreuil allowed, the young man appeared to have a firm grasp of the obvious. He knelt once more behind the boy and set to work cleaning and dressing the burned surface of the lad's back.

The useable light was nearly gone from the sky when he finished and Montreuil silently cursed the fact; he hated to work by artificial light. "Set him down on his side and fetch me a lantern," he snapped at the soldat who, after easing the young man to the ground, obediently unfolded himself and went in search of the requested light source.

"Try to the right of the—"

"Got it, sir," the call came back, followed a moment later by the soldat, lantern in hand. He dropped to the ground opposite Montreuil and held out the lantern so that it illuminated the injuries to the boy's chest. "Closer," the surgeon ordered, tugging the hand holding the lantern to the optimal position, "There. And for Christ's sake keep it steady." He noticed that the soldat kept one hand resting on the boy's arm, though whether for reassurance or as a preemptive measure should the lad struggle, Montreuil did not bother to speculate, focusing his attention instead on the laceration that stretched across the boy's chest.

Saint-Hilaire looked resigned. During the session with his back he had several times come close to loosing all awareness of where he was and perhaps might have lost his consciousness as well. He jerked awake again and then would stare at something or other, his teeth gritted, hands flexing and knuckles white when the pressure was given to them. When his fists unfolded half moon shaped marks remained where nails dug in.

He struggled to make as little sound, and was grateful for the drink he received. It was, he supposed, to relieve some of the pain. Still, it could not change the fact that his back was burned and that anything touching it again, would ache something awful.

He blinked when laid on his side, stared up at the surgeon as if confused what was to be done now. Since it was not his injured shoulder that he rested on, he made little protest. "..I .."He whispered and grew quiet again. He blinked at Montreuil. "am sorry it takes..." And he was again quiet for a few moments as if struggling to find the right word." takes.. so long."He winced again and looked as exhausted about it as he was. He kept tilting his head so that he could see the man, his one eye straining for the benefit of two.

"Shut up," said Montreuil matter-of-factly, "And stop moving." Tying off the bandage covering the puncture wound to the lad's shoulder, the surgeon once more reached for the lantern and dragged it so that it shone into the boy's face, throwing into sudden detail the gash across the face and the empty socket where his eye had once been. Placing his hand behind the boy's head, as much to support it as to prevent him from pulling away, Montreuil reached forward to deal with those wounds.

Easier said than done. It hurt. And it was not hurting any less. And though he was patient before at best, and the drink he had been given aided him some, he was starting to get less so now. Or perhaps just more in pain and alarm.

He tried to pull back when Montreuil reached for where the eye used to be. It was almost as if afraid that the man might decide to take his other eye with the first. He pulled back again, weak but stubborn. Ever since being told not to speak, he held true to the order. His healthy eye blinked rapidly and his breathing had become somewhat quicker and more shallow.

"He's just cleaning it," Paol said softly, feeling rather like an idiot for opening his mouth at all, "Your – where your eye was. Just some water and cloth, that's all." The surgeon may have been using some other substance as well, but he could not tell in the dark, nor would daylight would have yielded any revelations; it could have been magic for all Paol knew about medicine.

Suppressing a shudder, he tried to better position the lantern, though there was really no good angle for the work Montreuil was currently doing. A dull, burning ache was beginning to spread through his arm, reminding Paol strangely of the training depot—a lifetime ago—and holding a musket straight-armed out in front of himself for a seeming eternity. He could no longer remember if it had been some sort of exercise or a punishment, though, knowing him, the latter was more likely.

Once he had dressed the wounds to the boy's face, Montreuil made a cursory examination of the arms. That they had been ill used was clear, but the cuts and bruises were more consistent with the sort of injuries one might sustain from the less forgiving forms of local flora or the more predatory laws of physics. Most of them were negligible and none serious, but he dealt with them anyway. In the unlikely event that none of the other injuries killed the boy, Montreuil had no intention of losing him to irony.

Étienne looked apologetic towards Paol. The man was trying to help and so did the surgeon. He was stalling by trying to pull away and thus taking the other soldier's time as well. As a lieutenant he might have been permitted to be selfish, but he was just too grateful for being saved, helped and protected. It was perhaps also not in his nature, even if his rank might have allowed it and.. he had lied as to being a common soldier when earlier he was not certain that they were the enemy or friend. Now he may have felt safer but he did not feel yet to reveal all.

He flinched still when told of his no longer existing eye. It was something to loose a finger, gain a new cut and quite another thing to loose half his sight. He opened his mouth and then shut it again. He raised his arms as best he could, though lowered the one very quickly, on which the shoulder bore injury.

"Will.. I live, sir?" He hesitated a few moments before adding, and here he dared speak, though he felt tired." After this...?" And would he keep all his limbs? He guessed he should, though a cut could too often get bad and this worried him too.

"Perhaps," replied Montreuil unhelpfully. He was not in the habit of making false promises. Shifting position once more he set to work on the boy's lower extremities, cutting away the trousers in much the same fashion as he had the shirt.

"Perhaps not...?" He winced and tensed when his trousers were being cut and he wanted to pull away again, this time his hands came to his trousers or what was left of them."...What will I wear?.." He said hesitantly, though the reason for his protest lay elsewhere.