June 2(?) - Foraging

"Set the lantern down – there – and take his wrists, if you please," Montreuil told the soldat calmly, ignoring the first question. Even in the lad's weakened condition, the surgeon had a feeling that he might still need to be more forcefully restrained than had hitherto been necessary if his injuries were of the kind that Montreuil suspected. "As for your clothing," he continued, addressing the boy this time, all the while carefully cutting through the material; it was trickier near the waist. "I'm sure some substitute can be found until you are returned to your own regiment."

Saint-Hilaire grit his teeth. It was his hesitation that enabled the progress at cutting his trousers at that moment, for he was torn between gripping at the fabric to pull it and keep it, while his reasonable side warned him that this was a surgeon and he was wiser if he was to allow the man to finish his work there. It did ache and he was just as exhausted if not more, as he had been moments ago. His arms inched towards the fabric quite slowly, aware that they could be taken captive by the other soldat.

"It is..." But he bit tongue before he lied about everything being fine. Concealing an injury would be his undoing, concealing any cut might end with that very cut becoming infected and then he would die for his stupidity. he leaned back just a little, craning his neck to see, not just feel, what the surgeon was doing. Hie trousers were almost no more.

Waiting only until Kerjean had secured the boy's wrists, Montreuil methodically peeled away the pieces of cloth and proceeded to examine the exposed flesh. As the surgeon had suspected, the young man had suffered a wound to his genitals, though the damage appeared to be fortuitously minimal. Had it been more extensive, the boy would likely never have survived the loss of blood. There was also a partially healed wound to the back of his thigh, consistent with damage from a blade of some sort. Residual blood around the area of the buttocks suggested further, though not immediately threatening injuries as well.

Montreuil's frown contracted into a grim line, and shifting the lantern, he set to work, beginning with the anterior wounds.

Saint-Hilaire appeared for the first time to want to struggle, yet he was, as before, in conflict with himself as to how sensible this was. He felt shamed and in this had wished conceal himself before the man that now held him tightly in place. He knew his wrists would have hurt worse, even if bandaged, should he have struggled against the hold, and yet he made few weak attempts when one side of his mind and thought prevailed over the other.

His breathing had obtained a sort of shallow yet quick succession of gulps of breath, his muscles tensing againand again when his feeble attemps were made. Had he not been aware this was needed and at the very least sensible enough, he might have tried to fight the hold more. His strength too had been sapped from him so that any prolonged protest would leave him to stop to rest and wait to regain some energy to do something further.

"nothing.. had been nothing." He muttered. "Nothing.. had been nothing." He said again in quivering whisper.

"Nothing, my arse," growled Montreuil without looking up from his work.

Étienne flinched as if struck and pulled again, his eye straining to see where the surgeon was. "Nothing..nothing, yes." He whispered again, muttering something to himself almost like a mantra a couple of times before he appeared to snap back to the present, his mutter turning into something that one could actually understand.

"Will it....will it heal?" He was concerned about one cut, that he was fortunate enough not to have done to its completion, which he too was lucky enough not to end up with in a place much less befitting it, as many a dead Frenchman could be found with. "Will I..." Though it was not his primary thought at all, nor his intention to consider anything of the like soon, he needed to ask. Was he to loose it after all, or would the complete castration remain only a bad dream, but not a reality.

"You do yourself no favors, sir, by expending energies on speech." Nor by distracting Montreuil who was concentrating furiously on keeping his work steady and clean despite the boy's writhing. It would, he thought irritably, be a damned sight easier if they could flip the lad on his back and pin him, but that was out of the question in this case.

The lad's voice was hitched, high and riddled with whimpers. It was perhaps that what he was given to dull the pain, had begun to release him from the 'better' situation. It was perhaps also because of the nature and place of the injury that he felt more pain and was more willing to try jerk away whenever possible. He mmphed and pursed his lips tight trying to stifle himself stubbornly, yet failed again. It was becoming too much and try as he might he was no longer capable of standing it even in the least.

The man had not answered his questions. False hope was not to be given? He did not know? He hoped it was only that he meant to ignore him and not that his silence suggested the loss.

Paol struggled to hold the boy down as best he could. It was not that the lad was particularly strong, quite the opposite in fact; however there were few places for brace or purchase on his body the use of which would not exacerbate the existing wounds.

After what felt like an age, there was a heartfelt curse from Montreuil and out of the corner of his eye, he saw the surgeon rock back, his work on the anterior wound concluded. The worst, Paol thought with sudden relief, was over then and he let himself relax fractionally as Montreuil shifted position to address the wound to the thigh.

Saint-Hilaire was breathing rather shallowly and it took him a couple of minutes to realise that Montruil was done with his wound at the front and that the torture of having it cleaned, dressed and treated was for the moment over. He did not consider the fact that this was only one of many treatments to which he would be subjected if his body would last him long enough to heal.

He stared at Paol with his good eye and then his gaze shifted towards the surgeon. While one of his private injuries were tended to, there was more still to come. Even rest, lying down and doing nothing while the surgeon worked, was exhausting him so that there were a few moments that his eyes closed and he was senseless, but then he jerked awake again and found the weight against his wrists reduced, and the grip itself become lighter.

He could have tried to free himself then, but did not. He could not go anywhere, nor did he want to. Pain be damned, but better that than having something overlooked, having it poisoned and either hacked off, or die.

The wound at his thigh could not compare to that at his front. Etienne felt dazed and somewhat bemused but still present in mind as much as in body. As patiently as a wounded man could, he waited, no longer trying to see what was being done as that injury was in a place - at the back anyway - that he could not see without craning his neck and twisting his back a bit. Not something he wanted to put to strain when burnt.

The wound to the posterior of the thigh was an older injury and already partially healed. The lack of infection surprised, Montreuil, but he was hardly optimistic. As there was comparatively little for him to do, he finished quickly and it was with grim reluctance that he bent his attention to the possibility of other injuries in that region. He hoped that the blood around the buttocks was the result of some superficial lacerations, but he did not for a moment believe that would be the case. His earlier, cursory examination had revealed nothing of the kind and he saw nothing now to contradict those findings. Repositioning the lantern, he began a closer examination to find the origin of the exsanguination.

Étienne was motionless again, his eye closed and his body lying slack against the ground. He had slipped out of consciousness again, moments before the surgeon had gone to shift his attention to the last injury. The air had cooled with the coming of the night. He was exposed and probably cold but could hardly notice that over the many injuries his body sustained.

He jerked awake again, moments later, forcing himself into awareness. He hissed a breath out, inhaled another and then became aware that something had pressed against his buttocks and had gone further than that. Bemused, for his mind had gone into alarm, before it would chose to remember where its owner was, he twisted and then his arms shoved violently against the relaxed hold. His eye opened further, staring wildly into the dark, the lantern giving off the only light as close. Something was retraining him, no.. by the feel of it, it was someone. Those were hands that gripped at his wrists, causing him some pain, but worse so, fueling his fear. Atleast two men were there.

He kicked out, twisted again, which caused him to groan in the pain he had inflicted on himself by moving so suddenly. But he did not stop, as if believing that hands and whoever there was, right behind him, were more easily to be dislodged than if there had been ropes. "NON!" He hissed loudly, through gritted teeth, still blind to the fact he was in the French camp and not, in truth, among the Portuguese. He sounded desperate. "NON, don't, please!"

The newly found strength - which would perhaps not last him at all long - enabled him a valiant attempt at freeing himself, his body lurching forward, while he tried to bite down on the wrist that held him in place. "Don't, no more!..Not him. I'm not him! Non." The last words were muffled for his mouth was engaged more in the want of causing his release.

Holding the boy's wrists pinned with one hand, Paol used the other to prise the voltigeur's head away from his arm. It felt as though he took a decent chunk of his hand with him. Paol hooked his thumb under the lad's chin, trying to keep his head from moving either to look back at Montreuil or to struggle further.

"C'mon, easy," he spoke slowly, forcing his voice to stay calm and even, "Easy. You're alright, safe. You're safe. No one is going to hurt you, alright?" That, he realized, was a bald-faced lie, though he hadn't meant it as one. "Please, you got to lie still. You're hurtin' yourself worse thrashin' around like that."

"..Tell him to back.. backoff." The young officer stammered ,his eyes wide and staring.He barely managed to speak,and was muffled when he tried that, thanks to the hand under his chin.

"Why are.. are you keppin' me down?..." He shook his head sharply: " Safe? Let go of me..Leggo." He repeated softly, quietly. "Please."

"You goin' to keep still, if I do?"

"I....i'll try." The lad said, defeated. He was trembling, but he though in earnest to try do as he promised. Something told him though, that fear might preveal again, that if he would become unconscious again, when awaking he might repeat his struggle, unknowingly.

"I..."He stammered, his eyes closing briefly. "...I cannot.." But what this related to, he did not explain.

"Alright." Cautiously, Paol withdrew his hands, watching the boy intently for any signs of renewed resistance. "See?" he said gently, "Safe." There was blood on the bandages covering the boy's wrists and for a moment he feared he had badly aggravated the wounds beneath. It was with an odd sort of relief that he realized, prompted by the throbbing in his hand, that the blood was his own.

Étienne tried to curl on himself, but pain convinced him to do otherwise. His breaths were quick and shallow, yet he was no longer trying to move. He blinked with his one eye, stared at Paol and then lowered his gaze. He could see something dark on Paol's hand but could not discern what it was in the poor light. He looked to his wrists. His own bandages were dark as well.

"..Your hurt?" It was odd to ask, but good to concentrate on someone else. "...is it mine?...yours?" He rested his head against the ground, not having the strength to keep it up above it. He tensed again, knowing he did not see what the surgeon was doing."..Where... where is he?"

"Nothing to worry about," Paol replied, wiping his hand on his coat, his brow contracting in brief confusion at the voltiguer's second question, "Monsieur le chirurgien? He is here, just behind you."

He was there, and he was.. Saint-Hilaire suddenly tensed and then twisted forward. At the same time he had kicked out towards the unseen danger, pushed forward again. He was panicking again and it was due to the personal invasion that he did so. He squinted his eye shut.

"Back off!" He hissed harshly and then whimpered.

Paol reached for the boy's arms again, keeping him from twisting as best he could. If this was how it had to be, then so be it.

"Let me go!" The lad demanded. If only he had not been so exhausted and weak. "Off!" He grunted in pain, and hissed, gritting his teeth. He felt humiliated, angry, afraid and frustrated. Hopeless.

He kicked out again, for though his hands were held, his legs were free. Ouch though, his sudden movements only made it hurt.

The entire affair was becoming increasingly impossible and Montreuil's patience was at an end. "Turn him onto his stomach," he ordered.

"Sir?"

"Now!" the surgeon snapped, "Pull his wrists across the back of his neck and hold him down from there."

Waiting only until the soldat had the boy secured, Montreuil pinned his legs with one knee and returned his attention to the injury he had been tending.

Try as he might, the new position kept the young voltigeur in place. His hands were secured near perfectly against his neck while weight kept his legs from doing any desired damage. They could not lift the man up. The only thing they could do, is curl their toes to avoid touching the ground with their raw sides, where nails used to be. He could grunt and hiss and curse all he wished, but the situation was under control, and it was the surgeon who was the master of it.

He settled down again, perhaps not accepting defeat as much as having no choice but to rest because movement was not an option granted to him. He was tense all over which was not actually doing him any favours.

"Off!" He hissed again, then pleaded, then spoke harshly. "Stop it.. that's personal..." He spoke again, more quietly and then he whimpered as he felt worse pain again. "Please." And then he was quiet, just staring at the dirt that was close to his face.

Rosseau approached the wagons. At first he had thought the noise had come from somewhere further from camp, where the unseen Portuguese might have been hiding in wait and playing to kill their time.

Only then had news come in and now, more than not, curious and distraught he came to see what it was. That, and it was on his way to the camp fires, where he hoped to catch some sleep, if the new arrivals were not too loud and if other injured would sleep,rather than announce they were in pain. Sometimes he was nervous about this, fearing that it drew the Portuguese closer to their lines, like predtors to a wounded prey. The enemy was everywhere after all, damn anyone who told him different.