June 6 - Camp, after the ambush

[OOC] Bump On the Head looks like it has just about split, so this is to accommodate that (I hope), but give me a shout if I've got it wrong.[/OOC]



They were quickly surrounded by the concerned and curious of 2nd Batallion. Questions and chatter flew back and forth, though to the corporal it all seemed a dizzying, incomprehensible drone. He dragged his gaze over his own men, trying to reassure himself that they were all there. Navarre, Balincourt, Laramie, Foucheaux -- Kerjean had gone for their surgeon only moments ago -- but he could not seem to find Seviere, Morel or Rousseau. He looked again, thinking he had missed them among the crowd of faces, but no.

Rousseau and Morel had been left behind in the swamp, he remembered suddenly. But that could not be right, for they had been with the prisoner. Or had that been before the ambush? And Seviere, he had helped carry the stretcher holding Davout. No, Balincourt. But he had helped carry Davout. Had it been someone else with the stretcher? Had he really left the boy behind?

The earth seemed to twist beneath him and St Laurent clutched at Foucheaux's shoulder. Hell. No. Merde!

Foucheaux jumped slightly at the sudden tight grip on his shoulder. He muttered a curse through his teeth. "Cap, sit down. Sit here next to Balincourt. Surgeon's coming.". He looked around anxiously, hoping it was true. Kerjean had better hurry up. It was all wrong to have nobody taking charge and efficiently managing everything. That was the corporal's own job, or a sergeant if there had been one with them. Even an officer would be welcome. "What the hell happened out there?" he asked the ragged, exhausted group.

St Laurent tried to protest; it seemed desperately important that he stay on his feet, but without being aware of having moved he suddenly found himself kneeling in the grass beside Balincourt. It was a pathetic, meaningless defeat, and it was almost more than he could take. His throat tightened and his already laboured breathing forced itself through in wheezing gasps. All that remained to complete his disgrace was the ultimate shame of tears and he could already feel the tenuous grip he had on himself beginning to slip.

"One of the bastards fired at us," Laramie's voice was flat and lifeless, "Wasn't long after you'd left. We chased him into that swamp. Only it were an ambush, weren't it? They were waitin' for us. They got Davout first. Bastards cut his throat."

"What?" Foucheaux quickly scanned the group and noticed for the first time that Davout was not with them. His blood seemed to turn cold in an instant. "But where is he? Laramie, where is he now?" Could they perhaps have gotten confused, and Davout had been sent back with Roux's little group, or he had never been with them in the first place?

Laramie hesitated.

"Ask him," Navarre snapped, anger animating him briefly, like a struck match. He jerked his head at St Laurent.

The corporal seemed to flinch. "We--" he began, his voice hoarse and breathless. The entire left side of his face hurt like hell. It hurt even more to speak, but at the moment it felt as though the resulting distraction was the only thing keeping him together, "I left him behind. In the swamp. When the shooting started."

A horse could be heard approaching, and along with it the protesting rumble of a wagon being pulled at speed.

Foucheaux stared in horror at Saint Laurent, and then at Navarre and Laramie. "Well we have to go get him!" he exclaimed. It was obvious. What were they all doing sitting around here while poor old Davout was waiting for their help? "We gotta bring him to the surgeon. Or bring the surgeon to him! What are you all waiting for? Come on!"

"Christ God, Foucheaux, give it a rest," Laramie pleaded, "Ain't no surgeon that can help him now."

He stared at Laramie. The realization was beginning to show in his face. "Are you sure? If you're not, we can't just..."

"They cut his throat." The edge in Navarre's voice could have cut glass. "D'you want me to draw you a picture? Or mebbe I oughta show you," he let his hand stray to the hilt of his knife, "Just to be sure."

"Navarre!" St Laurent gasped, "Foucheaux. Both of you, just... Jesus. Just leave it."

But Foucheaux was too far gone to take offense at Navarre's grumblings. He didn't care about any of that. Just thinking of Davout's throat cut by some Portuguese and his body left lying there, dead... He had to turn away then, sudden spasms in his diaphragm jerking his whole body. He doubled over, not sure if he was about to vomit or sob.

A man in a blue coat came running to their group. "Surgeon's coming. Here's the wagon. You and you, slide that frame out of the wagon," he called to the drivers. "What is it, musket ball to the knee?". He kneeled next to Balincourt's stretcher and looked anxiously at the corporal for an answer.

Montreuil followed in the assistant's wake, roundly cursing anyone who got in his path. He paused at the edge of the haggard group, taking in the scene in one measured glance, then set to work. He pounced first upon Laramie, but quickly satisfying himself that there was no puncture to the chest, he turned his attention to the other two. "Get that bandage and splint off him. I want a clean look at the wound," he snapped at the assistant before dropping to his knees beside the corporal. The man was chalk white, breathing faster than he ought and sweating far more profusely than the heat of the morning warranted. Brilliant. "Coat and shirt off," he told him curtly. It was more of a warning than an order, for both the corporal's hands were bloody and whatever fumbling attempt he might have made, Montreuil had neither the time nor the patience for it.

"See to Balincourt first," the corporal protested as Montreuil began to unwrap the bandage from around the outside of his arm.

"You call this a dressing?" the surgeon demanded, ignoring him, "Vaindieu! You might as well have tied it round your ankle." He got the coat half free and began to slip it off of the injured arm revealing a sleeve sodden with blood. Idiot. Sometimes he wondered if it wasn't all some absurd, suicidal conspiracy. Too much Seneca and bloody Lucan.

The man in blue pulled out a clasp knife and began cutting through the wrappings on the young soldat's leg. "You're name's Balincourt, lad? Can you hear me? No no, lie back, don't touch that. You there, hold his arms." There was an uninjured fellow loitering about, retching in the grass. He might as well be made to be useful.

"All right little whale," Foucheaux muttered, trying to force a grin as he knelt by Balincourt's shoulders. "Here's a pair of surgeons come to look after you."

Balincourt caught sight of the knife and his eyes went wide. "Don't let 'em take my leg," he begged Foucheaux.

"All right, all right," Foucheaux replied. "Nobody's takin' legs. That little knife there? That's just to cut bandages, lad. It couldn't cut my little finger. Don't you worry."

But then he met the eyes of the surgeon's assistant and faltered.

Hell. They were going to take the lad's leg off. He began whispering every curse that he knew until the assistant interrupted him.

"Get a hold of yourself and shut up! Monsieur Montreuil?" He looked around for the surgeon. The splint and the young man's gaiter and trouser leg were cut away now.

"I shall be with you presently," Montreuil called over his shoulder. He peeled the stained shirt away from the corporal's arm. "Lie back."

St Laurent did not seem to hear him. "What--what's happening to him? Foucheaux, what's--" The world flipped sickeningly and he found himself lying on his back. Hands gripped his shoulders, pinning him firmly and the anxiety of a moment before turned into panic. His body jerked as the pain in his arm suddenly sharpened. They were cutting into his arm. They were cutting off his arm. The thoughtless impulse to clench his teeth sent pain splintering through his jaw and he let out a whimper.

"Easy..." Paol cursed himself in every language he knew. He had only done as he'd been told and still he managed to make a mess of it. "Caporal? Eugene? Eugene." The corporal's face seemed to clear and he stared up at Paol in confusion, then recognition. He let his head drop back and shut his eyes.

His skin was damp and cold and, releasing his grip momentarily, Paol grabbed for St Laurent's coat and pulled it over him. It was hardly ideal for it too was damp, and filthy, but it seemed better than nothing.

The sawbones had already removed the ball, but continued to probe the wound, occasionally extracting tiny pieces of what Paol could only assume were bone, for some minutes more before he was entirely satisfied. After bandaging the corporal's arm, the surgeon examined for the second time the large bruise on the man's chest, but being content with what he found, at last turned his attention upon his assistant. "Well?"

"Here's his leg," Desprez announced as if making a discovery. "Are you going to cut it off? Looks bad to me."

Foucheaux also looked bad, and he was feeling it too after watching the surgeon dig through the corporal's arm. Seeing a wound was one thing, but that cold deliberate cutting of a man's living flesh, and those little bits of bones... Foucheaux was suddenly drenched with sweat.

Montreuil glanced coldly at his assistant before bending his head over the young man's injured knee. Privately he agreed with Desprez's assessment, however tactless. He could not hope to repair the damage done to the joint; he would have to amputate. There was, however, first the matter of removing the musket ball. "Monsieur Desprez. The laudanum from my case, if you please."

Looking up briefly he caught sight of the soldier kneeling at the boy's head. The man looked positively ill. "Are you quite well, Monsieur?"

Desprez jumped up to fetch the bottle from the surgeon's case, as well as a little metal cup. Foucheaux meanwhile simply nodded, not trusting it himself to speak just yet. He felt nauseated and thought it best not to tempt fate by opening his mouth.

Reaching into the case, Montreuil withdrew a bottle and poured a measure of the contents into the small cup proffered by Desprez. He turned once more to Foucheaux, "Lift his head." He leaned forward, pressing the cup to the injured boy's lips. "Drink."

"Monsieur Desprez," he began once Balincourt had choked down the last bit of the draught, "That gentleman there has a laceration to the chest which requires cleaning and stitches. The task is not beyond you, I trust? Good."

He disliked delay, but the other two were still in need of attention and it would be better for the boy if he were feeling the full effects of the drug before they began.

"What happened to your face, corporal?" he demanded, kneeling beside the man.

"Musket butt, sir," he responded thickly after several moments.

Nodding, Montreuil leaned closer to inspect the injury. There was also the ugly furrow of a bullet graze running along the man's cheek. He quickly cleaned the wound and the rest of the dirt and blood away, better allowing him to see the dark, purpling bruise which now stood out starkly against the pallor of the man's skin. He felt the corporal stiffen as he examined the jaw bone, but no sound escaped.

"Open your mouth. There..." He was unable to open it as wide as he ought, which was not unexpected, but neither was it a good sign. "Monsieur Kerjean," the surgeon exclaimed suddenly in irritation, "Your concern is admirable, I am sure, but you are blocking the light. Sit back."

There was bruising under the tongue, and Montreuil could see evidence of bleeding in the mouth, a tooth was freshly missing and another so loose that it came free with a swift tug. A fracture seemed likely, but mercifully not a severe one.

Desprez was nearly finished and, retrieving the necessary tools, Montreuil returned to Balincourt's side. "Hold his legs," he ordered the assistant once he had rejoined them, "And you, Monsieur Foucheaux, isn't it? Hold him down, if you please."

Satisfied that the patient was secure, Montreuil set to work.

Balincourt had begun to grow still, and Foucheaux no longer had to concentrate so fiercely on holding him down. That concentration had been the only thing keeping the darkness out of his eyes, and now he slumped backwards and flopped to the side like a rag doll.

"Oh, for Christ's sake."

While not out of character, the surgeon's exasperated oath seemed slightly out of place and Paol glanced up curiously, but the sight of Foucheaux's crumpled form was clarification enough. With Balincourt unconscious, he was not exactly in the way, but when neither Navarre nor Laramie made any move, Paol slowly unfolded himself and, skirting the sawbones' kit which lay spread on the grass, grabbed Foucheaux under the arms and dragged him clear.

Letting him sag to the ground beside the corporal, Paol nudged Foucheaux with his foot. "C'mon, mate."

Foucheaux opened his eyes in the grass. He could not remember falling asleep, or lying down in the grass at all, and why should he be lying down in broad daylight anyway? He blinked and looked around, realizing that someone had spoken to him. Kerjean. "What?" he said groggily. He sat up and looked around. Oh. Hell. He was still here.

"Alright?" Paol asked, joining Foucheaux on the ground.

He rubbed his head. "What happened? I was just over there with - hell, what are they doing to Balincourt?"