June 17th, afternoon: Food that dead men eat

With an effort, the man managed to focus his eyes on Kerjean.

"Good ... British ... surprised us. Sharpshooters ... and hussars. We couldn't ... 'm cold ..."

Although the day was hot and his hands were burning, he shivered.

An examination quickly showed that beside the bullet in his leg, the man suffered from several bruises and abrasions. A large bruise, which had clearly been caused by a horseshoe, had broken his upper arm, and it was swollen, red and inflammed. His pockets (he didn't seem to mind or even realize the search) yielded several pieces of small coin, some of British denomination, a pouch of tobacco and a pipe, a very expensive pocket watch, a picture in bright, unskilled crayons showing a small house in a village, and next to it a letter, addressed to a Fusilier Patrique Rechenauld in a laboured hand.

"No, you can't just use stones, scavengers will dig him up too easily," Francois pointed out even as he kept digging with his hands, he did want their deceased comrade to have a good resting place. It was the least they could do for him.

"You're alright. Here," Paol shrugged out of his coat and laid it over the injured man, tucking it carefully around his shoulders. He wished Foucheaux hadn't been lying about the surgeon. "Just take it easy."

"You got a little 'un?" he asked suddenly, seeing the drawing that Foucheaux had removed from the fellow's pockets.

Foucheaux gave the papers only the briefest glance before handing them up to the officer. He could not read himself, but perhaps the lieutenant would at least learn the man's name. They would owe it to his friends to tell them what had happened to him, especially since he was from the 86e like Foucheaux and Kerjean themselves.

His interest in the man's pockets had been pure for this reason. But as for the other items - well, Foucheaux could carry on looking after them for the poor sod. It was only right. One day someone would do the same for him.

"Or wife or a sweetheart? Family at home?"

"Just asking!", Poupin mumbled, half moping, half apologizing. He gripped a larger stone in the loosened ground where the grave would be, grunted, hoisted it up and dropped it with a disgusted sigh next to the border.

----

The man's eyes suddenly lit up.

"Chr ... Christine! She's ... six now." He had to stop then to catch his breath again, motioning weakly towards the canteen.

---

Prayon was coming back to the group. He had overseen the search of the surroundings, but no other men or bodies had turned up. As soon as he saw them talking to the wounded, he quickened his pace, but didn't intrude on the halting conversation, once he arrived. Instead he took the letter and quietly read out the address so that the Foucheaux would hear it, too, then quickly glanced inside before pocketing it.

"From his mother. His daughter is fine."

Foucheaux gave the man another drink from the canteen. "Well, bet your girl can't wait to see her papa again. Maybe they'll send you home to recover, eh? You can tell her all the stories. You'll be her hero." He had little idea what he was saying right now, but it seemed important to keep up the idea of a cheerful outcome for poor old... "What's your name?" he asked, looking up at the officer too.

"Rech ...", the man broke off with another cough.

"Rechenauld, Patrique Rechenauld, that is you, isn't it? Just nod or shake your head."

Bastien had been standing a few feet away, but came closer for the question and placed a hand lightly on the man's shoulder. As soon as the man had nodded, however, he released it with a gently, comforting squeeze, and retreated to his former position again, where he was out of the man's line of sight. When he passed Foucheaux, he told him quietly:

"See if you can find out where he was wounded, please - and when, if possible. There might still be others."

With four of them all working on the makeshift grave, progress was fairly fast; though it was hot work in the Portuguese sun. It would be good to get the corpse under the surface too because soon it would begin to smell most foul.

"What about a marker?" asked one of the other younger soldiers.

"No, no marker, it would only draw attention to him and the Ports may dig him up. I would not put it past them," Francois gave his opinion as he paused to wipe his perspiring brow on his uniform sleeve before continuing.

Grenville and Hugo reappeared just in time to hear that last comment. Although they had found blood on the ground and the patch where the two soldiers had struggled out of the river, there had been nothing else of interest.

Nodding jerkily to Sevière, Grenville growled:

"Damn right! Nothing holy to those bitches."

Hugo, looking rather uncofortable at that thought, briefly clapped a sympathetic hand on the lad's shoulder, then went to where a few trees stood, eyes firmly on the ground.

"Rechenauld. Hey, Rechenauld. Patrique." The man seemed to be fading, and it was difficult to make him listen. He looked up at Foucheaux at the sound of his Christian name. "Listen, when was it you were attacked, and where? Are there more of you lads that we should go and find?"

The man tried to concentrate. The thought of his comerades seemed to make him call up his last reserves.

"Up ... a small stream ... other side of the ... river."

He weakly pointed out the direction.

"The others ... some're wounded. You'll help them ... won't you?"

His already dazed eyes looked hopefully at the soldiers surrounding him. It seemed important to him, and there was perhaps a bit of guilt there, too, for not having turned back to help them himself. A very unreasonable idea in his condition, of course.

It was a damned pitiful sight. The wounded and the dead seen earlier promised them more of the same. Dead or dying but hopefully less of the first and more of the merely wounded and not in the process of departing this world.

The march had been tiresome in itself, but he pressed on with his men. Silently observing their surroundings. If the enemy returned, he would make certain that they would not meet it unprepared, if only he could with half a side blind.

The ground was not favourable for a burial, tough, rough and unyielding, a bit like the Portuguese themselves. Cruel to what little grew on it, unforgiving.

When he saw his friend standing alone for a moment, Bastien came down the slope to stand beside him. His gait was carefree and he lightly hopped over a branch on the ground, but Etienne knew him enough by now to see the tension in his shoulders and the slight lines of worry around his eyes.

"They are from the missing patrol - both names were on the list the colonel gave me. Do you have the map? He said they had encountered British hussars 'up a small stream' on the other side of the river."

While he spoke, his eyes searched Etienne's face quite openly - it was an unspoken, but very clear question after Etienne's well-being.

His expression was guarded, betraying little emotion, though there were the lines of exhaustion about the edges. "...Here, " He pulled the map from his tache and held it for inspection, unfolding it so that it showed the terrain that they were on.

"This is probably the area that he spoke of." He indicated the bit of land. "...Not too far from here. Has he said how many they were? And whether it had been the patrol or had they reached the 'skirts' of army?"

Bastien studied the map, trying to gauge terrain and distances. Etienne's question he answered with an absentminded shake of the head.

"He didn't say. But he spoke of cavalry and sharpshooters. Not a combination you would find in a patrol, is it?"

"We'll find your mates, Patrique," Paol promised. "This 17e lot's got lads what are real clever at trackin' an' findin' an' all that."

Lowering the body into the hastily dug grave, the soldiers didn't have much to say. Most of them had done this far too often since they marched into Portugal chasing these damned English. Francois wondered if someone should say something over the body, but he didn't pipe up and suggest it. This was not a good start to this particular mission. Would the enemy be waiting for them too?

Bielieux looked uncertainly between Seviere and Gauvin, but the older soldier's only response was to shrug, cross himself and begin to kick the loose dirt back into the hole. A man was dead and it was a damned shame. That, to Gauvin, was all there was to say, and it was not something that needed to be said. They all knew it.

Francois did pretty much the same, bowing his head for a quick prayer then making a hasty sign of the cross then started to fill in the grave. The unfortunate wouldn't be the last French soldier to be buried in this godforsaken country, he just hoped he would not be amongst them someday.

Just as the others began to fill the grave, Hugo finally found what he had been looking for. He drew his bayonet, dug around with it in the hard earth for a bit, and finally returned with a sapling of a cork tree. He held it out to Sevière, grunting:

"Here. No marker, but holds longer!"

---

The promise seemed to reassure Rechenauld. He looked pleased, but very exhausted, up at Paol, his eyes bright with fever, but clear for the moment.

"Thk ye ...", he mumbled, then his eyes closed and his head lolled back.

[OOC: Up to you whether he is unconscious or dead ...]

Gauvin nodded in mute thanks to Hugo as the man handed the sapling to the Seviere. It was a good thought.

---

"Ah, hell -- Patrique? Patrique. Rechenauld." Paol looked helplessly from the man's unresponsive form to Foucheaux, then put a hand to the Rechenauld's throat. No pulse welled beneath his fingers. His hands felt dull and thick and utterly unsuited to the task and he cursed himself for an idiot. He tried again and this time his awkward attempt met with the faintest, throbbing pressure.

"He's still with us," he told Foucheaux, his cautious tone belied by the evident relief in his face and bearing.

Drawing in a deep breath, he shifted aside the part of his coat that was covering Rechenauld's broken arm. Considering what they needed to do, unconsciousness was certainly a preferable state.

"Don't suppose you know anythin' about settin' bones?" he asked Foucheaux, beginning to tear Rechenauld's shirtsleeve all the way up the arm, past the break.

Foucheaux's eyes widened in horror. Was Kerjean seriously asking him that question? "All's I know it damn hurts!" he exclaimed. He remembered the time some clumsy surgeon's assistant had set his own broken arm. "A man done it to me by pulling on it! Hard! I just about died." In fact, he had screamed bloody murder and fainted shortly thereafter. He shivered visibly at the thought. Then he looked at Kerjean. "Oh, God help, you're gonna make us do it."

Paol looked uncertain, staring down at the bruised and swollen limb, "Well, we can't just.... leave it like that." Almost apologetically, he added, "You ain't got to stay, if you don't want to."

Francois took the sapling and knelt down to plant it as best as he could. Out of the corner of his eye he watched what they were going to do now to the still living man. Mon dieu! He would not want to be in that fellow's place. Or for that matter having to be the one who set the arm. He decided to stay out of it. Too bad they had not taken a surgeon along, but there were never enough of those in the army.

"I'm not gonna let you do it alone neither!" Foucheaux retorted. Who knew what damage Kerjean might do on his own. "Hold his shoulder. I'll do it." And it had better be quick, before he lost his nerve.