June 17th, afternoon: Food that dead men eat

Not about to argue, Paol quickly shifted position and took hold of Rechenauld's shoulder. "Alright?'

Foucheaux did not answer. He did not want to give himself time to think. He took the man's wrist in both of his hands and pulled.

The sound was undescribeable, but the bone straightend out. Rechenauld didn't jerk or make a sound. But after some time, his breathing became steadier and deeper again. Perhaps, just perhaps, he would pull through after all.

---

When the grave was closed again and nobody immediatly said something, Grenville pulled the shako from his head and, with a rather morose face, intoned the Catholic Lord's Prayer:

"Notre Père, qui es aux cieux, ..."

----

Prayon was still talking to Saint-Laurent, but when he heard the words, he took off his shako as well, although he tried to make it a very casual move.

Foucheaux heard the prayer but did not look up from his attentive gaze on Rechenauld's face. He had expected the man to wake up screaming, and he worried for a moment that he was simply dead. But no, he was still breathing. Foucheaux realized he was still holding the man's wrist, but he didn't know what to do with it. Supporting the fractured area with his hand, he carefully laid the arm on the ground, straight along the side of the man's motionless body. Then he squeezed it gently with his fingers.

"Do you think it's done?" he asked Kerjean, as if it was a loaf of bread that he was probing instead of a man's arm.

While Francois had probably been the least religious person in his entire family, this time he softly mumbled the words of the prayer along with the other soldier. It was the least he could do for the dead man is to send him off with a prayer.

"It looks straight," Paol offered; then, realizing how unhelpful this was, added, "Aye, it's done."

Cutting away the shirtsleeve just below the fracture, he began to tear it into strips. "Could maybe use the coat arm as a sling, if we fastened one o' the cuff buttons into one o' the holes on his facings," he said slowly, ripping the last sleeve scrap down the middle.

"Well, I'll be damned." Gauvin, who had withdrawn from the grave the moment the last syllable of the Pater Noster was uttered, grinned at them. "You mean you two ain't managed to kill the poor devil yet?" With a fractionally more serious expression, he added, "Anythin' I can do?"

"We could use somethin' to brace it with?"

"Splint? Right." Fishing the camp axe out of Paol's kit, he wandered off, reemerging several minutes later with two ragged, but relatively flat pieces of wood.

Foucheaux nodded at Gauvin as he took the pieces of wood and laid them along the top and bottom of Rechenauld's arm. Then he paused. "Reckon we oughta pad them with somethin'. Is that what you're tearing up?"

Paol glanced down at the small pile of scraps. "Oh. Sure." Pulling the torn sleeve closed around the fracture, he started to wrap the arm with the strips of linen. "This alright?" he asked, after he had used up several of the pieces. "We'll need some to tie it with."

"Oh, right." When Kerjean was finished wrapping the arm, Foucheaux held the pieces of wood against it. "Like that, you think? Here, you tie them on."

Binding the splints securely in place, Paol carefully folded Rechenauld's forearm across his chest. He slipped the empty coat sleeve up under the arm and attempted to fasten the cuff to one of the coat's facings. It was rather trial and error, and before he had gotten very far, another idea crossed his mind.

Muttering something in his own tongue, he shook his head, dropped the sleeve and began to ease Rechenauld's coat back onto his shoulder. Then, somewhat clumsily, he buttoned up the front of the coat, skipping several holes where the forearm stuck out, but trapping the rest of the arm firmly inside.

He regarded the result with worried skepticism, then looked questioningly at Foucheaux. Now what?

Foucheaux watched him work, feeling an exhausted sense of stupidity creeping in. When Kerjean looked at him, Foucheaux simply nodded. Then he lay back on the ground, staring up at the sky. He took a couple of deep breaths. "I dunno about you, but I'd say we're bloody heroes." And Rechenauld had better live after all they'd done, damnit.

Paol laughed. It was the last thing he had expected, but it was a relief to do so. "Not you as well, now?" he said, still half laughing, seeing Foucheaux laid out beside Rechenauld. "I ain't carryin' the both of you."

Now it was Foucheaux's turn to laugh. He was tired and relieved and dizzyingly exhilarated by their medical prowess. It was almost like being pleasantly drunk. He rolled onto his side as he continued laughing. He needed to stop before that 17e officer came over and kicked him in the head to make him shut up.

"I think I'd have to agree!"

Prayon had come back again and knelt down next to them, leaving it open to whom he was answering.

"Good work, gentlemen. Thank you. I think we'll need to construct a stretcher of some kind next. But I think some of the others might do that; you should stay with him ... he knows you now, after all."

The lieutenant grinned.

"We don't want to give him a heart attack now, don't we, after you have straightend out his arm?"

Foucheaux sat up, wiped his eyes and tried to wipe away the stupid grin as well. "Sorry, thank you sir."

Paol, his manner instantly subdued, nodded. "Yes, sir."

Not knowing what else to do, he began to gather up the contents of Rechenauld's pockets which were still scattered on the ground, and slipped them into the man's haversack.

When the officer had moved away, Foucheaux eased himself back onto the ground, though he propped himself up with an elbow. If he lay down, he would probably fall asleep. Several of the 17e fellows had gone scouting ahead to look for other survivors, and now the other 86e men were gathering branches to make a stretcher of some sort. Foucheaux and Kerjean were left with relative quiet next to their unconscious patient.

"Reckon we oughta wake him up?" he asked. Not that he would have wanted to be awakened in such a situation. But who knew how these things worked. Was it deadly to let him remain unconscious?

Paol shook his head. "Long as he's peaceful like, might was well let him sleep. Ain't nothin' we can give him for the pain when he wakes up." His mouth crooked in a faint smile and he added, " 'Less you been holdin' out on us."

He snorted. "Aye, I forgot to tell you I'm one of them apothecaries." He glanced at the sleeping Rechenauld and then at his haversack. "Was there anything to drink in there? No, he will have drunk it already. What about Big Lauture's things?"

"The others will have grabbed anythin' worth keepin' 'fore they put him in the ground, I expect."

Francois now walked up then knelt next to the two conscious men and their unconscious patient, he'd overheard the last bit of the conversation and had reached into his pack. He was holding a smallish dark bottle in one hand.

"Here, this is some Portuguese wine I got awhile back, only a few sips left though so don't spill any," he offered it to the men.

Foucheaux gave the younger soldier a surprised grin of thanks. "That's good of you, cornflower. Ain't for me, but for this'un here when he wakes up." If he wakes up, he thought. But it was tempting to take a swig himself, just a taste.

Francois smiled, "For either of you...or both. Afterall you're a hero now or so I hear."

His smile vanished when he glanced down at the unfortunate wounded man, "Will he make it?"

Foucheaux held the bottle up to the light and swirled it around. If there was only a small amount, he'd rather save it for Rechenauld. As much as we wanted a drink, he did not like to think of the screaming agony their patient might be in when he awoke. He handed the bottle to Kerjean.

"Course he will," he answered with more confidence than he actually felt.

"Good!" Francois was glad to hear it, he still was not used to the deaths of soldiers, leastwise French ones. As for those Portuguese devils, he'd like them all dead. He was still rather ambivalent about the English, probably because of the time he had conversed with those English prisoners. He had rather liked them, seemed like decent fellows.

"But what will happen to him next? I mean....he can hardly come with us on this march in the sort of shape he is in. And if we just send him back with a few men, the Portuguese will surely ambush them and kill them all."

It was the central problem of the French in this campaign, large units could be avoided by the more agile Portuguese who also knew the lay of the land while small detachments were promptly wiped out.