29th July, late afternoon; Retreating

Philippe had finally fallen asleep and Mathilde hugged him tightly to her chest, more to comfort herself than him. Gilles was riding up front with her mother and occasional bits of chatter drifted back to her, but even he seemed unnaturally subdued. They were retreating again. But that and all that it meant, all that went with it did not bear thinking about. Not if she was going to be brave like her mother. Brave like Marie-Eve.

In the gloom beneath the wagon's covering, she thought she saw the sleeping figure close by stir, and peered anxiously at him. Was he awake?

Foucheaux hurried past, bearing two muskets. He stopped and ran back to the wagon, peering into the back as it began to move. Mathilde was there keeping vigilant watch. "How's he doing? Think this is his - he'll want it. Still no sign of Paol?"

Paol? Mathilde shook her head mournfully, shifting Philippe so he lay curled in her lap and taking hold of the musket. As carefully and quietly as she could, she hauled the heavy weapon inside and set it on the floor of the wagon, keeping a careful watch on Blanchard all the while. Then with a sniff, she turned back, "Thanks, Marcel."

The comforting folds of slumber were gradually receding, fading into a strange sense of shifting motion. It was warm around him though and that meant one thing. He was on a ship. A ship at sea in a warm place. St-Domingue. No.

When he tried to lift his right hand, however, he encountered resistance, which at first caused a thrill of panic. But his awakening brain belatedly registered the warm, soft nature of this resistance and his fear dissipated. With it, blessedly, went the bleary half-memory that had deceived him only a few moments before.

He became conscious then of the deep, gnawing ache in his left arm and leg. The panic came back in a heartbeat and he shifted, dislodging the sleeping kitten. Certainly the surgeon would not have taken any limbs without his being aware. Right?

But it was no easy task to move, or to sit up as he wanted to do. His efforts only disturbed the previously-slumbering felines strewn around him.

Mathilde leaned forward, her face sharp with concern. "Jérémie?" she said, speaking softly in case he was still asleep.

That definitely was not Montreuil, which went a considerable way toward soothing his worry. But he still had to know one way or the other.

"Is it gone?" His throat was dry and his mouth still tasted unpleasantly of powder, which made his voice raspy. "My arm...?" Of the two, Jérémie could tolerate the loss of a leg with less regret. Mostly.

Someone was shouting Foucheaux's name. He muttered a quiet curse under his breath and slung his musket over his shoulder. "I gotta go, but I'll come back later. Take care, Rosy." He nodded at Mathilde and then hurried away.

Gone? Oh! "No. No, it's just hurt. Everything's right where it should be," she assured him.

"Be careful," she told Foucheaux, and almost immediately dropped her attention to Philippe to hide her embarrassment. What a silly thing to say. The battle was over, had been over since yesterday and they were already well away from it. But everything seemed fragile and impermanent all of the sudden. It was a relief to be cooped up in the wagon with her family and Rosy, where she could keep an eye on them, and at least until the wagon stopped none of them could go wandering off and never come back.

"How are you feeling?" she asked Jérémie, nestling Philippe atop of a pile of blankets and shifting a bit closer. "Would you like some water?"

The words were a relief, there was no denying it. Had they come from anyone else, Jérémie would have doubted the report, but Mathilde would not lie to him. He managed, with a struggle, to get his right arm underneath him enough to lever himself up into a sitting position.

No longer lying down made it possible, he found, for him to move his left arm, though this was an exercise he immediately abandoned after the sudden flare of agony that movement caused. A similar experiment with his left leg had the same result. It was good and bad news, he supposed wearily. Good that he could move both limbs and bad that it hurt so.

"I ache a little," was Jérémie's slightly halting response. The mention of water reminded him that he had not taken a drink, of anything, since... yesterday, at least. "Yes. Please. If you've any to spare."

"Stop that. Lie down," she scolded, leaning back to reach one of their canteens. She started to hand it to him, then thought better of it and unfastened the top first. "Here."

He had to make a conscious effort not to reach out with his left hand, as he usually would do. "Thank you," Jérémie said, once he had slaked his immediate thirst. It was all he could do not to spit out the first mouthful in order to get rid of the lingering harsh, salty taste of powder.

"Do... you know what happened?"

Her slim shoulders rose and fell in a helpless shrug. "We lost. We're retreating now."

Oh.

Jérémie held the half-empty canteen out, struggling to get his thoughts around that revelation. They'd been beaten. What he remembered of the battle had not suggested such an outcome, but perhaps even that part of his memory could not be trusted. Everything was a blur after he'd been wounded.

"The others? Paol?" The questions nearly stuck in his throat. Part of him could guess at the answer.

Mathilde took the canteen from him. "Some of the others made it," she said, her gaze fixed on the object in her hands. "Marcel, Gauvin, Nicolas...we're still finding out." She shook her head. "But not Paol," she added quietly, forcing the words past the constriction in her throat.

She was not going to cry. Not in front of Jérémie. But suddenly that was all she wanted to do.

It couldn't be possible, but again, he knew Mathilde would not lie. He could summon no words and indeed quickly abandoned any attempt to do so. 'Disaster' was the only suitable term to apply to this situation.

He bowed his head, eyes closed, and reached carefully behind him with his good arm, using that limb for support as he eased himself back down to a supine position. Suddenly, lying down seemed the best thing. What he wouldn't give to have been able to stay on the field longer than he had.

Hastily wiping a sleeve across her eyes, Mathilde curled her knees up against her chest and wrapped her arms round them. Then, on impulse, she reached out and caught hold of Rosy's hand, squeezing it tight as though it were the last solid thing left to hang onto.

The contact surprised him but he returned the squeeze instinctively, if somewhat less tightly. It took him some moments to regain most of his own faltering composure, then he carefully shifted, rolling to his right just enough to lever himself up with his elbow. It was perhaps best to remain sitting up now, however much it hurt.

With a fleeting reluctance, he slipped his hand from hers, but then held his arm out in silent invitation. Words, if he'd attempted any, would have given him and his feelings away.

Her breath caught painfully in her throat. She wasn't going to cry. She wasn't going to cry. She wasn't going to -- Jeremie's face blurred suddenly as her eyes welled up, and she leaned forward and buried her face in his coat, her shoulders shivering with tiny, quiet sobs.

He bit his lip and swallowed hard, as much against the fresh pain in his left arm when he lifted it as the tightness in his throat. There was nothing he - or anyone - could do to make this any better and that was perhaps the most difficult thing in the world to accept. However much Jérémie wished otherwise.

Both his arms slipped carefully around her, his left with a little more reluctance. He should make an assurance of some sort, but everything that came to mind seemed hollow and false. What good would it do to say things would be all right when he knew that in all likelihood, they would not?

The light pressure of his arms was more reassurance than any words and she huddled tightly against him until the sobs gradually subsided. " 'm sorry, " she said at length, her voice still faintly tremulous and muffled by his shirt.

Reluctantly, she raised her head. Both his arms, she realized, were holding her and tears welled up again in her eyes, spilling over and down her cheeks. "Your poor arm. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to--to--I'm sorry."

With a loud sniff, she slipped free. "You should lie down."

He couldn't quite suppress a wince as he let his left arm slide down into his lap, but the pain was something he'd just have to bear. "It's nothing. You've got nothing to be sorry for, either. It's not your fault." Nor was it his, or anyone else's. Excepting of course the English, but that went without saying.

"It's not nothing," she retorted, wiping at her eyes, "You're hurt. You need to rest."

Reaching behind him, she adjusted the folded blanket which served as a pillow. "You need to get well." The last words came out sounding faintly choked and she bit down on her lip, struggling to keep back another fit of tears. He had to get well.

Just to die some other day, added a desolate voice in her head. In battle or from sickness or in some pointless accident. Just like Paol, just like her father, just like the countless men her mother had taken up with after his death. It never stopped.

"I will," Jérémie promised. "But only if you will be all right yourself."

It was hard to say what hurt more. Her obvious distress, his inability to do anything to lessen it, or the dismal nature of their collective situation. The only saving grace was the presence of the kittens, who were beginning to climb carelessly over them both in search of attention. The little devils.

Jérémie sighed and carefully lifted Kazhig off his knee. What he did know was that it was impossible to rest again, with his wounds now being completely awake, as it were. Maybe he should lie down again.

She nodded, reaching down to scoop Suie into her lap. It was a momentary distraction, but it helped. "I'll be alright," she said, trying her hardest to sound firm, "But you must lie down now."

That would do. Jérémie swept his good hand carefully behind him to clear away any possible roving kittens, then eased himself down again. Kazhig promptly sprang up onto his chest and sat just as promptly, to stare expectantly down at him.

"I won't want for nurses, will I?" Jérémie observed wryly.