Surgeons shop

He looked to the Frenchman and remembered that the lad understood not a word of english and saw he was most frightened of the place he was in and ... of him? The later startled him and he was sure he had misread it. Perhaps the lad thought that he was here for a different reason than to be treated by a surgeon.

"Bonjour." He spoke in a tone he hoped was calming and had a smile on his face to support it. He looked to Harris though, and decided that the man were to explain his wherabouts, as he was senior and probably more wanting.

"It's all right," Harris said, laying a hand on the frightened boy's arm. "This is the doctor, and - I don't know what he's doing here. But he's not going to hurt you, or touch you, or do anything to you." He looked at Sinclair. "The lad got hit on the head, once by me. I think he's just dazed, but ..."

"No. No, no no," he muttered, his volume increasing. He tried to push past the younger rifleman to go back outside.

"No, no," Carty said, taking the Frenchman's arm. "Is good. Is fine." He smiled up gently. "Good for your head."

"..Calm down, lad." He spoke in French, soothing though looking to Harris more for permission than anything. "... You're only hear for your wounds..yes... Harris?" He looked at the man apprehensively.

The young rifleman was smiling at him. A sincere smile. Bézayrie could not help but to trust his smile, but perhaps the rifleman did not know. If it was an ambush, perhaps they would not have told the young rifleman. "Il me tuera. Lui," he whispered, his eyes indicating the hussar. "Il-- me fera-- mourir. Comprenez-vous?? Mourir. La mort." He accented his words by drawing a finger across his own throat.

"Are you now the doctor's assistant?" Harris glared at the young man. It was obvious to anyone with the slightest intelligence that the Frenchman was terrified, and he stood there... "Get out, Willoughby."

"I dun'... I dun' understand..." Carty carried on smiling, because it seemed to calm the Frenchman down, until he drew his finger across his throat. The smile fell off his face to be replaced by a look of of shock. "Oh, no! No, no, no, no." He pointed to the surgeon. "Nice. Nice man. Make your head good." He tried a smile again.

No was a word he could understand. He tried to catch his breath, and he self-consciously released his grip on the younger man's arm, looking apologetic. "Vous... êtes-vous certain?"

The doctor had ordered him to stay of his foot, but Harris's obvious dislike made him wish he would be running out of it that instant. He wasn't standing, he. He was seated.

"...No sir..." He blurted out and lowered his gaze as submissively as a dog that was yelled at for wanting to see what the new kitty was like not even realising that he'd adressed Harris as if he were an officer. Probably would have him right fuming some more.

" I was just told...I was to..." He began and frowned.

"... I don't want to harm you.. Frenchman.."He spoke in the boy's native tongue. "...I am here because of my leg.."He added subdued and began to get up. Harris wanted him out. Fine then, he would hop that way if needed.

"I dun' know what you saying..." Feeling helpless and quite uncertain - this was the enemy! The French enemy! Was he? - Carty patted the prisoner's arm. "There, there. No worry. Nice man here."

Harris turned back to Bézayrie. "He'll go, don't be afraid of him. I'll chuck him out if he doesn't go on his own. I promise you, you can trust the doctor. And Carty, and me." He smiled at the young rifleman. "We will protect the prisoner," he said in English.

Bézayrie could not understand the dark young rifleman's English, but he understood his meaning. And he understood the hussar's French, though he was not quite sure if he believed him. He looked at him doubtfully but did not venture to speak. There seemed to be a tension between the hussar and the older rifleman, and Bézayrie was not the one to break it. He turned to look at the rifleman, and finally nodded his assent.

Just when exactly did he become the enemy, and the Frenchman become the friend? Harris's words wound him but other than the surgeon it seemed he was most wanted if not there.

Gritting his teeth he straightened and made a small hop in the direction of the exit, and had reached for the chair as support. ".... I'm not your enemy, Harris..."He whispered and looked away, leaving the cut bandages where he'd worked on them, and his uniform coats in the wet.

Carty patted the Frenchman's arm again, as though idly keeping a horse calm. "You all right, Timothy, yes?" he asked with a smile, not understanding all the tension and gritted teeth and contemptuous looks. When did it all become so complicated?

Bézayrie watched the hussar with a small sense of relief, though there was still doubt in his mind. Perhaps the man really did mean no harm, though it would be understandable if wished to seek revenge.

"He was a prisoner," he said quietly, allowing himself to be seated in the wooden chair. "And Corporal Roussel is not gentle to prisoners - nor Corporal Javert." With a shock, he suddenly realized that of course there had been a second prisoner, a rifleman, and although he would not recognize the rifleman now, the rifleman would certainly know how to find him. He too might want revenge.

"No, but you're terrifying the prisoner. Do I have to throw you out?"

Harris turned back to Bézayrie. "I don't think he wants to hurt you. But ... No need to be frightened." He turned to Carty. "The hussar was their prisoner - now this lad is ours, and he thinks he'll be out for revenge."

"..Yes.. thank you, Carty." He spoke gently to the boy, finding some solace in the single kindness the lad had shown. Atleast he was not bearing the grudge and the hate of the hundred men. He didn't spare the young Frenchman any more of a look, nor Harris. He did answer him with a simple:"... I'm going. ..."And more quietly, to himself, enough not to have Harris hear it:" Wonder if he wasn't as frightened of you.....first seein'.."

He was at the door then catching sound of the names mentioned and then he was outside, just hopeing the surgeon would not throw a fit for disobeying his orders. Well, he can, and he can tell them all to Harris!

"Hussard, prisonnier, vengeance - oui," Bézayrie said, looking from Harris to Carty and nodding at the words he had recognized.

"Revenge? You mean...?" Carty looked from their prisoner to the hussar and shook his head. "No, no. Dun' you be silly, now." he said, waggling his finger up at the Frenchman. "No revenge."

"Non. No vengeance." Harris grinned. "It's me he hates, lad, not you. Now let's get that head of yours looked at."

He settled back, and then added casually: "You did let the Hussar and the Rifleman go, though. You didn't want to take them back with you?"

"Take them back?" Bézayrie gave him a feeble smile, finally relaxing somewhat. "But I didn't go back."

"You didn't, but they - your companions - left their prisoners behind. If they hadn't, we might have been able to arrange an exchange for you." Harris leaned back against the wagon's frame. "Of course, we still might. One prisoner is much the same as another. It's done all the time."

He shuffled his feet and stared down at them, looking forlorn. "Is it?"

Harris patted the youngster on the arm. "Provided we can do it quickly, before too many clerks get involved. Once you're down on paper it's more difficult. It would be done under a flag of truce. We tell your people we have you, and ask for ours back. And you can go back to your companions."