Surgeons shop

"Has that been your experience? Have you seen it done?" he asked, wanting to hope but afraid to.

Rob raised his cloth, beginning to get angry, "If I may?" he asked, sardonically, "Ye can explain ter the lad, if ye like, or I will, but all I'm going ter do fer now is clean him up and check him over."

He turned to his, now seated, frog. "I'm afeared I can't tell ye about prisoner swaps" he smiled, "But I can certainly help ye." He tried out some rusted french, "er... Sit there and I will..... heal you." Gently, he wiped off some blood, "Tell me when it hurts" he added with another encouraging smile, trying to remember all the french he used to know.

He winced but sat obediently still while the doctor examined the wounds on his head - one from striking a rock when he fell, and the other a blow from Harris's rifle butt, though Bézayrie did not remember either incident. He frowned with concentration, hoping to understand the doctor's meaning. "Yes, it hurts," he ventured to reply.

(Just this and then you can continue enjoying your conversation)

One had to wonder. The rifleman was as friendly to the French boy as if he were his father. Friendlier even perhaps, while he had gone and wanted to throw out one of his own, who might have been able to account for himself that he was not wanting or going to hurt that boy ever.

Who hated whom? Well, Timothy certainly did not hate Harris, as much as the man might have flattered himself with that. He had wanted to make amends and to finally put that disagreement behind. Harris was just making it harder and.. frankly, were it to continue in such manner, impossible.

He sat where the surgeon had tied his horse, and found himself staring at the place where now the several men were discussing the future of the boy, promising him freedom and altogether acting soft. He hadn't minded to act kind towards the boy, he'd have wanted to thank him himself. It wasn't the cause of his displeasure at all. Poor lad was frightened, he thought they would hurt him, take revenge on him. NO, he was not. He wasn't that kind of man and frankly, he had no reason. He held no grudge against Bézayrie. On the contrary, he felt he owed him something small.

But now, Harris would certainly make sure they couldn't even see each other, Bézayrie and he, if only he was able to do that. And so the boy would continue to be terrified of him for no right reason.
In frustration he had pulled a handful of grass from the ground along with a small stone and had it thrown to bounce somewhere up ahead. Bloody Harris. If he (Harris) was sore for telling him and not asking him to take him to the Frenchman earlier, then he might've considered not treating him like a fool when they've first met. People made mistakes, even he, Harris. And yes he, Willoughby, did plenty too. No harm in admitting that.

Was he expecting young Willoughby to have ot be perfect to be permitted to stand in his shadow? .. Only him though, as others didn't seem to have that bloody problem.

Harris watched the surgeon, but it was to Bézayrie that he spoke, still in the
same reassuringly casual tone. "I've seen it done. Just before we started our
retreat, I even saw French cavalry bring back a group of British soldiers, with
a note to ask if we could take them on account, and remember it if we caught any
of his men." He grinned. "I saw the letter, because it was in French, and there
was no one else around the rear-guard that spoke French at the time." He signed.
"I don't know if we ever did repay the debt - that was about the time old Moore
ordered the retreat, and we weren't catching much more in the way of prisoners
then - not more than they had of ours, anyway."

"Oh." The young man was staring vacantly at his hand on the table, the blood and dirt all over his knuckles and fingernails. He gasped briefly as the doctor wiped at the cut on the back of his head. It was probably filthy as well. "And if I'm not exchanged, what will happen then? Will I go to a prison somewhere?"

Harris nodded. "You'll be sent to Lisbon first, but from there to England. And a prison." He cocked his head sideways. "That's what happens to the prisoners you take, isn't it? They go to prisons in France. Verdun, places like that."

"I don't actually know. I think so. It's not something..." he trailed off, his thoughts distracted. Then he looked up at the rifleman with a new question. "Why do you speak French? And you only a soldat. And that hussar, he is only a cavalier, yes? But he speaks French too." His tone conveyed no disrespect but was merely curious and surprised.


[soldat and cavalier meaning private / trooper / lowly bottom-rung-on-the-ladder soldiers/horsemen, I think?)

Harris shrugged. "I learned it as a schoolboy - and taught it, and Latin." And he could read and speak other languages too: it was something that came easily to him, and he enjoyed the chance to use them. His Portuguese was improving daily. "And the Hussar is a young gentleman, who probably went to a good school, where they teach them French, and Italian..."

"Oh. I'm surprised by the English army. All the educated English men must prefer the army to the navy," he said, smiling until the doctor made him turn his head.

Harris looked at Bézayrie in curiosity, returning the smile. "Soldiers are better than sailors," he said, "judging by the Naval types I've met..." He allowed his voice to trail off, wondering what the youngster meant.

"And you all speak French! Or at least, many of you do. None of the sailors or marines seem to speak any French, and they all seem very stupid!" he said, surprising himself with a laugh. Then, lest it be seen as an insult to the Englishmen present, he hastened to add, "Not like the army at all."

Harris restrained himself, but glanced up at the surgeon, warning him to keep quiet. "That's a shame, but perhaps you only met a few of the stupider ones." He smiled. "But didn't any of them speak French?" What on earth was a Grenadier doing with sailors and marines? Prisoners in Oporto, possibly. He might merely mean that he had served as a guard over them. He carried on, without waiting for a response, "But if they are prisoners, it might be possible, even if they are sailors..."

The talk was flowing freely in French, their prisoner smiling and even laughing, but Carty felt... something. He watched Harris closely - his fellow rifleman was concentrating, and not on his speech. It was not an obvious expression at all, but Carty had spent several months in silence with their splinter of the 95th, listening, watching and learning the most subtle nuances of his companions' mannerisms, that he could read them when his grasp of their language failed him. And there was more to this conversation than was immediately apparent.

"No, none of them! There was one German who spoke some, but even the other Germans - aaahhh, that hurts!" He hissed through clenched teeth and tried to keep still.

Harris laughed softly. "Oh, you caught some Germans too, did you? It sounds as if your people have plenty of prisoners to exchange for you, anyway, and we'd probably be glad to get ours back, even if they are stupid." He frowned as in concentration. "We'll have to get a message to them, before they send them back to Oporto - they haven't gone back yet, have they?"

"I'm not sure," he said, thinking about the logistics.

"Even if they have, it will only be to Oporto. We might still be able to arrange something." He allowed a slight note of doubt into his voice. "Of course, it would be better if we could do it before they go. Contact your Captain. Keep the headquarters scoundrels out of it. They'll only want their fists greased."

"My captain... if he can be found," Bézayrie answered with a sly grin. "He's probably set up headquarters in the tavern cellar."

"Captains - even grenadier captains - can down a good few bottles of wine. Especially if there's no one to keep an eye on him. If the Colonel is about, he has to be more discreet." He glanced towards the door, and added: "What about the cavalry? They have a reputation for even harder drinking."

The Frenchman grinned. "That's true. But not more than Capitaine Duprey."

Perkins scratched on the tent flap and came inside. "There you are, Mícheál. I wondered where you'd got to. Brought you some tea. Oh, Harris. Here." He offered Harris his own cup and looked at the riflemen, the surgeon, and the prisoner. "Everything all right?" he asked Carty.

"Thanks, Ben," Carty said with a grin, taking the cup. "Yes, all all right. We have Frenchman. Nice Frenchman," he added with a nod to the prisoner.

"Nice Frenchman?" Perkins repeated, looking at his friend skeptically. "Well, I suppose..." He remembered the hussars they had taken prisoner after Obidos. The captain had spoken English, and he had seemed to be a decent sort. "Does he speak English?" he whispered.

"Capitaine Duprey - your Grenadier Captain. And he's in charge, so we should write to him about your exchange, I suppose." He was afraid that the arrival of Perkins with tea had broken the spell. He took the cup offered to him and nodded. "Thank you for this. If you're going to get yourself another cup, Ben, could you get one for our young friend here. Who probably does not speak English. I expect he's thirsty." He reverted to French. "Are you thirsty, soldat?"