Surgeons shop

Bézayrie looked at the newcomer and nodded. "Yes. I would like something to drink, please." When Perkins had left, the young man spoke confidingly to Harris. "The prisoner, the other prisoner, the rifleman... He won't take revenge either, will he? He was hurt when I saw him. He'll be angry."

"No - we're not like that. We treat our prisoners well. Of course, it's still not like being free, and with your friends..."

The grenadier looked doubtful, worried. "I've heard stories of terrible, horrible things being done to Frenchmen here in Portugal. Even as revenge for things they didn't do!"

"Here ye go, mate," Perkins said slowly and loudly, having returned with another two steaming mugs. "Tea! For you! Are you getting anything useful, Harris?" he asked in an undertone.

"Thank you, Ben." As Bézayrie took the mug he murmured: "It doesn't make much sense - Germans and sailors and marines. But I live in hope."

"Merci," he said to the young rifleman. "Eh... sank yeu."

"Thank you!" Carty laughed. "Yes, yes - good Frenchie! Thank you!"

The grenadier smiled and Perkins raised an eyebrow. "You're welcome." He looked back at Harris but decided to say nothing, but instead turned to chat with Carty so Harris and the Frenchman could continue talking.

"I heard that you shot two today. Is that right? And you bagged this one."

Carty scratched the back of his head with a wide but embarrassed grin. "I think so. Who says to you?"

Perkins grinned. "Harper. That's well done! I think I wounded one but I'm not sure. I shot someone's bearskin though. I should've gone to fetch it as a souvenir, to show the girls and say I shot me a bear!" He nodded at the prisoner. "What about him?" he asked, watching the doctor tend to his scalp.

"He'll be fine." rob assured them, looking up from a minute inspection of the tattered skull, "but not happy, I'm afraid. From what I've understood he may be about ter miss the alcohol I'll be stopping him from having."

He laid out a few bandages, "D'ye want him bandaged or stitched, lads?" he wasn't entirely sure whether there should be a preference, only that bandages would stand out more, so readdressed his question in french, "Bandages or stitches?" perhaps not with a perfectly conjugated verb, but he was satisfied the meaning was clear.

"When ye are through here, perkins, could ye check there aren't any more people loitering outside wanting me ter look at them? Seems I almost missed this one, too."

Bandages or stitches? Why was he asking him? Surely the surgeon knew what was best? "Yes. Thank you," he said deferentially. And had he just said "alcool"? Bézayrie drank his tea and wondered if he might expect a stronger drink next. But perhaps alcohol was used to clean wounds.

Harris had seen the things the Portuguese irregulars did to the French soldiers they caught - most recently, only four days earlier. But he was not going to discuss that, and the tea had, he hoped, given the grenadier a happier train of thought. Because if he were asked to say who was more guilty of atrocities, he would have to say the French. He had followed Sharpe from Spain to the north through Portugal to Lisbon, and out on various expeditions. And he had seen what French soldiers could do to a village that they suspected had harboured irregulars.

Sinclair's question confused him. "Stitch it if it will help it heal - you're the surgeon."

Rob shrugged, and picked up a needle to thread it. "Stitches it is then." he said, showing the needle to the frenchman, "Sit still, please." carefuly he parted the mans hair and firmly began the job. The cut shouldn't get infected, not with all the cleaning he'd done, so he was fairly relaxed about the whole thing. He was more worried about what woul be happening after the lad was let loose again, though as this feeling was shared...."I'll be keeping him here, fer a bit, ay?" he checked, "Ye can come and visit, but naught else."
This patient was going to get more care than the others, just to battle the confusion he'd be subject to.

Bézayrie grimaced slightly but concentrated on the table, staring at the pattern of the wood grain and keeping very still. He could tell he was being talked about, though. "What does he say?" he asked the older rifleman.

"He wants you to stay here tonight," Harris translated, frowning. He did not think that the Frenchman was that badly injured, but you couldn't tell with head wounds. He was only a boy, and had probably won the sympathy of the doctor, but - he was a French prisoner. "I'll have to get some manacles," he said. "It would be the same if we handed you over to our provosts. We don't actually have a secure cell - not till we stop moving." He turned to Carty. "I'm going to borrow some manacles - chains -from the provost. Then we can leave him here for the night."

Rob was unimpressed. Manacles! on his patient!
"Are they needed? Can't ye leave him be?" He gestured with his now used needle, "I'd prefer ter keep him in a stable position, and here I can still take him down if needs be. If he does escape.... he'll be injured, confused and probably lost." Rob reconsidered, "Not that he'll get out, anyway."

The patient in question tried to turn around to look at the doctor, and then looked back at the rifleman. There seemed to be some disagreement between them. Feeling uneasy, Bézayrie decided to keep his mouth shut and hope that the consideration they had shown him so far would continue.

"Sorry, lad." Rob apologised, crouching down in front of the patient, and switching to French, "He wants to...tie you up, manacle you, so you don't excape."
Rob glared at the man, "But I don't want him to... and I need you to stay here with me for a day at least."
gently he stood and felt along the lads neck, "Sore?" he questioned, still in french.

Harris shrugged. "Dr Sinclair," he explained. "This man is a prisoner, one of the enemy. Not a British soldier. If I tell the provosts he is here, they will take him away, and I doubt if you will be able to stop them, or make sure they treat him well. Do you want me and the lad to stay here, on guard, all night? And then march again tomorrow?" He shook his head. "It manacles, or take him to the provosts. I'm not going to be responsible for losing a prisoner. Mr Sharpe would not appreciate explaining that to the Colonel."

He frowned, staring down at the table again while they argued behind him. It was only reasonable that they should chain him. He was a prisoner, not a guest or a pet or a foundling. These were the same men that had killed Foucheaux without hesitation, and they might have just as easily aimed for him instead. He realized he was still holding the empty tin mug, and he quietly set it down on the table.

Rob eyed the Rifleman doubtfully, unhappy. "It'll take longer ter heal, if ye chain him up." he grumbled, "But if it's that or a trip ter the provosts...."

He looked at the stitched head under his hands, and then up at the rest of the men. "Aye, tisn't fair ter make ye walk all day after all of that, ter be sure." he nodded, "So long as I get ter check they aren't too tight, ye can brace up his ankles- but only those, mind, and not too tight."
suddenly a though tstruck him, "Has he seen any food, lately? Apart from what he already ate?" his eyebrows gestured to the stained jacket nearby. "I can feed him, ay."

Harris shook his head in despair - more concern for the bloody prisoner than for the riflemen who had brought him in! "No doctor, we haven't fed him - we haven't eaten ourselves tonight, if it comes to that. And if we have to hang around here much longer there isn't going to be anything left for us. I'll get leg-irons then."

Rob placed on hand on the angry sounding riflemans arm, "Now, lad. Ye think I'm taking more care of a Frog than ye, don't ye? I can tell ye that ain't t'case- this man is my patient, and I swore ter care fer all me patients."

He swept his gaze around the tent, "Ye can all eat here, if yer that famished, come ter that. How 'bout ye grab some irons and take a looksie at yer tea, and if yer still hungry, ye can come here. T'won't be great, but it'll be good an' hot, if that's what ye need."
He realised too late that he was in danger of making an enemy of this man, and all because of the presence of one other man, who happened to speak better french and worse english than himself.

There was a sound of men talking outside the tent, primarily the sound of one of them grumbling, and Dr. Mackintosh came through the doorflap with Sergeant Guthrie behind. "Sinclair, what the devil is this? This man was bitten by the general's horse hours ago. Sergeant, you're a bloody fool for not getting it seen to sooner. Sit down there. Who's this boy? Move over lad, it's the sergeant's turn."