Surgeons shop

Rob looked at the man, "Mackintosh! Sergeant! Aye, sit ye doon. Let me see." He made one quick comment to the french prisoner, "Stay seated and awake, please." and gave a smile as well, even as he tugged the sergeant to sit down. "Why did ye not come in here as soon as it happened, sir? Would ye take yer shirt off, please?" He gathered some bandages, hot water, wine and vinegar.

"This lad's a french prisoner, Mackintosh, concussion. And there's another lad hanging round with a sore ankle, but he got sent away too." He grumbled fitfully while he inspected the bite, a misture of curses including basically everyone he'd ever met, even those who had nothing to do with it. Ridicolous, how people thought they could get bitten and still be fine.

Dr. Mackintosh vaguely grumbled at his much younger colleague, glanced at the Frenchman, raised his eyebrows at the riflemen, and left the tent without another coherent word.

It was getting quite crowded in the tent. "I'll just go off and see if there's sommat to eat," Perkins said. "I told Cooper to save enough for three." He collected the prisoner's empty cup and made a discreet exit.


[Perkins and later others continue in 6th night, 95th camp

Harris left Carty in charge of the prisoner, and went to collect a set of leg-irons from the provost. They had the usual handful of offenders under guard - most from the 3/27th - and seemed unconcerned when he said it was nothing to bother them with. The Rifles did have the reputation for dealing with offenders in their own way.

Back in the surgeon's tent he knelt to fasten them round Bézayrie's ankles. "We don't want you wandering about the camp tonight," he said lightly. "Take it easy and we'll sort you out tomorrow."

The pale boy simply stared down at him, watching as the rifleman chained his ankles. No explanation was necessary.

Carty watched as Harris put the leg-irons on their prisoner. He was getting treatment, and they'd been good to him, really. He patted the prisoner on the shoulder, imitating Harris' light tone. "No worry."

Bézayrie visibly jumped at the touch and whipped his head around to look up at the young rifleman. He regretted it immediately, and put his hand up to cradle the back of his skull. At least they hadn't chained his hands, though there was still time. The older rifleman had only brought leg irons with him. It had hurt when they had tied his arms with the crossbelts. He hoped they would not do that again, or tie him to the chair all night.

Harris tested the irons and stood up. "There you are, Doctor. He's all yours for the night. Don't let him wander off." He turned to Carty. "Time to go and see if the Sergeant's kept any dinner for us. And it's Sunday, so it should be good."

Bordel! What if he had to relieve himself? At least the doctor seemed to understand some French. He stared back at the table, avoiding eye contact with the riflemen as they prepared to leave. He wished they would stay, but what a foolish thought! These were the same men who had been shooting at him this afternoon. He felt suddenly depressed and empty.

Carty waved at the Frenchman with a shy smile. "Bye, now."

He glanced at the younger rifleman who was waving goodbye. He didn't have the fortitude to work up a smile, even a small forced smile. He simply stared.

Rob turned his head slightly, watching them go as his fingers stilled on their examination, "Ye come back here if ye've missed yer dinner." he reminded them, "I dinna want ter see ye brought in through hunger only."

Abruptly he switched to french. "Take it gently, lad, and don't fall asleep. I'll check on you as soon as I can."

Then he was back to fingering the ruined flesh. "Ye ain't done nothing to this either, have ye, sir. Dirty, a horses mouth do be.... Ye'll be in fer a bad coupla days, if I'm not misjudging."

Don't fall asleep. As if he could! He made a nest of his arms on the table and cradled his head there, not to sleep but to hide his face. Alone, alone and Foucheaux dead. Taken prisoner by the English without a single shot fired off. Stupid! Captain Duprey probably wouldn't even want him back, and Foucheaux wouldn't be there to persuade him. Roussel and Javert certainly knew him for the fool that he was. Bézayrie resolutely kept silent and still while the surgeon was working nearby, but with his face hidden he allowed the tears to soak his sleeve.

Rob had stopped grumbling a while ago, concentrating only on attempting to dab the stinging solution on the torn flesh, and everything in the tent was silent, apart from some laboured breathing from the body in front of him, and...he could hardly hear the french lad at all. Crying? he risked a glance over his shoulder. Man enough not to let the sight of his tears be known, and to anyone who hadn't given him strict, grouchy, orders to not go to sleep, he might have been asleep. But Rob trusted in his own instructions being followed too much to beleive that.

"Can ye move it, sir?" He asked, watching the blood trickle out a little from a nasty looking puncture. There was little enough movement, and he hissed a little in sympathy as he again peered at it. "Ye shoulda come here direct, ye ken."

His frustration, clear to see, was broken off by stamping outside. "Aye?" His polite invitation was waved away as his tent was filled with determined looking men. "how bad is't?" He asked, worried by this influx, to be pushed aside unceremoniously as the frenchman was seized. Well, he was right miffed now. "'Ay! 'Tis me patient, tis! Ye canna be takin 'im, I need 'im 'ere fer another few hours!" hurriedly modulated his voice, "Look lads, he's tied up fit fer slaughter. There's naught he can do... leave him be fer a while, I'm still here." But nothing seemed to help the passing on of his meaning. It was like the proverbial brick wall was appearing in his own space.

He'd observed the men come and leave the tent ever since he had been sent out himself. As one could see their horse from it, with the flap lifted, so now he could observe the entrance to the tent as well. He'd seen Harris leave and then come again, carrying the shackles in hand. Saw Perkins earlier with tea, and in general all men that had had business be it to be taken care of as the sergeant, or to take care of the Frenchman inside. Or solely to come and visit and see.

Bella looked down at her rider and nudged his shoulder. She tied loose enough so that she could bite at the grass beneath her snout and earlier to eat some of the hay she'd been given. He raised a hand and slowly nudged her head away, rubbing his hand from her nose up to where he was able to reach.

"'s a long one eh, Bella?" He murmured conversationally to the horse. Then he saw Harris leave again, possibly to get his food long awaiting. The Hussar did not attempt to call any nor request them to bring any. Hopping over was against the doctor's orders, so instead he busied himself with watching the new men arrive. A day could be missed and anyhow, no use, no feed. Hm, did they come to fetch the Frenchman? If it were anything to judge by how afraid he'd earlier been, and they were indeed with that reason there, there might be some screaming more to be heard.

Bézayrie had time to hastily wipe his face before the provost's men grabbed his elbows and hauled him to his feet. By the clanking of the irons and manacles they carried, the purpose of their mission was clear. They spoke loudly to each other as they pushed and pulled his unresisting hands into the manacles. The doctor seemed displeased, but the apparent change of plans did not surprise the young grenadier. His earlier panic was gone and he was resigned to his fate, though he glared back at them fiercely. He would have fallen when they gave him an ungentle shove but for the fact that one of them was still gripping his arm. The leg irons limited his walking to short shuffling steps, but the men still managed to hurry him out of the tent and away.

Waldegrave watched the provost's men take custody of the French grenadier. He was surprised to see just how young the soldier was, but that did not matter. What mattered was that everyone followed the correct procedure - even Riflemen! There would be more prisoners taken when they really came up against the French, and they could not have them left lying around in surgeon's tents and under the guard of the original captor.

Waldegrave had seen Harris with the leg-irons, and his first assumption had been that one of Sharpe's men had stepped out of line, and was being punished without any reference to Colonel Edrington. But he had followed the Riflemen, and found out about the French prisoner. He had dealt with that, and... That damned surgeon. He had heard his complaints from beyond the wagon. It had clearly been his idea for the prisoner to be left with him. Harris would plead that he had been following Sinclair's orders.

Waldegrave shrugged and returned to his billet, not noticing the Hussar and the horse he had met the day before.

So it was the lieutenant who had sent the provosts to collect the young Frenchman. He had wondered about that a little while, for he doubted the riflemen would sent word of their keep. Harris hardly seemed interested in sharing, even with the provosts. He would not have brought shackles to spare instead of the provosts themselves, should he have thought to hand him over. Neither did the doctor send for them. His protests could be well heard. And, there was just no reason why he would act as if he was against it, if he were ment to meet them. There was Macintosh there, that he did not recognise, a man that arrived with a sergeant with a horse bite on him. But why was he even considering his other options when the observant lad in the back was an indication enough.

Waldegrave. The man who would want fervently for the rules to be obeyed as any young lieuteant would. Not a flaw in that. Quite comendable, actually. The army would turn to chaos if not for the men enforcing order. He found he no longer felt to chuckle when he saw the lad. What Bella did may have been amusing when it happened, but it was not neither to whom it happened, nor that it did. Not any more to him at least. If there was a way that he could voice his regrets about his horse, he would have. But it would only push further were he to mention it. Make worse.

So rather than have the memory persist, he watched as the lieutenant left. He wondered of the next day. Where would it take them, what would be the weather, would there be any more French, when would he be able to fight, were he to meet the 15th sooner than that, were he to be armed if he didn't, would the lieutenant hold a grudge or has he already forgotten it all, was Vickery going to scold Newbury for that little rabbit hunt, who'd hear of it, so many thoughts, so little time.

And on the side also cursed his leg for being such a wuss. Not able to take one bloody ascend and descend and well in part he was carried, so that didn't count,.. and another descend. Bloody leg, if only there was a way to exchange it with someone. He'd be the happiest camper if it were.

Disgusted, Rob futily attempted to get some promise of being able to at least get his bandages back from his patient. This was not the right thing to say, apparently. he knew as well as anyone that this man was a prisoner, but he was a patient first, and, he suspected, would remain in his mind as a patient who happened to be french.

"Well, if ye willna listen ter logic, mabbe orders will do." He began, "Get ye out of me tent, I've another man ter tend to." his voice, he noted with some pride, was strong and brooked no nonsense, the kind he had perfected when dealing with recalcitrant children, or frustrating family. He strode over and opened the flap. "I'll be wanting those stitches out, later." He murmered in french to the trussed lad.

And now maybe he could get on with it, given it must be dark soon.

Wanting those stitches out? As if he might decide to hoard them like a selfish borrower.

"Where are we going, please?" Bézayrie asked the men walking on either side of him. They did not answer. "Are you from the provost?" One of them muttered something dismissive and irritable. The prisoner looked around and could see many campfires in the dark, clusters of men and occasionally women gathered around them, and tents here and there. He ventured to speak again. "Will I be able to take a leak - relieve myself? Some time?" The irritated guard rebuked him again, this time mildly cuffing him on the back of his head. The man almost certainly did not know that it was the spot where he had been injured, and he was startled by the boy's response. Bézayrie let out a gasping cry, and his hand flew up to hold his head but was jerked back by the chain. His feet stumbled blindly and the guards hauled him back up, propelling and dragging him on with annoyed rebukes.

Well now, the riflemen had gone, the Frenchman was gone, and probably there were few of the men inside, which too would be going soon. With the help of his horse, he had lifted himself back up on his feet, and cursed his luck again for ever having his ankle injured. Why, of ALL things, did it have to be something on his leg. Everybody else would have considered him useless to the army at present. And in a way, he felt so as well.

With a frown he half limped half hopped back into the tent, and peered inside. He suspected the surgeon was busy, or that he would be angry and... well he just wondered if the man had wanted anything else.

"Hey!" Rob felt the cry come from his own mouth as he strode to the mens side, "Ye leave yer hand off his head an' neck, lad, even if ye canna keep it off elsewheres." He eyed the frog, "He gets more injured and he's back here with me." He thought maybe he could at least try speaking their language, but couldn't tell if it made a difference, with the whole mass of them moving off and into the gloom.

"Now," he returned to the troubling arm, "I'll bind it, and tomorrow, we'll have another look. Will ye stay here, or would ye rather..." It was a good thing his sentance was easily finishable, as he was interrupted again with another arrival, "Aye? what?" his irratable question thrown over his shoulder was accompanied by the finishing of a bandaging job, and a last look at the worrying arm.

"Tis ye, lad. Sit down...Tomorrow ye'll be in t'wagon all day, adn the next, too, what with all yer running terday.Ye should ha' stayed sitting, before." He suddenly thought of something, "With all ye running in and out, whose keeping watch, against them frogs?"

"I've been told to depart, and so I have. It is not my own fault that it took me to walk to move." He replied calmly, which was perhaps a contrast to the irritable state in which the doctor was. He had wished he were not confined to a small place in the wagon when the doctor himself would probably be wandering about. With Cotton gone he hadn't a lass either to keep him company as the man had. Sure it was no comparison either, but the solitude through the day would remain quite the same.

He took a seat slow and careful and found himself frowning. ".. if you are asking me.. it is the rest of the riflemen and cavalry, I'd reckon." He wouldn't want to be scolded for something he had not done willingly in the first place." ..Is there anything that you need my help with, .. sir?"

Rob grimaced and helped the sergeant to stand, "ye'll come back in first thing tomorrow, sir, and I'll look at it again. If it hurts more than it does now between now and then," he broke off as the man put on a grimace and declared it couldn't possibly do so, "then let me know- by messanger." he smiled at the mans discomfiture, most of it put on, and ushered him out, "ye be carefull, sir. I'd rather not see ye before morning."

Finally he turned to Willoughby again, "Nay lad, tisn't yer fault...but ye'll be t'one ter pay for't. There's naught fer ye ter do now, other than wait. I'm finished here though, I hope for a while... so ye can wait and eat, since I've confined ye. hungry?"

As he spoke, Rob had turned to the not inconsiderable pile of mushrooms, which could, in a way, be thought of as starting the whole thing. He knew he was being fancifull however, and viscously chopped the mushrooms, penitent.

Pay for it with two days in the wagon? Hopefully the doctor had not decided so without the leg's actual well being in mind. If there was, then he would be feeling quite sour that he were to take, what other had cooked up. He frowned and he nodded just slightly, cursing the rifleman who had been glad to throw him out.

"..yes,.. I am. If you were so generous as to ..." He answered when asked about the food and then went to observe the doctor as he chopped away at the mushrooms.

If only there was a way that injuries would have healed faster. He would have been so willing to try it. But as there was nothing more to be done, and nothing quite to work on, he sat in his chair looking some like an obediant puppy that was as restless to chase the next rabbit, but wasn't allowed. He did enjoy the company of the surgeon, yet perhaps he would have wished that he had shared such with himself in fit condition and of use. How his grandfather would have laughed at him this day. A horseman , eh? Where's your horse then? Why are you not riding? And with the army? I've told you you'd end up with them, it is your fate. Nay to deny what the ol' folk tell you. So he would say and then be amused some more.

And today. It didn't turn out as he planned. Quite on the contrary. Humiliated by the French, Newbury and he had perhaps survived, but they weren't the happiest for it. If only he had been armed. A musket would do, a rifle - were he to be shown how the Bakers were shot - would do even better. Anything that could help him be of use and what might've turned things into a better and faster an outcome. Now he did not doubt that Vickery would have had the poor lad hear it, whether he himself would be called, he did not know. He wasn't of the rifles, not even of the army he was presently riding with. Caught somewhere inbetween, almost as if he were in limbo, not quite there, and not quite down below neither.

His breeches were repaired, thanks to the fair curtesy of the surgeon, but the thought that he could've done more was still there. And damn it, the French would have found a laugh in what kind of weapon he'd held. He felt himself cursing and replying in retort (in his mind), that it wasn't his fault if those have not seen fit to arm him. Not wanted, for it was money spent and money wasted.