OPORTO, 22nd May - The Medical Corps

A hospital in the city, which would be filled with soldiers. Probably French and British both. Calderón kept a tight grip on his expression, lest it betray his concern. He had been careless - the fact that he'd broken his leg was evidence enough of that - and to not worry about what would happen next was impossible.

"I do not worry easily," he said, forcing a grin. "But thank you."

By now there were new men arriving who needed care for their wounds, including a few riflemen. Jenny saw that Maggie also had arrived and was scanning the newcomers to see if there was anyone she knew. She stopped to talk to a few of them. Jenny got up to investigate.

The group of wounded Newbury was escorting had grown from the four men it had originally started out with. He had made a point to collect the wounded redcoats he and the others had fought with, and along the way they had begged the use of a mule for the two men who were too badly hurt to walk.

Now, finally, they had reached the surgeons' tents. With no small sense of relief, Newbury turned the sorry group over to the first sawbones he saw and wandered off a short distance to sag down onto the ground. It felt marvellous to get off his feet. He unbuttoned his jacket - taking particular care that none of the surgeons could see him - and grimaced at the light spotting of red on his shirt. His side was beginning to ache fiercely again, too, and he felt a sharp spike of pain every time he took in a deep breath. Dammit.

There was the reproachful voice of an angry woman behind him. "Rifleman Newbury!"

Oh Lord. Newbury froze, about to poke experimentally at the line of stitches underneath his shirt. He knew that voice. What was Jenny doing here?

No man arriving was as bad as their first patient, God rest his soul, and Sinclair tackled them with the energy of a man knowing there wouldn't be any breaks worth mentioning for many hours hence.

Bandages mainly, though two who'd have to be cut about a bit- removing of a bullet or two which they'd keep if lucky. Automatically he checked all the necassary instruments were present and sharp before arranging the first patient.

"Joe, what have you been doing?" she asked in a voice that knew very well what he had been doing and dared him to deny it.

He stared down at his shoes like a boy caught stealing from the kitchen. "Couldn't miss this fight too," he said guiltily. "Bad 'nough I missed the last one."

"You're an idiot, Joe, dear. I would kick you in the ribs if you weren't bleeding out of them." She looked as if she meant it, too. She sat down beside him. "How many times has that thing opened? You might as well leave it open and call it a pocket now."

Newbury eyed her with sudden wariness when she said that, but she chose to sit instead, and that was all right.

"I dunno how many times it's been now," he admitted. "It'd probably suit better as a pocket, though."

He didn't dare mention the pop he'd heard when the Frog had kicked him.

"Shall I give you a matching one on the other side? You can put your money in there, or spare cartridges. Have you come from the seminary? Someone said you all were fighting there, and the French were withdrawing."

"Ehm..." Newbury covered the spotted part of his shirt with one hand, quite certain that he didn't want a matching wound on his other side. "I was in the seminary at the start, yes. We weren't there long. Chased some those hopping fellows a good ways before we found some others from the company."

She smiled mildly and then stood up, reaching a hand down to him. "Well come on, lamb, let's go and get you stitched up. You can't just sit there until it heals itself. Don't cover it up with your hand. I can see it very well."

Newbury's face flushed with embarrassment, but he wiped off his hand on his trouser leg and took her offered hand. "Thanks," he said once he was on his feet again. "Sawbones ain't gonna be pleased that I ruined his stitches again."

OOC - So very tempted to give Calderón a wheelchair and send him off to roll himself happily around in it.

IC -

There were more wounded filtering in. The surgeons were busily moving from man to man, doing whatever they could for each one. Calderón watched the bustle for a few minutes before deciding that it would be best if he was outside, at least, where he would not be in the way.

He hopped awkwardly toward the opened tent entrance, wishing he had his hat. It seemed likely to rain before the day was out.

OOC- now that's an incredibally amusing picture. We could have races....

IC-

Patched up legs and arms swum for a moment and SInclair finished off his most recent bandage quickly, turning and peering outside, a quick moment to give his body a rest before turning back to the fray.

There was something wrong, he realised. A shadow, for want of a better word, trying to get out unnoticed. Carefully he assesed the men near him, deciding he certainly could see who it was trying, awkwardly and slowly, to leave.

OOC - Races would be a hoot. Laps around the surgeons' tents...

IC -

It was not easy going, only having one good leg. Calderón had tried to put weight on his splinted leg, but the limb would not support him. He was reduced an ungainly hopping sort of shuffle that was nowhere near as swift as he wished it might be.

"Bloody idiot," he grumbled to himself in Portuguese, glad at least that none of the soldiers would be able to understand him. He would have had to go and get himself hurt this badly!

OOC- and then some horrible man would say 'you're fine then, go and be useful' and the frogs would be charged by men in wheelchairs....

IC-
The man who had come in so early, with a broken leg. Well, maybe he needed merely to releive himself, but there was enough for Sinclair to be doing apart from running round finding run-away patients. They always took longer getting better after a breif spell on the run.

"It would be faster to move if ye had someone ter help ye." he commented, coming closer.

OOC - That would be something new and perhaps terrifying. Wheelchair Lancers!

IC -

Calderón winced when he heard the voice of the surgeon who had set his leg. He came to a wobbling halt and managed to not look abashed. "Perhaps it would be," he agreed. "Though I do not care to be a distraction."

OOC- I like it. It should be implemented in the next attack!

IC-
"Ye will be more of a distraction brought back here with that leg o'yourn in bad shape." Sinclair warned, with a slight smile. No need to get angry when a light comment would do the job just as easily.
"How far were ye intending on going, so I may get ye a hand fer t'job as needed?"

OOC - Excellent! Sir Arthur's new secret weapon.

IC -

How far did he intend to go? Calderón suppressed a smile. "A fair bit farther than most of these other poor fellows," he replied. "There is much to do now the French are being driven out of Porto."

"Aye, there is." Sinclair allowed drily, "Much fer all, and I would be sorry if ye could be of nay help, from over- taxing yerself now."

Carefully he shifted his footing, offering and arm or shoulder to lean on if there was need, but making no fuss about it. This man wouldn't be going as far as he thought, even if sinclair did let him go. A broken leg was no walk in the park.

He had a point. Calderón considered his options and thought perhaps there might not be any harm in staying to pass bandages or the like.

"I suppose you may be right," he said after a moment. "Would you object to an extra pair of hands here around? If I am to remain for a time, I should like to be useful in some way."

Sinclair smiled, "I willna be turning away extra hands, ter be sure."
The original resting- place of his patient was still empty, he noted happily, as he turned them both back.
"Ye needn't worry." He tried carefully, "If someone should need ter find ye, they'll try here, and if they don't try, they willna succeed." He had an eye on a small mortar and pestle which could be put to use, to start with.

Good enough, he thought, that the surgeon seemed happy for the offer.

"I don't know that I'll be searched for," Calderón remarked lightly. "But success is indeed directly affected by the effort. What would you have me to do?"