The proudest moment of his entire life ended…badly. One moment he was holding a flag touched by the King's own hand while proclaiming the Fountain to be under British rule and the next minute he tumbled face-first into the shallow water. All that followed was utter pandemonium.
Glory to God and Spain, his mission was complete and the Fountain smashed. He turned and surveyed the ruin of men about the Fountain and found his eyes drawn to the colors of the Union Jack as it half swaddled the courageous fool. The Captain of the English Navy had disappeared and left his dead, wounded, and living behind. Those that were unharmed were as dazed as the wounded. His second in commanded looked to him for orders.
"I welcome you English Mariners to our camp were you will find quarter with us. The wounded shall be cared for and the dead buried." Quietly, he said to his officer, "Make it so." His first called out orders and men were quickly taken under custody and triaged for the severity of their wounds.
Don Gutierre de Hevia y Valdés walked down to the man on his side half in the shallow water still clutching his flag and rolled him over. Such a waste of courage, but he would keep his promise and honor this man during his burial. Gutierre grasped the flag and began to take it from the officer's hands when suddenly the body bucked beneath him. Whining, the officer's face suddenly twisted in agony and his fists clenched white knuckled on the flag. Still alive and incoherent with the pain, but for how long?
"Teniente! This man is still alive, we must do what we can for him," called Gutierre. Again he tried to take the flag from the officer, but the man whined and grasped harder, trying to speaking a mumbling, "No, no, my responsibility. No, no, must protect it." Gutierre laid his hand upon the man's beetled brow and tried to sooth him; for the time being he would not take the flag that this man clung to as a lifeline. He found such devotion despite impending death incredibly honorable.
Pain was the first thing he was aware of and Groves did not know where he was. Men were all about him speaking gibberish and trying to take the flag. He would not give it up to them, it was under his guard! It took him a few moments to realize that he was in a tent and the sunlight and the heat bore down on him. He closed his eyes and the tears beaded up under his lashes before sliding down his temples. More people entered the tent by the sound of new voices and rustling canvas and Groves wished he could fall back into oblivion.
"Give it to me, Groves," Gillette's voice like a razor out of the din of gibberish and Groves' eyes popped wide open. "Getting shot…hurts," Theo whined at Andrew. "It is going to hurt a lot more when they take the bullet out. Now give me the flag, Groves, I will keep it safe." Theo turned his head and loosed his grip of the flag. Andrew took it with his left hand, he was shirtless and his right arm was held up with a sling and a binding went over that shoulder and around his torso. "What…happened?" Groves asked. "I had my back sliced open." "You…are you…going to…be fine?" Gillette shrugged with his good shoulder, "I cannot move my right arm. Once the surgeon is done with you he will see if he can sew my muscles back together." "I'm…sorry." "No need. Just try not to cry when he digs for the bullet. England's reputation hangs upon you." "Fuck…you, An…drew." "Maybe when we are both better," Gillette said mockingly before being lead out of the tent.
Groves' clothes, without the impediment of the flag, were cut off him and some kind soul stuck a thick piece of leather soaked in liquor into his mouth. The men arranged themselves about him and grabbed hold of his arms and legs and held him down. Two men held his thighs and two others pinned him to the pallet by his chest. The surgeon approached and Groves was suddenly terrified and he went stock still under the hands that held him. The surgeon made his first exploratory probe into the wound and Groves screamed. And screamed. And screamed.