30 July, Une maison renfoncée

Paol flinched at the perceived accusation. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, "I--" He broke off as Charcot began to sob again, holding his thin, shuddering frame as best he could in his awkward embrace.

But where was Roux? He thought he'd seen him, up and moving as they were retreating, but everything had been so confused.... If he had been alright, surely he would have found them by now.

"Easy, now.. it's alright," he tried to speak lightly, "Roux's here somewhere." Please God let him be there. "Best go find him, aye? You alright to walk?"

Charcot nodded and pushed himself up. He pulled the bandage down from his eyes, now wet, and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

"C'mon," Paol said, moving towards the nearest group of prisoners. He felt odd, dizzy and his grip on Charcot's shoulder was slightly tighter than ought to have been necessary. "Alain?"

Roux was sprawled on the ground, feeling dizzy and nauseous. The gash across his ribs was bleeding again, and he wondered fleetingly if any of the ribs were broken. He thought he might have been hit there. He was fairly certain he had hit his head, too. Probably. Maybe. Trying to remember made his head hurt.

Maybe he had been in another fight against Quentin. That never seemed to end well. But, had Quentin been among the prisoners? He wasn't sure.

He thought he heard someone call his name.

"'M alright," Roux muttered, whether it was true or not. "J'st gimme a minute."

There – Paol quickened his pace. Thank Christ for that mop of red hair. But there was little about the sight of the prone, bloody figure to reassure him. "Here," he told Charcot, dropping to the ground beside Alain. "Roux? Mate?"

"Paol?" Roux blinked up at his friend uncertainly. "I think 's time to stop getting in fights with Quentin."

Quentin? Paol's face sharpened in worried confusion, then suddenly cleared and he shut his eyes with a hollow breath of a laugh. It was a reasonable enough assumption. Poor Roux. "It weren't Quentin this time, mate," he said gently, "Spanish. A whole mob of 'em attacked while them greenjackets were tryin' to move us."

"Oh."

That made slightly more sense. Roux could not remember seeing Quentin. Of course, he couldn't remember the Spanish too clearly either, but if Paol said it was so then it must be so.

"Hate the Spanish," he said, "Stupid bastards."

He squinted, wishing his head did not hurt so badly.

"You'n Charcot alright?"

His arrival was heralded by a thin trail of rising dust, for Todd had come nearly a run. The news that there had been a fight with some of the locals and some of his Riflemen had been involved had been received with some alarm. He had thus responded with haste; so much that he had entirely forgotten his hat.

"There are wounded men here?" The surgeon enquired, his gaze sweeping over the cluster of Riflemen near the barn's door. He had already seen the dead Spaniards.

"Aye," Burke called, breathing a sigh of relief at the surgeon's arrival. "Plenty as needs yer expertise."

He gestured to where Kaufmann was still sitting on the ground. "Maybe ye'd look at 'im first?"

One of the lads answered first, happily sparing Todd the trial of speaking to the mounted Guards major. He remembered the fellow from some time ago and, as now, thought him to be a boor.

"Where are you hurt?" Todd asked the seated Rifleman. It was plain by the way the fellow was cradling his arm that there was an injury to that limb, but in Todd's experience, it was always best to hear the soldier explain his wounds.

There was the surgeon, Herr Todd at last. Kaufmann looked up at him, and guessed through his dizzy haze what the question must be. "My arm," he answered, gazing down at it briefly.

That confirmed his suspicions, though Todd found little comfort in it. He knelt and put both hands, carefully, on the Rifleman's arm. His German was not good, despite many attempts to better it.

"Where?" He did at least know how to form simple questions and phrases. "Can you move it?"

Kaufmann gingerly removed his protective right hand from his left forearm. "There." His coat sleeve mostly hid the horribly unnatural bump he had been holding. "I can't move it," he answered, hoping desperately that the surgeon would not force him to try.

He could see nothing, but that was down to the lad's jacket being in the way. "Let's have that off," Todd said, regrettably in English, but he pointed at the jacket's buttons to illustrate his meaning. "Gently, mind."

Mittelstaedt reached out a hand, then quickly withdrew it, looking questioningly at the surgeon. "Help?" he asked, using the English word. Or would he just end up making things worse? Or getting his hand bit off....

"Aye, just fine."

Part of Roux's coat had fallen open and the waistcoat beneath was bright with fresh blood. "How's the head?" Paol asked almost conversationally, working to unfasten the buttons on the waistcoat and shirt. Every so often he glanced over to the huddle of figures near the door, nursing the faint hope that the newly arrived Englishman -- a surgeon, Paol guessed by his attention to the wounded greenjacket -- might be able or, more to the point, willing to help.

For his part, Charcot cared little for what was going on around him. It was good to hear Roux's voice, but he did not listen to what he was saying. He had crouched on the dirt floor where Paol directed him, and he had then regained his previous posture, hugging his knees to contain the trembling. Roux was alive, Paol was alive, he was alive, and that was all that could be said. They were here in hell together.



Oh hell, the jacket. This was going to hurt. Kaufmann began fumbling with the buttons and was grateful to let Mittelstaedt take over. He began peeling the jacket away with one hand and fought back a whimper of pain and anticipation of pain.

"I lost my rifle," he blurted, interrupting the procedure. Perhaps they would let him go and fetch it and then forget about him and leave his arm alone. "I dropped it on the ground. I need that first. I need to go and find my rifle."

"Never mind the rifle," said Todd, putting a gently restraining hand on the lad's shoulder. They had the jacket halfway off and it would take only a moment to get the sleeve off the man's injured arm. If only he would sit still long enough for them to manage it.

The surgeon shifted so he could carefully tug the woollen sleeve down. "Gently now. Nice and easy..."

Kaufmann clenched his jaw and shut his eyes as the jacket was pulled from his arm, desperately resisting the urge to pull away and strike the surgeon in the face, resisting also the urge to scream. One stifled sob escaped.

Mittelstaedt could only watch in helpless consternation. This was going to be bad. Really, really -- oh God, that was definitely not how his arm was supposed to look, even beneath his shirt.

With the jacket now removed, Todd could see the problem. Poor fellow's arm was broken and badly.

"Right. Relax your arm, lad," he told the Rifleman. "This will hurt, but not too much." Hopefully."

The Guardsman who had been sent to fetch him had, by now, arrived with Todd's heavy bag. It was in this bag that Todd now shoved a hand, rummaging around until his fingers closed around a sturdy wooden splint and a length of bandage.

He withdrew these and prepared to apply the splint to the Rifleman's arm.

Relax his arm? As if he had any control over his arm at all! He frowned anxiously as the doctor sorted through his equipment. "What are you going to do?" he asked with fearful suspicion.

"Your arm needs to be set," Todd explained, "and then splinted, or it won't heal properly."

Kaufmann nodded and studiously looked up at what was left of the roof, waiting for the surgeon to do what he must.