30 July, Une maison renfoncée

Duval turned and moved off stiffly to rejoin the men from his own company, unable to shake the sharp bitterness the boy's last words had conjured up. There'd be none of them going home, soon or otherwise. He shook his head suddenly, as though to clear that thought away. Sleep. That was what he needed. If nothing else, it would exorcise the lad's comment.

"Mitaine," Charcot said drowsily. Musn't forget her when they went to the butcher. And with that, he quickly fell into sleep.

Matias finished his circuit of the barn, keeping to the deeper shadows which hung upon the surrounding buildings, creeping back to the spot where the others were waiting. The English soldiers, the redcoats, he related to them, were still standing guard outside. It had been dark for hours now and they showed no signs of leaving, though at least one of them appeared to be half asleep.

It was almost impossible to stay awake in such complete darkness. Not with exhaustion hanging heavily on his brain and body. He could not even be sure what day it was, for the last three seemed to blur together into one long stretch of events. He knew he had to at least try to stay awake, but his eyelids felt lined with lead. They kept drooping shut.

Not even the fear of what Captain Blackwood would do or say, should Martin be discovered asleep on sentry, was powerful enough to overcome his weariness. Were it not for his musket, Martin would long since have slumped against the side of the barn and thence to the ground.

His errand accomplished, Matias was fairly twitching with impatience -- and more nervousness than he cared to admit. "We go now?" he demanded eagerly, looking to Juan.

"Yes," answered Juan after a moment. Everything was in place, waiting only for the word. His word. And he had just given it. "Go."

With a low, exultant oath, Matias grabbbed for one of the buckets. It was heavy and ungainly with its contents and the rope handle bit into his palm as he hefted it, but he hardly noticed as he fell in with Juan and the others.

The small group filed silently toward the barn and, as they got closer, began to disperse. Each man had his allotted task to carry out. Juan himself carried a short, burlap-wrapped bundle. His own role would be executed first.

While the others filtered away into the dark, he halted within a stone's throw of the barn and its redcoated sentries. It was quick work to remove the burlap from the tattered, bloody clothes it had concealed.

A few attempts later, Juan got the flint to spark. A tiny flame appeared in the specially-treated bundle and quickly spread. He grabbed the clothes up and ran forward as quickly as he could with his injured leg. Once he was close enough to the barn, he flung the now brightly burning clothes at the nearest redcoat.

Then, his task completed, he retreated swiftly to the shadows, amid the rising cries of alarm from the English sentries.

Matias raced after Miguel, making it to the cover of the small outbuilding beside the barn without being detected. Juan's distraction had worked just as he planned. Setting down his bucket, Matias stepped into Miguel's cupped hands and was vaulted up, grabbing the edge of the low roof and hauling himself onto it.

The buckets came next and then Miguel. Crouched low, both boys scrambled across the roof to the end of the peek closest -- perhaps and arm's length -- from the barn. Miguel, the stronger of the two went first this time, leaping for top of the crumbling wall.

For a moment he seemed to slip while Matias stood helpless, both hands taken up by the two buckets, then he managed to heave himself up and over until he was lying on his belly along the wall. Feeling as though he had just been punched in the stomach, Matias handed the buckets up to him. Then it was his turn.

He was not as strong as Miguel, but he was younger and lighter and made the jump easily. Grinning he took his bucket back from Miguel and peered down into the interior of the barn. It was too dark to see, but he could hear voices and scuffling. He took a moment to settle more securely on the wall and then, reaching into his bucket, he flung a handful of the contents into the waiting darkness.

Paol blinked into the darkness, unsure at first what had awakened him, the shouts from the English guards only slowly registering. Charcot-- Still half asleep, he reached out clumsily, but the other soldier was still beside him. Pushing away from the wall, Paol managed to get onto his knees. He felt heavy and stupid with sleep, and alarm was only slowly cutting its way through.

Something landed on his head and he flinched, sending whatever it was sliding off into his lap. His blind fingers brushed something wet, sticky, soft, what felt almost like -- he jerked his hand away, his body reacting violently before his mind even made a conscious connection -- a finger and a thumb, still hanging together by a strip of flesh.

Something roused Charcot from his deep slumber. It was still night. Was it his turn for piquet duty? He didn't think so. "Ask Couture," he mumbled before rolling over to a more comfortable position.

Paol thrust it away with a convulsive start, rocking back hard against the stall door. There were soft thuds falling all around them now. Startled cries then horrified oaths rippled through the barn. Someone screamed.

It felt like something had shattered in his head; he heard the sounds, felt the drilling pain in his shoulder, but it was all disconnected and foreign and somehow that made it even more terrifying. But not the memory of what he'd held in his hand, that was sharp and clear, as if he held it still, unable to throw it away, and he pressed his face against his arm as if he could physically block the scream which was trying to claw its way out of his throat.

Fire. Fire, coming hurtling at him. The weariness was gone in a heartbeat. Martin's eyes went saucer-round and he tried instinctively to backpedal, but he went no more than half a step before his back pressed hard against the barn wall. There was nowhere to retreat to, which meant the only recourse, for Martin, was to scream.

It didn't help in the least that the other Coldstreamers could see the fire too.

The wet smack of something landing on his face roused Bright from his sleep. He had been close to waking anyway, or so he felt. His right hand reached up automatically to swipe away whatever had struck him, but he froze when his fingers touched something sticky and damp. It was impossible to see what it was but he knew the feel of blood well enough by now to know what was now smeared on his forehead.

A startled, colourful string of words came tumbling out when his searching fingers touched something far more sinister than mere blood. His oaths turned to a sharp cry of terrified disgust when he realised exactly what had been dropped from the heavens onto his head.

In his haste to both get to his feet and fling the offending item away, Bright managed only to stumble mostly sideways and shortly fell hard. It hurt like little else, but the piece of entrails was gone from his hand. That was some comfort - or it would be, were not more, similar pieces, showering down from above.

"Merciful Jesus!" Bright burst out unthinkingly, in English.

There were screams nearby now, and Charcot's sluggish brain awoke more fully. He remembered that he was with the other French prisoners and they were in a barn. And he remembered that someone had attacked them earlier. They must be under attack again!

"Paol? Roux?" He groped about trying to feel them nearby.

Screams. Screams and shouts from the barn where the French prisoners were under guard.

Vickery turned, and threw caution (and dignity) to the wind, running to see what was going on.

"What is going on?" he demanded, with all the authority that came from the commission he held and from his birthright in a family of the British aristocracy. Ignore him who dared!

In only a few seconds, it seemed to Corporal Hewet like the entire world had exploded into chaos. Their prisoners were kicking off in the barn, bundles of fire were being thrown from the shadows, and the idiots posted here as sentries were doing nothing save be useless.

"Shut your hole, child," Hewet snarled, roughly applying the back of his hand to one man's face, who had until an instant before been screaming. The noise blessedly ceased immediately. "You! Stamp out that fire! You two! Find out what's got the Frogs croakin'. And you," Hewet added, rounding back on the man he'd slapped, who was now cowering on the ground, "Get up! You're comin' round with - sir!"

Damn it. A grasshopper officer. Hewet wheeled smartly around and sketched a perfect salute. "We're finding out, sir!"

"Really," Vickery replied dryly, returning the man's salute. Ah - a Corporal, and therefore someone who could be trusted to take charge.

"Very well, Corporal. I think you had better take a lantern with you - it is likely to be rather dark in there. Carry on."

Something long and slimy landed across the back of Paol's neck followed almost immedately by a heavy weight crashing down against him -- some new grisly missile -- and he wrenched away, a choking gasp forcing itself from him. But it was alive, moving whatever it was. He recognized Bright's voice, but could not make the connection and he felt only shuddering horror.

Then another voice, Charcot's voice. Paol's hand fumbled half unconsciously for his friend's arm, but he couldn't speak to answer him.

The English were quickly recovering and now someone had gone and fetched a lantern. Damnit! Matias upended the bucket, sending the dregs spilling out over the prisoners, then chucked the bucket after them and sprang from the wall onto the roof of the adjacent building, Miguel close behind him.

Hewet was turning on his heel almost before the grasshopper had finished speaking, rapping out the necessary orders to his bewildered men. "Lantern! You there! Bring that up here, smartly! Here, you two, fix bayonets and come with me."

There was going to be an end to this nonsense right now, if Hewet had anything to say about it. He had just fixed his own bayonet when a flicker of movement near the corner of the barn caught his eye. He spun at once toward it, his musket jerking up to the Present out of pure reflex. Without a second thought, Hewet had cocked his piece and fired.

~



Get up. His instincts were screaming at him to get up, but it was a struggle to get his limbs to cooperate. The result was an undignified flailing tumble that somehow got him to his knees, at least. And, happily, off whatever it was he had initially landed on.

"What in the hell - " Bright began, this time in French, but he was cut off by the hard slap of something wet and slimy falling onto his face. His immediate response was understandable, if ill-advised. He screamed.

Being huddled against the wall, Charcot had been largely shielded from the things falling from above. He felt Kerjean's hand on his arm - somehow he knew it was Kerjean's - and he grasped the hand eagerly. "Paol, what is it? What's happening?"

He could not say what drove him to obey the corporal's orders so promptly. Neither could he say he had any idea what was going on. But Martin had his bayonet drawn and fixed before he was even aware of it, despite the obvious shaking of his hands. It was an understatement to say he was terrified.

All the same, he gripped his musket and waited for further direction from Hewet. The corporal's abrupt spinning away to fire his musket, however, had to mean this was an action he should mimic, since there was a clear threat. Or at least a clear enough threat to make the corporal employ such force.

Thus, despite his quaking limbs and churning stomach, Martin readied his musket and fired at mostly the same spot Hewet had.

Paol huddled, mute and trembling. He hardly reacted when something splashed against his head, and when it began to trickle down his face he made no move to wipe it away. The grip on his hand, at least, was concrete and immediate and familiar. He recognized his Christian name and tried to answer, but every impulse seemed to balk, wanting only to withdraw further.

It was several struggling moments before he managed a lame, "It's alright." His voice sounded strange in his own ears.

Matias flinched, ducking low at the sound of the first shot. Then another sharp crack and Miguel cried out. Matias saw him stumble, but his momentum carried him to the edge of the roof and over. Springing after him, Matias hit the ground light as a cat and was on his feet running the next moment. He'd gone several bounds before he realized Miguel was not behind him and turned, racing back to the crumpled form in the shadow of the house. "Miguel!" he hissed urgently, tugging at his arm. "Miguel, get up! Quick! Miguel?" He broke off with a terrified yelp as a hand clamped round his arm, jerking him up and away from the prone form, and away from the padding thud of hobnailed boots.