3rd August, late night indoors

Bright shook his head. He was many things, but a conspirator in self-murder was not one of them. "Not a chance. You do all the bleating you want, I ain't helping you. 'Specially since you ain't got the bottle to do it yourself."

"Only 'cause it's a mortal sin, is why!" Charcot snapped. "I'd do it in a second, otherwise. I'd do it to YOU if I could."

"There you have it, then." Bright rolled his eyes. "Shut up now and go back to sleep."

There were hot, angry tears in Charcot's eyes now, faced with the prospect of failure yet again. "Why won't you do it? Give me one good reason why. Are you scared of Kerjean?"

What a daft thought!

"I'm not a God-damned murderer, is why."

Right. That left him two options, and only one would suit his purpose. He launched himself off of his bed and towards the door, stumbling over poor Paol's sleeping bulk protecting them from any invasion. His searching hands found the door handle, though of course he could not open it with Paol in the way, but doubtless the riflemen were not far. So he shouted.

"I'm English! I'm English! Bloody hell!"

Paol jolted awake, instinctively throwing his weight back against the door. The Spanish! They were trying to get into the barn. No. The house. And it was the English. The riflemen must be coming for Bright. But the struggling form above him was on the inside fighting to get out, and the foreign words were in a familiar voice. Charcot's voice. English words. Hell.

Paol lurched to his feet. He could feel the door start to open behind him and he did the only thing he could think of. He grabbed in the dark for Charcot's collar, thrusting him back hard against the door and pinning him.

"What," he demanded breathlessly, "The hell is going on? Michel?"

The bastard had lost his mind. That was the only explanation for what was happening now. All this just because Bright wouldn't help end his pathetic life?

"You stupid selfish bastard!" Bright sat up hastily in bed but did not make any further moves. It wouldn't do a bit of good if he tried to silence Charcot now, for the mad little fool had roused the house.

"Daft sod wanted me to kill him. I said no. So he's gone straight off the bloody rails."

"I'm sorry, Paol!" Charcot sobbed in panic, straining under Kerjean's grip. "Let me go, let me go!" Straight to the riflemen outside.

On the other side of the door, Kaufmann was barking orders, helpless as he was to do anything physical. "Mittelstaedt, get that door open. Manuela, bring a lantern. A lamp, a candle, a light or something!"

"What?" He'd only just come awake; he must have misunderstood, mistranslated, but he knew he hadn't. And Charcot wasn't even denying it; worse, he was apologizing for it, weeping and struggling almost like he'd been when Paol had first freed him from the horse.

It would have to wait, however; they had run out of time. Close by someone was shouting and the door heaved abruptly inwards against Charcot. Paol cursed. This wasn't going to work. He yanked Charcot out of the way and set his own shoulder against the door just as it shuddered beneath another blow.

*

"Damnit!" The door had given way a bit on Mittelstaedt's first attempt, but now it wouldn't budge. He took several steps back and ran forward, throwing himself bodily against it, only to knock the door a few inches open and have it slam back again. Mittelstaedt let out another breathless curse. "Christ, can't you lean against it or something?" he asked Kaufmann.

Kaufmann's leaning on the door was not likely to help, so he did what he could instead, bellowing with the full force of his voice, "Open up that door!"



"Let them in, Paol!" Charcot pleaded. "It's just me they want!"

"Stop. Both you idiots. Just stop." Bright was on his feet and halfway across the little room before he knew what he was doing. "Open the bloody door before they break it down."

Open the door? If he did that, he lost what little control he had over the situation, and that scared the hell out of him. But it was only a matter of time before they got through, one way or another, and he had no idea what he was doing. He was going to have to trust that Bright did.

With a single, vehement curse, he reached for the handle, wrenching the door open and stepping into the doorway.

This was madness. He was a fool. But Bright was advancing toward the doorway all the same. He still only had half an idea, at best, about what he was doing. That would have to be enough.

"Don't let that little bastard past you. He's gone clean out of his mind," he warned in French. Then, drawing in a breath, he changed smoothly to English. "Right, you sorry grasshoppers. You want a lad from the Line? Here, you got him."

So saying, he stepped up behind Kerjean in preparation to edge past him into the hall.

"What? No, no! It's me!" Charcot cried in anguish, struggling to move toward the door. Switching to English he shouted "Me, me! English soldier!"

No! Paol turned, staring at Bright in horrified confusion. This was it. This was where everything fell apart. "Michel, what are you doing?"

Peripherally he was aware of Charcot closing in from behind, crying out in English, and he braced himself to grab him, but he couldn't turn and help. He couldn't seem to do anything. He was being pulled in three different directions at once and no matter which way he went, someone was going to die.

*

Mittelstaedt smirked, glancing sidelong at Kaufmann. "Told you."

"What the hell is going on here?" Kaufmann demanded, snatching the light that girl had brought. He rounded on her and the old woman. "Get back to your rooms and shut the doors. Now!" A glare in the right direction seemed to make his message understood, for they quickly hurried away. "Mittelstaedt, take this." He stared at the beligerent prisoner, the "mouthy" one, standing in the doorway behind the big Frenchman. "English?"

"That's right. Corporal Bright, Ninth Foot. The East Norfolks." It wasn't easy ignoring the other two but keeping his gaze on the Riflemen helped.

So he was definitely a deserter then. Damn it, but Kaufmann did not have enough English to have this kind of conversation! Not at all. He shook his head and asked in disgust, "Why French?"

Why? "Why not?"

There was no answer from Bright, just more of his incomprehensible, damning English, and Paol could only watch helplessly.

Balling his hands into fists, he shifted his focus more fully to the riflemen; the greenjacket with the bandaged arm was not a threat, not physically anyway, but the other one, with the bayonet.... If -- When trouble came, it would be from him. Paol watched him carefully, trying to read his expression, gauging the distance between them, between him and the wall, and the chances of disarming him with only one hand.

*

"What's he saying?" Mittelstaedt demanded impatiently.

"Bright, what are you doing? You're a liar! It's me, tell them it's me! I'm sorry!" Charcot had never really intended to betray Bright to his death, except perhaps in that moment when the man had made light of Rosy's death. He was close to crying with vexation now, unable to see, unable to pass his companions in the door, unable to act at all. Even wounded, Paol was still stronger than him. "Paol please, I'm sorry! Make him stop!"

"I don't know what he's saying, but he's English!" Kaufmann once again wished there was an officer or a sergeant here to deal with this mess. After a momentary hesitation he said "Mittelstaedt, shut the door."

His fingers fumbled briefly with the buttons on his waistcoat until he made himself pause and let out a long breath. After that, removing the garment was accomplished quickly enough. His back needed to be bared in order for this foolish argument to be ended.

"If you got a set of these for yourself, maybe you can claim that it's you," Bright remarked and turned round to show his back to the Riflemen. This was his trump card.