7th August, morning - Rejoindre mon camarade

Foucheaux gasped as the big Spaniard grabbed him, and his hand flew to his bayonet.  Too late.  The man already had a knife to his throat.  How could he have been so stupid?  But as soon as the man faltered, Foucheaux shoved him away and unsheathed his bayonet to point it at his chest, only realizing belatedly that this man knew his name.  This haggard, dirty, bearded man dressed nearly in rags was no Spaniard.  He was a ghost.

Foucheaux marginally lowered the point of his bayonet.  "Holy tabarnacle," he breathed as the color drained from his face.

His shock was not helped by the appearance of a young Spanish woman in the door, shouting and holding an axe.  She looked just wild enough to use it, too, but now she was blocking his exit.

The knife began to tremble in his hand, and he lowered it slowly. "No, Manuela, it's alright. Friend. A-amigo," he rasped. Then still not quite able to believe it, "Marcel?"

Foucheaux was watching the girl as he lowered his bayonet. And then the ghost used his Christian name. Foucheaux did not care if it was a ghost. He was too happy to see his friend again. "Paol," he said quietly, a bewildered smile now creeping across his face.

For a moment Paol simply stared at his friend, trying to speak, but the words seemed to choke in his throat. Then with a tearful, gasping laugh, he stepped forward and pulled Foucheaux into an embrace.

Foucheaux laughed as well, wrapping his arms around his friend but taking care to avoid the bandaged arm. "I thought you were dead! What are you doing here?" He pulled back and looked at him, still unable to comprehend the situation. "Did you desert?" he asked in a hushed voice, glancing at the pretty girl. If that was the case, Foucheaux would do his best to keep his secret.

"What? No," he laughed, finding his voice again, "We got captured, me and Charcot and Michel, and--I never--I never thought--Jesus..."

"Captured! Charcot too? He's alive? We should - " He was interrupted by someone rapping at the front door, calling in drunken but cheerful French to be admitted. "Should I send him away?"

"Aye, he's --" Paol tensed, Foucheaux's last question going unheard. "Wounded, French wounded!" he called, half staggering towards the front door again. But his voice was thin and weak, and it wasn't until he reached the window that he could make himself heard. "French wounded, we have the fever. Keep away!" His appearance, if nothing else, corroborated that.

Foucheaux followed and stood behind him, letting his uniform be seen. "For the love of God, send a surgeon!" he called to the drunkard, whose eyes widened with fear before he hurried away. Foucheaux laughed, but then he guided Paol to the chair that was blocking the door. "Sit down, man. You really do look like - Paol! Do you have really have the fever?" Paol's skin was burning hot. Foucheaux looked back at the girl who had followed them, the axe still in her hands. "He's sick! He has the fever!"

"Sí, lo sé!" she shot back at him.

"No, no. My arm--" Without meaning to, he found himself sitting in the chair. "The burn is just infected, I think. It'll be fine."

"Infected?" Foucheaux repeated. "We'll get Montreuil to look after it, don't you worry." He glared at the girl. "Don't you people let your prisoners have surgeons?"

"Leave her be," he said, more sharply than he'd intended, "It ain't her fault. I told them I didn't want a surgeon. I'll be fine. I just--" Another thought occurred to him just then and he clutched suddenly at Foucheaux's arm. "Leveque -- Lieutenant Leveque, and Pelletier, are they still alive?"

"Leveque?  Sure, he's here in the town, and Pelletier too, probably.  Why?"  Since when did Paol care about them?

Thank Christ. "Can you find them?"

"I can try. Why?" He beckoned to the girl. "Here, señorita, give him a drink of something. You got any wine, vino for his fever?"

"He'll need somewhere to stay, won't he? In town? And -- and if he stays here, they'll be safe!" He was aware of the desperation slipping into his voice, and he tried to fight it down, "No one will bother an officer's house. And Leveque, he won't make trouble for the women."

"We'll all be safe now," Foucheaux answered gently, not quite understanding what his friend was talking about. The fever must be confusing his mind. "No one's going to hurt you. You're with us again! Gracias," he said, reaching to take the cup of wine from the girl. She pulled it away and scowled at him, handing it directly to Paol herself.

He seemed to calm momentarily and took the cup with a soft thanks. But the confusion and anxiety came rushing back almost immediately and he looked up at Foucheaux. "No, not me. Her! Them. The old woman. I told them it would be alright. I said I'd protect her. I promised! But--but I got almost nothin' left, Marcel. Leveque, they'll be safer with him. No one will bother the house with him here. Please."

"Ohhhh. Yeah, of course. You want me to go and find them now? I mean Leveque, or Pelletier?"

Paol took a swallow of wine and let out a shaky breath, hardly daring to feel relieved. "Would you really?"

Then the aforementioned old woman came through the back door, having returned from carrying a last basket of valuables to the neighbor's house for safekeeping.  Manuela called to her.  "Auntie!  There's a soldier here!"  The aunt came rushing to the front passage, wielding a washing bat.  "But Paol says he's his friend!  I think he's going to go and find a surgeon for his fever."



Foucheaux's hand reached for his bayonet once more.   But he backed towards the door without unsheathing the blade, not willing to use it on a woman if he could avoid it, particularly since Paol seemed to be rather protective of them both.  "All right, Señora, it's fine.  I'm going.  Paol, get up for a minute so I can open the door, yeah?"  He reached out to help him to his feet and then embraced him again.  "It is good to see you again, brother."

Paol clung to him tightly, tears welling again in his eyes, unable to speak more than a choked thanks. Then he stepped back, pulling the chair away from the door and helping Foucheaux lift the bar free.

Foucheaux stepped out and glanced up at the house.  "Lemme just make sure I can remember what it looks like so I can find my way back again."  He gave Paol an encouraging clap on the shoulder, the one that was not burned.  "I'll be back as soon as I can.  Do you know where Charcot's being held?  Or Bright?"  Not that he was particularly keen to see the Englishman again.

"Aye, he's right--" Paol broke off and all the color seemed to drain from his face. "They went out to see the -- to see you all march in," he said, his manner distracted, almost frantic, "But that was hours ago. He should have been back by now. I told him-- Christ. I told him not to go anywhere."

He stepped after Foucheaux into the street, turning quickly to face the two women. He pointed towards the end of the street, then brought his finger tips together to form a right angle. "Corner. I'm just going to the corner. To find Dominic. Then I'll come back here. Aqui. I promise."

"Don't worry!" Foucheaux said, gently pushing him back towards the door.  "I'll go and find them.  They've probably found the lads and started swapping stories about the battle or something.  We've taken the town, Paol.  There's nothing to worry about.  All right?  Go back inside.  You ain't fit to be walking about in a fever.  Just wait and I'll be back soon, yeah?"