June 6, during the escape

Charcot was awakened from a dream about cakes, a room full of cakes and patisserie of every kind, like the ones that his grandparents used to make. He glared around to see a figure standing above him, the owner of the boot that had kicked him in the side.

"Charcot. We're back," the booted figure whispered. Two men had returned from their duty guarding the prisoners, and that meant they had been replaced by Charcot's friend La Salle and that idiot Devereux. "Pig wants his tobacco."

With a groan, Charcot sat up and poked Couture in the ribs. "Pig wants his tobacco," he repeated. "Come on."

"Sod off," Couture muttered half asleep. He rolled over. Maybe whatever it was would leave him alone if he ignored it.

"Come on!" Charcot said more insistently, roughly jerking the blanket away. "Wake up. We have to go give the lads their smoke, remember?"

Too late Couture clutched at the blanket. Hell. Groaning he sat up and turned to glare blearily at Charcot. "What?"

"Get up," Charcot said, standing himself and giving Couture a slight kick. "You and that stupid card game, remember? Gimme a biscuit." He threw his blanket on top of his pack - they would be back soon enough, he hoped - but he did of course grab his musket.

Couture swore and flopped back on the ground. "Get your own biscuit," he grumbled, rolling over and getting to his knees. He tugged his own pack towards him and dug out some tobacco and, as an afterthought, a piece of slightly stale bread. He broke off half and tossed it gracelessly at Charcot, then got stiffly to his feet. "Let's get this over with, yeah?"

Charcot stopped long enough to grab the bread before he moved away, chewing as he walked. Then he realized he was heading in the wrong direction. "This way, you idiot," he said out loud.

"Who you callin' an idiot?" Couture demanded. Or tried to, his articulation being somewhat obstructed by a mouthful of bread.

"Oh shut it," Charcot grumbled. At least the prisoners were not too far away, if he remembered correctly. "Is that them over there?"

Couture's shrug was mostly invisible in the darkness. "Must be. Looks like they're lyin' down or some'at. Lazy sods."

"It's night," Charcot pointed out, in case his mate had not noticed. "Better asleep than causin' trouble. Where's La Salle?"

Couture rolled his eyes. "That's what I meant. There." He pointed to a point beyond the prisoners where two shadowy heaps were just visible in the moonlight. "See?"

"What the hell?" Charcot immediately became more fully alert, a prickle of unease creeping over his skin. Why would the guards be sitting against a tree and taking their ease this early in their watch? "La Salle! Devereux!" he shouted, not caring whose sleep he distrubed. He pulled his musket from off of his shoulder and hurried forward, jerking his head at Couture. "Come on!"

Neither of the figures moved at Charcot's shout and Couture's irritation rapidly changed to dread. With a low, fervent curse, he unslung his musket and sprinted after Charcot.

"Are they alive," he demanded, stumbling up breathless. His first impulse was to drop to his knees and see for himself, but it occurred to him that whoever did this might still be nearby. Pulling his musket to his shoulder, he started forward in a slow circle.

As always impulsive rather than cautious, Charcot dove forward to shake the two men. They did not wake up. "I don't know! Damn it!" He pointed his musket up and fired a shot into the air, the fastest way of raising the alarm.

Couture fell back to where the two bodies lay, dropping to his knees. "They're breathing! I - I think?" he stammered, "I think they're breathing! God damnit, someone get a surgeon!" he bellowed as the sound of running feet drew within earshot.

"All of you English, sit down!" Charcot bellowed, swinging his musket on the waking prisoners as soon as he had reloaded. Of course the idiots acted like they could not understand him, but emphasizing his words with kicks seemed to help. "I said SIT DOWN!"

They had damn well better be breathing, Couture thought, coldly furious as he pushed himself to his feet and advanced on the prisoners. Bastards couldn't even follow a simple command. Reversing his musket, he jabbed it into the gut of the first man he came to, then brought it down against the hapless man's temple as he doubled over in pain. The prisoner crumpled to the ground.

There, that was better.

Charcot noticed an empty area near the rudely awakened prisoners, a spot where there were a few blankets lying about but no men. Having been on guard duty the night before, he quickly counted the remaining prisoners and came up several short. "The others - where are the others?" he asked one hapless rosbif, grabbing him by the collar and snarling into his face. The startled man blurted something in his own impossible English. "They're escaping! The prisoners are escaping!" Charcot bellowed.

It was no matter that these prisoners had only just awakened. The French soldiers rushing to the alarm began kicking, beating and clubbing them down.

What the bloody hell was going on? Christian had been awakened by shouting and now it seemed that half the bloody Frog army was coming at them out of the darkness. Jesus, this was it, he thought, they were all going to die.

The man beside him was kicked to the ground and Christian found himself rocketing to his feet, driving his head into the assailant's stomach. The surprised detachment of a moment ago was gone, replaced with a fatalistic desperation; he was damn well not going to make this easy.

Charcot stared at the melee. Not these prisoners. Those other missing prisoners were escaping! "No, no!" he shouted futilely. But before he could explain amidst the chaos, he was knocked to the ground, not by a prisoner but by another French soldier who had fallen against him. One of the prisoners had knocked the man down. "Get off!" he yelled, leveling his musket at the uppity gash-faced fellow.

Christian lunged for the musket, grabbing hold of it and trying to force it down against the man's throat, but abruptly crumpled forward onto the Frenchman's chest.

"I can't let you alone for two minutes, can I?" drawled Couture, his shadowy form looming over Charcot. He kicked the redcoat off of his friend and held out a hand, "C'mon."

*****

Five minutes. He'd been gone for five minutes. And somehow, in that time, all hell had broken loose. St Laurent had come running the moment he heard the musket shot and now stood confounded by the scene of chaos which confronted him.

The sight of a man before him, musket upraised over his shoulder galvanized the corporal into action. He leapt forward, seizing the butt of the firelock before the soldier could arc it forward and kicked the man in the seat of the pants, wrenching the weapon free. He fired it into the air, then unslung his own musket, all the while bellowing for order. Raising the musket to his shoulder he turned it on the men nearest him and then those progressively farther away.

"The next man who moves – who even speaks without my ****ing say so – I will shoot," he roared into the already subsiding tumult.

Shame-faced at having been temporarily overpowered by an unarmed wounded prisoner, Charcot accepted Couture's help and scrambled to his feet, then froze at the sound of the musket shot and St Laurent's bellow. He opened his mouth to blurt out an explanation, then thought the better of it just in time to cut off after "Uh!"

"You!" St Laurent snapped at Charcot, "Just what the hell is going on here?" Somewhat belatedly, he lowered the musket.

Charcot jumped, startled to be singled out to speak even though that was what he had wanted. "Sorry, corporal! Some prisoners attacked La Salle and Devereux and escaped!" He looked to Couture for support.