28th July, Les champs de feu

Charcot could remember the battle, though it was a long, endless, hot, exhausting blur. It had been afternoon when something crashed into him and knocked him down. Waking face-down in the brittle grass, he realized he must have been unconscious - or asleep? And it must have been for a very long time, because now it was night, dark and quiet. Peaceful almost, with the sights and sounds of the battle long gone. But if the battle was over, he needed to get off of the battlefield and find his company. There was still a shuddering on the ground, like cannon fire a long way away, and a smell of smoke in the air, and the Spanish would kill him if they found him here. He tried to roll onto his back, but something was wrong. He couldn't move his legs. In a sudden panic, he wondered if his legs had been blown off and he had been left for dead - but no, he could definitely feel his legs. There was just something on top of them. Something big - a horse? He vaguely remembered the scream of a horse. Oh hell, it was too heavy to move. He could almost push himself up into a crawling position, but that did nothing to ease the pain or massive bulk pinning his legs to the ground. His hands scrabbled uselessly in the dirt and the grass, trying to pull himself free.

Where was his musket? Where were his friends? How could they have left him like this? Was there really no one left at all? "Help!" he shouted into the silence, groping about for something, anything to push the beast off of his legs. He could feel rather than hear footsteps and thuds all about him, and dirt kicked flying in his face, but why did they not stop to help him? Were they thieves come to rob the bodies? Deserters? Those Spanish cowards who had run away? "Help me! Help me! Please!" Where were they? What was their hurry, rushing to and fro? They carried no lights, and he could not see them at all. He vaguely wondered how they could see, but surely they must see him! Never mind if they were Spaniards, he had to get free of this horse!

"Charcot?" Paol called hoarsely. He thought he'd heard a familiar voice call out, but he was half deaf from musket fire, and with the screams of the wounded caught in the fires still filling his ears, one cry sounded much like another. But the call came again and he began to drag his burden in the direction from which the sound had come. "Charcot?" he tried again, thinking he saw movement among the still forms.
 
"Jesus." There he was – it was Charcot – pinned beneath the body of a horse. Easing the still form he was dragging to the ground, Paol limped over. "Hang on, mate. I got it."
 
He wrapped his arms around the horse's neck, just below the head and lifted, gritting his teeth as fire tore along his left arm, and heaved back, away from Charcot.  The poor animal barely shifted. "C'mon, you bastard," he pleaded softly, pulling with all the strength until,  inch by inch, the creature began to move.

As if by magic, the burden on his legs had begun to move. Was the horse still alive after all? Charcot offered his own ineffectual pushes and shoves, and finally he managed to kick his way free. "Thank God," he gasped - or tried to, but he was realizing that no sound was coming out of his mouth. It was like some sort of nightmare where he needed to scream but couldn't. But his throat was sore, parched with dust and smoke, and perhaps that was why his voice wasn't working.

Now where the hell was his musket? He had to find it! Perhaps the looters had stolen it already, or one of his comrades had collected it after the battle when they thought he was dead. It was frightening to be so defenseless, and unable to see anything in this black night. Was it smoke that made everything so black? But the fires must be far away, since he could neither see nor hear them.

He had to get away before the Spaniards found him. But what direction should he run? Stumbling in the dark, he became completely disoriented. He rubbed at his eyes, now stinging with smoke and heat, but he could not see the way to go. The smoke was apparently so thick that it even blocked out all the stars in the sky. A wall of heat stopped him in his tracks. What could cause heat like that except a fire?

To Paol's complete bewilderment, Charcot took off almost as soon as he managed to scramble to his feet. At least he seemed to be uninjured, but – Christ. He was running toward the fires. "Charcot?"

Limping, Paol hurried after him, catching him up when the younger soldier suddenly baulked. "What is it? C'mon," he gasped out, grabbing the other man's arm and pulling him back.

Someone grabbed his arm. They had snuck up on him and caught him while he hesitated! Holy God in heaven, the irregulars were going to tear him limb from limb and hang him from four different trees.

"No!" he cried in terror, pulling his arm out of the man's grasp. He tried to step back, away from the heat and away from his attacker, but he stumbled over some unseen obstacle and fell to the ground. "No!" he repeated, waving his arms in front of him, but his voice was not working. It felt like it was working, but he could not hear the sound. "No! No! No!" he tried to shout, lashing out at the air.

What on... "Charcot?" Paol dropped to his knees beside him. "What is it?" But the other man wasn't looking at him, he wasn't looking at anything. 

Oh, please God, no... "Charcot?" He waved a hand in front of his face, but there was no reaction. "Charcot, it's me. It's Paol." He reached once more for one of the flailing arms and tried to pull him to his feet. "C'mon, we've got to get outta here."

Charcot started violently, but his attacker or attackers had him by both arms now and they were pulling him to his feet and dragging him over the impossible terrain. "No, no!" he repeated, nearly sobbing in an attempt to get the words out. "Don't kill me, don't kill me, please don't kill me!" Holy Mother, he was sorry for everything he had ever done, but wouldn't she save him?

Then with a sudden terrible thought, he wondered if it was too late. Was he already dead and now he was in hell? Hadn't he at least made it to purgatory? All the wicked deeds of his life flashed before him and he cried out in agony, but he could not hear a thing.

Charcot was near hysterical, but at least they were moving now. Though it took him stumbling badly several times before Paol realized he needed to choose his path more carefully. He sucked in a lungful of air that smelled of smoke and burning meat. Keep going, just keep going...."No one's goin' to hurt you," he tried to keep his voice calm, steady, "I ain't goin' to let any one hurt you, alright? Charcot?"

He sobbed, no longer trying to fight the terror and despair. But why couldn't he hear or see? He clawed at his eyes and ears, but he could find nothing that might be inhibiting them. But his nose was working, and he could smell burning flesh. The battlefield was no place to be cooking meat. If this was not hell, it must be the irregulars torturing their victims. "God, help me!" he screamed, trying to pull away from his captor.

"No -- Shit. Charcot--" Paol pulled him sharply to the ground. If he kept up like this, he'd have the Spanish or worse on top of them in no time. "Charcot, please, you've got to be quiet. Please, you're--" But none of it was getting through. Charcot wasn't even looking at him. The fire was spreading. Off to their left a scream rose and was cut short. He thought he could hear people moving, voices, not French, but maybe he was imagining it. But they had to move, and this wasn't working. And then, because he didn't know what else to do, he pulled Charcot close and hugged him, tight, so he couldn't pull away. "You're fine. Everything's fine. Please, you're alright." He found he was saying it for himself almost as much as for Charcot. "You're fine."

And now his captor had pulled him to the ground. Was this where they were going to kill him? Or begin the process anyway. They would likely torture him for a long while first. Still sobbing, he tried to pull away, but then his captor wrapped his arms around him. Charcot flinched, but the man simply held him. No one was grabbing at his hands or cutting his throat or burning him. It was almost as if the man was hugging him. "Who are you?" Charcot wept, his voice quieter now, though he himself could not hear it.

Paol shut his eyes, not trusting the sudden flood of relief he felt. "It's me. Paol."

"Who are you?" he asked again, more insistently. "Can't you hear me?" Why wouldn't he say anything? Was the man deaf?

Suddenly Charcot sat up straight, snapping his fingers next to his own ears. Again and again. Nothing.

Very gently, he cupped a large hand around Charcot's, pulling it away from his ear and stilling it. "C'mon," he said, taking his arm and slowly rising.

There was a shout from behind him and he turned sharply to see a dark coated figure leveling his musket. Without thinking, Paol dragged Charcot behind him. His other hand fumbled for his own weapon, but more dark -- green he realized with a mixture of dread and relief, their coats were green -- coated men were already appearing.

The other man maneuvered Charcot to stand behind his back - a back laden with a pack similar to Charcot's own, he thought, touching it as he reached out to steady himself. Was the man French? At least he was a soldier, and not one of those vengeful natives. But the man was not walking. What was he waiting for? They needed to get away from this place. "What is it?" Charcot asked, whispering in case there was danger. There seemed to be no response from the man, even though Charcot could tell he was still standing right there. The momentary trust faded, and fear returned to the forefront. "Are you going to help me?"

Paol could only stand their helplessly, unable even to answer him. He was trying. Christ, he was trying. But it was no good. It never was. The greenjackets closed in quickly, one of them barking an order at Paol, gesturing with his rifle to the ground. Carefully, very carefully Paol unslung his musket and held it away from him. He reached for Charcot's shoulder, trying to pull him to the ground again.

He cringed as the man put a hand on his shoulder, pushing him down again. "No!" He resisted, squirming his shoulder out of the man's grip and pushing him away. He turned and would have run, but he immediately stumbled and fell onto his hands and knees, an accident that most likely saved his life. Charcot knew nothing of the riflemen's presence until he felt the barrel of a rifle touch his back. He inhaled sharply but did not move apart from an involuntary shrinking from the light pressure of the metal.

The bastard. The bloody bastard had tricked him.

It was over before he could properly react. Charcot was on the ground, and Paol felt himself knocked forward, half dropping, half falling to his knees. He let go of his musket, shoving it away from himself. More talking, one of them yanked at his pack. He slipped his arms from the straps, wincing as the fabric dragged against the raw burns on his arm, and let it fall way. He pulled off his cartridge box, bayonet scabbard, the knife in his belt, but they were still barking orders. It was a moment before he realized they weren't talking to him.

"He can't hear you, he can't even see," he pleaded with them, hoping to God at least one of them knew some French. None of them did. The gruff imperatives had turned to shouts and one of the riflemen advanced on Charcot, grabbing his crossbelt and yanking.

Charcot yelled in fear at the sudden grabbing hands. He pushed himself to his knees. Were they going to kill him now? "They," for he could tell now that there was more than one man. "No! No, no no!" he cried in anguish, striking out futilely. Why didn't they just shoot him? Perhaps if he got to his feet and ran, they would shoot him then, a quick, merciful death.

The blows were largely ineffectual, but the rifleman pulled back in surprise, then cuffed Charcot across the face.

He yelped in surprise and pain, flinging up his arms to protect his head from further blows. Someone dragged his arms away from his face, and then he recognized the tug on his crossbelts as they pulled the cartridge box and empty bayonet scabbard over his head. They could not remove them completely without letting go of his arms, and that was when he struck out, fists and legs, swinging and screaming in his dark silent nightmare.

"Charcot!" Paol saw the change run through their captors, a hardening as they perceived a physical threat, and then everything seemed to happen at once. Dodging the prisoner's wild swings, the rifleman jabbed the brass capped butt of his rifle into Charcot's belly as his mate on the other side caught him behind the knees. Paol was on his feet, his hands finding the Englishman with his rifle aimed for Charcot's head and all but throwing him into one one of the others. Then pain knifing through his back. He felt his legs go and then nothing at all. He was on the ground, but the ground felt as though it were heaving. "Charcot?" he called, forgetting that the other man could not hear him. He had to get up. Up, god damnit, what was wrong with him? Why couldn't he couldn't move?

Charcot crumpled to the ground and curled into a useless ball around the pain in his belly. It was the end for him. This was where they were going to kill him. He offered no resistance now as they grabbed his hands and tied them together, but he openly wept as they dragged him to his feet.

The pressure on his back eased and he bit back a cry as fingers closed around his injured arm, but the hand withdrew and he felt himself hauled up from his other side. He staggered, but the hold on his arm kept him from falling. Charcot was up as well, his hands bound behind him. He was crying, but seemed unhurt. Beyond that Paol was aware of very little besides the pain which seemed to stretch now from his leg all the way to his head.

Seemingly without warning, he was propelled forward, towards Charcot. There was talking, gesturing, none of it meant anything. He reached for Charcot's shoulder, as much to keep himself upright as anything else, and that seemed to satisfy them.

Charcot cried out in surprise at the hand on his shoulder, expecting every contact to be a blow. But no, it was only a guiding hand as he was made to walk. Were they leading him to a place of execution? Or had they prepared some torture for him beyond his imagining?

He realized that he could hear crying. He could hear himself crying. And he could hear other noise, a muddle of noise, a cacaphony of battle and a rushing of air in his ears. "What? Ah!" He checked his sobbing and gasped at the return of sounds. "What - who are you? Where are you taking me?" His voice sounded piteous in his own ears.