30 July, Une maison renfoncée

"Blind, nothin'. He's mad, that one," Mittelstaedt retorted, but did as he was told.

"No. No Spanish," he said, fighting to keep the sharp, sickening tension he'd felt as Charcot was prodded forward out of his voice, "It's just them Grasshoppers, same as what captured us. They're impatient, is all. They ain't goin' to hurt us."

"If you're sure..." Charcot answered, still clinging to his friend's arm. He shuddered as he imagined the rifle barrel still pointing at his back.

But then he heard something that made him almost forget the threat of the riflemen. "Listen! Clocks chiming! We are going toward the town." His voice was full of woe, for surely that meant being handed over to the Spanish.

"It's alright. It'll be fine," he repeated. "Maybe..." What? His thoughts were slow and clumsy as he fumbled for some kind of explanation, reassurance, something, anything. "They probably just want to keep us somewhere enclosed like, harder for us to slip off. You know, like coupla those lads from the 24e did the night before?" They were getting nearer now so that he could see jutting outlines, silhouettes of buildings which clustered outside the walls of the city. "When's the last time you slept with a roof over your head, eh?"

"A while," he admitted.

"There," Kaufmann said in English, pointing at a building not too far away. "The lieutenant and men went there. That's where we're heading," he added in German for Mittelstaedt. "It's a barn or something. Steer 'em that way, but go easy with the rifle."

This part of the town made him uneasy. Everything was still and silent. Dead or else too fearful to appear otherwise. Dead – he'd hardly thought the word before his overactive imagination had populated the decrepit structures with variations on that theme. Mittelstaedt shivered, fingering his rifle and willing the prisoners to move faster.

There was a scuffling sound and he turned sharply in time to see a shadow dart across their flank,only to vanish just as suddenly. Oh God... "Kaufmann?" he called nervously.

Their path threaded among the darkened buildings, veering toward one in particular, a large outbuilding which might once have been a barn, though even in the fading light Paol got the impression that the only reason it was still standing was that it did not know which way to fall. That made two of them, he thought wearily, careful to omit the detail as he described it to Charcot.

He broke off with a startled yelp, jerking back as something hard struck his face. A low, guttural snarl tore from the shadows and another of the prisoners stumbled, crying out in pain.

"Paol!" Charcot did not know what was happening, but there was a sudden press and cry and confusion, and the prisoners seemed to be in mass panic. He had lost both Roux and Kerjean, and now he lost his footing as well. Had the English brought them out here just to kill them? He was on the ground now, arms over his head, but he had to get up before he was trampled.



Kaufmann's first thought was that the prisoners were attacking, or that a group of French soldiers had come to mount a rescue. But no, the attacks were aimed at the prisoners, not at their guards. And the attackers weren't soldiers at all, but locals armed with rocks and cudgels.

His rifle was already leveled at them, but he was steady enough not to fire upon civilian allies, at least not yet. "Get out of here!" he bellowed in fury. They would not understand his words, but there would be no mistaking his tone. "Go on! Stay back! Move, Frogs, to that barn, go, marchez!"

One of the prisoners nearest had fallen, the blind one. As Kaufmann parried a cudgel blow meant for the boy, he heard a sickening crack before he dropped his rifle and screamed.

He heard the cry and twisted round, too late recognizing the absence of the familiar weight on his arm. Charcot was on the ground. He saw the cudgel, saw the rifleman step in, heard the scream. He saw the Spaniard dive for Charcot.

Paol was on top of the man. He wasn't armed. He didn't need to be. There was a rifle on the ground between them and the Spaniard's fingers closed around it as Paol's hand seized his jaw . Something cold and hard thrust itself against Paol's stomach as his other hand gripped the back of the man's head. He gave a short, savage wrench, felt the body in his hands go slack, and then he was thrusting to his feet, pulling Charcot with him.

A rifle had materialized in one hand and he lunged it forward at the advancing Spaniards, only half aware that he was shouting, bellowing God knows what at them.

Kaufmann was on the ground clutching his arm, which felt horribly wrong, foreign, alien. After the initial shock of agony and horror, there was raw fear. His rifle was gone and he was practically defenseless. He had to get to his bayonet. And they had to get rid of these Spanish.

"Mittelstaedt!" he yelled.

Jesus, Kaufmann was down. And that big Frog was standing over him with a rifle. Holy hell -- "Kaufmann!" Mittelstaedt struggled towards him through the press of bodies, shoving his way through just as the Frenchman made a grab for Kaufmann. Bastard! "Drop it!" he shouted, leveling his rifle at the Frenchman "The rifle. Now, damnit!"

"Get them!" Juan shouted, brandishing his club. "Kill the bastards!"

His brother, Carlos, needed no urging. In fact, he was already swinging his heavy mallet at the rifle-wielding Frenchman.

Kaufmann let out another yell of pain as someone tried to pull him to his feet and then let go of him. Every movement seemed to jostle his arm into agony all over again. But now he was up, and he was able to unsheathe his sword bayonet.

Paol turned, but too late. The blow fell across the back of his shoulder as he twisted away, dragging Charcot with him. He staggered, knocking into the other Frenchman before rounding on the Spaniard and firing blindly.

The bang of a rifle going off brought an immediate, if very brief, pause to the growing brawl. A man behind Juan howled in pain as the lead ball slashed across his neck.

"Murdering scum!" Juan bellowed. "Kill them! All of them!"

If the others included the greenjacketed guards in that, it was nothing to him. Certainly it was crime enough to attempt to prevent Juan and his companions from exacting their own brand of justice.

"Get back!" Kaufmann yelled, swinging awkwardly with his bayonet as a pair of Spaniards swarmed toward him. The shot was echoed nearby as other riflemen followed suit and fired into the rabble. The sound also brought reinforcements running. Well what the hell. Let them massacre the bloody Spanish for all he cared. He would help, starting with this man reaching to grab his arm, damn it!

Reversing the rifle, Paol lunged forward, swinging with all his strength for the mallet-wielding Spaniard and anyone else who strayed within his arc.

The English were now firing on them, Juan realised. Several men in the mob were felled and a hard, angry rumble arose from the survivors. Blood had been drawn. This was now a matter of honour.

Juan struck out at the greenjacket who held only a short sword, smashing his club at the man's arm. Such was his focus on this one foe that he did not see his brother fall victim to a blow from the brass-capped rifle butt in that one Frenchman's hands.

Kaufmann yelled in anger as much as pain, but this time he managed to hold onto his weapon. In the press, the Spaniard was losing room to swing his club, but Kaufmann did not need much space to slice at the bastard's thigh. There was little strength or momentum behind it, but his bayonet was sharp.

One Spaniard went down, and in the momentary breathing space, Paol tried to retreat, dragging the rifle into a back swing as he did do. He risked a glance over his shoulder. Then another. "Charcot?" But the younger soldier wasn't behind him. Oh, sweet Christ, no --- He turned back, panic numbing every useful reflex, just barely managing to block a blow from a club. "Charcot!" he shouted again.

By now reinforcements had arrived, and a rifleman pulled Kerjean back, though he did not deprive him of his rifle.

"Get back, get back!" Schwol roared, though he could have been speaking equally to the prisoners or to the Spanish mob, and neither group would have understood his words. The message of his rifle was clear, though, as he fired at a man wielding a knife and turned his bayonet on another.

"Can't leave you ladies alone for a minute," Brugmann growled, wading in after Schwol, bayonet leading. Some of the Spaniards had enough sense to get out of the way. Some did not.

"Where the **** have you been?" Mittelstaedt shouted back. The arrival of reinforcements had given him a chance to fix his bayonet, and now he lunged it forward vengefully.

After dealing with his Spaniard, Schwol pulled Kaufmann back as well, causing him to cry out in pain. But he still resolutely held onto his bayonet, and he managed to yell at the French prisoners, gesturing to herd them to the barn as fast as possible. With two injured arms, there was not much left that he could do unless someone came within kicking distance.

"Go, Frogs, go, move!"

Despite the blood dripping down his leg where he'd been slashed, Juan cursed the Englishmen fiercely, and with particular volume, as more of them arrived. One or two of the newcomers fired into the mob, while others pressed forward with their short swords fixed to their rifles.

"Keep hold of those three!" Juan barked, limping as fast as he could after several of his companions. These men had succeeded in snatching three Frenchmen from the herd of prisoners and were trying to hustle their captives away from the English guards. If they could get them away, it would be a tolerable consolation prize after failing to kill all the prisoners.

"The barn!" Duval bellowed at the other prisoners, trying to hold them into some kind of order through sheer force of will, "Make for the--" He kicked into something amidst the shuffle and pitched forward, landing hard amidst the panicked, indiscriminate stampede of boots. But there was someone else on the ground as well, that's what he had tripped over. But before he could do more than scrabble to his knees, a hand grabbed his arm, and Duval snatched a handful of the man's -- boy's, he realized, it was the blind lad -- coat as he was hauled up. He was reeling from a kick in the head, but he clamped a hand on the boy's shoulder and thrust him forward after the others, "Move."