30 July, Une maison renfoncée

Kaufmann looked out through the barn door and saw an officer approaching. Any lingering Spaniards seemed to have disappeared, or at least made themselves less visible for the moment. He began to push himself to his feet. Unwilling to let go of his arm, he did not salute but simply nodded his head. "Sir. We - dammit, Mittelstaedt, who speaks English here? Sir, Spanish men attack us," he said in halting, deliberate words.

Idiot! Mittelstaedt placed a hand on Kaufmann's head and tried to shove him back into a sitting position. "Not our problem," he muttered.

"Mittel- ow! Dammit!"

(Edmondson's post av is over there --->)

Did they. Edmondson had seen several roughly-dressed bodies lying in the dust, most of them in the sprawling attitudes of death. He frowned down at the Riflemen and tried to keep the distaste from his voice.

"So I have heard," he replied. "It seems you have accounted for several of them. Most admirable. Did you take any of them prisoner?"

Kaufmann pushed himself to a standing position again, frowning as he tried to think through the pain and confusion of his mind. Words, English words... Prisoner.

Wait. There was that 95th fellow who was English. Or Irish or something, but he spoke English. "Burke!" He looked at Mittelstaedt. "Get Burke over here. That 95th fellow with red hair."

Burke was crouched down looking after one of the French prisoners, who had managed to get a nasty gash across his face, wiping the blood from the boy's eyes with a spare bit of cloth. As though the business of moving the prisoners hadn't been enough of a challenge to start. Playing nursemaid hadn't been the intention, though the lads seemed frightened enough.

"Easy there, lad," he said, using the soothing voice he would use on a spooked horse. "Ye're alright."

The shouting of his name caught his attention. Patting the French soldier on the shoulder awkwardly, he stood up and looked around.

"Aye? What?"

Mittelstaedt glowered. "Go talk to your English officer," he called in German, pointing emphatically at the Guards major.

Burke stared blankly for a moment, before his brain put together Mittelstaedt's pointing, and the word "offizier".

"Oh. Aye!"

He dusted off his jacket quickly - though it was slightly a lost cause - and hurried over.

"Sir?"

It was all Edmondson could do not to roll his eyes. "Did you," he repeated, drawing each word out just a little too obviously, "take any Spanish prisoners?"

Kaufmann stared stupidly. Spanish prisoners? What the hell was this officer talking about?

"No, sir," Burke said, his back straightening instinctively at Edmondson's tone. He felt a flicker of irritation, and forced it back, schooling his face into an expression of bland deference.

Taking more prisoners? And Spaniards, at that! As though they hadn't had enough to worry about in that mess.

At least the grasshopper had sense enough to be honest. And, happily, to the point. "Indeed," drawled Edmondson. "Easier, I suppose, to kill them. I trust you have suffered no losses of your own?"

"Minor injuries from th' looks o' things, sir," Burke said.

He had not actually done a count - either of riflemen or of prisoners - but it did not look like there were any losses. And the officer's tone was making him nervous. He resisted the urge to look over at Kaufmann, and see what he made of it.

Kaufmann looked up at Burke from his position on the ground again. When had he sat down? "Tell him this place isn't safe," he said in German. "We shouldn't stay here. And we need surgeons. And more guards."

Minor injuries. That was a good thing, though privately Edmondson didn't care. "And your French charges?" He glanced past the fire-haired Rifleman into the barn, taking note of the structure's crowded state. It was easy to ignore the nonsensical babbling from the other grasshopper. "How many are in there and all that?"

Most of what Kaufmann said was gibberish to Burke. He had started to pick up some words from the German riflemen, but not enough to follow full sentences. And, particularly not when the speaker was slurring.

He frowned in concern at Kaufmann, and wished the officer would go away so that they could rally round and check on all the injured.

"Don't rightly know, sir," he told Edmondson. "Th' lads in th' barn had some already, an' we started wi' about twenty. Sir."

"Surgeon" Mittelstaedt pronounced the English word with difficulty and pointed at Kaufmann.

Yes, that was the word. Kaufmann closed his eyes and nodded.

Oh. Surgeon. He'd have to ask later which word that had been. It was a good one to know.

"'E's right, sir," Burke said, nodding. "A surgeon would be right 'elpful."

"Perhaps you might take a proper count, if you are not sure." Really. Clearly these scruffy greenjackets needed to be guided through each step regarding their duties. Damned disgraceful. Suppressing a sigh, Edmondson twisted in the saddle to address the six men who had come with him.

"Post sentries, Corporal. Make sure there are no rat-holes for our guests to wriggle out through. And," he added, a trifle grudgingly, "send a man for the Rifles' surgeon." He was not about to ask the Coldstream's surgeon to slum about with these ruffians!

"Yes sir," Corporal Hewet said, saluting smartly.

"Yes, sir," Burke said stiffly. What did the man think he had been doing before being called over? Larking about? "Wit' yer permission, sir, I'll get back t' that."

The major grimaced and this time didn't bother attempting to conceal it. "Fine," he said dismissively. Was he really here only to hand-hold for these men?

Charcot's sobs gradually subsided, in part because he was exhausting his air supply and growing lightheaded. "Paol, what's happening?" he finally managed to gasp out.

Paol looked up, gazing blearily at the crowd of Englishmen near the door. There was a redcoated officer on a horse, and more redcoated soldiers. "Just more soldiers," he said, giving the first explanation which came to mind, "To keep the Spanish away."

"What happened? What happened to you? Where's Roux? I thought - " His gasping sobs returned and he did not bother to complete the sentence. He did not want to give words to what he had thought.