4th August, early morning; All is not well

That was not exactly what he had meant.  Charcot sat there silently, thinking of the night they had been taken to that barn.  Locals had attacked them then even with armed guards and two whole armies nearby.  Now there was nothing protecting them at all except a few walls and two women.  The irregulars would get them eventually.  It was only a question of when.

"I wish those two grasshoppers had stayed."

Daft bastard. Then again, it was Charcot. With a grunt, Bright rolled over toward the wall and pulled the blanket up over his head.

"We'll be fine, long as we stay inside and don't make trouble." Don't make trouble... right. With Bright cooped up under the same roof as that pretty Spanish girl? The impossibility of fighting , however figuratively, both Bright and Charcot, on top of everything else was suddenly overwhelming. He could almost have agreed with Charcot – he wished the greenjackets hadn't left, that he hadn't fallen asleep, that he had done what he'd intended to do. Then it would all be over.

Charcot put his cup on the floor and then lay down on his little bed, curling on his side to avoid kicking Paol.  If he could sleep, he could hide from life for a while.

The old woman knocked on the door.  "Are you sleeping?  Food."

Easing himself up from the bed, Paol moved to the door and opened it. The old woman was standing there holding the basket which she had brought out earlier; he had forgotten about it in his haste to get upstairs. "Gracias, señora."

She handed the basket over and then looked over her shoulder.  "Manuela."  The girl was hanging back, watching carefully before she approached with the "chamber pot" bucket and another heavy pail of water.

"Agua," she said succinctly, remembering that the big Frenchman in the door knew at least that one word.

Paol quickly shifted the basket to his other hand and reached forward to take the heavy pail from her. "Agua," he repeated, "Thank you. Gracias." He set it down inside the door and then reached for the bucket.
 
"The English officer?" he asked on sudden impulse. "In-gleesh?" Hell, what was the Spanish? Something that sounded like church? "Eglise? Igles?"

Manuela's mouth twitched in what was nearly a smile, amused at his attempts.  "The English officer.  He's gone.  Gone, he left."

Partido? Gone? It sounded a bit like the French word.
 
Slightly encouraged, he tried again. "And the –" Not grasshoppers, that was almost as bad as water crickets. "The other English soldiers? The—ah...with the green coats? Green?" Then he remembered the rifleman with the injured arm. "With the wounded arm." He pointed to his own bandages. "Are they gone? Par—partido?"

Having more important things to do, the old woman went back downstairs leaving Manuela standing in the passage.  She frowned as the Frenchman tried to ask about something green - or was it truth? - and something about English soldiers.  Oh, the riflemen!  Señor Kaufmann with his broken arm and brave young Señor Mittel.  "Yes, gone," she answered, pleased with herself for having solved the riddle.  Almost immediately her face clouded.  She probably should not have told him that.  Now he would know it was only the women in the house.  Well, he would have figured it out sooner or later.

He had been watching her face as closely as he'd been listening, but the sudden change still caught him off guard. Paol's brows knit together. Had he said something wrong?

Yes. Not wrong exactly, but in hindsight he realized just how those questions must have sounded. "I didn't mean it like that. I were only... Ah, hell. You ain't goin' to understand that. Sorry." She wouldn't understand that either, but it was all he could think of to say.

She could not understand what he was saying now at all, but he didn't seem to expect her to answer anything.  He seemed apologetic, even.  Well, she had already known he wasn't as bad as his leering friend with the wounded side.  And even when he had been holding that knife, he hadn't looked like he intended to attack anyone with it.  At least not at that moment.  He was kind enough to look after the blind one, and to save food for the other.  And he had lit the fire for her.  And since he seemed to be the leader of the little group, maybe he could keep the leering one in check.

She pointed at herself and spoke reservedly.  "My name is Manuela."

That was the last thing he had been expecting. "Uh..." He started to raise his hand to mimic the gesture, only to let it drop again when he realized he was still holding the bucket. "Paol," he managed not to stammer, then nodded at each of the others in turn. "Dominic. Michel."

She peered in through the door just a little bit, but the other two Frenchmen seemed to be trying to sleep, and she was less interested in them.  The blind one was negligible, and the other one she would rather avoid altogether.  But the big one, his name was Paol.  Was that even a French name?  She frowned slightly.  "French?"  There were other nationalities represented in the armies, after all.  She believed Kaufmann and Mittel had been Germans, though her aunt insisted they were English.

Paol cocked his head to one side. She seemed to be asking if they were French. But that couldn't be right. She knew very well that they were. Unless... He set the bucket down this time and pointed to himself? "Me? I come from Bretagne. Breizh."

The words he said meant nothing to her, though she assumed they were place names.  Well, it didn't really matter.  He wore the French uniform - or just parts of it at this point - and that made him French enough.

His setting the bucket down reminded her of how heavy it was.  Usually it was Catalina's job to fetch water, but of course she was gone for the present.  Gesturing for him to follow her, she turned and began walking down the stairs.

What? Paol stared after her, torn between the natural impulse to do as he was told and fear of what would happen if he left. "Why?" he asked hesitantly.

She looked back over her shoulder.  She glanced at the bucket and then up at him again.  "Water."  But then, he did have those bandages.  She looked at them and patted her own arm.  "Are you able to carry a bucket of water?"  Though surely he could carry it in one hand with little problem.  She had to use both hands, but he was bigger and stronger.

Water. Something to do with water. And maybe the bucket. Had she looked at the bucket? And arms, something about arms. He shut his eyes. Who was he kidding? He couldn't even speak French properly.

Still, he wanted to help, if that was even what she was asking. And, if he was completely honest, he was curious. He glanced inside the door, but Charcot seemed to be sleeping, and he couldn't imagine Bright would have remained silent if he wasn't in a similar state, so leaving the basket beside Bright's bed, Paol picked up the empty bucket and followed the girl down the stairs.

She turned to watch him following and she saw that he was carrying the empty bucket.  The one meant for a chamber pot.  She made a face of amused disgust and shook her head, gesturing for him to put it back.  The men might be French, but they weren't animals.

Not the bucket, then? Retreating, he set it down by the door and started down the stairs again. "Agua... where?" he asked, wishing he knew the Spanish word. He knew it was something which sounded nothing like the French word, which was no help at all.

"Yes, water."  She was not sure what he was asking, but he would get the message, she hoped, as soon as he saw the fountain.  She called to her aunt in the kitchen.  "Auntie, I'm taking the Big Frenchman to show him the fountain so he can carry their water."  The woman's response was inaudible, but she would have made it audible had she been opposed.

He'd been hesitant, but willing until she got to the doorway, then he balked, staring at her with a mixture of fear and confusion. "No. Not outside."

Was it some kind of trick? To kill him and then pick off the others? But then why give them food? And why even use such tactics when all they had to do was whistle to have all the willing assassins they wanted? It couldn't be a trick. But then what was outside? Water. Water and English soldiers and Spanish irregulars.

She opened the door and frowned gently.  "Yes.  For water.  From the fountain."  It was a side door into the little courtyard that they shared with two or three other houses, the same yard overlooked by the prisoners' window where the big Frenchman had emptied the basin of bloody water.  But he was reluctant, not belligerent.  He actually seemed afraid.  Why would he be afraid of her?  Then she remembered his questions about the English soldiers, and the uneaten food left behind when the redcoat officer had come.  The Frenchman was afraid of English soldiers.

"There are no soldiers," she told him, stepping into the yard.  "Just water."  And a little child singing and laughing.