6th August, morning - Par Ici Passe Un Cavalier

Maria gave a small, frightened gasp as the tall soldier stood and advanced toward the door. "Ave Maria... What is he doing? Is he going to let them in?"

But after peering out the window a moment, she saw him stoop and try awkwardly to heft the heavy wooden bar from its place beside the door. "What is he doing?" she repeated, tentative curiosity mixing with fear.

The old woman rushed at him. "Stop that! Get away from the door. Manuela, help me!"

But her niece realized what he was trying to do. "No, auntie, he's barring the door! Stop, Paol, you'll hurt your arm!" And she reached out to help him heft it into place.

The bar grew suddenly lighter, steadier, and Manuela was beside him helping him lower it into place. He looked down at her, concern and a certain grave resolve in his face. "It will be alright."

There was another clatter of hooves on the street outside, and he put his hand out, stopping just shy of taking her arm. "C'mon," he said gently, starting to move back toward the table, "You should keep away from the windows."

"What can you see out there?" Charcot called impatiently.

"It's our lads. Cavalry," he told him, hoping saying it out loud would make it sink in, but he felt no excitement or even relief; indeed, beyond the initial shock, he felt hardly anything at all. Fear was still there, though less helpless and intense, it had simply changed shape.

Charcot, on the other hand, was overwhelmed with enough emotion for them both.  He gasped out a laugh, just one short laugh, and then he began crying without knowing why, still with a smile on his face.  "I want to hear them!  They're here, they're really here!  Paol, open a window!"

Doña Castillo meanwhile was hurrying about collecting silver spoons and other valuables in her apron and looking for a place to hide them.

Paol hurried to Charcot's side. "Easy. Easy, mate. Alright," he said, raising him up out of the chair and putting his arm tightly around his friend's shoulders. "Upstairs. There's a window that overlooks the street."

*

"You could bring your things to our house," Maria Dolores told Manuela quietly, "Or perhaps Doña Pollonia would take them? You don't think they'd bother an English officer, do you?"

"I'm all right," Charcot laughed through the tears.  "I don't know why I'm crying.  I'm just...  I can't believe they're really here."  The sounds of the townspeople outside were frightened or angry, but to Charcot the noise was like a celebratory parade.  "We should go out and meet them!"

*

"Oh yes!" Manuela answered her friend.  "Auntie, we should take our things to Doña Pollonia's house.  Or Maria's," she added, though with less certainty.  Depending on his whim, Señor Tibodo might not do much to discourage soldiers from looting.

"I think we'd best stay inside. It'll be safer." Safer to stay inside. Safer to draw no attention. But still he hesitated. What if it was all another mistake? What if the army was just passing by and this was little more than a raid? They'd have no way of knowing there were prisoners left behind in the city. And if the army was staying... He shut his eyes. If he knew what to expect, he had a better chance of dealing with it; he could prepare. But was that worth the risk of drawing attention to the house?

"We can try one of the windows down here," he said at last, leading Charcot toward the front of the house. "There." He took his friend's hand and placed it on the window sill. "Almost as good as standing in the street."

With a smile lighting his entire tearful face, Charcot leaned his head out the window, straining his ears for any French chatter. He caught stray words passing here and there, or indistinct syllables in a familiar accent, and he thought his face would break from smiling so much. He stretched out his arm as if he might be able to touch the passing riders, though he could hear that they were not close enough; the house was probably set back from the street. But they were here, the Grande Armée at last.

"We're free, Paol," he exclaimed in sudden realization. They did not have to wait for the cavalry to come and open the door, or tell the woman of the house that they were leaving, or negotiate some sort of exchange, or do anything at all. "We're free now! Long live the French cavalry!"

Free? He stared at his friend's jubilant face. He had never thought to see him like this again, certainly not after this morning; he'd been prepared to crush that sentiment out of him forever with a handful of words. And now, out of nowhere they were both to be spared that. He no longer had to worry about the doctor or the hospital or the partisans. He no longer had to watch Charcot die.

He opened his mouth to try to join in his friend's excitement, but the words stuck in his throat. He could feel a trembling weakness setting into his limbs and struggled to push those thoughts away; better to feel nothing, he was not free yet.

"You -- you figure the infantry will follow 'em?" he asked after a moment, watching another cluster of horses canter past.

"Of course they will!" Charcot laughed. "Cavalry can't just ride into a town and expect to keep it all by themselves. Ha! Won't Michel be surprised when he wakes up!" He had copied Paol and taken to calling the Englishman by his Christian name, which was easier to say than his surname. "I wish I was wearing my coat to remind them what a real soldier looks like. Vive la France!"

Charcot's unflagging exuberance, even in the face of his own bewildering lack of it, brought a faint smile to his face.

Then one of the passing riders turned his head and the smile vanished. He was imagining it, he must be! But he could have sworn he knew that face. But where the devil would he know a cavalry officer from, except -- Paol let out a low, disbelieving curse.

The rider was past their window already, and without really thinking Paol leaned out suddenly and called, "Captain!"

The shout caught Chevenier's attention. He pulled his horse sharply to a halt, and looked around. It took him a moment before he caught sight of the soldier leaning out of a nearby window. The uniform was French, and the man looked oddly familiar, though Chevenier could not place where he might have known him from.

"You seem rather out of place," he called back, urging his horse back in the direction of the previous house.

"Captain?" Charcot repeated, turning his head toward Kerjean.  "Captain who? Is there someone you know?"

The terrible thought struck him then that they might easily be taken for deserters. He'd lost his own coat days ago and Charcot's was nowhere in easy reach. With his shirtsleeve torn off, Paol's injury was obvious enough, but that proved nothing.

"We're—we were taken prisoner, sir." And then, realizing how that must sound called from the window of a respectable home, he added, "The Spanish quartered some of the wounded prisoners on the townsfolk before they left."

To Charcot, he said in an undertone, "It's that cavalry officer, comes round the company sometimes with Lieutenant Leveque."

Charcot was too happy to stay quiet in the presence of an even moderately friendly officer. "Hello sir! We're 86ème, Lieutenant Jarreau's company!" If the officer was friends with Leveque, he would know Jarreau by extension. And probably all officers knew each other anyway. The thought of being taken for deserters did not even cross his mind, and no one looking at his face could have suspected him of such treachery. He was far too jubilant for their return.

"86ème?" Chevenier chuckled at the idea of Jarreau seeing his men leaning out of windows like small children to see the line of soldiers. Still, prisoners - and wounded at that - were a serious matter. He looked over what he could see of the two men critically.

"You seem well looked after." Chevenier smiled. "If you're both able, I'd say you've been liberated. How many of you are quartered here?"

He had finally made his way through the crowd, having garnered many curses and ill looks as he moved against the flow of people, and was ready to dismount and knock on the door. Still, it would be good to know what he was faced with.

Charcot beamed even brighter, if it was possible.  "Thank you, sir! Three!  And there's an officer in the house behind, and men in the hospital, and probably others quartered all over the town!"

"Is the infantry here, sir? The 86e?" Paol asked, "Are you taking the town, proper like? Or just passing through?"


[FYI: Infantry arrives the next day. Town is to be given over to pillage on account of its being partially deserted.]

"And do you have surgeons?" Charcot interjected.