7th August, midday - Buvons, mes chers amis

Couture tugged Charcot's coat sleeves down over his palms and slid one of the sausages onto them. "Sausage," he grunted, "It's hot." He took a bite of his own and let out a spluttering cry. "—kin' hell!" he gasped amidst crows of unsympathetic laughter. "Bit warm, is it?" asked Gauvin innocently, slapping Couture on the back before moving to take his place around the brazier.

Charcot laughed and carefully cradled his own sausage in the cuff of his coat, blowing on it to cool it off a little before taking a tentative bite from the end.  It was hot, greasy, juicy, and delicious.  "Best thing I ever tasted,"he declared.  "This is the best day of my life."

Couture almost choked on his mouthful of wine. "Hell of a life! Here, sit down before you fall over someone. You're making Côte nervous."

Sinking to the ground beside his friend, Couture took another liberal swallow then set the bottle between them, resting it against Charcot's knee.

"Why would I fall over someone?" Charcot laughed, sitting down where he was directed.  He felt the bottle touch his knee and reached out for another gulp.  "Uh oh, it's nearly all gone.  I don't even remember the battle.  What happened after I left?  Or after you all left?  Or... When did you even retreat?"

"Oi, Laramie, you gonna drink all those yourself? Pass one over here! Uh... when did we retreat? The night after the battle, I s'pose. Started then anyway. Reckon they thought the English were gonna push after us like they done in Portugal, only they didn't. Took 'em more'n half a week's marching to figure that out, though. And then what do they do, but turn us around and march us straight back. Good thing too!"

"What about you? What were the English like?" Bielieux wanted to know.

"The English?"  Charcot stopped chewing for a moment and frowned.  He tried to think of something to say, but he couldn't come up with an answer.  He kept remembering moments of fear and confusion.

"Aye, what happened?" prompted Couture, "You said a horse fell on you during the battle, then what?"

"Oh." That was an easier question to answer. He took a gulp of wine first. "Well I woke up not knowing what was going on, with the horse on top of my legs so I couldn't move. I don't know how I got there or how long I was there. But Paol helped me." He frowned again, remembering how terrified he had been when he did not know who the other person was.

"Then what?" asked Bielieux, "Did you have to hide from the Spanish?"

"No," he answered slowly.  What had happened next?  It was strangely difficult to remember, even though he had gone through that day over and over in his mind.  "Well maybe.  I couldn't see or hear anything. Paol took me with him."

Couture frowned in confusion. "You couldn't hear either? But...you can hear now? Did one of their sawbones patch you up or something?"

He laughed a little. "Yeah, I can hear now. It just sort of came back. After we got caught by some greenjackets."

There was a faint bristling among the others at the word. "Greenjackets?" Couture spat. Their brutal defeat at the bridge was far from forgotten, as was the prisoner escape. "It were them that took you, then?"

"Yeah. I think they might've been Germans." Or was he confusing them with the men at house when they first arrived? Or were they even the same ones? He hadn't quite figured that out. Somehow his medal had turned up at the house though.

"Bastards." Couture took another gulp from the bottle and Laramie asked, "So how come you aren't with them now?"

"Because they left," he answered. It seemed completely obvious.

Couture elbowed Charcot in the ribs. "And they just turned you loose, did they?"

"What? No, stupid. They handed us over to the Spanish." For some reason, he started to laugh.

"The Spanish?" Couture frowned, as much at the revelation as at his friend's incongruous laughter. "Christ, and you still got all your arms and legs?"

"Shut up, Couture," interjected Gauvin mildly, "That's enough of a story for now."

"What? He ain't even told us about the women yet!"

"Women?" echoed Bielieux, "Were they pretty?"

"I don't know, I'm blind!" Charcot sputtered, swallowing another mouthful of wine. "But one is old and the other is young, and Bright said she was pretty. She sounds pretty."

"Ha! No wonder Kerjean stayed behind," Couture laughed, "Lucky bastard."

"Listen, lads," Foucheaux called from the door. "Anyone seen Dominic Charcot in town?"

"Course we have, he's right here!" Gauvin called back merrily. "Where've you been?"

"Oh, thank God," he sighed, hurrying to their little crowd. He knelt and put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Charcot, you all right?"

"Foucheaux," Charcot said with a smile, embracing him.

"We gotta get you back to the house. Paol's worried sick. C'mon, up. No, leave the bottle."

"Huh? What's he got to go for?" demanded Couture, getting to his feet as well. "He's fine. He's with us; nothing to worry about."