A/N: Thanks for all the lovely encouraging reviews, and thanks most of all for those of you who sent concrit. Always well received! Correl pointed out a few things, embarrassingly enough most of them are due to dodgy proofing on my part, which has for the most part been corrected. Cornwell usually refers to the Portugese fighters as partisans or cacaderos, so that's what I've been sticking to. If you can find evidence to the contrary, I'm always open to it, as my knowledge of Buffy is better than my knowledge of Sharpe. And, yes, I did know about Faith's surname, shameless fangirl that I am. :o)
Chapter Three: Women and WoundedThe wind knifed through Capitaine Georges Petit's oilskin as he regarded the small group before him, surrounded by his unit and lit by a few flickering lanterns held by his men. The rain had ceased, but the breeze was cold and the sun had well and truly set. He wondered, with a sick feeling, what the Colonel was planning for these British goddams. The two demons at the farmhouse had apparently been destroyed. Petit wondered how they had done it. Not that it mattered all that much
There were plenty more and they were close to indestructible under the right circumstances.
"I am Major Richard Sharpe of the 95th Rifles. I have wounded and women in my party. Let us past!" their leader repeated, sounding angrier. Petit spoke flawless English, having been educated in London in his boyhood, as well as German and passable Swedish, but he chose to shrug and shake his head and wait for the Colonel to catch up. It only took a few more minutes spent shivering for Gagne to appear.
Georges Petit had served under Colonel Arnaud Gagne for the better part of a year. In that time he had seen things that he had scarcely thought real, and had scarcely thought that God could allow to exist. Gagne seemed to answer directly to Bonaparte himself. Bonaparte seemed to hold him in high trust and allowed him full freedom. Petit occasionally – quietly – questioned the wisdom of that trust.
Arnaud Gagne was an unremarkable looking man, which had served him well in the past. His staggeringly forgettable features could have passed for anything from French to Swedish to Spanish, and had done so frequently in his role as one of Napoleon's spymasters. Now his role was somewhat different, and it was one that he truly enjoyed carrying out.
He kneed his mount toward the knot of people that he could barely see through the darkness, and halted beside Capitaine Petit. A cold breeze cut through his sodden coat, but he refused to shiver.
"And who is this? Who have you caught for me Georges?" His voice was languid, but pitched to carry. Petit nudged his horse forward to lean in toward his commanding officer.
"An officer of the British rifles, sir, Major Sharpe and his party. There are wounded and women."
Gagne fixed his gaze on Sharpe, then swept it speculatively over the rest of the party.
"Wounded and women, and yet you escape my ambush?" he asked, an edge to his voice. He nodded toward the slayers.
"Who are the women, Major Sharpe?"
Buffy stepped forward and opened her mouth to answer, but Sharpe made a curt motion to bid her to be silent. She stepped back.
"These two ladies are under my protection," Sharpe said shortly. "You seem to know who I am, sir. Who am I addressing?"
Gagne sat back in his saddle as his mount moved beneath him. "Forgive my crude manners, Major. You are addressing Colonel Arnaud Gagne."
Faith felt Harris shift beside her, as if startled. She eyed him shrewdly, remembering the way he had peered at them back at the farmstead, like he had known who they were - as she suspected he knew who this French colonel was now. She glanced up at the colonel in question and saw that he was observing Harris' reaction with a small smile. He didn't seem like the kind of guy who missed much. She looked to Buffy, who seemed completely focused on Sharpe and his exchange with the colonel. So, she thought, there are still important things that Golden Girl misses. Maybe there was hope for her status as a real human being yet. Faith cocked an eyebrow at Harris, who didn't respond.
"Colonel Gagne," Sharpe was saying, "I have heard of you. You were at Salamanca, were you not?"
Gagne nodded. "Yes. I was there. And I have heard of you, Major Sharpe. My good friend Major Ducos sends his greetings to you, and wishes you well."
"I doubt that Ducos wishes me well. I hope we two will meet once more."
It sounded to Faith like Sharpe was spitting the words out like nails. She shivered and moved to prop the still unconscious Harper upright as he slipped slightly.
"I have no doubt that you will meet again. I believe Pierre quite looks forward to it," Gagne replied. Faith sighed. This was getting tedious.
"Look," she said suddenly. All eyes turned to her. "I'm really really cold, and really really wet, and in case your macho pissing competition hadn't distracted you too much to notice, so are you all. This guy is bleeding everywhere, and this little exchange of pleasantry isn't getting us anywhere."
There was a moment of silence.
"And who are you?" Gagne asked Faith. Again Sharpe gestured for her to be silent.
"Your charge seems quite capable of answering for herself," Gagne replied coolly.
"She is," Buffy interjected, " and so am I. But the point remains that we are getting nowhere fast."
Gagne glanced at Sharpe, who quirked a small grin at him.
"You travel where?" he asked sharply, all pretense of pleasantry dropped.
"The British position at Santa Bernardo."
"You travel with women and wounded. Why?" Gagne continued. "Who are these women? Wives? Prostituées ? Yours?"
"They are not worth your notice, Colonel. They will fetch no ransome." Sharpe shot Buffy an almost apologetic glance.
"But it must be difficult to travel with a party that includes women and wounded. Why did you not stay at the abandoned farm? Surely that would have been a better measure?" Petit demanded. '"Especially after dark?"
"You know," Buffy said in quiet accusation before Sharpe could answer. "You know what was there, don't you?"
Gagne looked at her, taking her measure. She met his look with a stare that had been known to make strong men quake. He did not respond, but after a moment he looked away.
"As do you, I suspect," he said finally. "I should be interested to know what you know."
"Probably," Buffy replied, and left it at that. She looked over at Sharpe. He avoided her eyes, instead gazing steadily at Gagne and Petit.
Suddenly Gagne snapped his fingers, as if he had lost interest.
"Let them go, Capitaine."
Petit looked at the Colonel in surprise. "Sir?"
"Let them go. They are worthless and I am cold." He shot Buffy and Faith a shrewd, considering look, and turned to Sharpe.
"If you travel for another hour in this direction, Major, you will come to another farm. This one is not abandoned. Perhaps you can shelter your women and your wounded man there until dawn." He nodded at Petit, who barked an order to his men. They stepped back and moved aside. Sharpe looked curiously at Petit, who saluted.
Sharpe did not return the salute.
"Give my fond regards to Wellesley," Gagne said pleasantly, and watched the two women who passed him very closely as the half-frozen party began to move away. As they receded beyond the light of the torches, he turned to Petit.
"Let's go back to that farm, Georges. I'm interested in what they left behind. I'd like to study him a little more."
Petit swallowed back his revulsion, and nodded. "Yes sir."
They had been travelling for less than five minutes, led by Hagman and his lantern, before Faith turned to Harris and poked him roughly.
"Okay buddy, spill," she demanded.
"Spill what?" he replied, trying on a tone of mock confusion. She poked him again and he grunted. Sharpe turned to them at the exchange, and Buffy looked across the pony's rump at Faith.
"Can you wait until we reach this farm?" she asked.
Faith frowned. "Which could be crawling with vamps, remember? Like the last little farm that Gan-whatshisname arranged for them to visit?" She turned back to Harris. "What was his name again, Red? You should know."
"What are you talking about?" Sharpe asked, falling back to pace beside Buffy.
"Your French friend back there and what might be waiting at this farm you're merrily wandering toward," Faith answered. "Also what your man Red here knows about it."
"Harris?" Sharpe asked mildly. "What do you know?"
Harris shot an unpleasant look at Faith before replying.
"Me sir? A great many things, sir. As you know, sir."
Then he grunted again as Faith grabbed his arm and shoved him forward a few steps.
"Don't bluff a bluffer, Red." She caught up with him and grabbed him again.
The pony shied at the sudden movement and Buffy and Sharpe both reached up to steady Harper. Sharpe opened his mouth to intervene, but Buffy laid her other hand on his arm.
"I know you don't know us, and there is a lot we have to talk about. You shouldn't trust us at all. In your position, I wouldn't. But trust me when I say let her go. If he knows anything, she'll get it out of him."
Sharpe glanced at Faith as she held Harris by the chin and glared at him.
"But will he still be a fighting man at the end of it?"
"Is he a fighting man now, sir?" Cooper asked from behind them.
"Let's start with your French friend." Faith adopted a reasonable tone as she released Harris' face and slung a friendly arm around his shoulders. He sighed.
"One question first," he said quietly, holding up his hands in an attitude of surrender. Faith raised her eyebrows at him, encouraging him to go on.
"Which of you is the slayer?"
The morning dawned grey, but the sky cleared quickly and remained that way. Buffy and Faith had been offered sleeping mats by the hearth by the elderly couple who lived on the farm, and they had managed to sleep a little in the warmth. The old woman had hung their outer clothes up to dry by the fire, exclaiming at the fabric and the colours. Neither slayer understood what she was saying, but the gist was clear enough. Nods and smiles lasted them until they dressed and went in search of Sharpe and his men.
It had taken less than Gagne's estimated hour to reach the farm. There was no merry wandering, as Faith had suggested. Sharpe had arranged his men in a search party and investigated the area as much as the darkness permitted before moving cautiously in toward the buildings. It seemed in the end that the French Colonel had not bothered with treachery. A mere fifteen minutes of negotiation with the owners secured a meal and a night's lodging for the Chosen Men and their two unexpected additions. The riflemen, including Harper, had bedded down in an outbuilding that was relatively dry and didn't smell too much of sheep. The slayers were expecting to join them, but didn't argue too much with the consensus opinion that they must sleep by the fire. The two women had talked quietly with Corporal Harris for the remainder of the walk to the farm, much to Sharpe's chagrin. There was something going on with them and he disliked the fact that Harris was privy to it before he was. They would occasionally cease their quiet chatter and glance over at him, Harris having the grace to appear slightly embarrassed, before resuming again. All talk had ceased as they had arrived at the farm, and Sharpe was anticipating discovering the truth about his two charges – and his Corporal - before they departed in the morning.
Harper had regained full consciousness with the sunrise.
"What are my chances of some sympathetic whiskey for breakfast?" he had bellowed as the others began to stir awake with the first crowing of the dilapidated farm rooster.
"Good to have you back with us, Sergeant," Cooper had been the first to say, although the others quickly followed suit.
"I had thought that you would sleep the day away like a fine lady, Patrick!" Sharpe exclaimed. "Are you well?"
"Nothing lacking but a bit of blood , sir, so you can cross my name off the butchers bill!"
"A lot of blood, Sergeant, and that's a fact. Hagman!" Sharpe turned to the ex-poacher and then pointed at Harper. Hagman grinned.
"A bit of vinegar and brown paper then sir?"
"Only the finest vinegar and brown paper for our Sergeant now, Hagman!" Sharpe replied, and clapped the Irishman on the shoulder before rising and shrugging on his damp green jacket. He grimaced at the sensation of damp clothes, and wished he had not used his spare shirt as a bandage. He looked down to where Hagman was gingerly unpeeling the grisly garment from Harper's thigh. They had washed the wound the previous night, but could do little else. Sharpe leaned down to observe.
"Looks like a clean shot, sir," Hagman reported, squinting at the bloody mess. "In here and out again just here." He used the corner of the shirt to wipe at the wound, causing a fresh seep of blood and a fresh stream of curses.
"Well," said Faith from the doorway. "Sounds like someone's feeling perkier."
All eyes turned to the two women standing silhouetted against the early daylight.
Sharpe grinned at them.
"Patrick, I'd like you to meet Miss Summers and Miss – ?" He raised his eyebrows at Faith.
"Lehane" she replied. "Pleased to meet you, Paddy. Still bleeding?" She stepped inside the building and squatted down beside the sergeant to peer at his wound. She glanced at him and nodded. "Wicked bloody down there. Nice one."
Harper was staring at her oddly.
"Mother of God," he swore after a moment. Faith grinned.
"Nope, but an understandable mistake," she replied.
Harper glanced at Sharpe, who shrugged. "Uncanny, I know," Sharpe said.
Faith straightened and looked over to Buffy, who looked puzzled.
"What?" Faith demanded, and crossed her arms.
Across the room Harris, who was pulling on his boots, looked as if a sudden comprehension had dawned, and burst out laughing.
"Not Portuguese at all!" he exclaimed, still chuckling. "Well, perhaps…"
Buffy moved into the group to stand beside Faith. She looked at Harris and at Sharpe.
"Explain?"
Harper looked at Buffy, then at his commanding officer. "Yes please sir, explain?" Then he winced and shuddered as Hagman began to rebind his thigh.
"I think," Sharpe began, " that there are a lot of explanations needed this morning. Perkins, Coops, see if you can charm some hot water out of our hostess and make us some tea if either of you have still got some dry leaves."
"Oliver Purefoy should make it," wheezed Harper, looking around for the missing Private. "Coops' tea tastes like bog water."
There was a moment of silence. Harper shook his head.
"Oh. Damnit. Poor lad. Another score to the Frogs then."
There was another pause, slightly more awkward. Harper's dark brows drew together in a frown.
"What?"
Faith sniffed at the brew in the tin cup. It smelled kind of muddy, like there might have been a little dirt in the pocket that the leaves were produced from. She sipped at it, pulled a face and put the mug down. Cooper looked a little crestfallen, and she took pity on him.
"Hot. Too hot…" she muttered insincerely, and shot a glance at Buffy.
There are a few things that are universal. One of them is that tense discussion is less tense when conducted through a veil of steam from a tea cup. Buffy appreciated this now in a way that she never had before. Giles had often attempted to convert her to the cause of tea drinking without success, but she was glad to be holding the tin cup between cold hands and glad to have the steam condensing on her eyelashes. The tea was not even slightly like that carefully prepared brew that Giles lived on. The stuff in her mug was almost black, and there was no milk to be had. Or sugar. Just the simplicity of some tea leaves steeped in boiled water. She wasn't even sure that the leaves originally came from a tea plant, but she was willing to suspend her disbelief for the moment. Her mug contained a small, earth scented oasis of calm from the weirdness of the last twelve hours.
The men sat a short distance away, drinking tea and talking quietly. Sharpe, Harper, Faith and Buffy sat on a bench beside the outbuilding, squinting in the bright, watery sunlight.
"We can't waste much time here if we are to catch up to the partisans today," Sharpe commented as he blew across his tea. "So please make your explanations short."
Faith and Buffy exchanged glances. Buffy shrugged.
"So ask. What do you want to know?"
"Where did you come from?"
"The United States."
Both men gave them blank looks.
"America," Buffy supplied. Sharpe nodded.
"And yesterday? Where did you come from then? Why were you at the farm?"
The two slayers exchanged glances.
"That's kind of where it gets complicated."
"How?" Harper asked.
Again, the exchanged glances. The gesture put Sharpe on edge. He could tell that they had constructed some sort of tale. He was very surprised when he heard what it was.