27th May with the provosts

If he had been able to string two thoughts together properly, Newbury might have been able to comprehend what was going on. As it was, he was aware, distantly, that something unpleasant was about to transpire.

"No," he grunted dully.

"What's that? Still breathin', are we?" Sykes bent down, grabbing the man's arm and hauling him up.

"Shut up, Joe," Jenny managed to say. Damn, but she needed to stop using his Christian name.

And now one of them had hauled him to his feet once again, or was attempting to. The poor rifleman could barely stand. But the provost's hands were full with pulling him up, and the one behind her was still gripping her hair. As Joe stumbled in front of her, there was nothing so easy as to reach out with her hands and grab the handle of his sword bayonet. She pulled it up and out of its sheath, then jabbed it down past her own side, hoping blindly to hit the man behind her.

"Mind that, there!" Stephenson burst out, surprised at how quickly the harpy had moved.

Lambert felt a sudden blaze of indescribable fire in his groin as the blade in her hand stabbed backwards; he lost his grip on her hair and reeled backward, both hands clutching frantically for the injured part. A stain of crimson was spreading out from under his fingers. His legs collapsed out from under him, and he knelt hunched over on the ground, a scream ripping out of his throat, retching. He had never imagined such pain. Never. Oh, God. What had she done to him? He couldn't even comprehend through the pain.

He had let go of her hair. That was all she knew. As soon as he released his grip she ran, the bayonet still held awkwardly in her hands.

What an infernal sound that was. He would've thought there was a battle being fought. Whoever had been struck, he was in agony. Pye flinched at it, for he hadn't yet known it was a provost. The later would've given him great satisfaction and though he would've still run to see, in hopes of also discovering where Jenny had been lead of to, he would not worry or want to help. Not at the very least, the injured man of law.

If the enemy had attacked, his rifle needed to be loaded. It took him a moment to have it ready, and then he ran, with the weapon held steadily in one hand, the barrel tipped upwards. He hopped over some stones, moved to run across the grass, careful not to slip where it was wet. His other hand had pressed against his sword bayonet to keep it steady and from striking at his leg. He didn't sound the alarm, which was not as surprising as it could first be considered. If he was mistaken and this wasn't the enemy, he did not want to have to deal with any officers. If he was not, the rifle would allow him enough distance, and a shot of warning, enough to have the others up.

He could about see silhuettes ahead of him. There!

Bloody hell! Where had that come from? Thrusting the rifleman away from him, Sykes sprang out of reach and circled wide, trying to cut off her escape. That little witch. She was going to pay for this.

Closing the gap between them, Sykes eyed the now bloody weapon in her hand. He feinted a grab. All he needed to do was keep her attention focused on him for another moment or so.

Finally finding full use of her voice, Jenny let out a hoarse yell and attempted to plunge the bayonet down upon the provost's grabbing arm.

Stephenson swore at Lambert for opening his fat mouth and leapt at the murderous little bitch. Who did she think she was, anyway? He grabbed for the sword in her hands, hoping at least to knock the blade away. Oh but she was going to get a proper thumping for this!

It was easy for the other provost to wrench the bayonet from her hands, practically knocking her into the bleeding arms of the other man.

He heard a scream that was distinctively female. He cursed for he recognised the voice in some obscure way. It must have been Jenny. Which meant that the provosts were near by. And by the sound of it, the bastards meant to do something bad.

He ducked under a low lying branch, feeling it skim across his plume. The poor thing must've just gotten bent for it, certainly ruffed in a bad way. He came to a stop at last. He could see the men and the girl who has just been assaulted. His rifle had come up, before he thought better of it, his aim at Sykes. "Stop, n' get your bloody arses away from the lass."

His rifle had been brought into his shoulder, his breathing forced to steady. There was no doubt, that if either of the men would not comply, one of them would not be leaving, except on the arms of his fellow provosts. And the other - ... there was still a bayonet sword able to be used.

Having been so abruptly dragged to his feet, the last thing Newbury expected was to be thrown down again. He stayed down for a moment after landing, managing somehow to clear the fog away from his head enough to take stock of immediate events. His sword-bayonet was gone and by the sound of it, either being employed or fought over.

There was a provost close to him. That became instantly apparent. Newbury blinked slowly and, despite not knowing for sure who was doing what above him, pushed himself off the ground. Just enough to let him scuttle awkwardly forward and tangle himself up around the provost's legs. There was a new voice on the scene now, he realised, even as he brought the provost down. Hopefully it wasn't one of their mates...

Another greenjacket bastard. Sykes turned, cursing silently. The rifle was trained on him. He was holding the girl in front of him like a shield, but he didn't much like the odds of that. He was taller than her and at this range, he doubted the rifleman would have much difficulty missing.

Without loosening his hold, he glanced sideways at Stephenson, hoping for some kind of direction, but Stephenson chose that moment to disappear from view, tackled by that gimpy runt of a rifleman.

Damn. Their control of the situation was slipping away and Sykes had no intention of getting shot. He practically hurled the girl away from him, before grabbing for the rifleman's collar and trying to haul him off the other provost.

Someone new had arrived on the scene, and almost immediately Jenny found herself thrown to the ground.

"Back off." His voice was cold. ".. n' keep those hands up where I can see them." His patience was running thin. Waste another second, and one of the provosts was going to go down. His rifle already picked its target and was now following it at a level.

Sykes released his grip on the man's coat and straightened, glaring at the other rifleman. Slowly, reluctantly he raised his hands

"You too. Off to your left. Up with yer hands, n' leave that rifleman where he's at, bastard!" He said, as he indicated Stephenson with a nod of his head. He did not remove his rifle, even if holding it in such a fashion might have been hard on his arms in due time.

Damned interfering bastard, Stephenson thought, reluctantly letting the sword drop. He had a moment of revenge, however, as he kicked his way free from the Rifleman's hold on his legs. Served the fool right, didn't it?

"Makin' a mistake here, boy," the provost sneered.

Thank God, it seemed that someone had finally intervened. And bloody well about time, too. Jenny was lying on her side, curled up around all of her aches. She tried to push herself up onto her knees but quickly changed her mind. Easier just to lie there, now, and wait for someone to tell her when it was all over.

"What is all this nonsense?" An angry voice boomed out, belonging to a scowling redcoat lieutenant on horseback. "You there! Rifleman! What do you - "

The lieutenant looked down at this moment and saw the greenjacket sprawled on the ground. His scowl deepened. "Provost. If you value your life, you will step away from that man. Now."

Pye held his rifle still trained on the provost, his gaze though wavering towards the new officer. "Sah." He spoke and was then silent again. If the officer wanted an explanation, he would ask. If not, it was not for him to seek an excuse. He did what was right. At last his rifle was lowered, but had it ready to snap back into position the moment it was needed.

Lieutenant Wiffort had seemed entirely reasonable. Which was more than could be said for his men... Vickery's thoughts broke off abruptly as he returned to where he had left Newbury and Jenny Ross with the provosts.

Both the Rifleman and the woman were curled up on the ground, as was one of the provosts, and two more were being covered by Rifleman Pye with a levelled rifle.

There was another mounted officer. This one looked like the same man who had been by the river the last time Vickery had come back to deal with Cotton and Newbury. Even as he approached, Pye lowered the rifle.

At least he wasn't ignoring orders, or interpreting them in his own fashion, yet. Which was one small mercy.

"What is going on here, sir!" he demanded of the gathering at large.

Perfect. Stephenson moved slowly away from the half-conscious greenjacket, resenting this new interference. They might have been able to deal with the armed Rifleman, but now that there was an officer around...

The redcoat glanced down again, his gaze taking in the sprawled poses of the greenjacket and the woman before lifting to the wounded provost, who lay whimpering on the ground. None of these provosts were immediately familiar, but he recognised the two Riflemen and the woman, which was enough.

"I should like to know the same," Cobb remarked simply, offering a quick salute to the approaching Rifles officer.

Now there were officers present, looking for answers. Well, let them look. Jenny was past caring by now. Even if her injured provost died and they led her to the scaffold for his murder, she no longer cared. She whimpered once and closed her eyes again.