1 June; Aches and pains

His legs began to move forward automatically as the barrel of the pistol was pressed against the back of his head. The overexcited Frenchman was nattering angrily, but Christian barely heard him. What was she doing there? She should have been back with the rest of the column and safe by now.

Some of the French had begun leading Jenny and several other women away and Christian craned his neck to get a better glimpse, reassured that, at least, she looked alright. Then, of all things, she smiled. But not at him.

That this should elicit the unpleasant mixture of feelings that it did seemed utterly absurd under the circumstances and he cursed himself for a fool. Almost in the same breath, he let fly a string of oaths at the Frog behind him as a shove knocked him sprawling in the dirt. Without thinking, he scrambled up and whirled on the Frenchman only to have his invective cut short by a pistol butt to the temple.

Blinking stupidly at the ground, which was suddenly much closer than it had been a moment ago, Christian tried to clear his vision, cupping a hand to the side of his aching head. What a bloody idiotic thing to do. He tried to rise, sank back and tried again. Another Frog grabbed him under the arm and hauled him up, steering him in the direction the other prisoners were being herded.

Maggie cringed and shrank as the tangled wagons were pulled apart, but hers went untouched for the moment. She froze every time the sound of French voices or boots came near, not even daring to open her eyes lest she be discovered, hidden under the cart down next to the wheel with her shawl over her head.

But then amidst all the strange speech, she recognized one voice, an English voice, with that familiar edge of bewilderment. A group of dragoons were gathered around the cart next to hers, but when they moved away she saw the baggage that they had left behind. They had left a guard as well, but he was standing a few paces away, not paying attention to his wounded charge.

"Joe?" she whispered almost inaudibly.

Or maybe it didn't matter what he'd said. Newbury's two self-appointed escorts moved away again after delivering him to a cart that had just been emptied. One dragoon was left to stand guard but he obviously had no interest in such a duty.

The very hushed query almost passed unheard, had Newbury not propped himself up against the side of the cart. His first instinct was to look for the source of the voice, but a sharp spark of common sense kept his gaze directed toward the scattered baggage.

"That'd be you, Missus?" He asked in an undertone, so quiet he nearly couldn't hear it himself.

"Joe!" she answered back, her whisper rising slightly in volume. "It's me, Maggie! I'm down here, under the cart!"

Damn. Damn. "Shh," Newbury hissed. "An' stay put. They seen you?"

She dropped her voice meekly, and crouched back into her curled ball like a mouse. "No," she whispered.

Well, that was a good thing. Newbury leaned back and stretched carefully, wincing at the twine of pain in his ribs. He took advantage of the movement to glance quickly down at the other cart.

"Just you stay put an' quiet," he muttered. "Pretend you're dead, maybe."

They weren't likely to find her if she didn't give herself away. Hopefully.

That was more or less what she had been doing. Pretending to be dead, or even better, an inanimate object like a rock. She became even more still as the sound of boots approached. She could not tell if they were moving towards her own cart or Newbury's, but she prayed to God it would be the latter.

There was a wagon not far away. Maybe they would let him lean against it.

Moving unsteadily, Christian reached the wagon and sagged against it, grateful for the support, however temporary. The Frogs had not seemed to mind, or perhaps they hadn’t noticed. He didn’t really care. He closed his eyes, but that only made it worse; it was like being drunk and hungover simultaneously. The ground, on the other hand, looked uncharacteristically comfortable.

Christian sank carefully to his knees. That was better, if only marginally. An object in his periphery caught his attention and his body started in surprise before his mind caught up and registered what it was: a person, more specifically a woman, hidden beneath the wagon.

Oh hell. Not good. Looking around to be sure none of the French had noticed yet, he braced his arm against the side of the cart, trying to pull himself up. Dammit, this had been a bad idea.

Silence. Silence was good. Preferable, even. He didn't want that solitary dragoon to get suspicious.

But that newly-arriving redcoat was going to ruin everything. Newbury watched him warily and grimaced when he saw the man start after looking toward where Missus Cotton was hidden.

"Here," the Rifleman snapped, reacting instinctively. "Go be sick off the road, would you?"

The sound was much too close to ignore, and Maggie opened her eyes with horror to see not a French dragoon but a redcoat, one of their own, looking under her wagon. She had been holding her breath for such a long moment now that she felt sure she would explode in a gasp for air, and so she clapped her cold hands over her mouth. She stared at him in absolute terror.

Reaching out, Christian grabbed hold of a wheel and hauled himself up, shooting a glare at the greenjacket as he began to drift toward the other cart. He didn’t dare glance at the nearby dragoon.

The dragoon guard glanced over, his disinterested gaze moving from Newbury to the redcoat. From where Newbury stood, it was hard to tell if the Frog could see Maggie. Hopefully he couldn't. He held his breath.

But it was too much for Maggie. On seeing the redcoat's movement, she had closed her eyes and at last let escape a sobbing scream, even as she balled herself further against the wheel away from his grasp. But there was no where to run for safety, and no one could save her. But that did not stop her from crying out. "Joe! Joe! Joe!" she called wildly.

What? No. No, no, no. Christian turned. The dragoon was already striding toward them.

Giving in to the watery sensation in his knees, Christian clutched at his head and let out a scream. “Joe! Joe! Goddammit!” Fear made it easy to force his voice into a higher register.

Newbury's eyes went wide when the redcoat hit his knees and began shrieking in an impossibly high-pitched voice. What the hell was he doing? It took a second to register that the idiot was covering up for Maggie's own outburst. Today was certainly the day for quick thinking.

"Shut up, you fool," the Rifleman cried, lurching away from the cart to stumble into the approaching dragoon's path. It was not a completely deliberate move, either. The road wasn't the best for anyone with an unreliable knee. "You ain't dyin'!"

Maggie stopped in shock and opened her eyes as the sound of another person's screaming registered in her brain. She saw that the redcoat had moved away, and that she was not actually in direct danger from him. Joe was helping him now. The man was injured. The dragoon was distracted and coming to investigate the screaming man, grumbling and kneeling down at his side to pull him up. The terror at last gave her movement. She scrambled out on the other side of the wagon and ran.

There was a grip on his arm and he was suddenly on his feet again. A voice behind him was babbling in French. Christian stopped screaming and opened his eyes. Jesus, had that actually worked? But no sooner had he thought it than a shout went up from another of the dragoons. Before he could stop himself, Christian looked towards the wagon, but the woman was gone.

He swore. The Frenchman was still behind him, holding him by the arm and collar of his coat, but Christian could feel him turn and then he too started bellowing. Jerking his arm up and back, Christian clipped the man’s jaw with his elbow, cutting short his cry.

The Frog stumbled back in surprise, pulling Christian off balance. He landed in a graceless heap and was trying to roll to his knees when a heavy boot caught him squarely in the stomach. The fight went out of him with a gasp of pain and he instinctively drew his knees up, fighting back the urge to retch.

No. This wasn't going to end badly. Not if he could help it. Newbury turned quickly and swung hard at the Frenchman who'd just kicked the redcoat in the gut. The alarm was given but he'd be damned if he didn't do his best to distract these bloody Frogs as long as he could.

"Blessay this!" He hit the dragoon guard again for good measure before turning to face the man's approaching reinforcements. Missus Cotton had best run for all she was worth.

And run she did, all along the road which was now oddly empty, all the troopers having returned to the small central area of the baggage. Never in her life had she run so fast. She did not look back but stared straight ahead as if by force of will she could bring the back of the column into her sight, the section of the baggage that had not been cut off.

When a second blow did not fall, Christian looked up. The rifleman was still standing, but the Frog was not. There was, however, no shortage of his fellows to take his place. What was the greenjacket doing? There wasn’t any point anymore. Not with the alarm raised. Not as long as they had horses.

The Frogs were on them now, their attentions directed at the rifleman. Hell. There was a pair of legs in front of him. Christian wrapped his arms around the ankles and yanked. The man fell with a cry of surprise, knocking into one of his comrades.

He didn't dare look over his shoulder to see if Missus Cotton was on her way to freedom. He wouldn't give these Frogs any hit that his foolish, desperate resistance was nothing more than a diversion.

One of the Frogs was pulled sharply from his feet, taking another down with him. Newbury ducked a swing from a sabre and punched at the dragoon wielding the blade. It would be a miracle if he held out more than a few seconds, but if it helped...

The scuffle was brought up short by angry shouts from another frog, probably someone of slightly greater significance judging by the manner in which he yelled at the dragoons and the way they scrambled to their feet to answer.

Wrenching one of his legs free, Girard kicked back hard. He felt the grip on his other leg slacken, and scrambled to his feet. The redcoat was no longer moving. Good. He turned towards the other Englishman, drawing his sword, but an order from their officer forestalled him. Girard all but gaped at his superior. He couldn’t be serious!

“Sir, they attacked Broussard!” he protested angrily.

Why were they drawing back? What were they doing? Had they spotted Missus Cotton? Newbury hesitated, both fists held up before him, and his pause provided time enough for another Frog to lunge forward and grab hold of his arms.

"Gerroff, you filthy toad," Newbury snarled, indignant despite his bold, short-lived resistance.