1 June; Aches and pains

Polly stared dumbly after the other woman for a moment, as she grabbed the musket and ran once more. The loud blast of a gun from behind her jolted her back to her senses. Grabbing blindly for Charlie's hand, she moved to once again follow the others up the hill.

The two riflemen and their companion seemed to know what they were doing. She hoped.

Reload. Fast as he could. It wouldn't be fast enough, most likely, but he was going to bloody try. "If you're gonna get outta here, best do it now," Newbury said sharply, not daring to glance up at Jenny. What the hell was she still doing here?

He did look up, however, when he heard a deep-voiced French bellow from close by. Four troopers had ridden past, their sabres flashing as they moved to circle around the small, terrified group of fleeing camp followers trying to get away over that hill. They were cut off now. It was a damned neat trap.

Pye had not loaded. He knew he could not load and run, nor load fast and then run. It had proven itself earlier to be a thing, much more possible in theory than in reality. He'd run instead. He had caught up with the group and was heading alongside them, when the troopers pulled an ace on them. Cutting their route of escape, they were not in any state to really offer as much of a fight as they would have liked.

"...What now?" Newbury knew, he had to know. They could try running each separate in one direction, but the number of troopers and their fast horses, could easily catch up with most of them.

Many of the women were screaming as the French horses swerved around them, blocking their path. Polly stumbled to a stop, too frightened to even cry out. She did not know which way to go now, what to do. There were always stories - terrifying stories - about what happened to women when the French got them. Death and worse, and she simply did not know what to do.

"Come on!" Jenny shouted to the girl who seemed frozen to the spot. But there was no where to escape to anymore. Where had all the troopers come from? She hadn't had the chance to prime that stupid musket either. She looked at Newbury and moved closer. He had urged her to escape, and she had missed the chance. "Sorry," she said, whispering though she did not know why.

The rifle was loaded. Barely. Newbury didn't even have time to bring it fully to his shoulder before the French troopers swept down toward them. Fire? Fire. He tugged jerkily at the trigger. The shot missed wide. That was it. No hope to reload again. All he had left was the long sword-bayonet, but would good was that against so many, and with his body aching so?

"Toss your rifle down, Pye," Newbury barked, holding onto his own for a long moment before reluctantly turning it muzzle-down and driving the fixed sword deep into the road. "That's it."

What a bloody stupid way to go.

Jenny watched in sort of deadened surprise as he lay down his arms. But he was right. It was time. Stupid, stupid. She should have gone when Christian had led her around those carts. Newbury would have done better on his own, and she would have been far away from here by now. There were tears welling up in her eyes now, much to her surprise - hot, angry tears of pure frustration. They had tried so hard. Damn it! Joe should have had his mates around, other riflemen like Pye. It would have been all right then.

She threw the bloody useless musket on the ground and its box of cartridges, though she forgot about the bayonet at her side.

"But..." Pye stared at Newbury. It did not register with him at first. To be rid of his rifle?..Rid of HIS rifle and to admit that they were left with no more hope. That it was over? He stared at his weapon next, cursing the attacker who had caused his injury and had made his fighting so useless.

Slowly, gently he lay down his rifle and glared at the enemy who had come in too great a number. It was not fair! That was it. He hesitated still, and sighed. "Ain't bloody right..." He muttered.

Jenny moved closer to Newbury, close enough for her arm to touch his sleeve. The Frenchmen were shouting things that she did not understand, and pointing at her. She did not like it. Then she realized that they were pointing at her bayonet. "But it's Christian's!" she said absurdly. It had not yet dawned on her that of course Christian would probably be a prisoner too, if he was still alive. In her mind he was looking after that fool horse, impatiently waiting for her to bring back his bayonet.

"Give it here," Newbury advised gently, an arm lifting unconsciously to encircle her waist. It was an entirely reflexive gesture born of protective instinct. But the bayonet was the true object of his attention, at that moment. The yammering Frogs were pointing insistently at it. "Slowly, now."

He was, after all, in no hurry to get shot by some over-eager Frenchman because any of them moved too sharply in surrendering their weapons.

Jenny looked up at Newbury. Well, if he wanted the bayonet that wasn't so bad. She trusted him. He obviously knew more about it all than she did. Without disengaging from his arm around her waist, she pulled the crossbelt strap over her head and handed it to him, bayonet, scabbard and all.

Olivia Graham found herself being herded into a group of panicked women by the French cavalry. She cursed internally. She had stupidly decided that it would be a good idea to walk for a bit, and ended up stuck when the trouble broke out. Those around her were all screaming women - camp followers at that - and likely to be very little help. God only knew where most of the British soldiers were, but certainly not here.

Her eye caught on two riflemen, and hope flared for a moment, but they looked certainly worse for wear and were relinquishing their weapons. Frustration flared within her. Certainly they could do something other than surrender! It looked like there was a woman with them, still holding something that could be used to fight. The French officer reached roughly towards the woman, and Olivia felt her frustration boil over. How dare an officer go after women, particularly when there were so many soldiers in the area.

"Qu'est que vous faites?" she shouted, marching forward. "Ne se touchez pas! Vous êtes censé être un gentilhomme!"

Jenny stared at the woman in surprise. "Miss - Mrs. - " And her mind completely failed to bring up the woman's name. It was the young woman from that ridiculous dinner. But she put up a hand to draw her back. "Be quiet, be quiet. It will be all right." It will be all right? What on earth was that supposed to mean?

"Miss Ross!" Olivia pulled back in surprise at the recognition. She had never expected to see her again, following the disaster that the men had called a dinner party. Then the other woman's words registered, and she felt a renewal of her indignation.

"Alright?" She gasped. "Indeed, it is not alright when soldiers try to handle women like that!" She turned her glare on the French soldier, but still stopped from going any further. Even if she were armed, it was not as though Olivia knew the slightest thing about soldiering.

The bayonet scabbard came into his hand and his fingers curled around it, drawing it away from her grip without resistance. Good. Well. Not good, really, since giving up their arms rankled, but... safety. That was somehow more important than going on fighting.

Newbury had just tossed the bayonet away when a Frog officer started toward him. Or not toward him, but rather Jenny. No, not a chance. Filthy bastard. He took half a step forward, ignoring the protests from his knee, but both of them stopped when an indignant shout lanced across the air. A woman, one of the camp followers, strode forward with all the haughty grace of a noble.

He could only stare in bewilderment. It seemed that through sheer force of spoken will, she had stopped not only that Frog officer but Jenny too. This was seeming more and more surreal. Maybe she could natter on in French some more and get these buggers to let them go?

Pye looked at the woman, who shouted at them in French. Only he realised it was not them, that she meant to assault with the words, but the French officer, who had tried to catch hold of some of his would be spoils. He gazed at his rifle. Vickery would not be happy when he learned that the same weapon was lost the second time, and this time to the French even! He would be furious about that.

He frowned and lifted his gaze to stare at the French. Whatever they were saying, it was all gibberish to him. The same went for the woman's own chip and chap. "We're...really surrenderin'?" It still did not properly register with the boy. "Or... or maybe she's going to tell them ter sod off?" Ok, maybe he was being too hopeful and placing too much faith in a woman.

Surrender. Aye, that was about the size of it. There was nothing else any of them could do. Not if they wanted to get out of this with their lives.

"This's it," Newbury answered tonelessly, tossing the bayonet and its crossbelt down near where he'd planted his rifle. "We ain't got any other choice."

And that was the worst part. The rearguard had been defeated. There were no other explanation for how the French had gotten to the baggage. The Rifles had failed.

He could run, sure. Hope that his feet were faster than the legs of the horses or the reflexes of the men. But that would mean leaving Newbury behind. Him, and the women. What good he would be to them, if equally a prisoner, he did not know, but he decided to dash any thoughts of an attempted run.

"...jus'...jus' fer a little while." He said with a voice more cheerful than he felt. "Then we're goin' to be back t'...makin' them run." He smiled at Newbury. All fake.

The soldier who had grabbed for Jenny had recovered from his surprise, and he moved forward again to herd the women away. "Il est blessé," Jenny managed to tell him, pointing at Newbury. "Joe, tell them you're blessay, blessay!" she called hastily as they were moved apart.

Christian moved reluctantly forward, propelled by the muzzle of a pistol between his shoulder blades. Blood from a gash across his forehead trickled down his face, stinging his eyes. He blinked, resisting for the present the impulse to mop his sleeve across his face. The frog behind him was a jumpy bastard and Christian swore he could feel the firearm twitch if he so much as breathed too deeply.

Preoccupied with calculating his chances of twisting clear before his captor could put a bullet in his back -- outlook not so good -- Christian heard rather than saw the small crowd of prisoners as he moved past. One of the voices sounded familiar, but no, that wasn't possible. Wiping the blood out of his eyes, he looked up, anxiously searching the nearby faces. He was imagining things, he had to be. There was no way that---"Jenny?" Christian stopped dead, staring at the familiar figure in horrified disbelief.

Blessay? What the hell did - one of the Frogs shoved at him with a carbine and Newbury nearly lost his balance.

"Blessay!" Whatever the word meant, it obviously bore weight with their captors. The trooper who'd shoved him was pulled back roughly by one of his companions while another grabbed Newbury's arm. His first instinct was to resist the solid grip, but the twinging pain in his ribs convinced him otherwise.

"Hey!.. Hey! Back of! We bloody surrend'rd!" Pye yelled, moving toward the trooper. "Lay off! He's injured!" He added forgetting for a moment that it meant very little to the Frogs, and that even if it had, they did not understand it to know.

Jenny turned when she heard her name, in spite of shoves from the men who were herding her and the other women away. She recognized the uniform before she could identify the bloody face. "Christian! I'm sorry," she called, as if the whole debacle were her fault because she had stayed behind. What had they done to his face? Poor man!

The grip on his arm was a firm one, but Newbury found to his surprise that he was not going to be manhandled. Another Frog appeared on his other side and between the pair of them, the two dragoons half-carried him to a wagon that had been dragged free of the tangle.

"What did I just tell them?" The bewildered Rifleman called out, his eyes wide.

Jenny saw with relief that it had worked. She heard Joe's question, and in spite of everything, she smiled. She sent him a beaming golden shining smile before a group of soldiers moved between their separate groups, and then she could not see him any more.

And they would see Christian's obvious bleeding wound, of course, and all would be well.

She felt suddenly exhausted. She wondered absurdly how the French would have enough spare blankets for all these extra people. But of course armies knew about things like that.