24 May; Making Tracks

His feet hurt. This was the uppermost thought in Jérémie's mind as he trudged listlessly along behind the man in front of him. Barely a day out of Oporto and already he felt as though they'd been marching for a week.

"This is misery," somebody grumbled from nearby.

"Shut it," another voice rasped.

Jérémie kept his gaze focused on a point somewhere far ahead and held his silence. It wasn't getting caught up in an argument over something none of them could help. He hitched his musket a little higher up on his shoulder and managed somehow not to sigh as the quiet bickering went on.

The dull ache in his shoulders was beginning to sharpen and Paol shrugged, trying to shift his pack straps to a more comfortable position despite the eight years of experience which told him there was no such thing. Overhead, the sun seemed hardly to have moved in what felt like hours and, with a barely audible sigh, he dropped his gaze, fixing it on the pack of the man in front of him. If he didn't think too hard about it, he could almost imagine that they were heading home.

"Do you think that we will leave Portugal for good?" he asked the man beside him.

Another voice was speaking up, but thankfully not in a disagreeable tone. Would they abandon Portugal? Ha. That was something for officers to know.

"If we do," Jérémie replied, "we'll only end up sweating our balls off in some other foul place."

That was how it seemed to go for their regiment, anyway. At least Portugal was not as bad as that place far off across the ocean.

"C'est vrai." Paol agreed. There was no denying the likelihood of Jérémie's words, not if experience was anything to go by. "Where would you go, then?" he asked out of sudden curiosity, "After the war."

"Home." That was something he knew the answer to without thinking. He'd done about as much travelling as he could stand. "What about you?"

"Home." Paol nodded emphatically. "Back to Breizh--ah... Bretagne. Maybe buy a small piece of land. If I ever save enough pay," he added with a crooked smile.

Land. Farming. That could be a good life, Jérémie supposed. He would probably end up as a cobbler, or something else equally distasteful. "Loot," he said, a little wistfully. "To hell with our pay. It's all gone to the officers anyway."

Officers. Paol shook his head. But that was always the way, wasn’t it. “Maybe where they send us next, there will be some good loot.” He thought about this for a moment. It was highly unlikely, but one could always hope. “Just as long as they do not put us in ships again.”

"Maybe Spain," he mused, mindful to keep his voice low. "We did well enough there before."

Or some regiments had, anyway. Others had been less fortunate. Still, the prospect of striking it lucky was a good one. If they were not the ones being pursed back across Portugal.

Jérémie shrugged. "Doubt there will be ships. Not over the mountains, anyway."

Paol smiled ruefully. “Just in time for summer.” They had spent that season last year trekking across southern Spain and Portugal. The oppressive heat was not something easily forgot.

Ah. Yes. Summer.

"Lovely," Jérémie muttered. Though, the Spanish summer was not truly so different from the constant oven-like climate of the West Indies. "As long's we aren't blessed with Spanish wine, it should not be so bad."

Maybe.

"No," he agreed, "And if they send us over the Pyrénées again... " Paol shivered at the memory, "Summer has got to be better than late fall."

"A lad can hope," Jérémie said, suppressing his own shudder. Not for the first time, he wondered when they would make a real fight of it, instead of being meekly chased about.

"At least in summer there are animals."

And animals meant food. Assuming one could apprehend them. Paol grinned, "Do you remember when Baillargeon nearly drowned himself trying to spear fish with his bayonet?"

Jérémie chuckled, quietly. "How could anyone forget? Silly fool didn't watch where he was stepping. Served him right!"

That had been a comedy of errors. Baillargeon had dunked himself and nearly dragged Fournier in with him when the other man tried to help. It was luck neither of them had ended up being skewered by Baillargeon's bayonet, which the idiot had kept a solid grip on as he flailed about. They'd never caught any fish that afternoon either.

"Wouldn't say no to a river-fish now, though," he mused. "Long's that idiot isn't the one doing the fishing."

Paol was silent for a moment considering this. "Not fish, perhaps, we might manage a chicken if we keep passing through farmland like this."

A chicken would be nice. Assuming they could keep it for themselves. Jérémie had little doubt the officers would claim such a treat for their own if they should come to know about the men possessing it.

"Hopefully. Or a pig, even." Even though that was even more unlikely.