Prisoners.

Ashen, Cotton shook his head. "We... He was be'ind us, what with the cavalry chargin'. And when they got through, I was too busy tryin' not to get meself sliced open to see where he was at - there was a horse behind me, see."

He passed a hand over his eyes. "Are you... are you sure he'm dead? Not jus' wounded?"

"Yer a liar sayin' they are all good n' stuff." Pye snapped at the deserter. ".. Just want more of them sharin' your fate. What's wot.. if they catch you. If our side catches ye."

He glanced at Cotton.

"Kilt your cap'n, did we? Shame. Officers are good for filchin' off." The man shrugged. "Ah well. One less bastard wi' a commission, eh?"

The Frenchman behind Palmer said something angry and gave him a shove. Jed decided it was wisest not to talk so much and simply shrugged at Cotton. What was there to say?

Pye paused moved from Newbury and advanced towards the bastard who was quite pleased to hear Vickery killed. He already had his uninjured hand swinging at his face. "Shut it, bastard! Vickery's ain't jus' an officer!"

One of the Frenchmen nearest the young greenjacket flicked his musket butt out at the boy, aiming for the spot between his shoulder blades.

"That ain't so smart, m'child," the former redcoat said blandly. "There ain't no helpin' you lot now."

"Hey!" Cotton reached for Pye's hand, forgetting Newbury for the moment. Too late.

"I tole you - don't waste your breath, mate." He scowled at the Englishman in the French uniform, and spat in the dirt at his feet. "Whyn't you go bother someone else and leave us to get on on our own?" he demanded, before pointedly turning away from the man and lowering his voice. "Pye, he's only out to rile us - don't let him. You an' me an' the others know the Captain's a damn good officer, an' it's our opinion that matters. Not what some bastard of a deserter thinks, the coward."

Pye was struggling to his feet, having been stopped quite effectively by the Frenchman from coming anywhere near the cursed man. He was sheltering his arm and the front of his coat. He glared at the man, his gaze becoming friendlier when his gaze shifted to Cotton. "The bastard.."He whispered harsh and with his teeth gritted. "coward aye, Gabe. You'm.. right. Captain's 'live and that coward can't ever wish t' lick t' dirt o' his soles.. let alone do more!" He pushed himself up, glancing quickly under the front of his coat, relieved to see the chick still unharmed.. or atleast moving. He stood closer to Gabriel and Newbury then, turning his back just as well to the taunting deserter.

The man was shaking his head. "Grasshoppers. Y'know, mate, it'd suit you better to play nice. They sent me up to translate, see. So if you want 'portant things like water or rations..."

"Well, if you didn't go around insultin' folks you've never met, it'd help," Cotton said, not yet ready to be mollified. "C'mon, Joe, let's get movin' again."

He was painfully aware that every step they took was taking them further away from their own army, and into the unknown.

"Best you wasn't mouthy yer own selves," the self-described translator replied with a careless shrug. He turned toward one of the guards and rattled off something in French.

Newbury grimaced and let Cotton help take some of the weight off his bad leg. "Just our luck, ain't it?"

"Who was bein' mouthy?" Cotton muttered, keeping his voice low so only the Riflemen could hear him. "I could wish you hadn't got yourself beat up the other day, Joe."

It lessened their chances of being able to make a break for it. Cotton wasn't sure whether it was best to be an officer or a Rifleman in this sort of situation. Officers could give their parole, which meant they couldn't escape, but they were more likely to be exchanged. Riflemen - and privates - couldn't give their parole, which meant they could try to escape... but they'd be more closely watched. And they were less likely to be exchanged.

On second thoughts, officers had it better. As usual.

"Which time?" Newbury asked, managing to force a smirk. He'd been on the wrong side of fit for a while now. It was getting hard to remember when he hadn't been confined to a surgeon's care. "Or what? Ain't nothin' keepin' you here, mate. Your missus got clean away, she did. Don't see why you oughta hang about here."

"That day by the river. You'd ha' nearly bin fit again if it wasn't for that." He shrugged. "Reckon Maggie'd end up hittin' me with her skillet if I get out of here without you. Glad she got away, though." He had Newbury's arm across his shoulders, and his own arm was round Newbury's waist, which made it easier to take some of the other Rifleman's weight, so that he didn't have to use his injured knee.

Despite himself, Newbury chuckled. "She'd hit me too, probly. Stirrin' up trouble when she was gettin' away."

Trouble? Why did trouble always seem to follow Newbury - and Pye, for that matter? He found himself frowning into Newbury's face, and turned his head to look at the road. He didn't want to stumble over anything, or cause Newbury to trip, either, not with his gammy knee. "How d'you mean, Joe?"

Stupid. Why did he always open his mouth without thinking first?

"Well," he admitted, unable to help a fleeting blush of shame, "she got to runnin', after hidin' under a wagon. An' they seen her. Weren't much else to do, really, 'cept knock a couple of 'em around, was there?"

"You knocked a couple of 'em round? In your state?" Cotton gave Newbury a glance up and down, as much as could from his position holding the other man up. "You ain't got the sense you was born with, Joe Newbury."

"Aye. Was the only way to keep this lot distracted, wasn't it?" Now that he'd admitted to this newest piece of insanity, Newbury felt strangely relieved.

"Good thing you'm out here with us. They'd have put you in Bedlam if you'd bin this mad, back home." He chuckled. "Don't reckon you an' Pye have an ounce of sense between you, sometimes."

Jed Palmer hazarded a quiet speech again. "You seen Mister Brady anywhere about?"

"Won't they keep the officers apart from us?" Cotton said, and shrugged. "Dunno if they got him too, or if he managed to get away. Hope he got away." Though, if the French had captured mister Brady too, they might exchange him - and they might let him take messages back from the other riflemen. There were a lot of 'ifs' in that thought, and he decided to keep it to himself, at least for now.

"That'll do, m'beauties." The smirking Englishman was back, now carrying his musket cradled in the crook of his arm instead of slung casually from his shoulder. "Step out smartly now, or don't you know how to march?"

"Better'n you." Pye had been silent till now. His discovery that his little pet was still alive and well, brought some of his energy back. Even with the bruises, old and new he felt oddly better. He glanced at Cotton and Newbury if only to see whether Newbury needed any more help with walking. The sort he would gladly give.

"'least we march with t' army... n' ain't runnin' away from it." He added snappish like, his eyes briefly on the road, before they seemed to scan their surroundings more eagerly. Where they were going, how many of them were there, and who else was it there of their own sort. He'd remember the face of this deserter well. He had actually turned to study him for a long while just to make sure of that. If ever he ended a prisoner of the English, no sort of Frog mumbling would save him. Not if Pye had something to say!

"Best button it, Zack," Cotton said. "He's one of them as is goin' to make life hard. Jus' put up with it, an' come and help me with Joe, here."

He was already thinking of possibilities for getting away. He had no fear for surviving once they were away - he was quite capable of living off the land if necessary until they got back to the Army. The hardest part would be getting away from the French.

And of course they wouldn't be able to discuss it with Sir Peter Lugs in his French uniform there listening in. Damn the man.