Les Prisonniers, 1 June

Olivia humphed angrily at the boy, crossing her arms. Polly looked fretfully between her three companions, wishing that she understood what they were saying. The tone certainly came through despite it, anyway, and increased her worry.

Wracking her brain, she tried to remember what it was that the soldiers had called the other woman. Jenny, she thought.

"Jenny?" she asked. "What's th'matter?"

"Never mind, darling," Jenny said absently. "The officers just want the two of us to come to dinner. But they have a rude way of going about it. There's a surgeon, Mister Todd, who's a goodly sort of fellow. You go and find him if there's any sort of trouble. He's got a black coat on. We'll be back soon enough."

The younger girl nodded and ran off to find the surgeon, leaving them staring at Paol with blatant hostility. After a moment, Olivia sighed irritably.

"Well?" she asked him. "What is to happen now?"

When the other woman did not respond, Paol looked up to find that the question was, in fact, addressed at him. He shrugged; the gesture was almost habitual. “Best try and get some rest while you can,” he offered, “And eat. They will be bringing food for the prisoners soon, I think.”

"And then we can insult our hosts with a demonstrable lack of appetite," Jenny said in English.

"Indeed," Olivia said with a wry chuckle. "Of course, I don't see this evening going well no matter what we do."

"Well we certainly won't let it go well for them," Jenny said, scowling. She moved away from Paol then and murmured, "Do you have a weapon of any kind? A knife? I had a bayonet but it was taken, and I don't think I could have hidden it in my sleeves anyway."

"I don't," Olivia whispered back, regretfully.

Then, a thought struck her, and she straightened slightly. "That girl!" she said. "The little one that was just here - she was still wearing her apron. Do you think she has some form of knife, or even sewing scissors?"

"I have no idea," Jenny answered. She looked around to spot her, then called, "Polly! Polly, come here."

Polly, hearing her name called, turned back to look at Jenny. Her brow furrowed at being summoned back so quickly. She hurried back to where the other two women were standing.

"Yes?" she asked breathlessly.

"Polly, do you have a knife or scissors or anything sharp we can take with us? Just in case they decide to try anything."

"Scissors?" Polly asked. Her hand went to the pocket of her apron, and she gave a surprised smile.

"I do - in my hussive!" She pulled out a small dirty roll of fabric. Untying the string around it, she pulled out a small rusty pair of scissors. She bit her lip slightly as she went to hand them over. "They isn't very sharp, though."

"Better than nothing, which is what we've got," Jenny said wryly.

The girl had returned, called back by one of the women and now the three of them stood drawn together in a fashion that long experience had taught him to be wary of. However, beyond keeping visual tabs on them, Paol didn’t pay the group overmuch attention. This was the French camp, after all and not some Portuguese village. Mostly he was just relieved that they had decided to ignore him for the time being.

This was a scary new situation, even for Charlie. The familiar noisy jostling of the baggage was nothing more than a memory now. In its place was a cold, almost alien, hostility. It seemed everywhere Charlie looked, he received harsh glares and babbling, incomprehensible orders. So he did little else but trail along after one of the women, knowing nothing more than it was safest to stick close to those who wore skirts. Somewhere along the way, he had become separated from those he'd attempted escape with, and was utterly on his own.

Now they were at a halt, however. It seemed that the women were scattering as much as they were able, which left Charlie at a distinct loss. For he had little idea where he ought to go, nor to whom he could stick close to for protection. He did know, at least, to stay well away from the jabbering Frenchmen. With this goal in mind, the boy sought refuge near a small knot of red-faced women at the side of the road. They ignored him, but that was no matter. If he could hide in their shadow, he might do all right...

A bit of movement behind them caught Polly's attention, and she turned to look.

"Charlie!" she cried. "You're alright!"

Seeing the boy unharmed was certainly a relief, although she still felt a pang of guilt. What if she hadn't dragged him along? He might well have made it back to the main line of the army.

Jenny paid little attention to Polly or the boy but resumed her conversation with Olivia. Now that there was time to consider the situation, she suddenly felt rather contrite. "I'm sorry to have brought you into this, ma'am. They wanted to bring that young Polly to their dinner, but I didn't think she'd bear up too well. And, you speak French."

The apology surprised Olivia, and she forced a smile. The entirety of their situation was not one she had ever anticipated being in, but there they were. It did the other woman credit that she did not want the younger girl subjected to whatever the French officer's plans were. They would figure something out.

"Quite alright, Miss Ross," she said. Then added with bravado, "We'll give those French 'what for', as my husband would say."

Jenny did not return the smile, still frowning with concern. "No. No, I shouldn't have done that. I'm used to dealing with men like them. I'm sure you know I'm not a lady like yourself. I'll find some excuse so you don't have to go."

"Bit late for that," Olivia said drily.

She shook her head. "We'll figure something out. Perhaps we can negotiate - or convince the French that they do not wish for us to be here any more than we do."

Jenny gave her a serious look. "Mrs. Graham. This is not going to end well."

"I don't see that there are many ways for any of this to end well," Olivia said, equally seriously. She sighed, rubbing a hand over her eyes tiredly. "Being captured by the French is not a situation that even you are likely to have experience with."

"No, that's true," Jenny had to admit. "But they're men. Please try to act ill, or lame, or diseased, or whatever you have to do to get out of going. The other fellow looked reluctant, so he probably won't even mind. I can go on my own. I don't know what I was thinking."

"Miss Ross," Olivia said sternly, lifting her chin. "I may be a lady, but I have my fair share of experience in dealing with officers. And, if their intentions are less than honourable, I am certainly not sending you to deal with them alone!"

She looked past Jenny and pursed her lips in annoyance. "It looks as though it's a bit late for anything else anyway," she said. She gestured behind the other woman. "Here comes our escort."

Prompted by a pointed glance from St Laurent, Paol approached the two women. “You must come with me now,” he said flatly to the ground somewhere around their feet.