June 2(?) - Foraging

Partisans close by? This just got better and better, didn't it? It might well have been the man's fear speaking, but nonetheless, St Laurent was beginning to have his doubts as to the wisdom of dividing their strength, limited as it was.

The boy's comment cut into his thoughts and the corporal favored him with a warning glare. "You'll answer to whatever I damn well feel like calling you."

He glanced up at the sun, judging how much light they had left. Enough, he estimated, making up his mind. They needed supplies and the voltigeur needed a sawbones. Besides, at least this way he'd be rid of the bleusaille for a while.

Desmarais? Paol thought for a moment, then shook his head, "Non. I am sorry." Stooping, Paol pulled the man's arm across his shoulders and slipped his free arm around the man's waste to brace him up. The voltigeur had made a valiant attempt to rise, but it seemed he could barely support his own weight and Paol had a feeling this arrangement would not last long.

"The Portuguese.. guerilla, yes. They should be...are. Might be close. I don't know...I think they are...will be." He had to gather his thoughts, sort them into something that made more sense than the earlier sentence. He had to concentrate now. He could have his mind wander once they were back in French camp and he was alone. Focus. He had to focus.

The corporal sounded displeased and somehow, the familiarity of that order, had the man smile. It was a faint, pained, barely noticeable curve of the corners of his lips, but it was there.

"...then.. i hope he will be found before them.." His mind had wandered and was brought back to attention by the mention of Desmarais. ".." He opened his mouth and closed it, his lips pursing together tightly to stiffle any sound. His arm being lifted pulled at the skin of his injury, with was so painful that he looked ready to faint or else whimper like a pitiful creature.

"Do not..please do not touch my back...it is injured.." He hesitated and in the same breath added. "Lets... lets go. Back to the army."And hated how urgent and desperate his voice sounded.

Francois did what he could to help support the injured exhausted man, trying not to even glance at that awful eye wound. It was difficult as the man did not want them touching his back either. The young conscript wondered if maybe the man's captors had flogged him?

The fellow had mentioned there were Portuguese about though. Surely St.Laurent was still not going to go wandering about with that danger lurking? If he were in charge he would order them all back together. But he wasn't, so he gritted his teeth and shut up.

So much for that idea. "Here. Let him go for a moment." Shifting position, Paol grabbed hold of the front of the man's shirt, pulling him down and across his shoulders as he stooped almost to his knees. Then, hooking his other arm around the man's legs, he rose. It was done quickly, almost abruptly and seemingly without effort. The man – 'man' was rather a generous term, Paol thought, for the fellow could not have been much older than Sevière—was of a naturally light build and the hospitality of the Portuguese had left him little more than skin and bones.

"Sorry," he mumbled, for it was hardly the most dignified or comfortable way to travel, but he could see no way around it.

Saint-Hilaire looked bemused as he suddenly found himself draped over the man's shoulder, but this fashion of transport appeared to be kindest to his injuries. Or at least it was kinder than trying to hop about.

"Thank you. Needn't be sorry." He smiled with an effort. "I hope I am not too heavy." He murmured. He was safe. It made him chuckle. It made him want to cry with joy, do something. But he was sensibly quiet. Sensibly motionless.

Nodding to Kerjean, St Laurent turned to the others, "Alright, you lot. C'mon."

Couture, however, hung back, stooping to pick up Paol's musket. "Try not to drop it, yeah?" he said, thrusting it at Sevière. "Could say the same to you," he added with smirk at Paol and the figure draped across his shoulders like a human stole.

Étienne hung quietly over Paol's shoulder. In truth, he was not really paying attention to what the men were discussing. He closed his eye and breathed evenly. Finally with the French. For how long? Did lady luck at last decide that she would not taunt him?

+

"...Shouldn't we be going back as well?" Fourier inquired looking uneasily from the injured man towards the edge of the forest where they might encounter their Enemy. "You ain't buyin' his word there's going to be any food waitin' for us? This man there." He indicated Saint-Hilaire. "Probably scared the lot away. I ain't worried. Jus'... wouldn't want to waste time, when there's nothing to be had." He shrugged. "It's going to get dark rather soon."

Francois received Paol's musket from the gruff veteran, "I won't drop it."

He then took his place next to Paol who was carrying the injured Frenchman, at least he said he was French. Not that Francois didn't believe him. And he also believed what the man had said about there probably being Portuguese around. Francois thought it most unwise of the rest of the men to continue their little foraging expedition. This is exactly the kind of thing the Spanish and now Portuguese guerillas waited for, was picking off small groups of French separated from the comparative safety of their main units.

"Paol, think you know the way back?" the young recruit now asked of his comrade.

The corners of Couture's mouth twitched ever so slightly. "Careful there, Fourier, yer petticoat's showin'."

St Laurent, however, was rather less amused. Waste of time? Right. The only waste of time, as far as he could tell, was this damned argument. "When I want your opinion, Fourier, I'll ask for it."

Paol shrugged, a gesture rendered somewhat less effective by the addition of his newly acquired burden. "I think so. The pickets should be easy enough to find."

Glancing toward the sun to get his bearings, Paol began to pick his way back down the slope. "You remember the countersign?" he asked after a moment.

"Careful there, Couture. You might loose somethin' you've not known how to use anyway." Fourier reached for Couture's collar and would have done more if not for St. Laurent's somewhat unhelpful intervention. He gave a grunt in reply and adjusted his grip on his musket. Fine then, if they had no choice they could as well be on their way.

The sooner they went, the sooner they'd be back with the army. He was not afraid, but he was wise enough not to wander about at night, not on their own.

The wounded Frenchman listened, still unsure whether the men were of the French Line. Maybe, just maybe they were though.

Francois walked right next to Paol. All he had to do was carry Paol's musket while the veteran had the tough job, hauling the wounded man back to camp on his back. Francois didn't envy him. He was quite sure they could find the way back if only the Portuguese didn't ambush them.

Suddenly Paol asked him if he remembered the countersign. Francois blinked and turned to the man.

"Me? Umm, no, they just told me to join you people. No one said anything about a countersign. You don't know either?"

This was not good.

Half buried stones and roots offered purchase in some places on the hill, but in others the slope was slick with dried leaves and Paol skidded the last several steps to the bottom. Snatching at a sapling to break his momentum, he turned to Sevière, "La victoire. It is the countersign."

The injured man held his breath once or twice when he saw Paol loose some of his footing, but said nothing even if he might have thought that they could both come rolling down the slope. He decided to have faith in the man who carried him, and he had little alternative to choose from anyway.

When Paol straightened again Étienne allowed himself a moment to try and shift. When successful he relaxed again. "What are your names?" Did they tell him before. His mind was not in the right place exactly. If they did, he would want to apologise. If they didn't, he wished to know their names.

Francois slid on down with Paol, careful to hang onto the man's musket even as he had slung his own already. The wounded man spoke up again.

"Me? I'm Francois...Francois Joseph-Marie Seviere," the boy answered.

Somebody was out there, close enough to the picquet line for Jérémie to hear the slight rattle of muskets and the low murmur of voices. He stirred from his partial doze and lifted his firelock.

"Who's out there?" He snapped, ears straining. After a second's pause, he gave the night's challenge.

Paol froze, but recognizing the parole, hurriedly called out the countersign. The voice sounded familiar as well. "That you, Jérémie?"

Francois was about to call out "la victoire" when Paol beat him to it. To make matters even more hopeful, he seemed to know the man who called out to them.

The young recruit felt relieved to be back with the main body again.

"We have a wounded man," he announced in case the sentry wondered what Paol might be carrying in the dark.

A French voice called back the appropriate countersign, much to Jérémie's relief. He lifted his musket and called, "Course it is. Wouldn't be the Emperor out here waitin' on your miserable arse, would it?"

Then, having heard a younger-sounding voice pipe up, he frowned. A wounded man? "Bring him in then," he directed before glancing back over his shoulder. "Rouse a surgeon," he barked at the man who'd - finally - come up to support him had the approaching men been unfriendly.

Paol grinned with relief and quickened his pace. "Just a little farther," he spoke quietly to the young voltigeur slumped across his shoulders, "Then we will be back with the column. You will be safe."

He nodded a greeting to Jérémie as he drew closer. "St Laurent and the others should not be too far behind us. Unless they found something worth stealing."

He remembered one name now. He heard another, and he remembered that too. Though the latter was not as useful as the first. It was of a friend of the men who had saved him. But he was equally eager to help, and that spoke in his favour.

"Thank you." He murmured when explained what would happen next. "You had..saved my life." Which was not an exaggeration. Had they left him where they had found him, he would have died. He did not say more on the matter. He felt a rush of emotion as strongly as a he once felt fear. There would be no shame, were he to weep with joy, no shame if he had done so. He attempted though to forestall the flow of emotion, and felt himself only tremble. Save, those words he had not known the meaning of for to long. But some of his men were not safe and never would be. Some of the men he had lead in the escape were now dead.

That was the usual state of things, wasn't it? Leave it to the Portuguese to make sure there was nothing of value for the French to put their hands on. Spiteful bastards, Jérémie thought, even though he was aware the Portuguese were not without their reasons for being that way.

"I think you're carrying the only thing of worth," he quipped, turning his gaze outward again. It was best to be alert, since there were still men out there.

"..." Saint-Hilaire stared quietly at Blanchard. He had arched his neck a little to keep his head up. With one arm he had drawn bangs of hair from his eye, though they insistently returned to their place.

He smiled, the expression twisted, hollow. He blinked after a while and appeared only then to recognize Blanchard as human and as one present. The Portuguese might have been gone, with the French line so close. Perhaps they would skulk, lick at the tail of the army, or wait for those unfortunate men, that were sent out foraging, so the others would not go hungry. It was the more effective way with fewer losses. Pick off rather than face the enemy head on.

A bird did shake a bush further to their left. But its species was revealed just as it took off, the sound of its wings slapping against air, carrying to the men. As the bird sang, the young voltigeur appeared to tense up, as if afraid it was a call sign and the enemy was infact near. He shifted, twisted forgetting his place on one's shoulder. he kicked out, as fear gripped him to think he was stuck. Then, the wounded man twisted again, his hands gripping at the fabric the man carrying him wore stretched across his back. He muttered something under his breath and kept muttering it even as he made another weak attempt to dislodge himself.

The bird circled them, made a last call, flapped its wings again and flew away, west bound.

The boy's frantic muttering was unintelligible to him, but his movements were clear enough. "Easy." Reflexively, Paol reached for the voltigeur's arm, pulling him back down firmly across his shoulders. "Easy, lad. You will just hurt yourself worse doing that."

"I'll see you back at camp," he said quickly to Blanchard, then beckoned Seviere with a jerk of his head. The sooner they got back, the better.