June 6 - Reporting Back

Foucheaux kept running, not noticing for several moments that he was now alone. He spun about in confusion then, realizing that the only footsteps he was hearing crashing through the underbrush were his own. "Kerjean? Paol!" God help him if he was alone again. He might end up shooting another horse, or one of his own compatriots. Stay calm. Breathe, calm down. "Paol!!!"

"Foucheaux!" he called back, sprinting in the direction from which the sound had come.

"Kerjean, over here!" he called back, immensely relieved to spot him through the trees. "Stay close, dammit. Don't leave me alone out here." He stopped so they could catch their breath and get their bearings again, listening.

"Sorry." He looked as though he had run afoul of a very thorough, very ill tempered cat. Or woman. Or both.

The sound of musket fire came again and he started to run. "C'mon!"

Foucheaux rushed after him. It sounded like shouts too. He had heard those shouts often enough, and frequently directed at himself. "That St Laurent?" he asked Kerjean. What the hell was going on up there?

Paol didn't answer. His breath was coming in ragged gasps and it was all he could do to simply keep moving, splashing toward the low hanging cloud of musket smoke up ahead of them.

And then there was another explosion of shots fired up ahead, though they seemed to come from all directions at once. Foucheaux stopped, standing in muddy water halfway to his knees, and he stared about in confusion. Where were their friends? Where was the enemy? They seemed to be everywhere and nowhere. It would be impossible to sneak up behind anyone for fear of being fired upon by their own friends. He quickly fixed his bayonet and yelled. "St Laurent! 86iemes!"

[to here]