June 17th, afternoon: Food that dead men eat

Foucheaux scowled at the assumption that a small group of men must absolutely be killed by the Portuguese, even though it was a fear he shared. He did not have an answer, so he shrugged. "Guess them officers'll decide."

"Indeed, that's what worries me," Francois rolled his eyes.

There were good officers and bad ones but either way, seemed the soldiers usually paid the price for success or failure.

"Don't see why they got to worry about that now," remarked Paol, carefully stowing the small bottle where it was less likely to be broken. "Sounds like the others ain't too far from here and once we find them we'll be headin' back to camp anyway, won't we?"

Saint-Hilaire had come up beside Prayon. He went on to look at the injured and sleeping man. He nodded with approval at the sight of the sling and the setting of his arm. It would do until a surgeon could reevaluate the man's state and whether the arm could heal or whether it would have to be removed.

He glanced at Prayon quietly. The scouts had been sent ahead a little, but now the question would have to be answered. What to do now. Continue with the search, or return with the injured man in hopes that he survives, would they take him along or split their already small force. "Lieutenant." He spoke to indicate that he wished the other man's attention, somewhere more private than in the earshot of men.

He inclined his head in the direction and stiffened just a little as that caused a tug and pull on the skin of his back, which was still healing. "The scouts had not reported any enemy movements just yet." He said conversationally. "Neither British, nor Portuguese."

And the very officers Francois was worried about were now walking out of earshot to plan their next moves, the young private thought as he stood about waiting to see what would happen next. Such was the lot of a soldier though.

"Well, we should find out soon what we will be doing it seems. Hope they do something smart this time," he sighed and leaned against his musket, he was becoming a veteran French soldier in some ways already, a grumbler. But then that was the tradition in the army. Do one's duty but complain a lot.

Prayon quickly looked around again and declared for all to hear, "Half an hour rest! You can make small fires."

Then he took Etienne by the elbow and guided him to a position out of earshot and on a small rising where they had a view over the river. there he dropped onto the grass and slung his arms around his knees.

"If the rest of the patrol is over there ... They could still be alive, Etienne. I can't leave them."

"...Nor can we carry that man far without the surgeon's attention, sir." Saint-Hilaire spoke gazing at the land that opened up before them. "...If we are to reach the point and place which our man has mentioned, and then return, we might not loose too much time, but we will have to leave a portion of our men here with him. There is no way that we should expect them to carry him one direction first and rattle his injuries worse.. and then to return in the same way. He'll have died for the unnecessary stress solely."

He did not want to split their small group, but there were few other options that they had left. If they left him behind alone, not only would they risk him being found and slain by the Portuguese, but the rest of the private soldiers will be quite displeased about it. If they split they were weakening their group, and if they took him, they were getting themselves to be slower as well.

"Do you believe we shall find more survivors?"

Bastien shrugged helplessly.

"I don't know. But as long as there's a chance ... But ... I don't want to split up the men. They are morose enough as it is, and most of them are from the 86th anyway. They are too nervous of the Portuguese and will behave like frightened horses without the security of the herd. So most of them will have to stay here - it's as good a place as any to hold for a day. Only a very small party should go off to scout. So ... do I leave you in charge here and take Fernet and perhaps two or three volunteers, or do I leave Fernet?"

"..So , lets allow most of the 86th to remain here and take the 17th with us to scout ahead?...Hope we are not going to encounter the enemy..but if we do, our men will be swift enough on their feet to retreat?" Saint-Hilaire was musing out loud as he studied their small collection of men.

"...I would want to come with you... if I do not end slowing you down.." He spoke softly. "..But.. it is your choice, lieutenant. I will do, as ordered."

"Yes - although I would want to leave some of the 17th here, too. They'll probably keep their head better should anything happen. I think we shouldn't take more than a handful of men. Few enough to slip in and out quickly and in a silent and coordinated way. Of course it would be an honour if you'd come along to play my second instead of taking command of this motley, but undoubtedly prestigious bunch. To elevate the standards of our own group a bit, I'll ask for volunteers."

The lieutenant quirked a brow, asking for last comments before he set his plan into motion.

---

Suddenly the wounded soldier coughed and twisted, but relaxed after a few seconds again. His eyes were only half-open, rimmed with lines of pain, and he frowned, but when he saw Kerjean, he seemed to recognize him.

"The others ... Have you found them?", he asked in a weak, but no longer delirious voice.

"..Agreed." Saint-Hilaire nodded lightly and smiled. ".. We find the others then... bring them back and hope that we have not missed any." He glanced at the motley group of men from the two regiments. "..Should we give them orders to retreat.. should they come under heavy fire and we are not yet returned ? Or have ended dead." He murmured straightening slowly.

They definitely hadn't killed him. Paol grinned with relief as he turned back to Rechenauld, though his smile faded almost immediately as the man's question registered. "Not yet, mate. Just waitin' on the officers, I think. We'll be goin' soon."

After a pause, he added, "How you feelin'?"

The man's frown deepend.

"Hurts ... and thirsty. You'll make sure to find the others, will you?"

He cradled his splinted arm against his chest and looked around, for the first time consciously recognizing his surroundings. When his eyes found Sevière, he smiled weakly, obviously recognizing him.

----

"Yes ... no need to hold this miserable place at any costs. We'll sneak after them if something happens."

Bastien nodded and jumped to his feet.

"Ola, gentlemen! I need some volunteers to have a look at the other side of the river and bring our boys home, if possible. Rest can stay here and make sure we get something to eat when we get back this evening!"

A few of the 17th raised hands and stood up, gathering their gear. Sergeant Fernet raised a hopeful eyebrow and didn't look happy when Bastien minutely shook his head at his unvoiced question.

Francois watched as the poor wounded man talked with the officer then the unfortunate fellow glanced up at him and smiled. The young soldat smiled back, relieved the man was conscious and could even smile. Had to be a good sign he'd make it.

When it came time for volunteers, it seemed most of those were 17th men. Determined at least some of the 86th should be part of this search, Francois took a step forward and raised his hand.

"I'll go."

Foucheaux cast a questioning glance at Kerjean. "I'd rather stay here with this'un," he said quietly. It was not cowardice, but he felt strangely protective of Rechenauld now that the man had become his own personal patient.

Saint-Hilaire walked to stand beside the lieutenant and glanced around at the men, studying the ones that had volunteered. They were fit men, able, skilled, and many of the faces he recognised, and knew what name to give them. He looked at the young lad from the 86th, Seviére.

"Soldat Seviére, " He said in a stern voice. "...Fall in with the 17th volunteers." He nodded approvingly and.. smiled.

Paol nodded, unsure what he ought to do. There was little time for deliberation, however, and retrieving the small bottle from the pack, he handed it to Foucheaux. "I'll see you tonight, yeah?" he offered by way of an explanation, pushing to his feet and putting his hand in the air.

"Yeah," Foucheaux answered, automatically taking the bottle that was handed to him. He did not like the idea of Kerjean going, and he did not like the idea of staying behind. He did not like any of it at all, in fact: being away from the protective environs of the huge Grande Armée, and now splitting into two smaller groups. "Be careful out there."

Rechenauld looked up gratefully at the two volunteers.

"Ridge on'e left. Sharpshooters there. B'careful", he mumbled. He seemed rather glad that Foucheaux was staying, however.

---

"Very good! That's enough." Bastien grinned at the volunteers. "The rest of you make us a nice camp we can come home to, and don't get run over by the Ports. Serjeant Fernet will take over here. See you tonight!"

He had already talked to the sergeant, who now looked rather disapprovingly at him for this not very officer-like speech, but mumbled a 'Good luck, Sir, lads!' anyway.

Francois nodded back at the officer and then moved to join the men of the 17th. He was very glad that Kerjean was also going representing the 86e, their regiment. At least a few of them had to keep up the honor of the regiment. He then waited for them to head on out, shouldering his musket. He was, however, a bit surprised both officers were going along, he would have expected one to stay back to be in charge of those remaining with the wounded man. Not that it was his place to tell an officer what or what not to do.

The Voltigeurs of the 17e régiment d'infanterie légére have stood at attention, ready for further orders. They glanced at the company that they would be keeping with the other regiment's men. Some seemed to evaluate how able their Line fellows would be, some just wanted to see who volunteered and who would remain within camp.

When the order came they stepped forward, and began with a new mission in mind. Find more wounded, if possible. If they would not find, either living or dead, they would return and hopefully look forward to a nice camp, some food and no enemy in sight.

Saint-Hilaire walked in line with the lieutenant. "...So.." He began, once some distance was gained. "..it's nice to be back."

The scouts didn't need to be told their duty. After a brief glance at the lieutenant and a nod they spread out in a well-rehearsed pattern and made as sure as they could that the small force wouldn't walk into a trap.

Under the cover of their comerads, Hugo, who had been a fisherman and was supposed to know rivers, and Grenville crossed first. After a quick look-around, they took position on the other side and waved for the rest to follow.

---
Bastien grinned unashamedly. "I very much hope so. I would hate it if my sacrifice of treating you to dinner and brandy and highly amusing conversation every night would have gone to waste. Especially after I arranged for that unusual entertainment the other night."

It couldn't have been more than a week since he had last seen him, but the sous-lieutenant looked much improved. Paol was glad of that, though he didn't dare say as much. In truth he more than half expected some form of retribution from the man for his own insubordination last time they had spoken. Still, there was little point in worrying about it now.

Cradling his cartridge box protectively in one arm, he shifted his grip on his musket and waded in after the two scouts. The water was not so deep as to require them to swim, but the swift current and rocky bed made for precarious footing nonetheless.

He was nearly to the far shore before he fell, misjudging the slippery surface of one of the rocks. He fell hard, cracking his knee against a stone and slipping backwards into a deeper channel. He was on his feet again almost immediately, startled and unsteady and soaked to the chest, but his musket and cartridge box were dry.

For a moment the whole troop had tensed, but when it became clear that the slip had been due to natural causes, they moved quickly on. Prayon waded over, water reaching up to the tops of his dashing, if a bit impractical chevalier boots, and raised an eyebrow in question. The dry arms elicited an approving smile and a hand held out to steady Kerjean, lest the efford should have been in vain.

"Any broken bones?", the lieutenant inquired lightly.

Paol shook his head, feeling like a proper idiot. "No, sir. Sorry, sir."