OPORTO, 22nd May - Barca d’Avintas

"Father." Willoughby lead his horse, the other one following in time with Herrero, the wagon moving slowly over the stone covered ground, rattling a little at times when it had climbed a larger border. In most though it was lead so that the wheels would have avoided them till the road could take the stress from it for the most part.

"He'll have a good doctor look at him." His eyes stared ahead and slipped down to the ground to set a foot right, here and there, when it was harder without it.

"Finest you can find.. in t' army here." He shrugged a little thinking of Sinclair. He had full faith in the ability of that sir.

"Been long since he's been wounded?"

"Days," Javert replied. Too long, and too little too late. "He will not live."

"....I am no doctor to know." The youth shook his head glancing at the wagon. Kenley was quiet so far, so it could only mean good news. "..but ..it might be best to wait for one who is. Perhaps .." His voice trailed off. He was in fair conversation with a Frenchman and none of his fellow troopers understood what they spoke of, but then they were neither in range enough to listen.

"Got it fighting us?" He steadied his horse , paused and then they were on the move, easier now that the road was beneath their feet, up till there were bodies in the way again, of dead horses and dead men. A sorry sight, morbid and strangely silent.

"No. We were routed after Pombal. We escaped north, but a day from Oporto he was shot by some Portuguese; it has gone to a fever."

Which any soldier would know meant that he would not live.

"My condolences." He spoke and it sounded heart felt as it also was. There were soldiers as much as they were men and human. "..Why hasn't your surgeon seen him?" He glanced to the wagon.

"Or has he been unable to do anything for his injury?" Which could also be possible, be it either thanks to the surgeon's poor skill, or to their inexistance.

Javert snorted.

"Our regiment was broken there," he said. "Surgeon was taken prisoner, along with most of the officers. We were on our own, and we couldn't find anyone decent to look at him."

He stopped, fighting back the tide of emotion that was threatening to break over him.

"Couldn't even find a priest to take his confession."

He placed a hand onto the Frenchman's shoulder to offer comfort, before it was removed and the Hussar gave with a sigh. "He... wouldn't be able, should we have a priest found now? Or once our camp is reached?" A question that perhaps held no answer to it, or atleast no solution.

Herrero snorted, his ears twitching back and forth as the sounds of a dying horse reached him. Guts spilled from the poor animal, it's final struggle painful to see. A pistol had been pressed to its brow, and a shot was heard fired, before the man mounted his steed again, returning to the 15th's little group.

"Your regiment... those men that fled, they were a part of it?" He asked softly and shook his head." The morale must be bloody low...with all of this.." His hand was thrust forward to indicate the death that was all about them.

The corporal stiffened as the hussar touched his arm.

"How should I know?" Javert said, flatly. "So many have fled that you'll have to be a bit more specific than that."

And as for morale... Would this little squirt, who thought a comforting touch would be acceptable or even wanted, care that he had saved the 15eme's Eagle, that he would have been an officer now had he accepted Marshal Soult's personal offer of a promotion? No, and he doubted he'd be believed anyway; and as a prisoner it did not matter anyway, as he hads no documented proof of such claims. Javert snorted in wry amusement at his own thoughts. Had he known a few days ago that he would have beena prisoner now he might have taken up the offer...

So, he thought, many have fled, the French army did sound as if it were in a worse state than even expected, perhaps. It was an interesting bit of information. He smiled to himself, and looked ahead.

"Your men, the men under your command, of course." He spoke keeping a keen hold on the reins of his horse. Herrero behaved as expected of one seasoned horse, and impressed the lad more, for his earlier actions in battle. Perhaps it would do to inquire upon the breed's history if another of such kind would have been desired. The colour though,.. it wasn't appealing.

"Does it still hold true.. or has it ever even, that your men are encouraged rather than punished for the actions or to commit action in battle?" He asked, hoping his French had offered a sentence understandable enough for the man.

Javert turned to the young man and frowned.

"What?"

He didn't have any men under his command - he was only a bloody corporal - and that last sentance had not made any sense whatsoever.

"...We've heard talk,.. but you might know how rumours go." The man shrugged gazing ahead. " Do you really not flog for example? Or at present, with.. all of them men running? Has it changed now?" He sounded as if he were interested to compare and as far as the young hussar's behavour went, he was relaxed even if he needed to walk. And walk he did now, without much trouble.

Perhaps it would have been smart to brush up on his French once he had a chance. And his earlier statement, he only then realised how silly it was. Wrong words have been used of course.

Javert was quiet for a moment, then spoke.

"No, we don't flog," he said. "Flogging is only for criminals."

"... But what do you do with the ones who've run, then?.. or those who have stolen, or committed a different sort of offense?" He asked, glancing from his horse towards Javert, allowing the animal to guide him. It wasn't hard as all Herrero needed to do, was follow the road and sometimes perhaps, avoid the bodies in its way. Other times the path was made more clear with the help of the other Hussars.

Inside Javert heaved a hefty sigh. Dear God, did this boy never shut up? The last thing he wanted at the moment was to have an interview about French punishment techniques. He stopped and aimed leering grin at the hussar.

"Wouldn't you like to find out?" he asked nastily.

"...Well, you've had your chance." The Hussar smirked back. " but... Isn't me who's the prisoner, is it?"

He made a mock gasp of surprise at the turn of events.

Javert's leer broadened, despite Willoughby' amateur theatricals.

"Yeah," he said. "And lucky old you, having to take me back."

"You won't run." He shrugged, unimpressed by the expression he was given. "And were you to try.. you wouldn't get far."

His eyes cast on the wagon. " Why would the return be so terrible, eh?"

Javert sighed aloud and growled.

"There is nothing to go to," he said. "And there is nothing to return to. There is just me."

He glanced over to the waggon.

"Or very soon it will be."

"...True. The war might stop here for you. " They were slowly returning. It took a good while longer to cross the same part of ground when they were not on horse and were hindered by body and wagon, and also by having to walk on foot rather than ride, but they were advancing well enough.

"Perhaps the French may run as far as France?" He slowed the horses a little to take a round turn about the body of a gutted mare, under her body an arm stuck out, possibly her weight crashing a man under it.

Javert narrowed his eyes.

"Don't push it, laddie."

"But I have merely observed.. what we see today. The French are on the run, are they not?..." His eyes danced with amusement, entertained by the dark gaze that the man who had once threatened him, was now sporting.

"Must be quite dreadful, if they... indeed are abandoning even their wounded."

"How long have you been in the army?" Javert asked, deciding that he had had enough of this conversation.

"A while." He patted Herrero's neck, glancing at Javert. The large man was in a way lucky perhaps that they weren't discovered by the wrong sort.

Javert snorted again.

"Obviously not long enough..."

"Long enough to assure I remain an active participant.." He shrugged.

"How long have you been, then?"