27th May with the provosts

Stephenson stared back at Lambert. "What?"

The girl chose that moment to run.

When he'd told her to get moving, this wasn't what he'd had in mind. Sykes cursed loudly as he lunged after her. For someone who had difficulty walking in skirts, she could sure as hell run!

She dodged his grasp and made a dash for the woods. Running back down the column would be no escape at all, but in the woods she might at least manage to hide. Surely the provosts would not wish to stray far from the road. They themselves might be taken as deserters. Or were provosts exempt from such rules? Whatever the case, it was a moot point, for they could obviously run faster than she could.

Obstinate little harpy, Stephenson thought as he gave chase. He dodged around Sykes, who was off-balance after his lunge, and put his gangly legs to good use. Funny how the others always teased him about his spindly limbs, but it was his spindly limbs that were serving them all well right now!

"Here!" Stephenson cried, catching the runaway by the back of her dress. He put some force behind the grab, enough to knock the would-be escapee off her feet. She had to be out of her mind, thinking she could get away! The provost stopped short, nearly stepping on the girl, and took advantage of the moment to apply his booted foot once or twice.

"Now get up," he snarled.

Lambert dove after the girl, with a startled curse. He hadn't even seen her working her hands loose - how had he missed that? Stephenson quickly outpaced both him and Sykes, though, and the other provost had caught up to the girl only a few moments later. Sykes and Lambert came up behind him.

Lambert lashed out as well, driving the heel of his boot into her ribs. Little witch.

(Vickery comes from here.)

Vickery couldn't believe his eyes as he saw a man in the uniform of the provosts running after a woman, diving on her and kicking her in the side. He stood up in the stirrups. "You there!"

"That's Jenny, sir," Newbury burst out, his stomach folding over in disgust.

There was an officer approaching. Stephenson all but leapt backward and grabbed at Lambert to pull him back as well. This was the last thing they needed!

"Sir!" The lanky provost barked, offering a salute and hoping the officer - a bloody greenjacket, no less! - had not seen him or Lambert doling out a little quick punishment to the bold little harpy.

"That is no way to treat a woman," Vickery said. "Help her up, Cotton." The Rifleman stepped forward, his eyes widening as he saw that it was Jenny Ross. She did not look happy.

"Maybe one of you could tell me where I might find Giles. And your officer," Vickery said, when he was sure that Jenny was going to be all right.

It was all Stephenson could do not to curl his lip. This one was a gallant, was he?

"Giles is off patrollin'," he replied. " 'Tenant Wiffort's around sommers too. Prolly messin' with the Thirty-third again. Sir."

"You mean, Giles is off looking to see who he might get into trouble," Vickery said. "And you stand up straight when addressing an officer, sir!"

Patrolling. That was all he needed. Though, Giles could hardly have set about raking through his things, and Newbury's, on his own and of his own volition, could he. He looked down at Newbury and Cotton. "Were either of these men involved earlier?" he asked.

Newbury made himself look each of the three provosts in the face, then shook his head. "No, sir," he said eventually, regretfully.

That was a shame. "Then may I enquire as to where, precisely, Giles went off patrolling?"

"Toward the front of the train," Stephenson answered, resentfully straightening his back.

Towards the front. He tamped down his annoyance. "And your officer?" He looked at Jenny. "And what is Miss Ross supposed to have done to deserve being treated like this?"

"Messin' with the Thirty-third again, most like," said Stephenson. Hadn't he already told him that? He glanced disdainfully at the woman and replied, "Run from arrest, she did. Found her with looted foodstuffs. Bread and meat."

Looted food? Vickery raised an eyebrow. "And how, precisely, do you know it was looted? After all, I hardly think that there is an owner's name to be found stamped upon it." Jenny Ross was too fly to be caught in the actual act of looting anything, after all.

Stephenson sniffed. "She ain't on the strength, by her own admission, so she ain't entitled to rations. Only way to get food, for the likes of her, is to loot it."

"I dare say she is not entitled to rations. But have you never considered that the men might be willing to share theirs with her?" No, of course not. She wasn't entitled to rations, ergo any food she had must be looted.

There were things the men might be willing to share with the harpy, but food likely wasn't one of them, Stephenson thought with an internal smirk. Aloud, he said, "If that was so, she ought've said so."

"And did you give her a chance to say so?" Vickery asked, and leaned forward. "It is common in English law to presume the accused innocent unless proved otherwise. It would behove you to keep that in mind in the future."

"She did plenty of talkin' of her own accord. Never once said anythin' about shared rations. Just went on and on 'bout her Johnny and some baby or other," Stephenson told him and wondered when they could drag the little tart away to face their own officer. Common law be damned. This was the bloody army!

The greenjacket officer was concentrating on the other provost and not on him, and Lambert was more than willing to let Stephenson take the heat for what was going on. It had been Stephenson's fault the woman had gotten away, in any case. Lambert had passed the rope to him when he took the food away, and Stephenson was the one who hadn't noticed her loosening her wrists. It was Sykes' fault, too. He'd not tied the knots properly.

Vickery sighed. In truth, there wasn't really much more he could do for the woman, seeing as she wasn't on the 60th's strength. "Whatever she has done, it doesn't warrant you mistreating her in that fashion." He looked at the Riflemen. "There doesn't seem to be much more we can do here, lads. Let's go and find the Thirty-Third."

Jenny was glaring into the middle ground somewhere off to the side, not meeting the eyes of any of the riflemen. A provost secured her hands again, one of them bloody from her fall. Damn but her side ached. She could barely stand up straight. And she was probably covered in dirt from head to toe, her hair and dress disheveled. Appearance was nine-tenths of the law in cases like these, and a a disheveled person looked guilty. Half doubled over from the ache in her ribs, she must look like she had crawled out of a hole somewhere, some bandit's cave. And there was nothing Vickery could do about it.