27th May with the provosts

"Stop it!" Jenny repeated, giving the nearest provost a kick in the shin.

Lambert sniggered at Newbury as he went down, but then the woman lashed out at him. She caught him squarely in the spot where she had bruised him before. Furiously, he turned on her, and brought one heavy fist around for her gut.

"Stop? Stop what?" Sykes asked with mock innocence, "This?" He aimed a kick at one of the rifleman's arms.

Jenny crumpled soundlessly to the ground.

Now the Rifleman was down, Stephenson saw his chance. He stepped in quickly to give him a nasty crack to the knee. His blow coincided with the kick from Sykes, and that handily took care of the greenjacket.

Newbury tucked up into as much of a ball as he could, biting down on his tongue at the spasms of pain in his arms and knee. Poxy bastards...

It didn't occur to him at all to call out for help.

Lambert left the woman where she'd fallen, and kicked the side of Newbury's head.

Jenny was clutching her stomach in agony and surprise, the breath having been knocked out of her. But she was barely able to register the injury to Newbury - his same blasted knee, damn it. Neither of them would be any use to the other. She tried to reach out to him, forgetting that her hands were knotted together. "Joe," she managed to gasp out as the provost continued his assault.

Lambert bent down to drag the woman up by the collar, his face suddenly breaking into a vicious grin. "Oh, Joe is it?" he said silkily.

The world was suddenly stars and haze. Newbury squeezed his eyes shut and grabbed ineffectually for his head, the most newly-injured part of him. This would've gone very differently if he'd had time to drag out his sword-bayonet, dammit all.

"Lay off," he rasped, trying gamely to get back to his feet despite the heavy ringing in his head.

Jenny stumbled to her feet with all the resistance of a ragdoll.

"Didn't say you could get up," Sykes grunted, placing a foot on the rifleman's back and applying his weight.

Lambert held out his hand to stop Sykes and Stephenson. "Ain't it sweet? We've got ourselves a regular pair of lovebirds here." He ran one hand down the woman's cheek. "That's just so precious."

"Right touchin' sweet," Stephenson agreed, giving the Rifleman another kick for good measure, now that he was down again. "S'posin' they oughta stay close together, eh?"

"Stop it," Jenny muttered, finding her breath and her voice again, though with difficulty. "Leave him alone. I don't care. You can have me. I'm a whore. You can have me for free." She could not even attempt an alluring smile. Just get it over with and make it all stop. She was going to be sick in a moment.

Well, well...Sykes' eyebrows arched and a rapacious grin spread slowly across his face. He glanced down at the rifleman with an air of commiseration, "Bad luck, Joe. But that's what you get when you've a whore for a sweetheart."

Get up. That's what he needed to do. Get up. Never mind that his head was splitting, or that his knee was throbbing, or that it felt like he'd popped the stitches on his ribs. Only thing that mattered was to get up. Get to his feet and shut these bastard provosts up.

This would be easier, of course, if one of the provosts did not currently have his boot pressed down onto Newbury's back. Yet still he tried, tucking his elbows underneath him as much as he could in an attempt to lever himself off the ground. Just enough to get at his sword-bayonet, was all.

"I'm no man's sweetheart," Jenny said defiantly.

Lambert looked down as the rifleman shifted. "Learn to stay down," he snorted. His boot lashed out again, indiscriminately.

Yep, the stitches were definitely popped, Newbury thought dazedly. He sagged down again and this time stayed down, feeling strangely too exhausted to move.

She stared down at Newbury. Idiot! She tried to reach out to the provost. "Leave him there. He won't follow. We can go someplace quiet." Her voice was wavering with an unwonted edge of desperation. This was out of control, far out of control!

Sykes glanced down again at the prone form of the rifleman, "No sweetheart. You hear that, mate? You've been wastin' yer time. Best lie still and let us take care of her for you." Warily, he removed his foot from the man's back and stepped towards the girl.

Lambert's hand fisted in her hair, jerking upwards. "You don't get a say." He glanced from Sykes to Stephenson. "I think anythin' we do...he gets to watch," he said, slowly. "Didn't the Cap'n put him here to watch us, an' all?"

A lewd grin came onto Stephenson's face. "He did, sure. That means everythin'. Get him up, he'll be comin' along with us."

She stepped back involuntarily, but she forced herself to stare at the man unflinchingly. She had known all manner of men. It would be over soon enough. "Let me --" Why such revulsion? Perhaps only the blow to her stomach had made her sick. "-- take care of you. Give me my hands."