27th May: Dreaming awake

Vickery had decided to keep his men , the trio of misfits, behind for the moment. Newbury would have remained no matter what fate he might have decided for the other two. He was injured and needed rest. Pye did not know where Jenny was, but suspected that she too remained at the surgeons and possibly close to the beaten man. Cotton could've been sent back to the front. But there was a reason, far less sentimental, which left him behind. Not only because he could not have else spent time in the company of his loved one, his wife, but also as he could stay behind to watch over his partner.

Pye had remained behind, well he thought it was to learn and not to hinder others. Which was alright with him. If he had been sent ahead he could not have done this. The opportunity would've slipped right past his fingers and he could all but think and wonder how it would have gone if he had a chance.

Yet as he was there, behind the lines and in close proximity of the surgeons and their tents, in seeing to the wagons and to the small commodities, he needed all but to gather his things and to wait for the opportune moment. It had come. The sky was dark and covered with clouds. It had rain, and it would again. The sounds that came from the forest were plenty and yet they were for the most part rain drops, falling after they had been gathered on leaves. Pye was glad for that. The more there were, the harder it might be for the sentry to hear a sound he was not suppose to.

Slowly he moved to the back of the tent. He knew the injured provost was there. He had made sure of it. It was one of the few places with a guard and he wore that sort of uniform too. He breathed evenly as he carried the sack and in it all the things that he had needed. The tent itself didn't offer him too much of resistance, so that he was soon pulling his things inside, leaving no mark behind. He looked around. The tent was empty but for the form on one side. Perfect.

Lambert was sleeping the sleep of the righteous, even if he did not deserve it; the surgeon had finally given him a dose of laudanum, after he would not stop moaning. The sword had not only gashed his groin, it had nicked his testicle, and the pain had been unrelenting. The laudanum had eased the pain enough for him to drift off into a blissful slumber, and he was now snoring away quietly, dreaming dreams best left unmentioned.

Pye waved a hand infront of the man's face. He tapped him lightly on the nose and saw that he still continued to snore. Shuffling closer he spread the sack open and tenderly took from it something that appeared to be rather spiky and spread in several thin sheets of material. He smiled and then reached into the sack again, from it a smaller shape was brought. A gray rat was brought out, limp but still breathing. He held it by the scruff of fur and crouched beside the sleeping man. Carefully he began to unbutton his trousers. Even if the provost was fast asleep, he did not want to risk waking him with a too jerky tug of the fabric.

With the second button free he glanced up at the man again. Checked his breathing and then more satisfied dared to continue. The rat was first, the little thing still drugged up and doing nought but a very slight twitch of its tiny paws. It was rested over the man's groin, it's tail tucked between the man's thighs and out of the way for when he thought to button the trousers back. The fuzzy creature was warm, almost nice feeling if not for the fact that it had dagger sharp teeth. Arranging it's head atop the man, he began to cover him again, with the slops looking somewhat like the provost was .. rather 'happy' at the moment.

The provost's dreams - again - were best not described in detail, but with the soft, comfortable warmth of the limp rat in his breeches...well. Lambert's 'happy' reaction might be evident to Pye.

Pye arched a brow. This wasn't exactly supposed to happen. He shrugged as it was none of his business but it did add 'very strange' to his list of words that described provosts. From his sack he brought a thin bit of ribbon that he had found, and took without seeing the cause of it. Now it would have a fairly good role and purpose as something that would bind his next bit of revenge.

He folded a piece alongside the man's wrist, leaving the end to rest in his palm. He folded it so that while it went in a straight line before, now it had gone to form a corner and went across the arm. He made the strip cross the wrist once and then freed from his thorny pile the first curl of thorn covered branches which must've before belonged to a bush. Gently resting it against the hand, he brought the fabric about, and added another bit, so that much of the curve rested just above the palm of the provost's hand.

He repeated it several times. It might have been a martyr's version of a cream in the palm with the exception, that the hands might go elesewhere when the man awoke.

He turned and just as soundlessly moved to work on the other hand. A few feathers lay on the ground, brought from the sack when he was taking the first of his objects out. He ignored the feathers for now and hoped the provost would not move just yet. Even with his drugged 'interest'.

Pye was treating Lambert gently enough - right now - that the drugged provost barely stirred; he murmured something quietly under his breath, which could have been a name, but he did not rouse. Not yet...

Pye watched the provost with mild curiosity though he also felt the hostility which had made him decide to do anything in the first place. Now, for the final touch. A mask of feathers and tar. He smiled to himself as he very lightly began to apply the dark sticky substance , careful not to get any of it on his own uniform. It had been the hardest to find. He had applied it to the man's face and to his hair, deciding to dump the rest over his chest, be it clothed in shirt and coat or not. The more fabric it stained, the better anyway. He hurried with the dumping of the feathers, simply because much time had passed since he began. Now, he hoped that the provost did either an attempt to scratch his nose - which would certainly prick his skin with all those sharp thorns,.. or have the rat wake first and.. well, he hoped for that almost more.

He wiped his hands as best he could on the cloth of the man's pantleg and reached for his bag. Giving him one last glance he turned to crawl under the tent, with his sack in tow. He knew to discart it the moment he found a good place for it. It contained stray feathers surely, and even the slightest tar stain could give him away if he had kept it. If there had been a thorn lost in it, no, he could not risk it. He wondered when the rat would wake. But never the less, the most important thing first, was to get away as silently as possible.

Wrapped in a pleasant opiate fog, Lambert did not stir for a long time after the rifleman had slipped away. Neither he nor the rat stirred, in fact; both were thoroughly drugged, and warm and comfortable in their respective positions. For the moment. The rat dreamed small rat dreams, perhaps of her litter of kits following her into a wonderful land filled with cheese, stale bread, and absolutely no cats or terriers of any sort. Lambert's earlier fantasy had segued into dreaming bigger dreams, where he was important, powerful, and respected. General Lambert was a great man, a tactician of unmistakeable merit - and he'd beaten Napoleon himself, and returned to England, where he was ennobled for his daring deeds, courted and desired by the daughters of all the gentry and peerage, and his father finally told him how proud he truly was of his son.

The laudanum wore off both around the same time, but it was the rat that woke first, shifting sleepily about on her cushion. As she became aware of her surroundings pressing in close on her, though - and her small rat brain began to comprehend that she was trapped - the happy daze left her, and terror set in. She did the only thing she knew how to do in such a situation: she bit and clawed frantically, blindly, scrabbling to free herself somehow.

Lambert woke up a half second afterward. With a strangled yell of fear, pain, and confusion, his hands flew for the writhing lump in his breeches, and the thorny brambles wrapped around him like a thing with a mind of their own. As the sharp thorns tore his flesh, and the rat, even more panicked by the sudden movement, sank her teeth deeply into him, he screamed and snatched for his crotch, trying to pull the rat away. He'd not even noticed the brambles yet, though they ripped at his hands as he fought to protect his vital parts.

The rat squeaked and ripped with her sharp teeth at the hands clawing the flap of the breeches open. She leapt out as soon as she could see freedom past them, and attacked, snapping her jaws shut on the delicate webbing between finger and thumb. Lambert screamed again, and while one hand cupped around his injured groin protectively, he shook his other hand to try to dislodge the rat. Her teeth tore free, ripping through the skin, and she flew through the air, her back twisting as she fought to orient herself. She struck the peg holding up the tent with a sickening snap, and fell to the ground, her front paws moving feebly as she struggled to drag herself away; her hinder end dragged behind her uselessly.

Lambert struggled to free himself from the clutches of the brambles, and moaned. He'd not even thought to call properly for help.

The screams brought the two sentries into the tent at the double, one levelling his musket while the other held up a lantern to give him enough light to shoot by, if need be.

"What is all yer racket about?" The lantern-carrying sentry snapped, even though it was obvious. Somehow, the wounded provost had gotten thorny brambles wrapped around his hands. And was that... why were his trousers half-open?

"Shut up!" The other sentry cried, keeping his musket levelled. "Surgeon!"

Lambert whined low in his throat, trying not to move; every time he shifted, he was only tangled worse. "Rat," he choked out. All he could dare to move was his tar-and-feather bedecked head. He nodded towards the creature scrabbling and squeaking on the floor. "Rat in my britches. Someone's - oh, God, - the surgeon, I need the surgeon - oh, Christ."

The places where the filthy teeth and claws of the rat had torn his most sensitive areas did not hurt as badly as the original wound, but each point burned like a tiny spot of fire. His breath hissed between his teeth as he shifted slightly.

Rat? The sentry with the lantern, Foster, frowned. "Bringin' rats in with yer, eh?"

"We oughta just shoot him," his mate said. "Save us all the trouble!"

The surgeon arrived then and elbowed roughly past the two Guardsmen. "Move away, there - put that bloody gun away, man! You there, bring the lantern closer. Closer, yes that'll do. You, with the musket. Be useful and fetch your sergeant, will you?"

Foster smirked at his mate, who ducked quickly out to find Sergeant Burr. Meanwhile, the surgeon was busy stripping the brambles away from the provost's hands.

"Honestly, I do not understand... some soldiers simply cannot be left alone at all... hold still, man!"

The pain was subsiding a little, enough for Lambert to actually pay attention to what was being said around him, and he whipped his head around with a furious look at Foster. "You think I tarred an' feathered my own face, put a rat in my britches, an' bleedin' did all this to myself? You f***in' idiot. Get that thing out of my face!" Anger made him a little more tolerant of the pain - though when Todd reappeared and began freeing him from the brambles, he held back a little.

Lambert tried to do as he'd been ordered, but everything the surgeon did tore at his skin further, and he couldn't help flinching away.

"I'm goin' to get the f***er who did this to me," he promised. "It was that rifleman...Or his little whore. I'm goin' to get them both. F**k!"

"You will get no one, sir, and I shall thank you to curb your deplorable language," the surgeon cried, freeing the last of the brambles with a bit more force than necessary.

Foster scoffed. "Shoulda just shot him," he muttered, holding the lantern a little higher so Todd could see.

"You may be silent as well, if you've nothing helpful to add!"

"Trouble in here, sir?" Sergeant Burr asked, entering the tent with Foster's mate close behind. The stocky sergeant took in the scene before him with a glance but his expression never changed. "Bad luck to be leavin' yer precious bits a-hangin' out, laddie," he observed placidly.

Disregarding what the surgeon had said about his language, Lambert snarled at Foster, "F**k you, too!" That earned him another long, bloody tear, down the back of his arm, where one of the thorns snagged as the surgeon yanked them away. "Aaargh!" Lambert cried out as Burr entered.

"The riflemen," he snarled at the sergeant, about to demand Lieutenant Wifford's presence - the officer would see to it that the bastard got what was coming to him! But as Todd began to tend to the private areas where the rat had bitten him, he yelled out in pain, and reflexively tried to strike the surgeon away.

Mister Todd scowled. "The gag, Private," he barked, sticking a hand out for the old leather stock. He was in no mood to tolerate such flippancy. Foster retrieved the desired item, a movement that caused the lantern light to bob and dance.

"There's no Riflemen anywhere around," Sergeant Burr told the provost, almost sounding amused. "I'd s'pose yer imaginin' things, fella."

When the leather gag was forced between his teeth, Lambert's eyes bulged in fury - Burr's comment had come just as his speech was cut off. He glared impotently at the sergeant. Imagining things, was he? Imagining them?

"That's better," Mister Todd said gratefully. "Hold his shoulders now, one of you, and hold him well."

Burr kept back while Foster's mate shuffled around to press his hands down on the provost's shoulders. Somebody had set the unfortunate fool up for a great deal of pain. He would have to question the two sentries about it later, even though he doubted they were responsible for this.

"Hope ye'll pardon me leavin' a minute, sir," Burr said to the surgeon. "Sing out if this 'un gives ye problems."

The surgeon acknowledged this with a grunt, his concentration thoroughly given to his work. Burr departed, with the thought that it might be worthwhile to gather some men - any men - and make a search of the immediate surroundings.

With his shoulders firmly pinned by the sentry, and his mouth stuffed full of the manky leather stock, Lambert could do nothing. He could have tried to kick the surgeon, but he was present-minded enough to know that was a poor idea. Todd, he knew, was trying to help him. And there could be nothing more important than allowing him to see properly to this injury...if it did not heal properly, then...

Lambert's face clenched tight in pain as Todd worked, and his teeth sank deeply into the gag. He growled low in his throat.

On the ground, the rat gave a high-pitched squeak of agony.

"Not long yet," Todd assured the provost, his tone suggesting halfhearted feeling.

Foster, still holding the lantern, barely suppressed a chuckle. "He gonna keep his tackle, sir?"

"Oh I expect so," was Todd's response.

(Todd returns from here)

The surgeon ducked his head through the tent flap and was pleased to see his patient had not moved in the few minutes of his absence. Good.

"It will please you," Mister Todd told the provost, "that an officer has come to hear your story and wild claims."

Though, no doubt, Captain Vickery would find the man's tale equally as laughable as Todd had.

A curious group gathered close to the tent. Some had already heard that there was a provost taken up with a terrible wound in the lower part of his body. They did not know what the scoff was about, only that there was a rifleman involved also. They could guess and wonder about who it was to blame, but knew that both parties were in with the surgeons.

Since it wasn't an injury inflicted by the French, it was something of a novelty. Especially as it wasn't a normal brawl of men of the same regiment, or even of privates coming from different ones. A provost took part. More than one even. "What happened?" One voice inquired of the other. "Don't know. But it sure sounded awful earlier." And another added. "No worse than what you have them, when the fighting's going on. Ain't nothin' special here. " And the last. " Isn't every day you here those bastards in trouble." Possibly a woman whose sweetheart or husband had had a dealing with one of them.