26th May; Red Riding Hood gone wrong

Etienne's attempt at escaping was feeble at best, but what was Sutton to do? Just stand there and do nothing? They were in this together, and now Edward was feeling the effects of it. The blow to his stomach was excruciating. I can't breathe! Oh God, please end this now! The pain is just too much!

It would have been perfect if the Almighty stopped the pain and made these Portugese low-lifes disappear, but alas, that failed to happen. What was happening was Etienne being pinned down and choked. "Stop! Stop it I say!!" He screamed through the pain and lack of breath, to the point the tears came back on their own.

The supposed Frenchman doubled over when Estêvão's musket slammed into his midsection, but he was still struggling against Joaquim's arm, his hands straining to pry it away from his throat. He was trying to shout something, but none of them understood what it was. Joaquim's grip was weakening, though, and Estêvão turned his musket around this time so that the cold steel of the bayonet pointed at Sutton's belly instead.

Joaquim released the arm snaked about Sutton's throat and tried to secure the man's arms. "Não," he barked at his brother, warningly. Mateus wanted these two alive...for now...and Joaquim intended to keep this one alive and mostly unhurt. He guessed that Sutton would get the message and be subdued quickly.

Mateus' face contorted in a snarl not unlike Carlinho's as he felt the Frenchman's throat under his hands; his long, wiry fingers tightened around it. He wanted to kill now, to watch the Frenchman struggle for breath until he finally died. Saint-Hilaire might well have killed one of his men, and he would not have forgiveness for that. The man's knee rose and crashed into his buttocks, but he could not get the force he needed to dislodge Mateus.

It was Josué's voice that called him back to himself. "Carlinho is alive."

The boy was alive - only winded, then. Perhaps that was lucky for this Frenchman, and perhaps not. Mateus withdrew one hand and in a moment the navaja was there again, snapping open in his hand; he laid it against the side of Saint-Hilaire's neck, the edge just over the carotid artery, so that with every beat of the man's heart he would feel his life flickering close to the cold steel. He did not intend to hurt Saint-Hilaire further just now...he wanted the man able to walk, so that they would not be forced to carry him back to their encampment. But he was in no mood for any more games.

Saint-Hilaire had believed that was it. The hold had not loosened, but rather tightened around his neck. It prevented both blood and air to come into his lungs and he was beginning to feel rather feint. He still hiccuped and struggled for breath, his mouth opening and his muscles tightening at the effort. For some odd reason, perhaps a foolish one, he still wanted to live. He knew, probably, that living would only prolong his suffering, now that he was with the Portuguse, yet there was an Englishman that offered hope and there was also his general hope that a miracle might happen or he might be able to escape.

Not that his thoughts hadn't focused more on just trying to get something, anything into his lungs. He gaped in surprise when the hand was finally off, but could not sag to the floor as he might've intented as a navaja replaced the grip. His legs felt weak, one ached and he had to support most of his weight on the other. He felt the cold blade against his skin as he gasped and lapped for breath, knowing he might well cut his skin on it, doing so.

He did not move. Not an inch back or forth, for fear that the blade would cut in, slice through the skin and be the end for him. His heart was beating fast now, he could feel it, even in his neck and the throbbing of his head. He could feel it against the blade, or so he thought, as blood pulsed through his veins.

"..Non." He whispered. " 'cest buon... " He continued. "I will walk. I won't try to escape." Still in French. He strained his eyes to see Sutton, but did not even try to look his way. He didn't think Mateus needed any more provoking to finish what he had started. His chest no longer rose as sharply now, and the throbbing seemed to go away, as well as that feeling that made the vision strange, and the mind distant.

He knew the shout to stop was futile, and the bayonet at his stomach proved the point. Oh to breathe! Edward thought to himself struggling to stand. His stomach burned with the pain of the knock, as if the hit had dislodged every piece of his body. Then all of a sudden, he felt cold. So much so that he was shivering. What's happening here? What he didn't know was that he was in shock and could barely stand.

So much for being the daring exploring officer.

The strange thing was that he felt the grip that had been placed on him loosen, the captor knowing that Edward had given up, and wouldn't be going anywhere. He looked at the bayonet pointed at him and said in english, "You win."

Mateus did not know or care what the Frenchman said; he only cared that the man had gone still, stopped struggling. He was still conscious, that much was good. But his little escape attempt had caused a number of irritations, none serious, but all added up to slow them down. Carlinho was still gasping and curled up on himself, Josué was playing nursemaid, something was happening with the second captive, and most problematic of all was the blood staining Saint-Hilaire’s trousers. The crimson was only spreading slowly, and he did not think it was a serious wound, but he was not Eliézer. He could not say for certain.

“Josué,” he snapped. “Let go of the boy and come bind this one’s leg. I don’t want him dying before we reach camp. And I don’t want to carry him.”

He kept the navaja where it was, to ensure Saint-Hilaire’s cooperation while Josué worked.

Joaquim hoisted the second man roughly to his feet with a hand underneath each of his shoulders, cursing roundly at him as he found himself supporting the man, who seemed unsteady on his feet. He tested the ropes with which Sutton’s hands were bound, giving them a sharp yank to be sure they were still secure.

Saint-Hilaire did not move even as Josué approached. He did not know what the man wanted, and tensed when he saw him near his leg. Perhaps he meant to tear into it? But why then would Mateus go through all the trouble to keep him in place and rather did not just kill him or have him lie down, where it was easier for all involved. He tried to keep his breathing steady and not show his fear nor how nervous he was when the Portuguese man came to poke right around his new injury.

It hurt. He heard cloth tearing and felt some strain on his own fabric, but he could not have looked down. The angle in which his head would have moved, would have cut him on the blade. It wasn't hard to guess what the self appointed doctor was doing though. He made the hole bigger to see better. The jab of his finger right against the wound had the Frenchman grunt, his leg jerking away just a little.

This seemed to encourage the man, but only as he checked that the wound would not bleed out on them, and have the Frenchman escape in the direction none of them could follow him. He took hold of the leg firmly, kept it in place while he wiped some of the blood from the injury with the torn cloth. It had the French prisoner curse his Portuguese captor mentally. The fact, it had to be done, did not make Étienne trust him no more. A doctor, surgeon of their own, he might have entertained an idea of trust for, but not this man. Not the enemy who butchered people.

Whether he was an actual surgeon or just someone picked to deal with it, was not something Saint-Hilaire was willing to guess, but he was relieved - if slightly - when the man decided to end his inspection and bind his leg. Unsurprisingly it was tight. Just as his hands, which were starting to feel uncomfortable and slightly tingly and itchy. They were biting into his skin, and an attempt to twist his arm or hand, made the discomfort only more evident. The skin itself was being rubbed and showed signs of that as well, more even from the earlier fall. He had tried, even if he knew he could not, to move his hands apart to catch himself. Of course, this resulted in only a violent jerk with no resulting success.

The binding complete, had the Frenchman relatively in the same place, not daring to move much for the fear that the unfriendly blade might cut his throat. Josué gave the signal, which was rather obvious, that the Frenchman was ready and then stepped away. With his trousers torn, and the cloth which stood unconnected at that side, hanging at an odd end, the muddy Frenchman hardly looked like the pride of his army. He squeezed and relaxed his hands, making fists in an attempt to bring some life to the tips of his fingers. All of his weight was on his uninjured leg, which had him lean just a little bit to that side.

Mateus watched with a stone-cold face as Josué uncovered the wound, and then bound it tightly. It was likely that it would take infection from this, if left without further treatment, but this Frenchman would be dead in a matter of days in any case. Perhaps hours, if they had to move their encampment sooner than expected. All that mattered was that he should be able to walk now; the bandage should make that possible. When Josué was finished, the two of them dragged the Frenchman upright with rough hands and Mateus shoved him on ahead.

Joaquim was forced to half-support Sutton as they moved ahead through the wood, and soon enough Josué took Saint-Hilaire's arm to help keep him upright; they had no visible track to follow, but each of the guerillas knew their direction, as they passed deeper into the forest. Saint-Hilaire had, unknowing, strayed not far from their camp. They marched for only perhaps half an hour before they came to a glade beyond a ridge. As they neared the glade, Mateus whistled the call of the crag martin again, and it was answered from the trees in several different places. A moment later, a man dropped down from an invisible perch out of the branches in front of them, and fell into step beside Mateus for a short while as they moved toward the hidden encampment. There were almost no signs of habitation; it was quiet, and there was only the slightest trace of campfire-smoke.

The sentry left them to continue on alone after a brief exchange with Mateus, but when they entered the glade where the trees opened out slightly, dozens more of the guerillas materialized - perhaps fifty of them - and surrounded the little band and the two prisoners, examining their prizes with interest and exultation. From the door of a curious, low-roofed little structure, a smokehouse for curing meat and the source of the trace of smoke that touched the air, a dark-haired woman came forward and took Carlinho by the shoulders, kneeling down in front of him and looking over him worriedly.



One man, better kempt and dressed differently from the rest - his clothing tattered as much as any of the others, but it was clean, and had once been good quality some time ago - stepped forward through the knot of guerillas. They parted to make room for him as he approached Mateus and spoke briefly with him.

"So you found them?" Eliézer asked, his eyes flickering over Sutton and Saint-Hilaire with a touch of pity; they looked bedraggled and miserable after their beating, and the forced march on top of it. Their ill fortune had not yet begun. "A lieutenant, the one, but who is the other?"

"Neither of them speaks a word of Portuguese," Mateus answered. "Interrogate them, and then have a watch set over each for the night. I will decide what to do with them in the morning; they may have an evening to wonder." Mateus' mouth curved into a smile without humour, and he clapped Eliézer on the shoulder. "The blue-coat may need your attentions; I don't want him dying too early."

As Mateus left them, Eliézer turned and spoke to the two captives in accented, but fluent French. They remained bound, the blue-coated one in Josué's charge, and the other held by Joaquim. The rest of the guerillas had dispersed, Luiz leading the horse away. That was a valuable find. "May I ask your names, your ranks, and your corps?" he inquired of the two, linking his hands behind his back and regarding them almost politely.

The march appeared longer to the Frenchman that it actually was. He did count his steps, his missteps he ignored, and tried to see that he remembered the path that they took, though it was miserably unmarked and could have been walked anywhere at all in the great regions of Portugal. To find his way back would be unlikely. If he knew his way to the Portuguese hiding place it would probably have been too late to catch them as they would have only moved it. Go somewhere, where the Frenchman had never been. He limped. Every time he was forced to move weight to his injured leg, he looked to be in greater hurry to shift it again. The rag bit into the wound and made it bleed less. He had trouble to keep up with the pace. While healthy legs could move with precision and speed, he was exhausted, hungry, beaten and wounded. His pride forced him on without complaint. A foolish thing, when he could have slowed them down at best if he did not walk at all. But this could also have made them gut him in that sorry place, away from any help and hope.

He was aware of Sutton being somewhere close by. The man however seemed less likely to be of use. His patronage, his protection even had not been understood by their captors. All they cared about is bringing the pair of prizes with them.

He made a quick count of the numbers of men that appeared, when they reached the point where there was more light as the trees were no longer as close. An opening of them revealed behind it, a structure made by a man's hand. He looked on. They communicated with the imitation of wild bird's song, or at best, whistles. He would be certain to remember the sound that this made, the thought of which made him feel more at peace. If he needed such information, it meant that he would yet live. A thought that kept him placing a foot infront of the other, and made him continue with the upright poise of his head, even if the rest of his body may have suffered a little under the source of his ache.

He observed the woman with some curiosity, seeing her composed and calm. Not the sort of creature he was unfortunate to see, at a battle field. A wild fury, a cruel mad thing that had taken possession of a body of a woman. She seemed to be tame, however. Was this her child, that he kicked? If it had been, then perhaps he could brace himself for a shreik, which would certainly come. He was alert, resting his gaze on her features. Worry only, fussing over a child, a boy who had something very wrong in his head.

If there had been no arm to keep him in place and to guide him in the direction the men wanted, he might have found himself bumping in someone ahead of himself. Instead the arm had stopped him. His distraction caused the Frenchman though to look surprised when a Portuguese man, a more well dressed, better kept man, speak French. Mateus was gone, possibly departed a moment ago.

He exchanged glances with Sutton briefly and then spoke: ". I am... Lefevre, ranked as lieutenant, of the French army... " He was a sous lieutenant really. He continued with his placement, which his uniform should have betrayed anyhow. He doubted the Portuguese would know, could tell the difference. He saw no harm in revealing that bit of information. They knew that he was a lieutenant, his name held no weight here, but he was careful. He had told Sutton that his name had been Lefevre, and so he could not change this now. It was also safer that he use such a name, should he be returned to the British army, where his name had been placed among those who had escaped. His placement was all too obvious if one asked the right person and they knew he was French. To deny it, without any knowledge of English, would be foolhardy at best.

"..I am under the Englishman's protection." He spoke, his voice sounding much calmer and braver than he felt. "..as he intended to bring me to his .army.. your allies." He added curtly. " as prisoner of war."

The entire forced march was a blur to Edward as he half walked, half stumbled along what passed for a path through the dense growth. He only hoped Trafalgar wouldn’t go lame as a result, but in the grand scheme of things, that was the least of his troubles.

He collapsed in the glade that had suddenly opened before them next to his fellow prisoner still feeling the beating that he received what seemed like an age ago. So this was it. The place he would meet his fate. Edward always imagined that his death would be peaceful in a bed having reached a ripe old age. He told himself to keep calm, and for the first time in a long time, he thought of a prayer.

He didn't know that a man had approached and began questioning in French. This man was not like the others, having been better dressed (albeit rather shabbily), and his knowlege of French showed some for of underlying education. A scholar of some sorts? Let's hope he is more understanding of the alliance the Portugese had with the British, the cavalry officer thought.

"May I ask your names, your ranks, and your corps?" The shabby gentleman asked politely. Good, he must be well educated, we could turn that to our advantage, Edward told himself inwardly. What surprised him was that he was thinking of himself and the Frenchman as one without so much as a thought. It was during this thought process that the Frenchman spoke up and answered the Portugese gentleman.

"..I am under the Englishman's protection...as he intended to bring me to his .army.. your allies... as prisoner of war."

Edward saw the gentleman turn to him to see if he could confirm the story. "What the Lieutenant says is true. I am Major Edward Matthew Reginald Sutton of the 7th Hussars attached to General Sir Arthur Wellesley's headquarters. This officer is my prisoner" He hoped that would help. "And you sir, may we both have the pleasure of your name?"

As soon as Joaquim released the man with no uniform, he collapsed to the ground on his knees; Joaquim had clearly been the only thing holding him up. The two prisoners shared a glance, while Eliézer waited for the answer to his question; he turned his eyes a little more sharply toward the blue-coated one, who finally answered. He introduced himself as Lieutenant Lefevre, of the 17th line infantry, his voice strained and nervous; it firmed, however, gaining confidence as he added something else that Eliézer had not expected to hear. What Englishman? His eyes traveled to the second man, looking for an explanation of this.

The second man straightened as he knelt, not actually rising but lifting his head higher and giving off an impression of pride even as he was on his knees and exhausted. Surprise and dismay warred for possession of Eliézer's mind as Sutton answered. If the man was truly an officer attached to British headquarters, the guerillas had made a significant mistake in their treatment of him. If it was true. His initial reaction was quickly followed by disbelief; perhaps partly sparked by the conspiratorial look the two men had shared, and secondly by the slight lie that the self-proclaimed Lieutenant Lefevre had already spoken.

His question had been in part a test of their honesty. Eliézer knew the ranks of the French army fairly well for himself, and had not needed the information which Lefevre gave him, other than his name. "My name is Elias Benhaim de Barrios. It is a pleasure to meet you, Major Sutton," he answered mildly - still in French - "and Sous-Lieutenant Lefevre," he added, slightly emphasizing the first word which Lefevre had left out. "You have my sincerest apologies for the indignities you have suffered to your person, Major Sutton." Crossing towards the man, Eliézer motioned to Joaquim, and between them the two guerillas drew him upright to his feet again. "Before I release you, however, permit me to observe that you are out of uniform, sir. Do you have anything to identify you as an English officer?"

He needed not to pay too much attention to notice that while Sutton's was greeted in a pleasant manner, and had been told it was a pleasure to meet, he was only corrected in his white lie, and left at that. He had not expected to receive any civilities, but there was hope that Major Sutton could still prove himself a valuable ally. If he could prove himself to be an Englishman first.

He stood as best he could, all of his weight again on his uninjured leg. He looked a proud man, even when facing the present danger. Lifting his head only a little higher, he made this very evident. He may not have been greeted in like, but he acted as one deserving of that and more, if the company was the right sort. Not the rabble of civilian wannabe soldiers of course.

Étienne was nervous. Even if Sutton did offer some mark of him being an officer of the British army, they could still decide to ignore his right. They were not soldiers, not an army worthy of that name. They did not fight according to the laws of war. He kept his gaze calm and indifferent though, a facade, that was more to his benefit than theirs. There was only a flicker of emotions as his thoughts slipped back to the wording of the guerilla. He had not payed it as much attention a moment ago, but now. "Before I release you, however..."

It was directed to Sutton. Not them. Sutton. He felt the fear return and clenched his hand into a fist, digging his nails into his palm only to try and distract himself, calm himself. "Pardon. But you do mean... us?"

Edward's confidence was growing by the second. He had to use the Portugese gentleman to his advantage. "I am out of uniform as I work behind enemy lines, and I need to keep a low profile. If you wish to have proof of my commission, you will need to bring me my horse, as I have my credentials in my saddle-bags."

The blows from before had forced him down to his knees as soon as the guerilla leading him had let go. The only problem he could see at the moment were the tight knots keeping his wrists together.

He looked at Eliézer with a commanding look. "Release me from my bonds and I will prove to you who I am."

Eliézer returned the self-proclaimed Major's look with an even regard. He was not a man to be cowed or intimidated by a prisoner's glance, and he was certainly not about to go ahead and release the man without confirmation of his story - nor without Mateus' order. "I will examine your credentials, sir," he responded coolly, "and then I am certain that you will be released. However, I am unable to oblige your request until I have done so, and until Senhor Morales is aware of the situation."

His eyes travelled to the second man, Lefevre. "Senhor Morales will decide."

"Andres," he called out - once again in Portuguese - to one of the guerillas lounging not far away, "ask Mateus to come here. If you would be so good as to bring the prisoner's horse, as well."

Andres straightened somewhat, giving an air of indifference to Eliézer request. His brow arched and perhaps more purposefully than not, he moved to turn rather and that rather slowly. It was as if to show to the other man, that he would do what he had asked, but do it only because it had to be done, and not allow himself to be hurried.

"...certainly." His hands unfolded, and he turned and walked off to find Mateus and to bring the horse. It did not take him long to find another fellow, to fetch the animal. The man who arrived with the beast was thin, his skin damaged by some disease he might have had when young. He had been unshaven, though the beard was not yet long, a scar ran across his ear splitting it in one part. Quiet and serious up till then, he stopped infront of Eliézer and his prisoners, and held the reins forward. "... Andres said, you wanted this." He eyed the two prisoners suspiciously.

Andres had walked to the small house, that had shown better years, but the sturdy walls still seemed able to bear a century longer. There he inquired about Mateus, and was quickly pointed to the man. "We've got prisoners." He explained his reasoning for the disturbance. "One French officer, and one.. Elias is not yet certain off. We need you there."

He turned, waiting for Mateus to follow and when he did, approached the unhappy group again. Saint-Hilaire did not like what he saw. The man's face. It was.. haunting. The man's look felt cold, his appearance as that of a demon, an unnerving feeling, which was probably justified too.

So much for his word, Edward thought as an observer stood and walked off to find something the Portugese gentleman ordered him to find. The release of him and the Frenchman all hinged on his being a British Officer, but he needed his papers.

Thankfully the unknown man brought Trafalgar from out of nowhere, still with all his tack on. The magnificent animal whickered at seeing his owner, before he began looking around.

"My papers sir, are in the second saddle bag on the left hand side of the horse. They will confirm my commission." Edward explained as Eliéze opened the bag and began rummaging through before finding a small leather pouch. The Portugese Gentleman held it up to show and looked at Sutton, who nodded.

Eliézer watched Andres go; the man seemed to be deliberately taking his time about it. Perhaps to demonstrate once again that he was not under Eliézer's orders. A few of the guerillas resented his position, he knew; they believed him to be a coward, because Eliézer did not take an active part in fighting. Andres had always seemed to hold something against him, though he had never antagonized the man outright.

The horse arrived first. Searching in the saddlebags, Eliézer found several things, but of most interest a small leather package, which he unwrapped to reveal the paper of a document. As he waited for Mateus and Andres to return, he scanned the credentials - he could not speak English, but he could make out enough to read it. It seemed, in fact, to verify exactly what Sutton had claimed - the rank of Major in the 7th hussars, and there was a document indeed bearing the seal and mark of Sir Arthur Wellesley. And to all appearances it was genuine.

He looked up as Mateus arrived with Andres, and held out the documents wordlessly to the leader. Mateus took them from his fingers, and looked them over likewise in silence for a moment. He could not read a word of English, nor even recognize the language, and handed them back to Eliézer. "What is this?" Mateus asked. "Is it something of significance? Despatches?"

"It is his credentials," Eliézer replied, nodding slightly at Sutton, "as a British officer, a Major Sutton of the 7th Hussars. It appears to be genuine. He claims that the Frenchman is his prisoner." Mateus was silent for a long moment after this news was revealed. Eliézer watched him, wondering what was passing through his mind; by the laws of war they would be forced to release Sutton, and Lefevre as well, for Lefevre was Sutton's prisoner.

The same thoughts were going through Mateus' mind as he looked from Sutton to Lefevre. If he released Sutton, then the man would demand to take Lefevre with him; he had no intention of giving the Frenchman up. Sutton could not force them to do so, of course, but it was possible that he would return to the British and attempt to bring more men back with him to recover Lefevre.

He was not about to murder a British officer, however. Drawing his navaja, he flicked it open and locked it; the ratchet of the mechanism was the only sound, as he stepped behind Sutton and laid the blade to the rope that bound his wrists. "Tell him I am sorry for the misunderstanding," Mateus said to Eliézer, who repeated the words in French for Sutton. "Tell him that of course, he may go free, with his horse and possessions, but we will retain the French officer as our prisoner. This is my decision, and I am in command here, not Major Sutton. Tell him that this is how it will be. Andres." He motioned with his head, nodding to Lefevre and indicating that the man ought to take him away.

As the knife cut through the bindings, Eliézer translated what Mateus had said.

Saint-Hilaire heard it too and felt the chill at those words, translated into French. Sutton was to be released, but he was the only one, apart of his horse. Étienne however would not go freely with the Brit. Not if this man, who appeared to be the Portuguese leader, had anything to say about it. He would remain.

Worry was no longer concealed on his face as he spoke, urgently and with some fear." ..Sir, do not leave me here. I beg of you."

Andres approached the French man and laid his hand onto his shoulder. "You will be coming with us." He spoke in Portuguese, not caring whether the Frog understood or not.

Saint-Hilaire jerked his shoulder away from touch, and stepped towards Sutton. "Please sir, I cannot stay here." Though, what could Sutton do? He could not fight the lot, and he had his life, that he ought to consider. He would not die for a French officer, who was at any other time, his enemy. Why would he do something, which would jeopardize his safe escape?

Andres drove his knee into the Frenchman's gut, silencing him temporarily. Étienne sagged to the ground, and there on his knees he bent forward. He coughed, wheezed and gazed back up, straight at Sutton. His breaths were laboured and came in fast intervals, raspy for a moment then slowly becoming more steady. He had been stoic to a degree, but now it was either the death at the hands of these men, or else remaining imprisoned at the hands of the other. He opened his mouth to speak, but before that Andres had taken hold of the collar of his coat, twisted his arm into the fabric for a better hold. He had noted the signal, the nod given by Mateus, and thus with the delight of one who expected much entertainment, he had yanked the Frenchman after him. It was a greater effort, yes, yet it did not stop him from dragging the man across the ground, rather than to allow him getting up first.