26th May: Camping with the Portuguese

Eliézer wondered what was giving this Frenchman his confidence. Last night, after Eliézer had bound his wound, he had been slumped against the tree and barely able to stand with pain and exhaustion. Today - although he could not have been in much less pain, and he had been given nothing to eat or drink - he had risen to stand straight, and he stared Eliézer directly in the eye. He was as proud as if he was standing at the head of his men, as if he held the upper hand. He must have believed that he was going to be rescued, still; or else...there was something else, something Eliézer was missing.

"You have not thought deeply on why, have you?" He did not wait for an answer from the Frenchman. "Senhor Morales intends to reserve the privilege of killing you for himself." He watched the Frenchman carefully. Until now, Eliézer had been strictly, almost formally polite. Had the man taken that for a weakness that he thought he could exploit? Eliézer's tone was still courteous as he spoke to LeFevre, even while saying this, but now, angered by the Frenchman's arrogance, he meant to dash any hopes he was holding.

In the distance, there was a shout of childish laughter from across the camp. Carlinho's voice.

This put a damper on things. He may have expected to be let off. Perhaps that the fact he was protected by this man and by the command of another, was due to him not being meant to be killed. Did he really think that though? No, there was something else, but for that he needed this man to leave.

His eyes narrowed on that of Eliézer. He did not intend or rather, he did not want to show that he was disappointed and less confident only because he was told, death still awaited him. "I am certain that you shall see, it is more to your benefit, should you let me go. Perhaps to return me to my Army even. I am an officer. I was under the protection of the Englishman. ..You have failed to honour that." He would have been safe by now, if they had.

"It would do, if you release me only, or.. if you favour to leave me imprisoned, to send me to the English. There is still a chance for that. " He tilted his head a little. "You would be rewarded if you.. however, did return me to my army. A grand reward." He promised.

Eliézer drew himself up a little higher, his expression taking on a hint of contempt as the Frenchman spoke. His hands tucked into fists, though he kept them straight down at his sides. "I am not a man who can be bought, Lefevre," he said, the touch of scorn in his voice as well. "If you knew anything of me you would not even try to offer rewards and bribes."

"What else do you want then?" If money was not the case, and he did not want to offer his life, then what? "Other than my.. death, what can I give you?" He shifted a little. He could not talk with this man for long, if he meant to escape. Others might soon wake to come to see him. Food he would have liked to see before he left, as it would again be scarce when in the forest itself.

Eliézer's contempt deepened. He would never turn against Mateus, no matter what this Frenchman offered - even if Lefevre had the power to grant what he pretended. "I want nothing from you. Don't think I came to save your life; I meant to keep Carlinho from killing you, so that he would not be punished for it. I follow Senhor Morales; I want nothing more than that."

His eyes narrowed. The man was trying to bargain for his life, but there was still something off about the situation. Lefevre was too sure of his ground. He stepped forward quickly and siezed the man's shoulders to push him away from the tree, to look at his bonds.

The push was not expected. He was thrust forward all of his weight suddenly on the worn down threads of his rope. It snapped and he fell face first onto the floor. He groaned. He felt the blinding sort of pain when he jerked his arms forward. His shoulders strained with the continuous, yet unnatural position, were protesting at being so suddenly shifted. But he was up.

Before Eliézer should realise that the ropes snapped, he had to be half way down that ridge and through the wood. It would be a bit of a blind run. Nothing had been planned.

There was no warning; only a sharp sound as the frayed rope snapped, and then suddenly the Frenchman had fallen forward. A moment later he had leaped up from the ground again and was running. Eliézer was after him in the blink of an eye, reacting with alacrity that surprised him.

Putting on a burst of speed, with a shout to alarm the encampment, he sprang after Lefevre, intending to tackle him to the ground if he could. He didn't have a plan beyond that.

The Frenchman knew he had to run. His thigh was making running fast nearly impossible. The Portuguese man was gaining on him. This was why he thought to escape without any witnesses. He would not need exert so much effort.

Damn. Eliézer raised alarm! He looked back over his shoulder to see how much of a distance he had between himself and the 'hound' but Eliézer was not there. A sharp shove against his legs, which got entangled and send him lurching forward presented the reason he could not have seen the man. He had just jumped to tackle him.

And he succeeded. With another oomph Saint-Hilaire turned half way and brought his leg back. He kicked out sharply at Eliézer's face and began to scramble to his feet.

He'd misjudged his timing, and though the other man had been knocked flat on the ground, he had been flung forwards and away from Eliézer. The Frenchman's foot lashed out and hit Eliézer in the jaw, snapping his head back against his shoulders and leaving him dazed. For a moment, he wasn't fully aware of what was going on around him; he'd forgotten the Frenchman.

Étienne was on his feet. He triumphed. He was free again. Shouts came left and right from him and as he turned he saw the first forms appearing from the camp. They were running towards him. He pushed up again.

He groaned, his thigh giving him an earful of complaint. Quickly switching his weight from that foot, he made progress in getting back to his feet. The very next moment he was running again. Two men gained up on him. The first lashed out and grabbed at his shirt. He held possession of the fabric for a couple of moments. A jab with the man's elbow brought an end to that. The second man grabbed hold of the distracted Frenchman, and recieved a jab to the ribs.

The Frenchman's elbow smashed directly into Joaquim's face, and the guerilla lost his grip on the man's collar, staggering backwards a little. They were converging on him now, though; he didn't have a chance of escaping. Men had risen all over the encampment and were joining the chase.

Jael had stepped out of the cookhouse at the shouts that were raised, and it had only taken her a moment to realize what was going on. She hadn't moved at first, but the Frenchman was running almost straight for her; she sprang into motion, charging to head him off. Perhaps she would knock him down, or at least delay him enough for the others to lay hold of him. He was already injured. She barely had time to consider it, though.

A woman! Who would have thought that it was going to be a woman who brought him down. He was just in the process of shifting weight from his good leg to his injured when she slammed into him. He tried to catch his balance, but it was on the wounded leg that he came to stand first. Winded he fell on the ground, tumbling with the woman for a few turns before they both came to a stop.

He reached up to shove her of, and quite unintentionally his hands managed to come in contact with her chest first, before the slipped sharply to her shoulders. He pushed against her to roll them both over, and stop when he was quite literally on top.

Jael had lowered her head and her shoulders at the last minute, sweeping her arm out to tackle him across the midsection; the two of them went down to the ground together. She had locked on to him, meaning to keep him there so he could not get up and away, and they rolled for a moment - for a second she had him pinned, but then he shoved at her chest. In another moment it was reversed, and her head struck the ground with a sharp force.

He'd trapped her legs with his own, and had pinned her by the shoulders. The position was all too familiar, sending a sudden sickening feeling of recognition and fear flooding through her. Jael's face twisted, and she struck out at the Frenchman, driving one fist into his short ribs; she slammed the heel of her other hand up towards his chin.

Saint-Hilaire was caught by surprise. He fell to the side, nursing his jaw and a bit tongue. Before he could get up again a kick sent him sprawling into the mud. He began to rise when an elbow was driven into the lower part of his back, successfully forcing him down yet again. He gasped in pain, but there was no way to get up again. Weight was distributed on top of him. He could see a knee to each side of him. His hair was grasped, fingers slipping in, curling and pulling his head upwards. The Portuguese man brought his knife under the Frenchman's neck and smirked. "Don't.. move."

He did not seem to have been expecting the attack, and when she twisted her body at the same time, it threw him off her to the side. Jael rolled away and pushed herself up, springing to her feet in a crouch and snatching for the knife that hung at her belt. Her shawl had been torn off, and her hair hung down disheveled. She was breathing rapidly, her heart racing so that it sang in her ears as anger replaced the panic that had flooded her.

The Frenchman was trapped now; his pursuers had caught up to him, and Andres had pinned him to the ground and held a knife to his throat. A thin trail of blood slid down the side of the blade as he warned the Frenchman not to move.

"You could have been faster, Andres," she bit out. Though she had never liked Andres - he made her uneasy - she had not meant to speak that sharply. She reined in her anger and struggled to calm her breathing, and then added in a more moderated tone, "What happened? How did he break free?"

"You could have been grateful, Remedios." Andres smirked. "At least you had the luck of running straight into him...unlike your husband." He twisted his arm, holding Saint-Hilaire's hair, and pulled it back further so that his neck was at a rather uncomfortable arch.

Étienne could not even attempt to struggle, as his primary objective was to keep his throat from being slit or any more abused by the sharp edge of the knife, as it was. He breathed rather shallowly, holding both hands pressed against the ground to keep the arch into which Andres had made him twist. Gone. His opportunity for escape was no more. Perhaps this was it.He could not expect his captors to want him alive after that.

Jael's eyes widened. What had happened to Eliézer? What was Andres hinting at? She had not seen the beginning of the fight; he had obviously escaped somehow - but what did her brother have to do with it? Her fingers tightened on the hilt of the knife until her knuckles were white with the tension. "Why? What happened to Elias?" Neither she nor her brother went by their real names - the others knew him as Elias, as they knew her as Remedios, his wife.

Her eyes went to the Frenchman with a stone-cold stare. If he had done anything to Eliézer, he would pay for it with his life.

"Non." The Frenchman had said." I am sorry. Please forgive me." In the only language he knew. He had thought he knew what had happened to the woman. Though he did not understand a word that they have said, except perhaps the mention of Elias, he suspected that it might have been this, that angered the woman. The attempt to flee, which appeared instead to be one of violence that she might have experienced in her past. The look on her face, that he remembered from earlier, was just that. Shocked, panicked, afraid.

"..Madame. I did not mean to touch you or.... come on...." Not exactly an easy way to describe the position. He strained his eyes to see the other man. Andres yanked him harshly by his hair to make him stand up, just after, of course, getting off of his back. "I would not know, dear. But I would suppose that he tricked your husband and injured him severly. How else could Elias not have prevented his escape?....Unless.."And he allowed that speculation unfinished.

Jael's hand twitched with the knife as she stared down at Saint-Hilaire. A sharp intake of breath through her nose was her only response to what he said, his attempt at apologizing. Perhaps he meant to try to placate her and beg, now. What difference did he think that made? Did he think a woman might have pity on him? She could still feel that fear, fading now, but the memories had been sharp and distinct during that moment, and she still did not know what had happened to Eliézer.

She did not like Andres, but she was glad to see him wrench the man to his feet. "Don't call me that," she said abruptly. After what had just happened, she reacted to the endearment more strongly than she might have at another time. "And give me a straight answer."

Joaquim, his cheek split and bleeding where the Frenchman had struck him, stepped forward to look the man over. All in all, Lefevre looked worse than he did. A good thing, that. "Elias is fine," he told Jael, feeling the injury with a rueful, ginger hand. "The bastard only kicked him in the head; soon as he's got his senses back he'll be alright."

"Taken down by a woman," Joaquim chuckled. "How's that for him, then?" It didn't precisely reflect well on the rest of them, either, that Jael had been the one to take the escaping man down, and had succeeded where they failed. Joaquim did not resent it too much, however, and so he laughed again when he added, "Andres, she's made fools of us both!"

"She was lucky." He was not pleased in knowing that it was Remedios who brought down their prisoner, and not either of the men. It was a bit of a kick to their pride. He looked at The Frog and drove his foot into the back of Saint-Hilaire's knee. It brought the officer back onto the ground, caught in mid air only by the hold on his hair. His body stretched out in a funny, painful way. His hair was released and allowed him to fall back to the ground.

"Careful where you're walkin'." He was told harshly and yanked upright again. Saint-Hilaire looked hesitant. He had not said anything since he was brought to his feet the first time and only grunted when his hair was maltreated.

"Well,.. think we should teach him why he would be wiser not to try escaping again. Though , breaking his leg would be just as fine." He spoke in Portuguese, which was rather fortunate for the prisoner. "Can't run with that busted.. can he?" He smirked and patted the Frenchman almost like a dog.

Jael turned away from the Frenchman as Andres struck him again and he grunted in pain. She did not want to watch that now. She was distancing herself, calming down, and she did not want to see any more of this. It made the bile rise in her stomach.

"Thank you, Joaquim," she said evenly, without reacting to what else the man had said. He was trying to make light of the situation; that was how Joaquim was - he was good-natured. But it would only cause trouble in the end; Andres would not be willing to laugh at himself, and Joaquim was only antagonizing him. Jael did not intend to do the same at this point, even though she did not really have much gratitude for Andres; the man had been too slow. She had taken care of the Frenchman on her own, in reality.

She needed to find Eliézer and make sure that he was not badly hurt.

Joaquim glanced down at the Frenchman again. "Best to ask Mateus about that, I think. But hold him there a moment, Andres, will you?" He drew back his hand, flexing the fingers before he curled them into a fist. "I owe this fellow something."

Andres smirked and slid his fingers almost tenderly into Saint-Hilaire's hair. He yanked his head back a little, and held him there tight." ..At your service, Jaoquim. He's all yours." He held onto the man firmly, while the bemused Frenchman eyed Jaoquim. He did not need to understand Portuguese to realise what was going on. He had his hands still free, nobody tied them to his back yet, with his arm brought forward he jerked it in an arch back against Andres. The elbow struck the Portuguese right where it hurt most.

A bad call, but he did not intent to stand still, and take the blow to his face or elsewhere. He lurched forward and away from Andres who dropped to his knees. The man was not long whimpering about his woes. Enraged by the nerve he moved forward and kicked Saint-Hilaire right across his lower back bringing him down. "His hands. Tie them!" He growled. "I'm going to kill the bastard!"

Joaquim sprang as soon as he realized that Andres had lost his hold on the Frenchman, but Andres was nearer, and had struck first, even while still half-curled around the injury. Joaquim was on the downed Frenchman in an instant anyway, kneeling with the side of his leg pressed into the man's neck to keep him pinned down there while he wrestled to catch his arms and tie the wrists with a length of cord

"Damn, Andres, that must have hurt!" Joaquim commented, wincing. "Right square in the jewels." When they'd got this Frenchman trussed up again and it was time for payback, Joaquim suspected he was going to really regret that blow.

Saint-Hilaire rasped, his neck straining against the knee that was laid on it. His hands did twist and turn, pull and yank, but they were soon forced up along his back, closer to his shoulderblades. There he had no strength and it hurt. The more he tried to struggle the higher his arms were pushed.

When tied in the less comfortable position he was yanked around by Andres. The man was furious. In his right hand he was brandishing a knife, it's length greater than that of a hand. He made a swing with his arm and the blade halted inches from Saint-Hilaire's flesh, forcing him to push back, his legs jerking apart. He breathed heavily, his eyes on the hand that held the knife. So close to his own 'jewels' that it made him gasp in shock.

"You are going to pay, bastard!" Andres spoke, and grabbed at Etienne's trousers. A button went flying, another managed to slip through the hole before it was torn." I'll cut you! I'll turn you into a wench, so I will!" He spoke in French, which had the young sous lieutenant push backwards, his eyes wide. "No." Étienne said sharply. "Stay away!"

The Frenchman scrambled to try to get away from Andres, but Joaquim caught him by the upper arms, wrenching them upwards and keeping him from backing up any further. "Shouldn't have screwed with Andres," he told the man in a conversational tone - in Portuguese, of course, which he wouldn't understand, but it looked like he was grasping the concept anyway. Poor bastard. Joaquim almost felt sorry for him; if he'd seen Andres coming at him with that knife and a face that black with rage he would probably have pissed himself.

Joaquim looked up, however, and suddenly let go of the Frenchman with one hand and caught hold of the other man's wrist with the knife, pushing it down to Andres' side, so that it was not clear what he had been about to do. "Andres!" Joaquim said in a sharp, warning tone. "Mateus is coming." No sense in making Mateus upset, even if Andres had only been about to cut the man, not to kill him.

Mateus looked levelly from one to the other - Joaquim hadn't moved fast enough. "Andres...this one isn't yours."