26th May: Camping with the Portuguese

The Frenchman looked as pale as chalk. Andres was still approaching him with the intent to cut, when suddenly everything was stopped and a third name came into the picture. His gaze was unnerving, his expression even more so, his face looked evil in the Frenchman's opinion. Yet, what he saw made him think a saint o this man. He stopped the advance of Andres and though he did not understand what he heard, it was obvious Andres submited to it.

".....yes, sir." The man said with a heavy heart. He would have liked to make things even, yet Mateus was still their leader and thus had the final say.

"He thought it smart to kick, sir."

Étienne observed Jaquim. This man had stopped Andres. Mateus must have been the reason, but it looked that Andres was still intent on harming him till that same man spoke. Now Andres appeared submissive, tamed and even took a step back rather than forward. He sheathed his knife. Good. The Frenchman was able to breathe again.

He looked towards Mateus and found the man's face as that one would expect to have in a nightmare. It was cruel and rough, angled and unappealing, cold. His eyes were wild and offered little comfort towards the French. A true Portuguese creature who's life had been wronged in the past and who now enacted revenge on those who could not defend themselves. Such was he, and he harboured little hope that he was wrong in this evaluation. Andres's reaction towards the man meant that he was the leader or someone higher on the ladder of command. This of course meant he was not only a part of the group but, that he took decisions which made this group a cruel company of men and a woman.

He was torn between still attempting to appeal to him for the release and keeping silent. Having made a decision he spoke up: "Sir...if you are to release me now, unharmed, I can assure you that you will be greatly rewarded and that..nothing of this will become known to anyone...." He hesitated. "...but if you harm me, they will come, and...and they will be ruthless with you."

Andres, who understood what he had just said, hid his amusement. He was a fool if he thought that Mateus would release him or care for his threats.

Mateus heard the Frenchman babbling in his language, but he did not understand what he was saying, nor would he have cared if he did. Without even turning away from Andres to look at LeFevre, he struck out with the back of his hand, hitting the man full-on across the mouth. Joaquim was still holding him, so that he could not back away or dodge the blow.

"Not only to kick; he thought it smart to run, and to knock Elias senseless." Mateus' voice turned several degrees colder on that last. Elias was a valuable man, a trained surgeon could not easily be replaced, and more than that, he was a friend. There had been a moment a few minutes ago, when he first saw Elias lying on the ground, when he had thought that the surgeon was dead. That moment had twisted at his heart unexpectedly. He had not realized how much the man reminded him of Manuel. His younger brother had looked nothing like Elias, but he had had a similar gentle spirit. It would have been easy to call Elias soft, and perhaps he was; he refused to fight with the rest of them, and would not hurt or kill another - not with his own hands. But he was not a coward by any means, and he had done as much or more for their survival as any man in the band.

He glanced at LeFevre now, his look narrow and contemptuous; the man was nothing more than an animal - no; Mateus would not slaughter an animal out of hatred. But this man, he had meant to see die from the beginning, and now he had caused them a good deal more trouble as well.

"I'll give you your turn, Andres," he said lightly, "but I don't want to risk him bleeding to death before I'm through with him. Another time, yes?" Mateus clapped Andres on the shoulder, then drew the man after him, nodding for Joaquim to follow them, and bring the bound LeFevre with him. "In the meantime, come and have some food; he can wait."

It was hard, sometimes, to keep Andres in check. He needed to be turned loose every now and then, but Mateus had chosen this Frenchman as a personal project. He would give Andres a taste later on, he had earned it after recapturing the man, but Lefevre's life was still Mateus' to take, and Andres needed a gentle reminder of that. Mateus did not mean to let him forget who was in command - there had been times when he skirted near to the line of it before now. Although Mateus had never asked these men to follow him, now that he was their captain, he was not going to allow that to change.

His head snapped with the hit, and his lip broke in a thin line, leaving blood to seep down his chin and mar his shirt. He had not expected the blow till it came and it took him a few moments before he recognised the full force of it. He was fortunate as well as unfortunate that a man was holding him. Had he not been held he might have halved the blow with his movement, but had he not been held and still struck full force and he might have been picking himself off of the ground about now.

The look that Mateus was giving him was chilling. It confirmed his loathing towards the French and Saint-Hilaire's first impression of him. The latter opinion could have been too kind towards him even. He was still not aware of how many Portuguese were able to understand and speak French and who could not. He could guess that Mateus was one of those that would not know a word in it, yet to be certain he needed someone to confirm it. He knew the little boy was mute in the French language, which was unsurprising for a child. Andres understood and spoke it. Just as Remedios.

He felt his neck, which now had dried blood on it where the knife pressed, and on his chest there was a slight draft where the shirt had been cut through and a small thin line announced Carlinho's play. He was bruised perhaps, yet he could still consider himself fortunate. Though Andres would have been thrilled to tell their prisoner the exact meaning of Mateus's words, he was left to accompany him obediently ahead of their prisoner.

He smiled, agreed, and was openly grateful that he might have a time with the cursed creature that was this Frenchman. His earlier actions made his hate personal and his plight for revenge very close to home. He was a fiesty thing, even attempted to escape. Almost succeeded, which he could not have said for many of their earlier prisoners. But almost, was still almost and their new toy was pulled behind them, left to stumble and try to keep up.

Saint-Hilaire did not know where they were going. Back to his tree? His feet were less at ease on the uneven ground, being that they were bare. Andres still wore his boots. He glanced at the camp fire which was being doused so that it would not betray their location. The promise of warmth that it once had, had the young sous-lieutenant almost stumble that way. But he was quickly righted and shoved in the desired direction.

He licked his lip, tasting blood on it. "...Are we going back to the tree?" He asked, though he did not think Jaquim knew French. He was distraught. He knew that Mateus decided his fate and now he believed he saw the very man. The doctor had told him so much. The boy could not harm him, not even this other man could. Mateus however decided for him to be his personal project? He dreaded to know what it meant. He had to try escaping soon. Before it was too late, before he was too injured to be able to do so.

The man stumbled once halfway back, but Joaquim quickly hauled him back to his feet and continued to frog-march him on. He was heavier than he looked, for his height; the Frenchman was a small sort of fellow, but built wiry. Much more trouble than he was worth. Joaquim wished they could just cut his throat and be done with this. What difference did it really make how a Frenchman died? He’d never understood what it was that Mateus and Andres felt towards the enemy. He still owed the man for smashing him in the face – a twinge there reminded him of that – but that was a different matter entirely.

He was here because he had nowhere else to be; because his vinyard had been burned and looted, and the guerillas had come along at the right time, and Mateus had fired him up with patriotic words. Then that had cooled a little, but he’d continued on with them anyway. What else could he do, after all? Joaquim took life as it came to him; he didn’t understand the point of hanging onto something that was lost. Of course, he’d not lost what some of the others had.

He didn’t really care, though, about what they did to Frenchmen. It was below the level of things that Joaquim actually worried about. They could do what they wanted to. Joaquim just wished they’d take things lighter every so often. There wasn’t enough laughter in the encampment. His jokes fell flat and died a brief death most of the time.

Joaquim lifted his shoulders in a careless shrug as the Frenchman asked him a question. He had no idea what the French babble was about, and he didn’t worry about it. It was also below the level of things that Joaquim actually worried about.

Elias was sitting with several others near the stewpot, still looking a little disoriented, but upright for the most part, though he was leaning a little on Remedios. She was sitting next to him in the crook of his arm, and the two were speaking in low voices while bowls of the evening’s dinner were handed out among the men.

Most of the men in the encampment didn’t have much opportunity to see a woman. It had been a long time for Joaquim as well as others. A troll might have looked attractive after a while, and Joaquim would have been the first to admit that Remedios was no troll. But she was Elias’ wife, and Elias was not only Mateus’ friend, but their surgeon. Nobody wanted to risk trying to fool around with his woman, not when there was a good chance they’d end up under his knife and at his mercy sooner or later. She probably wouldn’t have looked at him anyway.

A little regretful over the thought, Joaquim turned away to attend to the Frenchman’s bonds, making certain to truss the man up securely. They’d just have to watch him closer to make sure he didn’t break free another time. Which was again far more trouble than he was worth.

“We really should just kill you,” Joaquim said to the man, while he jerked at the cord to draw the knots tight. When he had done, he stood back from LeFevre for a moment, then drew back his fist and gave him a good whack in the jaw. There, now; that was even.

This strike came as unexpected as the first. Though perhaps he should have thought any Portuguese man, who might have suffered through the French or through him, would be glad to take revenge when he was unable to defend himself. Here was a prime example of this. Hands securely and firmly tied behind his back, he could do very little to avoid the fist that made him twist to the side. His jaw hurt something awful, but it was whole. With surprise and some relief, he found that the fist had been lower enough and at such an angle that, when coming in contact, it did not knock any of his teeth out.

He spat some blood still from that split lip, and struggled a bit like a worm to get back to his knees and then further up. He glared at Jaoquim. He knew or perhaps guessed that the attack had been initiated out of the want for revenge. Was Jaoquim still sore about the thwap that he got during the failed attempt at escape? It could also have just been some other deep rooted desire to hit a man for being French, it was not something Etienne needed to waste too much time on.

He had to find a way to escape. Again. He felt fortunate. He thought that they would have killed him because of what he had tried. Instead they did tie him back to the tree, but then left him. To what? He bit his lip and lifted his chin to show some stoic courage that he quite possibly did not posses, but wished the Portuguese to think, he did.

"...very kind of you..." His voice trailed off. Shoving himself up against the tree he had his back protected, his feet free of his weight, and his distance from the man. It was sad how this made him feel safer. Even when his feet were now tied and could only work as one, could need time to be untied before he could run off again. More sad it was, that he thought that defending himself in such way would really work for a longer period of time. He closed his eyes. The rope was damn fresh, damn new and damn fast. It was tight and it was not trodden down like the one which he made so. It would take a great amount of time, as before, if he meant to turn it into a similar state, and this time his hands were already worn down through the rubbing of his skin as well as rope against the bark. It could not be avoided before, nor now.

"should've.. just let me go." He murmured under his breath. Tough chance of that. Perhaps trying to escape from that British man was indeed a foolish idea. For once. But he had thought he was so close to the French lines and safety, then!

Joaquim was not overjoyed to find, a few minutes later, that he was assigned to keep an eye on the Frenchman. He had things he would much rather do than play nursemaid to a prisoner. But he resigned himself to the job with his usual good grace, and, since his belly was comfortably full of a warm dinner and he was wrapped up warmly in the Frenchman’s former coat, he was soon drifting off. Every so often his head would jerk up, but he was not unduly worried about LeFevre breaking loose again. After all, he’d tied the man up himself, and he was trussed so he could barely move a muscle. Good luck to him working those ropes free.

Some time later, a rustle of clothing disturbed him, and Joaquim blinked sleepily up at Remedios as she passed by him. Ah, well, if she was here, then she could keep an eye on LeFevre, couldn’t she? His head slowly nodded forward again.

Jael stopped in front of the Frenchman, who was now bound hand and foot close to the tree; he had a fresh bruise on his face, and it seemed that he could no longer stand up straight. There was a stain that had seeped through the bandage on his leg where the trousers had been cut away, though it was not fresh. His eyes had been closed, and he might have been sleeping, but they flickered open and fixed on her as she came nearer.

No, he was not ready yet, she guessed. But he would break. Before long – perhaps before tomorrow was out – he would break. Then he would ask for her mercy; she would not even have to offer it again. Her anger from earlier had mostly faded; Eliézer was unhurt beyond a sore jaw, as was she. And so Jael had not abandoned her purpose.

Tonight, she would show this Frenchman a little more kindness, and turn him a little more towards her. In this camp among enemies, where almost no-one else spoke his language and no other gave him the slightest compassion, she knew that he would want to trust the one person who did. Then it would be far easier for him to choose her poison.

“You do not have to be afraid of me. How long has it been since you have eaten, Lieutenant?” she asked him, quite gently.

The woman appeared less hostile, this time and stirring himself from slip and failed efforts at riding the ropes as thin as before he observed her quietly as she approached. She did not glare at him, nor sport a knife held at an arch to his gut. First impressions were promising.

Their company to one side enjoyed the luxury and warmth of his coat. He had felt cold in the thin shirt, but could not exactly complain. The Portuguese did not need to care for his comfort. Would his leg had gotten infected and his blood poisoned, they still would not act much to stem the danger that he might die from it.

His mind, distracted by this for a few moments, adjusted its attention towards the new arrival. Not upset. Not angry. Good. He waited for her to speak and to state the reason that she was here. He needn't wait long, and to his surprise, her voice was kind and gentle. It took some of his breath as he contemplated whether there was some trick in her question. Deciding that there was none he spoke: "..It has been a while, madmoisele." Polite as if he stood in conversation at one of those balls, that the aristocracy invited its equals to.

" Longer than It has been for water, of which I was fortunate in receiving." He smiled bravely. If the ropes binding him and his disorderly state had not been as obvious, perhaps the impression could have been equally serene.

"Why do you ask?" He could hope that she intended to give him food, yet his expectations were less generous with the positive feeling.

The cold and his injuries did not seem to have dulled Saint-Hilaire’s senses much, he was still alert. He looked as wary as any tied animal, but managed a passable imitation of a normal tone, almost formal, in answer. More bravado. He was wasting his effort in the display of pride.

She inclined her head to acknowledge the comment as if it had been thanks; she had brought him the water, of course. “Madame,” she corrected him. She had a husband, or at least as far as the world knew she had a husband. He was her brother, but the lie prevented any trouble from arising; not that it mattered with a prisoner in any case, but they maintained the deception at all times. That way, a more important slip could be avoided.

Jael produced the remainder of a piece of coarse brown bread, which they knew not-so-affectionately as ammunition-bread. The gritty, dry biscuit was not a gourmet’s meal, but for a man who had had nothing to eat for several hours, hunger would give it flavour. “I am not here to taunt you. Here,” she said, “you may eat."

"Pardon, madame." He corrected himself as he was corrected and observed her, studying her most attentively. She came bringing him food and drink and he felt fondly of that act though it was possibly ordered by someone above her station. He waited till she had moved the bread closer to his mouth. When he knew that he was permitted to eat, he did and bit into the bread not caring that its taste was far from giving the impression of the normal, better bread. He ignored the fact it was dry and gritty and certainly not something one would aww and ooh about. It was food and it did his belly a favour.

He managed to tear a bite from the whole and then he chewed it and gulped it inclining his head for another bite and tear. He did speak, when his mouth was nearly empty and there said a simple: " You are most kind in bringing me this." Before taking a bite which he chewed with similar delight and vigour if it had been twice the quality of the present bread.

"Does it mean, that I may expect atleast a day or two, perhaps more, that keep me from starving?" He refused to think as the same amount of days as those of torture and suffering, even if also not of starvation.