1 June; Aches and pains

She dropped her voice meekly, and crouched back into her curled ball like a mouse. "No," she whispered.

Well, that was a good thing. Newbury leaned back and stretched carefully, wincing at the twine of pain in his ribs. He took advantage of the movement to glance quickly down at the other cart.

"Just you stay put an' quiet," he muttered. "Pretend you're dead, maybe."

They weren't likely to find her if she didn't give herself away. Hopefully.

That was more or less what she had been doing. Pretending to be dead, or even better, an inanimate object like a rock. She became even more still as the sound of boots approached. She could not tell if they were moving towards her own cart or Newbury's, but she prayed to God it would be the latter.

There was a wagon not far away. Maybe they would let him lean against it.

Moving unsteadily, Christian reached the wagon and sagged against it, grateful for the support, however temporary. The Frogs had not seemed to mind, or perhaps they hadn’t noticed. He didn’t really care. He closed his eyes, but that only made it worse; it was like being drunk and hungover simultaneously. The ground, on the other hand, looked uncharacteristically comfortable.

Christian sank carefully to his knees. That was better, if only marginally. An object in his periphery caught his attention and his body started in surprise before his mind caught up and registered what it was: a person, more specifically a woman, hidden beneath the wagon.

Oh hell. Not good. Looking around to be sure none of the French had noticed yet, he braced his arm against the side of the cart, trying to pull himself up. Dammit, this had been a bad idea.

Silence. Silence was good. Preferable, even. He didn't want that solitary dragoon to get suspicious.

But that newly-arriving redcoat was going to ruin everything. Newbury watched him warily and grimaced when he saw the man start after looking toward where Missus Cotton was hidden.

"Here," the Rifleman snapped, reacting instinctively. "Go be sick off the road, would you?"

The sound was much too close to ignore, and Maggie opened her eyes with horror to see not a French dragoon but a redcoat, one of their own, looking under her wagon. She had been holding her breath for such a long moment now that she felt sure she would explode in a gasp for air, and so she clapped her cold hands over her mouth. She stared at him in absolute terror.

Reaching out, Christian grabbed hold of a wheel and hauled himself up, shooting a glare at the greenjacket as he began to drift toward the other cart. He didn’t dare glance at the nearby dragoon.

The dragoon guard glanced over, his disinterested gaze moving from Newbury to the redcoat. From where Newbury stood, it was hard to tell if the Frog could see Maggie. Hopefully he couldn't. He held his breath.

But it was too much for Maggie. On seeing the redcoat's movement, she had closed her eyes and at last let escape a sobbing scream, even as she balled herself further against the wheel away from his grasp. But there was no where to run for safety, and no one could save her. But that did not stop her from crying out. "Joe! Joe! Joe!" she called wildly.

What? No. No, no, no. Christian turned. The dragoon was already striding toward them.

Giving in to the watery sensation in his knees, Christian clutched at his head and let out a scream. “Joe! Joe! Goddammit!” Fear made it easy to force his voice into a higher register.

Newbury's eyes went wide when the redcoat hit his knees and began shrieking in an impossibly high-pitched voice. What the hell was he doing? It took a second to register that the idiot was covering up for Maggie's own outburst. Today was certainly the day for quick thinking.

"Shut up, you fool," the Rifleman cried, lurching away from the cart to stumble into the approaching dragoon's path. It was not a completely deliberate move, either. The road wasn't the best for anyone with an unreliable knee. "You ain't dyin'!"

Maggie stopped in shock and opened her eyes as the sound of another person's screaming registered in her brain. She saw that the redcoat had moved away, and that she was not actually in direct danger from him. Joe was helping him now. The man was injured. The dragoon was distracted and coming to investigate the screaming man, grumbling and kneeling down at his side to pull him up. The terror at last gave her movement. She scrambled out on the other side of the wagon and ran.

There was a grip on his arm and he was suddenly on his feet again. A voice behind him was babbling in French. Christian stopped screaming and opened his eyes. Jesus, had that actually worked? But no sooner had he thought it than a shout went up from another of the dragoons. Before he could stop himself, Christian looked towards the wagon, but the woman was gone.

He swore. The Frenchman was still behind him, holding him by the arm and collar of his coat, but Christian could feel him turn and then he too started bellowing. Jerking his arm up and back, Christian clipped the man’s jaw with his elbow, cutting short his cry.

The Frog stumbled back in surprise, pulling Christian off balance. He landed in a graceless heap and was trying to roll to his knees when a heavy boot caught him squarely in the stomach. The fight went out of him with a gasp of pain and he instinctively drew his knees up, fighting back the urge to retch.

No. This wasn't going to end badly. Not if he could help it. Newbury turned quickly and swung hard at the Frenchman who'd just kicked the redcoat in the gut. The alarm was given but he'd be damned if he didn't do his best to distract these bloody Frogs as long as he could.

"Blessay this!" He hit the dragoon guard again for good measure before turning to face the man's approaching reinforcements. Missus Cotton had best run for all she was worth.

And run she did, all along the road which was now oddly empty, all the troopers having returned to the small central area of the baggage. Never in her life had she run so fast. She did not look back but stared straight ahead as if by force of will she could bring the back of the column into her sight, the section of the baggage that had not been cut off.

When a second blow did not fall, Christian looked up. The rifleman was still standing, but the Frog was not. There was, however, no shortage of his fellows to take his place. What was the greenjacket doing? There wasn’t any point anymore. Not with the alarm raised. Not as long as they had horses.

The Frogs were on them now, their attentions directed at the rifleman. Hell. There was a pair of legs in front of him. Christian wrapped his arms around the ankles and yanked. The man fell with a cry of surprise, knocking into one of his comrades.

He didn't dare look over his shoulder to see if Missus Cotton was on her way to freedom. He wouldn't give these Frogs any hit that his foolish, desperate resistance was nothing more than a diversion.

One of the Frogs was pulled sharply from his feet, taking another down with him. Newbury ducked a swing from a sabre and punched at the dragoon wielding the blade. It would be a miracle if he held out more than a few seconds, but if it helped...

The scuffle was brought up short by angry shouts from another frog, probably someone of slightly greater significance judging by the manner in which he yelled at the dragoons and the way they scrambled to their feet to answer.

Wrenching one of his legs free, Girard kicked back hard. He felt the grip on his other leg slacken, and scrambled to his feet. The redcoat was no longer moving. Good. He turned towards the other Englishman, drawing his sword, but an order from their officer forestalled him. Girard all but gaped at his superior. He couldn’t be serious!

“Sir, they attacked Broussard!” he protested angrily.

Why were they drawing back? What were they doing? Had they spotted Missus Cotton? Newbury hesitated, both fists held up before him, and his pause provided time enough for another Frog to lunge forward and grab hold of his arms.

"Gerroff, you filthy toad," Newbury snarled, indignant despite his bold, short-lived resistance.

The lieutenant's eyes narrowed in a disdainful glare at the unfortunate man they had named. "Broussard. How difficult can it be to guard two injured unarmed men? Now pick yourself up and get these men back in the cart! Girard! Go and help those other two."

Glowering furiously, Girard slammed his sword hilt home and turned toward the two other prisoners. What the hell did the lieutenant think he was playing at, anyway? This was a raid, not some damned humanitarian outing. “Get in the wagon,” he barked, but they only stared sullenly back at him.

Girard rolled his eyes. These Englishmen could be dense as lead. “Wagon,” he said, pointing to it, “Go.” This time they seemed to get the idea and began to hobble towards it, helped along by the point of Girard’s saber.

"There's a woman running away. Why didn't you stop her?" the lieutenant asked irritably. "No, never mind her now. It's one less mouth to feed. There's work to be done here." And with that he strode away to yell at someone else.

With all the commotion Pye could easily have attempted the same flight as miss Maggie. With the amount of trouble the red coat and the rifleman were causing, he would have possibly succeeded. But, he could not abandon his camerades. If a run he made, it was for the sake of helping them with the distraction elsewhere, or to fight and kick at the men right there.

A great number of men would have gone to a single place, when three men were there to fight it. Part the number would have gone to it, if there was a commotion, slight or great, elsewhere to be had. He had already been a spectator for too long, the French not hearing his protests earlier, or quite clearly not understanding them.

After the first blow had been seen, after a second kick in the gut, and after the woman had run, Pye started in the opposite direction. It would have led him deeper into the French army, clearly not a plan of escape, but it would have had a few stray lads, hesitate where to run to. He hoped. With this in mind he had rammed his shoulder at the side of one Frog overseeing the few lasses caugh in the fray. He minded his coat for the fact there was a chick hidden in it, but other he did not, striking at the man with the uninjured hand.

The shouting did not register to him at first. The struggle had been stopped by Newbury and his fellow friend. Then the shouting had become louder, mixed in with a few shreiks of Maria, Dores and several of t he women he had come to knock one of the guards from.

(hope this is alright.)

There was no sense in trying his lucky against a drawn sabre. Newbury let his arms drop to his sides and allowed the angry-looking Frog to direct him back toward the empty wagon.

But his attempt at diversion seemed to have inspired others, closer to the main body of prisoners. A fresh outbreak of shouting and what looked like a noble effort at resistance were coming from over there.

"Let 'em have it, Pye!" Newbury cried and earned a blow to the head courtesy of his annoyed French captor.