1 June; Aches and pains

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.

Jenny herself could not help shrieking as fighting broke out next to her group as well. She could not see Pye, much less Newbury, Christian or Maggie. She had no idea what was involved, but she shouted "Stop! Stop! Arrêtez!" though of course no one paid any heed. Men! Stupid men! What point was there in fighting now? They had already surrendered, had given up their weapons and had been herded into more manageable groups. This would only make their captors angry, and that would be dangerous for everyone.

Pye was in turn encouraged by Newbury's shout. He ducked a fist, that skimmed across his cheek, but could have broken a few teeth had it come into full contact. He drew his uninjured hand back, and punched at the man's gut before feeling a blow to his side. He coughed. Heard Jenny briefly, or at least it was a woman, one of many. The commotion was getting worse with the sight of the Portuguese lasses having a riot of their own. They were perhaps much more affected by the capture than their British friends.

Another strike brought him to one knee, wheezing. He dropped to his side and kicked with all his might at the knee of one of the Frogs.

There was some shoving, pushing, cursing , French, Portuguese and probably English too. Well, Newbury had done a valiant attempt at enabling the flight of one woman. Pye only hoped that the additional disturbance also helped the man not to take the full brunt of the Frog's anger, after the escaped lass. He did not care who it was. Anyone of their side was deserving of the chance.

He hissed in pain as a foot was brought down on his injured hand and went for a low blow, to bring the man off. With a squeeze of someone's privates the pained groan announced success. Dores and Maria broke away from the group of camp followers, making an attempt for freedom. It was probably going to end in disappointment, when they were just too close and the Frogs too angry to want to loose another of their prisoners.

The Frog that dealt Newbury a blow, hissed something at him, which was certainly neither flattering to himself, nor meant to be kind. He shoved the injured man forward, and kicked at the back of his left leg, for a good measure. The bloody grasshopper, thinking to cheer (which he guessed accurately) his peers on in open rebellion. With their officer's back turned, Newbury was delivered another blow to the back, just for his earlier misbehavour.

There was a shove, then a kick to his leg, and Newbury found himself on the ground, hissing in anger and pain. He must be doomed to serve as a kicking post for people. Another kick to his back made him curse.

"Get stuffed, y'ribbetin' scum," he growled.

Newbury was given an earful of what the Frog probably thought of him. The bastard had caused a bruised ego and some injury to their fellow, and that was enough for him to deserve a beating as much as no light treatment he should have got for his wounds. The pair of French men grabbed Newbury each under his arm and yanked him upwards.

He was in luck though, as this time no blow followed to his person. There was solely an unfriendly shove, but not exactly towards the empty wagon. He was better not thinking up to do something so stupid again, that's what the French soldier certainly told him in his litany of French. His life was not so precious to them, as to spare him if his behavour caused trouble for the captors.

Pye watched as the two Portuguese runaways were herded back to the main body. The other girl was fortunate, the two were not. He had ceased struggling and lay on the floor with his injured arm shielded by his good arm and both shielding less evidently the little chick that rested inside his coat.

He breathed heavily, but found himself strength enough to grin before a blow wiped it off and split his lip. "Newbury." He yelled and spat. "Yer a'right?" And then slowly began struggling to his feet, more timid towards the Frogs than he was before.