Frogs in the Parlour

The sailors led them into a comfortable-looking room not far from the kitchen, and Jérémie looked around in bewilderment. This was where they were to be kept as prisoners?

He felt the corner of his mouth twitch upwards. If this was the English idea of a prison... he glanced warily at the seamen-guards, then crossed with deliberate caution to the nearest chair. His restraint slipped only an instant later, however, and he dropped carelessly into the well-cushioned chair's embrace, entirely unmindful that he was still soaked to the skin.

[having come from the kitchen]


"Soldat!" Daubigny snapped. "You'll ruin that chair. Get up at once." He himself stood in front of the fire, beginning to feel the discomfort of wet and mud-caked clothes. "Does anyone speak French?" he asked the cluster of seamen.

So what if he did? It wasn't his chair, was it? Jérémie heaved himself up again and gazed at the fire, which of course the other Frenchman was standing in front of. The man was obviously an officer. Officers usually worried needlessly about such things.

"Yes sir," Jérémie said and settled for simply standing where he was.

The British sailors stared uncomprehendingly at them both.

"Well we can't stay in these wet clothes. They'll never be dry. Where's that redcoat officer?" he grumbled, mostly to himself. He turned to one of the sailors and spoke in long-forgotten English. "Where is..." He stopped and frowned, trying to think of the words he wanted. He gave up and settled for "Where is officer speak French?"

Half asleep as he was, Paol had assumed the command (wherever it had come from) was directed at him and come rocketing to his feet, mumbling an automatic "Sir." He blinked at the newcomers in disoriented confusion. "Rosy?"

Jérémie felt a prickle of distaste but kept any sign of it from showing on his face. Was this officer a stranger to being cold and wet? Poor sheltered bastard.

He listened to the officer's attempt at sputtering out those strange English words, then shrugged slightly and turned away. There was more to this room than some wonderfully comfortable chairs, it seemed.

A more pronounced smile came onto his face, however, when he heard his name. "Paol," Jérémie greeted, surprised and pleased at once to see a familiar friendly face.

"Officer?" Tide asked sceptically, frowning. These two had just been with an officer. Why hadn't they talked to him then?

Paol's face split into a grin and he stepped forward to greet the other man, the presence of the officer quite forgotten in his surprise at seeing a face he knew in such unlikely circumstances. He noticed then the water pooling on the floor and, pulling a blanket off the back of a nearby chair, he tossed it at Jérémie. "Strange idea of prison these English have, no?"

"Oui," Jérémie replied, shaking his head in wonderment. He wrapped the blanket about his shoulders gratefully. "Thank you. Perhaps it is meant only as diversion?"

"Diversion? So that we do not try to escape?"

Jérémie pushed some damp hair off his forehead. "Yes. Though God knows where we'd go, in this wicked place!"

Paol shook his head. He hadn't the first idea. "Better in here than out there, then." At least it was dry.

This was true. It would be best without that officer around. At least it was Jérémie in possession of a warm blanket and not him!

"And a fire, even." He shook his head. "Les Anglais!"

The mention of fire drew Paol's attention to the hearth where the officer stood. He straightened sligthly. "You know him? The lieutenant." he asked, lowering his voice.

Jérémie shook his head. "Never seen him before."

It was useless trying to speak with the seamen, even in his rather fluent English. Daubigny turned instead to the noticeably dryer Frenchman. "Who are you?" He looked also at the soldier who had come in with him from the rain. "You as well. Your name?"

Now the officer was bothering them again. Jérémie swiped a lazy trickle of residual rainwater off his nose. "Blanchard," he said blandly. "86e de Ligne."

Paol regarded the officer warily. "Kerjean. 86e de Ligne aussi."

Daubigny nodded. Grande Armée fellows. He knew nothing about the army. But that didn't much matter, since they weren't in the army at present. "And I am Lieutenant Nicolas Daubigny. Now. You, Kerjean. How long have you been here, and are there others?"

"Several hours, I think, sir." It was a guess. Doubtless there was a time piece somewhere in the vicinity, but he lacked the ability to read it. He knew he had waited for what felt like a long time and he knew he had fallen asleep at some point.

The second question, at least, he knew the answer to, though he doubted the lieutenant would be please with it. "No others, sir."

"No others? Well, I suppose we'll have to manage on our own. We need a plan." Perhaps by leaving it open ended, one of the men would make a suggestion. Daubigny was sure he had no plan himself, nor any expectation of coming up with one.

A plan? Wasn't that something for officers to worry over? Jérémie avoided the lieutenant's gaze and shuffled a little closer to the fire. Between the heat from the dancing flames and the heavy blanket, he was beginning to warm up. Let this Lieutenant Daubigny think of some grand scheme by himself.

When he woke up, he felt as if confined in a rather small space. It was dark, stuffy and there was heavy fabric pressing against his face and nose. He sneezed and to others it might appear like the wardrobe sneezed. He rubbed his nose then and wondered if he had found himself buried alive by the Portuguese. He thumped his fist against the door. The wardrobe was locked indeed, but at least his initial worry was proven as unfounded. No wood would make such a sound, if it was covered in layers of dirt.

Billy looked away from the Frenchies to locate the sound. "Tide, you locked Button in that chest again?"

Saint-Hilaire thumped his foot against the door frame of his strange confinement. He paused, for it was not more than a few moments after that he heard voices. English speaking voices. He shifted carefully in the wardrobe trying to make not a sound now and silently cursed himself for being unarmed. The enemy was outside.