Prisoners.

"Gabe." Pye did not know whether Cotton would have liked that his current state was noticed, or whether he would have preferred others to pretend nothing was seen, nothing noticed. The man did look worried, Pye was almost certain of that. He sounded bitter, which was not a very new or surprising discovery.

Pye looked towards the French soldiers, that guarded them and what he expected to see further along, the other French soldiers guarding the civilians and other men that they have caught and made prisoners. He looked at Newbury. The man was stubborn and hateful. But hateful perhaps more towards the French, towards his injury and the misfortune of his knee, possibly, what Pye believed at least, he was just feeling frustrated about it all. And he'd done unlikely things when he was under such stress. All that of course came from Pye's own point of view, his observations and his opinion which could as well have been wrong.

He shook his head. Newbury would starve himself rather than to eat French food. If he was that stubborn, one needed to act fast, very fast, before the man was too weak to do anything. Before his weakened state would be further deteriorating due to the wounds. He bit his lip, looking at Gabe again. But there was a limited amount of things he could do, a limited number of options that would possibly lead to escape in a short time. Fewer still that would have a high probability of success. At the same time, those with higher probability, also had greater risks. He cursed under his breath.

And Pye said his name. Cotton looked over enquiringly, but the younger Rifleman said nothing else, merely contenting himself with looking towards the French soldiers who were guarding the civilians.

Newbury didn't seem to be using his brains for anything more than keeping his ears apart. Cotton was fed-up playing father to them both, and he was missing Maggie terribly, which didn't help.

"Newbury, if you don't eat summat, I'm like to turn you over my knee an' thrash some sense into you. You ain't goin' to get better if you don't eat summat at least."

What he needed was someone of a higher rank to order Newbury to eat... and whatever Pye was thinking about, Cotton didn't think it could be good especially judging by the curses he was muttering to himself.

Bright smirked and relayed this information. "Y'know," he remarked. "If you got any sense 'tween you, you'll get that lame 'un movin', or there'll be no sleepin' for any of you."

There was a huff of annoyance from the crippled greenjacket, who said only, "They're doin' their own bloody thing, ain't they?"

Pye stood, and glanced at Newbury. "..les' get goin' then:" He glanced at Cotton. "...m' thinkin t' same as I was when yer give' me that'un dring.. always t' same" He hoped Cotton would remember these rather cryptic words when the time was right. If he did not, well, he made his mind up, did he not?

"Newbury.. les' go."

Cotton couldn't hold back a sigh. He'd thought the Frogs would at least let them have five minutes' rest. Obviously he was too damn optimistic or something. Bugger them, the whole sodding lot of them. "All right, Joe, looks like we've got ourselves a proper bleedin' slave driver here," he said, and frowned at Pye. He remembered the drink in question - or thought he did: the cup of tea he'd offered the other Rifleman before he even was a Rifleman, at least as far as his uniform went.

But Pye's thoughts hadn't been anything about food or the French, not then. Cotton hoped he was reading the other Rifleman's words right, but wasn't entirely sure. As far as he could remember, Pye's words at the time had been about Captain Vickery being a fine man, or something. And there had been talk of the tea, too, of course. Whatever he meant, Cotton couldn't work it out.

"Bugger the bastard. He ain't go no idea or... or human feelin's, has he?"

By the sound and look of it, Bright suspected there was some tension between the three grasshoppers, despite their profession to be mates. It was interesting. Perhaps also something he could exploit.

"Jérémie," he said suddenly, looking over his shoulder for the red-faced Frenchman. "Come help this one out, yeah? The one with the crutch."

The crippled greenjacket was eying him suspiciously. Bright smirked and added, in English, "Just gettin' you some sturdier help's all. Mebbe you an' Rosy here'll get to be mates."

~

What the hell sort of name was Rosy? Newbury wrinkled his nose and hobbled forward again, using the muleteer's staff to support his weight. "I'm bloody goin'," he snapped, directing the remark at Pye. He got the feeling the other two were up to something. If they were, he wished them luck with it. He himself would take no part with anything. He couldn't.

Pye studied Bright suspiciously, and then gave the man who was called Rosy a similar look of distrust. He was not going to trip their man over and cause further injury, was he? He visibly flinched when Newbury snapped at him and lowered his gaze.

The other man was getting to be a handful of grumpy, snappy and annoyed and if he would not eat, soon to be starved as well. Pye sighed. He wondered if any of the camp followers could soothe Newbury's 'prickles' and have him with a clearer mind set on getting better and getting away. He said nothing this time, and just averted his gaze with a heavy sigh.

It seemed that Newbury was in a bad mood, and Cotton wasn't feeling his usual cheerful self. It was understandable enough, wasn't it? If Cotton could punch the bloody turncoat and get away with it, he would... but there was no chance of that, was there, not when they were surrounded by the entire French army. And none of them had any weapons any more, which wasn't helping anything.

"You're worse'n a bloody hedgepig, Joe," he muttered. "Ignore the Frog bastards - they ain't worth wastin' your breath on." He glanced at Pye. "Same goes for you, an' all."

Jérémie's face flushed hot. The use of his nickname in front of les Anglais embarrassed him. But trust it to Bright to be that carelessly casual about such things.

"Come on," he urged the limping greenjacket, slinging his musket from one shoulder so he could help the Englishman better. It was perhaps unfortunate that he couldn't speak a word of English himself. "It'll go easier with help."

The greenjacket said nothing, but grimaced and grudgingly accepted Jérémie's offered arm. Whatever had passed between him and his mates, it had made him less reluctant to accept French assistance. In that respect, Jérémie's embarrassment only deepened.

"...s' .." Pye began in responce to Cotton then frowned. "...Ain't them who's snappin'. " And left it at that. He dusted himself some, wishing he had the weight of his rifle at his side and the knowledge that they were all well back in their English camp, but for now, this had to do. And for that matter he could eat the remaining part of his French 'gift of hospitality'.

"Well, it wasn't me," Cotton responded. The injuries that Newbury had taken were enough to make anyone snappish, but he wasn't helping himself at all, that Cotton could see. Still, neither was the Englishman in the French uniform helping. Cotton wouldn't mind giving him a proper fight, although of course that wouldn't go down too well with the other Frogs.

Still, he couldn't stay safe forever... Traitors got what they deserved, in Cotton's opinion, and one day he'd end up facing a firing squad. Or a noose.

He sighed, and hoped that Maggie was all right. Being stuck here wasn't how he'd planned on things turning out, and she was probably worrying herself sick about him - the same way he'd worried about her, before Oporto, when he hadn't known whether she'd come back. The difference was that he was going to do his damnedest to get back to her. Though they were getting further and further from the British army. Still, it was less than a day since the fight and there was always a chance they could get away. Hopefully.

"..No." Pye relented with a small sigh."M' sorry." He apologised quietly. Things would be mended well and soon. He would have to take a gamble, but by the looks of it and the fact that their English fellow had told them all the benefits of joining, he thought it could work out just fine.

"'least they'll feed us and they'll let t' civilians go soon. .." He walked alongside the older man, since Rosy had taken over the other rifleman. "Do ye think we'll go far...'fore....we stop fer camp?"

Francois dutifully followed the sous-officer as that fellow led him at a quick pace straight for what appeared to be a group of prisoners. The youthful soldat had yet to see any actual fighting other than the occasional corpse in uniforms of the French and some of the enemy too. But this lot was alive. And he was being assigned to help guard them, once his company officer found out he knew how to speak English.

The sous-officer stopped in front of a knot of the guards and spoke to them first, informing them of their latest addition to their guard detail and why this particular soldier. As Francois listened to the conversation, one of the soldiers sounded exactly like an Englishman? He'd heard of the occasional deserter, maybe this was one?

"Very well, Seviere, do your duty. Oh, and don't trust any of the prisoners, they'd just as soon slit your throat first chance they get. Keep alert."

"Yessir," Francois saluted and the man departed.

One of his new comrades sauntered on up to him, "Let me guess, you're fresh from home? So you really know their language? Or did you lie to your officers just to get out of some other more unpleasant duty?"

"I have not been serving...long," Francois nodded and left it at that, was it that obvious about himself?

"And I can speak English....my mother was American, she taught me," he was more willing to be forthcoming about that fact.

The veteran grunted then gestured for the young soldier to go in the direction of the prisoners, "Very well, you go tell them when we continue the march, we expect them to keep up the pace better this time. They are a whiny, stubborn lot. They don't seem to like hearing anything from one of their own."

The veteran nodded toward Bright, with an expression that indicated he didn't much care for the renegade either. Francois had questions about the whole thing but was too shy to ask at the moment, he just nodded, "Right."

"Go tell 'em then. But don't get too close, they're so hungry they might just jump you and eat you alive. Though they wouldn't get much meat given the looks a you, boy," the veteran laughed as did a couple of the others.

Francois stifled an insolent reply, not wanting to get off on the wrong foot with his new comrades and unslung his musket. The bayonet was already fixed. He took a deep breath and closed the distance until he was within a few yards of the forlorn looking bunch of prisoners.

"Umm, all of you....I am to tell you that we...the guards...expect you will keep a better pace from here on in. It would be best for all if that happened," he addressed them, hoping he didn't sound as nervous as he felt at that moment.

Pye glanced towards the new arrival with some curiosity. He advanced on them with his musket held tight in his grip, and with the bayonet fixed. Did he expect they would harm him, had he not come close in any other way? His features were that of a rather young lad, and he did not appear to have borne the hardships of a long campaign just yet. It was something Pye was sure of. He scratched his hand across his nose, his fingers briefly drawing across the cut that extended from there down his cheek.

The lad came closer now. The young rifleman lifted his gaze and studied him more boldly than before. Perhaps that sense of nervousness that he thought he sensed in the boy, fueled his confidence just as well.

Pye blinked. The Frenchman spoke and when he did it was not in French at all! He glanced quickly at Cotton and then back at the Frog. Well, that made talking in private certainly much harder than before.

"...We can't go any fast'r n' this, n'less you get 'im a wagon. If he ain't needin' ter walk, then we'll not be needin' ter follow at his pace." He spoke dropping his uninjured hand at his side.

Francois had to strain just to understand the young soldier's reply. His mother had not taught him this sort of English. But he got the gist of it alright. They wanted a wagon? He glanced past the young soldier, who on closer look couldn't be much older than he was, toward a wounded Englishman....leg wound.

"I'm sorry, there are no wagons available, they are with the baggage. Only an officer can requisition a wagon," Francois replied.

He stepped just a bit closer to see the injured man's condition, though his grip on his musket tightened just in case.

"How bad is it?" he inquired sympathetically.

"He's very bad. 's got his side mangled up too. Though yer can't see that." Pye answered explaining. "..Dunno if it isn't his ribs bein' poorly too. But if you ain' givin' him any means o' transportation,you can't expect he'll be walking for ya any faster n' he's doing now." Pye blinked as Seviére moved closer.

"..can't yer get sum'thin''?" It felt much easier to talk to one of a similar age as himself. He did not need to feel threatened by him and the lad did look genuienly concerned. A surprising fact to the young rifleman perhaps, but an encouraging one as well. "Your officer lissen's to yer not us." He did see him with one earlier, before he joined them.

Oh God, not another one! Did everyone in this bloody army speak English/ It was going to be nearly impossible to hold a private conversation, if they did.

"He ain't so good - his side was done in an' he got roughed up good only a few days ago," Cotton replied. If they could get Newbury onto a wagon, that would solve a lot of problems - though it seemed it was going to be no easier to arrange that here than it was back with their own army. Harder, in fact, because with their own Army, Newbury had had a ticket and permission to ride in a wagon. It had been expected, in fact, that he would.

He was not going to talk to any Frog officer, though, no matter what the cause. Well... maybe for Newbury, but the other Rifleman was going to owe him afterwards.

So besides the leg wound, his ribs were injured? That was not good. As a young boy Francois had hurt his ribs during some boyish roughhousing with the neighbor boys and he would never forget the utter discomfort.

"Ribs, huh? Francois sighed, then muttered to himself mostly, "Merde."

As far as the English lad's hopes for him having the ear of an officer, that was laughable, him being not only a lowly soldat but also fresh to the company. He turned to face Pye and another soldier who also talked of the injured man's difficulties. Least they stuck up for each other, these English.

"I am sorry but I cannot go talk to an officer, I have been assigned to this duty and to leave and look for one would only get me in trouble and besides, officers do not listen to what the likes of me have to say."

Suddenly he thought of something, "Do any of you have a cup?"

"I don' think you can fit a man into a cup, uh...." He did not know what to address the lad as. "...ain't somethin' what will help him walk either unless you mean ter have him drunk 'nough not ter hurt.. but then he'll not exactly be walkin'. " Pye glanced again at Cotton. He sighed as it was clear that they could not carry the man , nor could he walk faster. They could not heal him but with that knee and the ribs in such a bad state, he would only, possibly, get worse if he was forced to march.

"..Yer attack'd us.. n' took t' wounded prisoner. If you had a mind not to transport us, you ought to have left us behind." And free. Of course.

Francois frowned, fit a man into a cup? What was the young Englishman thinking?

"No, I mean, if you have a cup on you, I could give him something to drink...it's not much but it might help dull the pain ....a little," he shrugged narrow shoulders.

"It is a war, that's what," he replied to his complaint about the French attacking them and taking some prisoners.

"At least we take prisoners...and we don't butcher them without mercy as your Portuguese allies do," Francois pointed out to the men.

"Oh. Canteen. We 'ave those." He nodded towards Cotton. "You'll fill it up...?" The boy could as well put poison in that drink as he could put alcohol. Pye was not quite sure whether he would believe him nor trust him, he knew however that their injured friend, who had not wanted even to take food offered, would not want to have anything to do with that.

So, with that fact in mind, he shook his head. " We don't know wot' you'd be putting there." He could urge the boy to drink first, but even then..

"We didn' tell t' Portuguese to do whatnot with you. 's what they think you deserve. Ain't nothing we'd say them that'd not urge them ter do worse. Don't you know.....uh.. how long have yer been on t' campaign? Here?..fightin'?"

No, not canteen," Francois thought the young English a bit thickheaded but decided to take action on the matter.

"A cup...I have one then but I want it back," he sighed and, after thinking on the risk of it for a moment and deciding the English wouldn't try anything, shouldered his musket once more.

With some dexterous reaching back into his backpack he soon produced a dented but functional tin cup and showed it to Pye, " A cup like this."

Then once more he reached back and with a hard tug, yanked out a dark bottle of moderate size from a crowded canvas pack, holding that up for the English to see as he flashed a boyish grin.

"Aguardente..the Portuguese call it. It's a sort of brandy...very strong taste," he explained as he gestured for either Pye or Cotton to take and hold the cup.

As he worked on the cork, he finally answered Pye's question about how long he had been campaigning.

"I have not been here long....I am a new replacement from France. They marched us hard thru Spain to get here. No fighting yet....though I would not mind a crack at the Portuguese."

That last was said with more bravado than actual desire, he was more than a little nervous about seeing any combat at all.

Cotton reached for his battered tin mug, but the Frenchman had got there first and was holding his own cup out. He took it,, trying to hold it steady. "We know about that stuff," he said. "It'll wake anyone up, that will." He shrugged. "We don't go burnin' their houses an' crops an' treatin' 'em like... like..." He couldn't think of a suitable comparison and shrugged, grimacing as he did so. "Seems to me it's six o' one and a half-dozen of t'other, that's about what."

And the treatment of the Portuguese and their women made him think, again, of his wife, and he wondered how she was bearing up.

Pye remained silent while the other lad talked and then the man and waited that Cotton would take the offered cup first. He was older, more experienced and in a way senior. Not an officer, no, but he did get to take what was given or offered - if offered to more - first.

"..T' Portuguese get you... it'll be.. a poor show." He murmured. "..jus' t' other night we heard it too. I think. Screamin' like it was..." He shook his head. " Or was it a day 'fore that?" His gaze shifted to the greencoated man briefly.

Francois uncorked the bottle then very carefully poured some into the cup, hoping the Englishman didn't spill any, it's not like he had anymore other than what was left in this bottle. This was precious stuff, but then he figured the English knew that.

"Yes, this has quite the kick to it," the young Frenchman agreed, pulling up on the pouring when he thought he had provided enough.

"It might deaden the pain some," he could only hope but he was not a doctor.

The other Englishman, the one about his age, had a warning about those Portuguese but that wasn't news to Francois. He'd heard plenty from veteran soldiers and even seen some of the victims.

"I suppose I cannot let myself be taken then," Francois shrugged narrow shoulders as he began to recork the bottle.