Prisoners.

"You better don't. Or.. shoot y'self dead if you do get in a situation yer have no choice but to be caught." Pye studied the boy thoughtfully. ".. What sort o' stuff did you hear, I wonder." As much as this was not the sort of thing one would talk about before sleep, and even if sleep would still be a good long walk away, it was something of a morbid curiosity that urged him to suggest that the other lad shares his 'war' stories. he had none of fighting, but those perhaps would be just personal enough.

With a tug at his collar he adjusted his coat, taking great care not to disturb his treasure that hid away there. He wished to keep the little thing quiet and not to excite her by making her believe it was time to feed or walk about freely. He just hoped that she would not have problems with her being kept with so little excercise again. The horse doctor had told him it was more healthy for her to move about but this was hardly the place to allow her that. Unless he wanted her taken away and possibly killed, for sport or for a meagre snack.

"It is bad in Spain too, the Spaniards are as the Portuguese. Their bandits attack us everywhere they can on the roads. I have seen some of our men and even one of our women butchered. And whenever we get the chance, we take our revenge," Francois didn't even want to think about it really.

"Can we not talk about something else, English?" he requested softly then realized he didn't know what either of their names were. Yes, they were the enemy but they had names too.

"I am Francois. Who might you be?" he asked of the younger soldier.

OOC - Sorry for a belated post!

Cotton didn't know what else they could talk about, although he was perfectly willing to change the subject. Discussing the ordenança and their treatment of the French was not exactly pleasant, after all, and would probably be worse for the young Frenchman.

He shrugged. "What d'you want to talk about, then?" he asked, ready to show willing. Maybe the younger men's conversation would prove to be enough of a distraction that he could stop wondering and worrying for a bit.

He gave a half-grin when the Frenchman gave his name. "I'm Cotton, Gabriel Cotton," he said, although it was Pye who had been addressed, not himself.

"I'm Pye, Zachary." He gave a rueful smile , seeing Cotton in something of a better mood, lifted his spirits some as well. "..We're riflemen. S' why our coats ain't that red. Our rifles are somewhat different to your muskets. I'd show you.." He shrugged and adjusted his coat a little. "But.. for that I'd need me rifle. And unless you have one lying around..." He made sure not to show eagerness in learning where the rifles were kept. Now was after all NOT the time. "We'll keep it at that. Sayin'." He hesitated and after a few moments spoke out again: "....How come you know ter speak our language... yer ain't French?"

As each man gave his name, Francois nodded acknowledgement and committed the names to memory.

"I'm sorry we have to meet under such circumstances as war," Francois shrugged, "We do the soldiering and I would doubt any of us will profit much by this war."

He was as patriotic as most Frenchmen but he thought this whole adventure in Spain and Portugal to be a big mistake by Napoleon, for all his genius.

"Oh...my English? It is nice to practice it again. You see my mother is an American but my father is French and I was born in France."

"And as for your rifles, I know about rifles. I have never held one but I know they are different than muskets. I probably should not admit this but I barely know how to fire my musket," he smiled.

"Aye, they are." Pye studied Seviére. "..Don't you ever pick things you find left of from the dead and dying? Weapons too?" He made a note not to forget to always keep his wits about him when this boy was around. He shrugged. "It's jus... something you find 'fter all. I bet you saw some what when you were fighting our rifles." He indicated Cotton.

He looked up briefly, studying the sky though he could not make a report on what sort of weather it would be the next day. Dropping his gaze again to look at the lad he shrugged. "...war brings things ter t' fortunate, n' t' winnin'. "He waved his hand vaguely as if to try explaining.

"We might not've met was there none of the war." He concluded.

"Now that you mention it, I do recall seeing a pile of weapons in the back of one of the baggage wagons, I believe they were rifles...must have been yours as our unit does not use them," Francois revealed , rather carelessly, but the young Englishman so close to his own age had caused him to relax his guard.

"But I was not in on the fighting, I only arrived with some of the replacements after your fight," he had to point out.

"You are right about us only meeting because of the war," Francois agreed then added, "Though now that we've met I should hate to ever have to be in a situation where we would have to kill each other. It is a good thing you are prisoners, your war is over."

The wounded greenjacket was a sullen fellow, Jérémie thought. He spoke not a word but it was easy to tell his mood. Even if he had felt talkative, Jérémie would have been hard-put to answer back. He did not know any English, after all.

He could, however, hear the conversation being held between the other two greenjackets and their new escort. That could lead to bad things, he knew. But he wasn't going to suggest more vigilance. Not yet. Those two seemed to be settling down a little and that could only be a good thing.

"I'll see about finding you a cart," Jérémie told his greenjacket in an undertone, unable to help feeling a little sympathy for him. He looked pretty poor used indeed.

Ah. That was a bit of information that Pye treasured. The sort that greatly lifted his mood, though he did not show it. He gave a faint shrug. " Not necessarily." He murmured and adjusted his coat, though he thought it still in a rather deplorable state. Could not be helped. No amount of sewing could bring it back to its glory. A lost cause that would need a replacement.

"...You've a long way ter take us. And things might not always be, as they're now." He left it at that and averted his gaze thoughtfully towards Cotton. "..'ey. You'm doin' a'right?" He had known Newbury to be injured, but he had little time to see if any of the harm was sustained by Cotton. He doubted the man would much point to it, even if there was.

Francois did not like the young man's reply. It sounded very much like the English had not accepted their captivity and might try something foolish, like escaping. He frowned.

"I would not try anything, next time instead of being taken prisoner, you might well be killed. You'd best not make trouble but accept your lot," he warned Pye.

Francois liked the young soldier but sadly they were enemies and it was war. If worse came to worse, he would have to do what was necessary.

"Yeah, I'm all right," Cotton replied. He'd be even better if they were with their own army and he still had his rifle and sword, of course. He felt naked without their comforting weight.

As for 'accepting their lot', he had no intention of doing that and getting marched right across Portugal, Spain and half France and spending the rest of the war in prison somewhere - his wife would never forgive him if he didn't at least try to get back to her, to say nothing of his mates and the Captain.

They'd just have to be a bit clever doing it, that was all - and that meant not talking about it within earshot of any of the Frogs.

"..'s other ways." Pye murmured, not happy to discuss that infront of Cotton. Not just yet. Not when there was a glimmer of hope that he did not need to do it and yet he knew he had to.

He concentrated on Cotton briefly, and gave the man a nod. "'s good then." No injuries meant one able body. That was good news. The bad news was that his chick had decided that it was indeed hungry and began to peck at his shirt. It tickled but he could not scratch it, else he might cause her to chirp.

He did not want her taken away. Not his chick. "Gabe, you stick with Newbury if'un we get parted. He needs yer shoulder n' strength." He wanted to know where they were and not to have them scattered all about. it was only sensible to say that. The French did not appear as eager to offer assistance for long. And even if they did, he hoped to have Cotton and Newbury together. He could keep the other man's mind off of the grimmer thoughts.

Francois wondered if perhaps the English were done talking with him, so he figured he'd better collect the tin cup of his.

"Excuse me, but could I have my cup back? I probably should go back to my comrades I suppose," he addressed Cotton and Pye, as he stuffed the brandy bottle back into his backpack.

Cotton held the tin cup out for the French soldier to take. What he wanted was a sit down, a rest and time to think, to work out what to do now.

One consolation, he hoped, was that the French didn't know all that much about Riflemen and wouldn't realise that they were allowed to think for themselves in a way that other soldiers weren't, which meant that they hopefully had an advantage in planning and executing an escape back to their own army.

"..See you then." Pye nodded and marked the little bit of news. Rifles were still somewhere with the French which meant they were not lost. He leaned back and looked at Cotton. "...We might..need to.. consider our options." He then shrugged and lifted his gaze to study the sky and the high ends of trees.

"...I...will need to lean some." And he did so, for the sole reason of wanting to feed his chick. Which he also did, hoping to keep the feeding short (and sadly this meant that she would receive little at a time) and unnoticed.

Once the small handful of crumbs were doused down his shirt (where the chick was).. he sat up again. Would do for the moment.