Prisoners.

"Think he's motionin' to us." Could be the Frog had a seizure, or he was really thinking to have them move closer. "Come." He said grabbing a hold of Cotton and pulling him along. His guess was correct. The two French soldiers closest did not react to their movement.

Good.

Quite the opposite, in fact. One of the frogs grew impatient with their slow movement and lack of comprehension, and he gave Cotton a shove towards Newbury.

The French obviously weren't too pleased, though Cotton wasn't sure if it was something that he'd said, or because he wasn't moving fast enough. He was shoved roughly in Newbury's direction and caught his foot on a stone, stumbling a little before he regained his balance.

"Joe," he called, risking the Frog's further displeasure. "Joe Newbury!"

That was Cotton calling out to him. A language he could understand, at last.

"Get these fly-eating fools away from me," Newbury snapped. "Before I knock 'em into last year."

"Oh, don't do that, Joe," Cotton said, jogging the few yards between them. "Anyhow, I don't croak Frog - can't tell 'em you'm wounded, like, y'know." He shrugged. "Not without a whole lot of pantomimin', anyhow." He looked at Newbury, anxiously. "You seen Maggie anywheres about?"

Heh. Croak Frog. That was a good one. Newbury used his staff to hobble forward again. "Maybe. Ain't got any interest in that, though. They'd no understand sense if it whacked 'em in their ear."

He paused a moment when he asked after Missus Cotton. The last Newbury had seen her, she was running fit to fly toward the safety of the column far ahead. Whether she'd made it or not was hard to say.

"Not since yesterday," he replied presently. "She was doin' a fine job of hidin' from those bastards ransackin' our baggage."

"I... I hope she's safe, out of all this an' back with the others." Though, quite where the others were, he had no idea. Newbury's awkward hobble made him frown in consternation. "Ain't you allowed to ride, what your knee the way it is, mate?" he asked, worried.

Ride? Heh.

"Might've, if I hadn't knocked a couple of their dragoons around after surrenderin'. They ain't took too well to me since," Newbury answered airily.

"Oh, you... When will you ever learn?" Cotton said softly. "You'll get yourself killed one o' these days, if so be you ain't careful. Let's hope the Captain can sort summat out an' get us home to the Army afore you do get yourself killed."

Newbury shrugged then grimaced. "It was worth it, really." He didn't know what, if anything, the captain could do for them but it was a nice thought.

Pye advanced to the pair too, though he walked in silence while Cotton and Newbury nattered away. The Frog's idea for them moving up to Newbury was to make that man go faster, but he'd not go and grab an arm of Newbury's to help him walk, unless told to. He looked ahead, trying to make himself useful, though how anything he saw now was of any use, was beyond him. He did not remember Newbury seeing Maggie, however if he said he did, he must have. There were plenty of girls around at one point, anyhow.

But the Frog had not invited them to their friend's side for a social visit. Chatting would do little to speed a man with a limp and a crutch; if anything, it was having the opposite effect. Gesturing and jabbering away in angry French, he grabbed at Pye's arm and shoved him towards Newbury.

Pye stumbled, following after his arm more willingly than he would usually. He managed to stop before he would come in contact with Newbury and send them both sprawling. "Joe." He mumbled rather timidly as he moved to the side which would enable his good arm do all the work. "Think that's wot' they want. M' sorry." He apologised without needing to. Taking Newbury's arm he moved to place it over his own shoulders to ease some weight of the man off of his legs. In all the while he was expecting protest or a blow to come back as a favour.

Ah. Obviously the Frog had meant for Cotton to actually help Newbury - something he would have offered to do anyway if he hadn't been sure that such an offer would have been refused. He moved around to Newbury's other side.

"Sorry, mate, seems they want us to help, even if you'd rather not," he said in a low voice. "Reckon the captain'll do what he can afore we get took too far away from the army."

If the Captain himself hadn't been captured, of course. And even if he had, he'd be able to give his parole and would likely get exchanged so that he could do something for them.

"I'm sure it'll work out somehow," he added, hoping he sounded more sure than he felt.

"It'll work out, sure," a new voice said, sounding inordinately cheerful. "Give that beggar a hand, you fellows, and get to movin'. This lot don't like bein' made to wait."

What the...? Cotton twisted around to see who was talking, more than a little miffed. He didn't need to be told to help his own mate, after all.

"What the flamin' hell d'you think we'm doin'?" he said, nettled.

The newcomer smirked and stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Don't look like all'at much, an' that's the truth. C'mon then. Get him movin' or there ain't a thing I can do fer you."

"Who the hell...?!" The stranger with the English accent was wearing a French uniform - and there could only be one reason for that.

Cotton's expression darkened and he turned his head to spit into the dust of the roadside.

A deserter.

"That's all we bloody well need," he muttered. "Best get movin'. Joe, how're you holdin' up?"

Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

"Like to knock that fool's ears together," Newbury grumbled, his grip on the wooden stave white-knuckled. As if this wasn't humiliating enough!

"That makes two of us, then, Joe," Cotton said. He had no sympathy for deserters - going off and leaving other people to do their work, as well as their own. And men who deserted to the enemy were even worse than that, and deserved what they got when they were caught.

Pye glanced at the newcomer. "You're with them?..Wot on' earth for?" He indicated the French. Already trying to communicate would be hard, let alone wanting to desert to them. They were not French, not the Frogs. He scowled. He heard rumours about them yes, but those were lies to make people want to turn coats!

The man smiled broadly. "Better life, innit? This lot don't kick its lads around an' all. Knowin' how to live, they do, too. Anyhows, you fellows, keep it movin'. Mebbe in a bit there'll be a wagon for you, if you behaves."

In the stream of people moving forward, Jed Palmer had finally managed to make his way closer to his mates and overheard the bloody turncoat speaking to them in English. "But your lot killed our captain," he spat.

"Don't waste your breath on deserters, Pye - they ain't worth it," Cotton said.

There was another familiar voice behind him and he twisted around to see Jed Palmer. He went cold when he heard the man's news, though.

"Killed... Oh, God, no! Not the Captain!"

Jed's face was ashen. "Wasn't you with him, Gabe?"