Prisoners.

"Ain't no use of him bein' here is there. He can get his arse where somebody'll care fer it." Pye muttered as he moved to Newbury's other side. He tucked his injured hand behind the man's back, biting on his lip as a finger grazed against the fabric. His arm twitched back sharply and he took a moment to gather his thoughts before his other arm began to make better use of itself in helping Newbury ease more of his weight from his knee. "Shoo , get lost.. ye blaggard." He muttered in the general direction of the undesired company.

The chick made a single chirp before it settled herself back to sleep where it was nice, fairly dry and warm.

"Now, you fellows," Bright commented lightly, keeping pace with them as though he was out for nothing more than a Sunday stroll. "D'you reckon it'd be half this nice for you if I weren't here? Eh? This lot don't speak a whit of the King's English an' sure you ain't knowin' a word of Frog. Like to see you get on without me!"

"When we need t' eat or drink.. we'll whistle and you can come runnin'." Like a dog, he did not add it, but he was sure thinking it. They could not discuss any plans of getting away with the unwanted company present. He almost wished that they were back to being completely without any means of communication with the Frogs other than gestures and hopeful mutterings.

Cotton was thinking plenty of uncomplimentary things and eventually gave up and swore at length in German. Serving in a battalion that mostly consisted of German soldiers could teach you something useful, he reflected, wishing he had his rifle and could clout this damn bastard over the head with it.

"You all right, Joe?" he asked, determined to ignore the turncoat. If they ignored him, hopefully he'd get bored and find someone else to plague - though he wouldn't get much out of the Germans, who would just talk to each other in their own language. Supposing that there were any German riflemen who'd been taken prisoner, anyway.

"Never better," Newbury replied airily, determined not to show so much as a glimmer of discomfort. "When d'we stop for tea?"

"Don't s'pose this lot do anythin' so civilised as tea," Cotton replied, before glancing over his shoulder at the turncoat. "Sprechen Sie Deutsch?" he asked, switching to German. He had an adequate command of the language - it would be hard not to have, after spending three years surrounded by German soldiers who didn't all have a good understanding of English.

And now it seemed that Cotton decided to speak the other tongue, the one he recognised vaguely as German. Not that he understood any of that. He frowned. He would really need to learn some words, they seemed much more useful than knowing how to read. People talked, people rarely bent over paper.

He averted his gaze and kept his steps steady and in time with Cotton's so that Newbury had an easier, more comfortable walk if anything. He chose to be silent, pretending he understood if only because he hoped that excluded the traitor.

"None of that, mon ami," Bright replied with a smirk. "If you ain't talkin' the King's fine English, best not to talk at all."

"..Look who's talkin'. Last I checked, mon ami was not English." Pye muttered. He should have ignored him but... it was easier said than done. "You don't understand it, tough chance. " He did want to say something in German, but he knew too little and remembered even less.

Bright's smirk broadened. "Ah but it ain't me who'll be shot if I don't speak just English, is it? Do you tell your mates that. Best for them to know, eh?"

"..You won't shoot us for talking German. " Pye replied harshly. "..The rifles are full of Germans... you can't tell them not to use their mother tongue." He wondered how true the threat was. It was evident that this bugger was brought to follow alongside with them so that he might hear if there was any hushhush escape planning. The Frogs were surprisingly smarter than they looked.

Was this boy honestly that stupid?

"Where I'm standin', m'child, there ain't so many of you. Some bit short of a whole comp'ny?" Bright shook his head. "Just you try it, see what happens."

"What.. you'll snitch on us. Last I've seen, Him there.. already did speak it. Ain't nobody who shot him." Why was he even talking with the traitor. Cotton suggested that he ignore him, if he had obeyed the prat might have been gone by now. "Won't you find yourself some other company, more to yer croakin' love."

It was all too clear this boy had no idea why Bright was here. Perhaps he had best enlighten him. He lifted his musket from where he'd been carrying it in the crook of his arm and pulled the hammer back to full cock. It didn't bother him at all to settle his aim on the grasshopper who was half-carrying the injured one.

His smirk had gone. "As I said, boy. No talkin' if it ain't in English."

"...Easy there. Drop it...we ain't trying to do anything. Weren't neither." Pye did not want anything to happen to Newbury or Cotton. They each had their own ladies to return to, they each had a worth and usefulness too. Vickery would be terribly upset if they were gone. "Lay off o' him!" He was expendable. Not Cotton though. Nor Newbury. They had to make it, both great shots, both good men.

So that was his answer. Amazing how a little simple force could make blowhards recant.

"That so." Bright glanced at the French guards and snapped out a couple orders. There were acknowledging nods. "Righto, infant. That there was your own free pass. Another bit of lip outta you or your mates, it'll not be so easy."

He lifted his musket again and eased the hammer down. If the boy so much as began to argue again, somebody would end up shot.

Pye looked relieved first, and then simply annoyed and angry at the fact that Bright had a musket in his hands and a backing of all the armed Frogs near and far, while they had nothing. He bit his lip and remained quiet. One small victory was achieved in the fact that nobody got killed or shot. One had to be grateful for that.

He looked at his companions and tried to replace the frown with a smile. If only they did get a surgeon to see Newbury by the end of this march, or a wagon to have him ride in it. And then maybe someone to set his own fingers back or check them. He needed those to fire.

"Much you care for the King's anythin'," Cotton said shortly, under his breath. "Bloody turncoat."

The Rifleman froze when the turncoat cocked his musket and swung it to cover him and Newbury.

"Point that thing somewhere else, can't you?" he said.

One of these days he was going to drag Pye to a quiet spot and give him a thorough lesson in knowing when to shut the hell up before he made things worse.

He slowly let his breath out when the man shifted his musket and lowered the flint. That had been a nasty few seconds.

Newbury nearly wilted with relief when the musket shifted away. Bloody hell. It was hard to decide who he was more annoyed at. This bugger for threatening them needlessly, or Pye for not shutting his gob.

"Christ," the hobbling Rifleman muttered. "Ain't this a mess."

Pye remained quiet. He was instead turning about to have himself busy with the memorisation of what he saw, how much and where. He tried his best to count the men, though he was not exactly educated in the said profession, and he tried his best to remember the path they had taken. It would not be so hard to trace their way back, if they needed it. The land beneath their feet was marked with the imprints of feed and wagons enough for that. Not even a great downpour may wash those away. Still, he felt busy and useful even if he was not.

Blasted Frogs held all the cards, it seemed. Cotton wasn't going to give in easily, though he was willing to submit for the time being and bide his time.

After all, you didn't plough a field one day and harvest it the next, did you?

It was just their luck to get a bully of a turncoat as a guard, too. He was probably the sort who picked on the weakest men, and heaven knew that right now, the Riflemen were pretty easy pickings.

Maybe there'd be a chance to talk to an officer, once they stopped for the night, and get him changed. Maybe.

"You all right there, Joe?" he asked quietly, then glanced at Pye. "Here, Zack, come and take his other arm, will you? I think he's findin' it hard goin'."

And please don't say you're not, Joe. Just pretend it's harder goin' than it is, please, he added, mentally.

Pye moved in closer to Newbury. He manevoured his injured arm to rest against Newbury's back, while his other armed took hold of Newbury's and guided it to rest across his shoulders. "M' sorry. Joe. It'll help ye better that'way." He was whispering, speaking fast as if afraid he ought really to be quiet and that the two would have wanted him so as well.

He looked up. ".. Gabe... is that a'right?"

"Mind the stave, wouldja?" Newbury gripped the long wooden staff tightly, unwilling to risk losing it. It was useful both as a walking aid and also, potentially, as a weapon. "Aches some. This damned road don't make it easy."

"Yeah, that's good, mate," Cotton replied with a nod. "You all right there, Joe?" he asked again, hoping the motion hadn't hurt the other rifleman too much. "An' you take care of them fingers, Zack. Or, would it be easier for you if we swapped sides?"

One thing was certain: Heaven help that turncoat if he ever ended up in Cotton's line of sight once they'd got back to the Army, though.

"Better so, Gabe. I can hold his arm better with this 'un, than I would with that one. Forgive me if i get some o' blood on your back though, Joe. Not on purpose, no." He smiled, trying to sound lighthearted. He wished he could act as if they had just gone on a stroll rather than going in the direction of their damnation.

He glanced at Gabriel again. "Think we'll be able ter get Joe ter a surgeon when we stop?"