Les Prisonniers, 1 June

There was a sharp movement to his left as one of the prisoners stumbled sideways into his path. Paol automatically leveled his musket, prodding the woman back into line with the flat of his bayonet.

"Easy!" Jenny snapped, glaring at the Frog. After a moment of formulating the French words in her mind, she spoke again. "I'm tired. We have tired and we are hunger," she said accusingly. "When is it that we have stopped?"

Paol stared at the woman, surprised and mildly confused at what he had just heard. However, he understood enough of the important words to piece together what she meant to say and, after a moment, shrugged. “Whenever they tell us.”

"You!" she replied, pointing a finger at him. "You stop. We are hunger and cold and tired, and the feet are... injured. You say, we stop," she commanded.

Him? Paol glanced around to be sure that she was not, in fact, addressing some officer or other, but this did not appear to be the case. "I can't," he replied, shrugging again apologetically, "We stop when the column stops."

She was not entirely sure what he was saying, but it was obviously a negative and probably a denial of responsibility. "You say to the officer," she demanded. She gave him a sharp look and then asked "What is your name?"

"Paol Kerjean," he answered after a moment's hesitation.

"Paul," she repeated as best she could. She gave him a pretty smile. "Paul, you say to the officer: we are stopped. We tired and hunger and... cold and injured and thirst and no walk." She pointed at the dusk sky growing rosy and violet. "No sun! When is it that we sleeps!"

Paol returned her smile uncertainly, nodding in the direction she had gestured, "Yes. Not much longer."

That was not satisfactory. "Now."

With a sigh, Paol shifted his attention to the road in front of him. He too was tired and hungry and the last thing he wanted right then was to get in an argument over something he had absolutely no control over. Perhaps if he ignored her, she would stop.

Coward. She was not going to make it easy for him by being quiet and compliant. With a startled cry she threw herself down on the road and turned to clutch her ankle. "Paul! The foot, the foot! I do not walk," she exclaimed piteously. Many of the women around her stopped in concern.

Paol turned in surprise to find the woman suddenly lying in the road, clutching her ankle in seeming pain. He was mildly skeptical, but her cries were convincing and feigned or no, he could hardly leave her lying there. Slinging his musket over his shoulder, Paol bent down, grasping her under her arm and pulling her to her feet. Some of his fellows were trying to get the other women moving again and Paol gestured to the two girls nearest. “Help,” he ordered, pronouncing the word awkwardly. It was one of the few English words he knew.

Jenny whimpered and accepted the assistance of a couple of other women. "I only asked him for a drink of water, and he knocked me down," she told them. The women turned and gave him angry glares.

"Bastard," one of them spat.

Paol unslung his musket and turned away. He hardly needed to know English to understand what the woman meant by that last word, but least they were moving again. Shifting the weight of his pack, he glanced towards where the sun had set. He would be glad when they could make camp and, judging from the speed the light was fading, that would not be long.

Jenny limped for a while, but it soon grew tedious. "I'm all right now, thanks," she told the women at her sides and resumed her normal walk. It was not difficult to include the occasional limp, however. It felt as though a new blister was forming on her heel. She wondered what the French for "blister" was.

"Paul, dear Paul," she said, moving closer to him as she walked. "You have wife? You are in love?"

"Wh--uh,no," he stammered, colouring slightly.

"Not at all?" she asked, pityingly. "Poor Paul. What sad."

Paol glanced sidelong at the woman. She no longer appeared to be angry with him, but he was not entirely sure that that was a good thing. Growing up with four sisters had, at least, taught him that much. By way of a response, he simply shrugged. He was in no position for that sort of thing. Besides, to have something and be separated from it seemed to him infinitely more painful than to not have it in the first place.

Their pace had begun to slow and, looking farther on ahead, Paol could see groups stopped and beginning to move from the road. Behind them St Laurent, their caporal began calling orders.

"You tell them to move off the road," Paol told the woman, gesturing at the other female prisoners, "Then we will make camp."

Jenny understood only a fraction of what he said, but she noticed his gestures and looks. "We will stop?" she asked hopefully.

"Yes," he said nodding and trying to speak as simply as he could, "We are stopping. We are leaving the road. We go--" he pointed in the direction the others were beginning to be herded, "There."

At last. In this, Jenny was compliant enough. "He says we're going over there and stopping," she told the other camp followers. It would be a relief to finally stop marching. And she knew what would make it even more a relief. "I would like some tea, Paul," she said loftily. Why did it have to be such polite phrasing that came first to her mind? She thought again and said, "I want some tea."

"Tea? What's 'tea'?"

Jenny frowned. What was the matter with this fellow? The word for tea was simple enough, thé, and everyone knew what that was. "Tea. Tea tea tea!" she repeated. Blockhead!

Paol’s features drew into a puzzled frown as she repeated the word over several times. Not helpful. “Sit,” he said instead, since they had just about reached the place the others were stopping, “Rest. Rations – food will come later.”

He turned to see Couture striding towards him, a disgusted look on his face. “Sergent says we got first watch with this lot,” he announced loudly, jerking his thumb towards where St Laurent and their sergent were standing. The news was met with a chorus of groans and curses. Paol shook his head; that figured. In the long run, they were probably better off with this arrangement, but at the moment he would have given nearly anything for a chance to get some shuteye. Shifting his musket to one hand, he began to shed his pack. That, at least, would be a blessing.