Les Prisonniers, 1 June

Water. Right. Where was his head? Jérémie nodded once and turned away, only too ready to go off in search of a canteen when he remembered he was still wearing his own. He unslung it directly and held it out.

Olivia nodded her thanks to Blanchard, and took the canteen. Opening it, she offered the water to Jenny.

"Here," she said, a little relieved at not being expected to offer further comfort.

She accepted the canteen gratefully and took a few cautious sips, then poured a little on her hands and rubbed them across her face and the back of her neck. The water was not particularly cool, but a slight breeze made it so on her skin.

She squinted at Olivia and spoke in a dull voice. "I just want to sleep."

Paol hung back on the fringe of the little group, watching the two women with concern.

"I can take them back," he said abruptly, turning to Jérémie, "To the others, I mean. If anyone asks, you can say we were gone before you got to the tent."

Francois felt very uncomfortable intruding in on the woman's conversation with the prisoner so he held back. Then the woman finally burst away into the darkness and Jeremie followed, with advice to stay with the other woman. That wasn't possible as the second Englishwoman followed right up.

The British prisoner snapped a weak protest but Francois turned to him.

"You stay where you are. Nothing is going to happen to the ladies, we are not like the Portuguese," he declared in excellent English.

Hearing Paol's offer, Olivia sent the soldier a grateful glance.

"Would you, please?" she asked, hopefully. "I think it would serve much better to just let her rest."

Turning back to Jenny, she said quieter, "Perhaps you can sleep one we're back with the other women."

Newbury stared at the Frog who'd addressed him in clear, understandable English. What the devil did this boy know?

"You can go - " he cut himself off just in time, remembering there was a lady present. "Move," he said instead. It occurred to him that this particular Frog, with his apparent command of English, had heard everything he and Jenny had said. While it had been nothing of real substance, Newbury still felt as though his privacy had been trampled upon.

He steeled himself and stepped past the boy-Frog. What did this one know about anything, anyway?

This was, Jérémie thought, a perfectly sensible solution. He nodded. "Okay. I doubt it'll be necessary, though. Leclerc hasn't been right in his head since we tried our luck against that greenjacket square."

Wounded man or not, Francois would have struck him except for the fact the ladies were present. They would have been outraged and he didn't want that so he let the wounded Englishman limp on past.

"You are not going to be allowed to go back to the tent with them, the guards will not allow such a thing," he pointed out.

Jenny's mind was too fogged to pay any attention to the French conversations going on above her. All she wanted was sleep now. She did not care what would happen to herself or anyone else, so long as she could sleep. She curled up on the ground and closed her eyes, trusting that someone else would sort matters out.

Newbury ignored the boy-Frog, being not the least interested in whatever he said.

"What've you lot done, then?" He demanded instead, lurching to an unsteady halt a couple of paces away from where Jenny had curled up on the ground.

One of the men guarding the captured soldiers gave Newbury a bark in that incomprehensible French tongue. Zeb Palmer scrambled to his feet and hurried the few paces after his fellow rifleman. "Joe. Joe, come on," he hissed. "Don't make trouble. They'll be all right."

Olivia frowned up at the commotion. The last thing any of them needed was for problems to break out between the French and their prisoners.

"Miss Ross is not feeling very well," she said in English, addressing the wounded Rifleman. "We're going to go back to the other women so that she can rest."

Turning to Blanchard, she switched back to French. "You will have to carry her. She is feeling poorly. We go back to the women now."

Perhaps it was as well that Jérémie had not yet departed. The crippled greenjacket was showing definite signs of frustrating obstinance. One of the assigned prisoner sentries was snapping orders at the Englishman, but they were useless. Of course.

Instead of speaking, Jérémie settled for reaching out to grab hold of the greenjacket's sleeve. He misjudged the movement, however, and succeeded in knocking the poor idiot sideways. The blow was not a strong one but considering the greenjacket's state, was enough to send him toppling.

Jérémie said something unpleasant.

Then, scowling, he nodded curtly at the woman who'd spoken. "Yes, fine," he grunted, deciding that getting out of there was the best thing for everyone. Mostly.

"There weren't no call for that!" Palmer exclaimed angrily as he
scrambled to help Newbury. "You all right there, man? Come on.
Nothin' we can do here."

"What was that for?" Olivia demanded.

"Are you alright?" she asked of Newbury, uncertain of what to do. The whole situation was increasingly outside of her realm of experience, and Olivia did not like feeling off-balance. If it turned into a fight, things were apt to get even worse.

"Help him back to the others," she told Palmer. "Look after him. We are leaving."

She looked back to Blanchard.

"You will be more careful with Miss Ross than you were the soldier," she told him severely.

Jérémie's scowl deepened. "That was an accident," he growled, before turning his back to cross to where the light-haired woman lay on the ground. It was easy enough to scoop her up like a bundle of hay.

"Of course I will," he added tartly. He couldn't help feeling snappish now. This whole evening was turning into a nightmare.

Jenny cringed and shivered as the soldat lifted her, but she was past caring what would happen now. She was cold now, and exhausted, and did not care if he was dumping her in a grave, just so long as everyone would leave her alone after.

Olivia sighed tiredly. She did not wish to anger the person in the best position to help. And, at least the Frenchman was helping, rather than leaving them there or bringing them back to the officers. Watching him lift Jenny, she did her best to offer a tight smile.

"Thank you," she said.

"Come on," he said, glancing back toward Paol and Sevière. The sooner they were all out of there, the better. These other idiots could deal with the angry protests and chattering from the greenjackets. It was their own fault for not keeping a closer guard on them, after all.

Jérémie started back toward the tent they had originally come from, then realised he was being rude. "You're welcome."


They go here.

Cotton had finally been able to relieve himself. He buttoned his trousers, frowning as he heard more voices speaking French. And there was someone on the ground. He approached Newbury, who was only a few feet from the figure. Even as he approached, a French soldier bent and picked her up - he could see it was a woman, now - to carry here away.

"What's goin' on, Joe?"

"He's bein' hisself as usual," Palmer grumbled as he attempted to assist Newbury. "What was all that about then? I heard Miss Ross talk about... her maid." He dropped his voice and looked around to see if anyone else was listening.

"The filthy bastard took a bloody swing is all," Newbury snapped, irritated beyond any thought of restraint. This was all so flaming stupid, and he was a fool.

"Welcome to the Frog army," Palmer muttered. "Come on, sit down. Jed's makin' up the last of our tea. And tell me what she said about Sarah!"