Les Prisonniers, 1 June

Polly was relieved at the chance to sit and rest, but it did little to lessen the panicked tears that had been building since they'd been captured. She moved over towards where the woman she had been attempting to escape with was standing. It amazed Polly that the older woman seemed able to speak French.

"What are they saying?" she whispered, voice quavering. "What happens to us now?"

"I think we're stopping to make camp now," Jenny said, turning to look at the young girl. She looked positively terrified. Jenny was not generally one to offer maternal comfort, but neither did she want to witness a tearful scene. She patted the girl on the back and gave her shoulder a squeeze. "There's nothing to worry about, little one. Soon we'll have supper, and I'm trying to get this infernal idiot to find us some tea. Then we'll all go home to the army again, maybe tomorrow some time."

She gave Kerjean a reproachful frown, as if he alone had made a young girl cry. "Paul! She want some tea," she said, gentle rebuke in her voice.

Setting down his pack, Paol turned reluctantly, “What?” Then, noticing the crying girl, "She is hurt?" he demanded, his exasperation fading to concern.

"Yes," Jenny said, scowling. "And she has of the fear. You! You are badly man."

Paol flinched. “How is she hurt?”

Hmm. The girl was not actually hurt that Jenny could see, but she asked her anyway. "Are you hurt at all, dear? I'll bet your feet are sore."

After passing the order that the Company was to halt and set up camp, Goyette left his sergeants to oversee the operation in his section, knowing that they had more than proved to him that there was no need to hover. Although he had been an officer for nearly a year, it was still his instinct to walk amongst the men, correcting or aiding them as he saw fit. Having been on the other side, however, he knew how irritating it was; so instead, Goyette began to set up his own tent.

"Sir?" said a private timidly, after a few minutes. Goyette looked up. Two painfully young men were standing there, looking like they did not know what to do with their hands. Probably fresh from the training company.

"Mind your manners, soldat," Goyette said, but not unkindly.

"Yes, sir. Good afternoon, sir."

Goyette looked at him, expecting him to continue.

"Sergeant Etienne said we were to set up your tent, sir."

Oh. Goyette paused, then straightened up, trying to look like he had not forgotten yet again that his commission came with benefits, and that it would not do to always deny them. "Well... Quickly now. I have work to do."

He suppressed a sigh as they hurried to get it done. Of course. Only that left him with little else to do; and now he did not know what to do with his hands. Across the way, he saw Lieutenant Jourdain with a similar dilemma, although he seemed to be handling it less awkwardly. Jourdain was resting his feet, splayed out on a chair, looking cheerful as ever. Goyette only knew him as the lanky, unambitious commander of the first platoon, having had little opportunity or will to socialize since Jourdain had replaced Lieutenant Charpentier a month ago. As Goyette contemplated interrupting the other lieutenant's resting state for the sake of mere conversation, Jourdain sprang up and began making his way to the other end of the camp, headed towards the prisoners. Goyette took that as his cue and walked quickly to catch up.

"Sir."

He must have said something right, because he earned a wide smile from Jourdain, and an enthusiastic "Goyette!"

"Sir," he repeated, mildly bemused and taken aback.

"Come with me to pick out a pretty English dinner guest," said Jourdain, not noticing.

"Er."

"Or a handsome one," Jourdain went on, lifting an eyebrow and glancing at his new companion. "Vivez la Revolution, as they say."

"No," said Goyette, but it was too late. They were nearing the section of female prisoners. The other lieutenant stopped and began looking them over with an almost admirable shamelessness.

Wiping at her eyes, Polly said, "'M not hurt." She did her best to offer a smile. "I s'pose we're all a bit sore from walking, though."

Her attempt to smile faded as she looked past the soldier that had been guarding the women. Moving to stand even closer to Jenny, she whispered tightly, "There's more soldiers as is lookin' at us."

Paol looked over his shoulder towards where the girl was staring and caught sight of the two officers. It didn’t take much imagination to guess why they were there. Cursing softly in Breton, he turned back to the two women. “Turn around,” he told the elder of the two, “Now.”

Jenny frowned in slight confusion before she realized the man was speaking in reference to the officers that the girl had noticed. "Don't look at them, dear," Jenny said to Polly, gently turning her by the shoulders. "Look that way instead. Do we see any of our friends over there?"

"Sir, I must protest," said Goyette, putting a hand on Jourdain's shoulder. He was certainly not unused to the practice, having witnessed it many times throughout his career, but it had always made him deeply uneasy; and until now, he had not been in a position to avert it.

"Why?" said Jourdain, not looking away from the prisoners.

"I have no love for the English, but these women are under our charge. It is our duty as gentlemen to protect them until--"

"Of course it is," Jourdain said sharply, lowering his voice. "And if we can give one or two of them a decent meal while doing so, so be it. You know what will happen when night falls."

Goyette fell silent. The lieutenant walked towards the women jauntily, and choosing one seemingly arbitrarily, said authoritatively in heavily accented English, "You. You will come with me to dinner this night." He added, after glancing at Goyette, "Bring your friend."

Jenny stared at him coldly, then looked at his fellow officer. After a long moment of incredulity, she finally gave him a sickly smile and said, "Of course. But not my friend. She is trop trop malade. Instead, why don't we ask..." She paused and looked over the crowd of camp followers, and then waved. "Mrs. Graham! Olivia Graham. Would you come here, please?"

The sound of her name being called startled Olivia out of her irritated and tired surveillance of their surroundings. The capture and subsequent forced marching of the women was beyond her realm of experience, and Olivia was doing her best to focus on her sore feet and indignation rather than the hint of fear she could feel creeping. She heard her name again. Glancing around, she saw Jenny Ross waving her over to where several French soldiers and another young woman stood.

Olivia straightened her dress slightly, brushing some of the dust off. Two of the Frenchman looked important. Perhaps they would be able to bargain with them somewhat for return to the English. Heading over, she schooled her features to a calm haughtiness she did not entirely feel.

"Yes, Miss Ross?" she asked, keeping her voice as light as though they were sitting at tea. "Is there anything I can help you with?"

She noticed the girl behind Jenny - small, terrified seeming thing - shoot her a startled glance. Clearly the girl thought her tone was completely out of place, but Olivia kept her gaze on the other woman, offering only a cursory polite nod to the Frenchman beside them. Best to keep the men on their toes.

"Mrs. Graham," Jenny said, inclining her head. "These officers are inviting us to dine with them. It's a shame we don't speak French well enough to understand them," she added, "But they appear to speak English."

Hearing the officer speak, Paol straightened up sharply, saluting them both, his expression draining into a blank mask, belied only by his hands which he had unconsciously balled into fists at his sides. Aside from the few words of French from the woman, the exchange remained unintelligible to him, though the knowledge would hardly have made any difference. There was nothing he could do.

"Are they, indeed," Olivia said, raising her eyebrows.

She noticed the other girl opening her mouth, likely to protest that she had heard them speak French prior to capture, and kept talking smoothly to override her. The less the French knew, the better.

"You gentlemen are too kind," she said drily, "to honour us with a dinner invitation."

Jenny turned to the young girl who was still standing at her side, gawking. "Now little one - what was your name? Polly. This man is named Paul, and he will take care of you. Anything you want, you tell Paul here, all right?"

"You're going wiv them?" Polly gasped. She twisted her apron nervously in her hands, and looked between Jenny and the two French soldiers. "D'you think you'll be safe 'n all?"

She glanced suspiciously at the indicated soldier - Paul - and bit her lip. He did not look overly scary, but he was still French... Still, she was more immediately worried about her new friend going off with the new officers.

"What iff'n you needs help?" she said.

"If I need help?" Jenny repeated, laughing gently. "I'm sure these officers have servants to help guests, you know. Same as ours. Now you make sure Paul gives you as good a supper as can be found. You hear that Paul? Polly, din-ner."

Paol stared helplessly at the woman, unable to understand a word she was saying or why she should suddenly think he could speak English. He listened intently nonetheless as though if he concentrated hard enough something would make sense. Finally, more through gestures than anything else, he gathered that she was referring to the young girl beside her and that the girl was called Pali DiNur or something like that. He wasn’t sure what he was agreeing to, but he nodded anyway.

"You have a strange way of doing things, for an officer," muttered Goyette, as Jourdain strolled back to him, looking pleased with himself. "I'll have no part in it, sir."

"Oh, you will," said Jourdain, smiling. Despite his freckles he was strikingly handsome, and clearly unused to being told 'no.' At least he seemed to have a good heart, despite all his posturing. "Corporal, take note of those two. Have them brought to my tent before dinner. My servant will dress them appropriately."

"You keep women's clothing amongst your personal effects?" said Goyette, astonished.

"You never know when it might come in handy, my dear fellow."

“Kerjean!” barked St Laurent, striding over, “Keep an eye on those two. Jourdain wants them at his tent in half an hour.” Then, misinterpreting the look on Paol’s face, he chuckled, “Officers first, lad. You’ll get your chance.”

As the corporal made his way off down the line, Paol buried his gaze in the dirt, his face turning a miserable shade of red. Nine years. He ought to have been used to it by then.

With the officers gone, Jenny rounded on Kerjean in quiet fury. "You are everybody badly men! What is it? Love? The bed after the dinner? I am going to killed them."

Olivia turned her own glare on the soldier.

"C'est vrai!" she snapped. "You should all be ashamed of your behavior. Not a gentleman here."

Paol endured the censure in silence. Once he opened his mouth to speak, but shut it almost immediately. After a long moment, he tried again, his gaze still bent on the ground. “I can’t help,” he admitted wretchedly, “Not with the officers.”