June 1 - Near the officers' tents

(continued from this thread)

And that, it appeared, was that. Turning away from the officer’s tent, Paol let out a long breath. “Thank you,” he said, glancing over at Turcat, “So. Where are you headed? On duty or off?”

"Kerjean!" a surprised voice exclaimed. Marie-Eve Bellot ran to him and wrapped an arm around his neck. "Turcat! Thank God, the 86e at last."

"Marie-Eve!" cried Paol, forgetting his manners in his utter surprise at seeing her alive. Separation from the main column, unless one was fortunate enough to be captured by the British, was tantamount to a death sentence. The Portuguese were highly effective in that respect.

He returned her embrace awkwardly. "You are—" Alive? That was a monumentally stupid thing to say. "Alright?" he finally managed to stammer, "And the little one?"

Suddenly there were tears in her eyes, tears of relief, but she was smiling. "Yes. Yes, we are well. He's here," she said, turning to show him the sleeping infant strapped to her back. "He hurt his head and I want to take him to the surgeon, but - we are well." She gave him such a weary and relieved smile to be home at last, with her own people. "Can you show me where you're bivouacked?"

“Yes, of course,” he replied hastily, grinning with relief, “It should not be far.” He cast his gaze about, looking for the most logical direction. He kept glancing down at Bellot’s wife as he began to move, watching with concern for any sign of injury or fatigue. "Did you--How did you get back?" he asked after a moment.

She looked up at him in surprise. "I was with the English in their baggage train!" she explained, as if the answer were obvious. "I was with them a whole week."

“Oh. I thought...” He felt suddenly embarrassed of his assumption and trailed off. “I am glad you are back,” he finished instead.

Oh. She could guess what he was thinking. "There were some Portuguese who gave me a fright, but some English hussars took me in," she explained gently. "And Rémy-Jean had hurt his head, but they took care of him too." She chose to gloss over it lightly, not wanting to dwell on that particular terrifying event. At any rate, the babe seemed to be nearly recovered by now.

Paol's face darkened at the mention of the Portuguese, but he did not press her further on it, nor on the hospitality of the English. They were passing cook fires now, ringed with familiar faces, some of whom called greetings or waved. Paol halted, looking down at her, "This alright?"

"Oh yes!" she laughed, greeting the others happily. "My friends! Yes, I've come back to you. Oh dear Paol, thank you. Have you eaten? Were you involved with taking the English baggage? I was never so pleased to see the dragoons." She stopped abruptly and looked up at him. "Was that Lieutenant Jourdain's tent? I saw Bourque there. Did I interrupt you and Turcat? I didn't even stop to ask if you were on duty."

"No, it was not like that. I am on duty, but with the prisoners, not Jourdain. Will you be alright here?" he asked, changing the subject, "Is there anything you need?" She had, he recalled, somewhere in the flurry of questions, mentioned eating, "You are hungry?"

"Were those women prisoners?" she asked with a frown.

"Yes," admitted Paol reluctantly. Then, because it seemed inevitable, "Jourdain wanted them."

"He wanted them?" she repeated, her frown deepening. "Paol. The English were very kind to me. I hope..." She trailed off and simply shrugged at him with a look of reproach.

He wished to God she wouldn’t look at him like that. After an awkward pause, he shook his head, “I do not think they will be as fortunate.”

Now she looked positively furious. "I'm going to talk to Monsieur Jourdain," she announced quietly, turning back in that direction.

For a moment, Paol simply stared after her. She was going to do what? Oh, hell... He leapt forward, reaching for her arm, “What do you mean? What are you going to do?”

She stopped short as he grabbed her arm. "I don't know! I'll... tell him I'm back and reporting for duty. And... I don't know!" And neither did she care. She would burst in on the lieutenant and interrupt him. That was enough of a plan for now.

“You cannot just barge into an officer’s tent!” he protested, “You will not help them or yourself by making him angry.”

"No," she agreed reluctantly. That much was true.

“If you mean to shame him, believe me, those two are more than equal to the task. Please, Marie-Eve...”

She relented somewhat. "Those two women? But what about all the other women? The English protected me from the Portuguese," she said, choosing her words carefully. "Look. The Portuguese did that to my nice dress. What a chore it was to sew it back. And my baby, the English brought back my baby when I thought the Portuguese had killed him." She frowned. "We're not like the Portuguese."

Paol felt a surge of bitterness. “Have you forgotten Villaviciosa? Or Evora?” he demanded. Or Port Margot. Or.... “Men are men; you have been in this long enough to know that.”

She continued glaring . "That was different! And the Portuguese are different, and this is different." Or was it? Maybe he was right. Maybe men were men. Maybe they were all ravenous dogs in their lusts, and murderous beasts in their rage, and weeping children in their hurts, exactly the same. Why was she even having this conversation with a man? Rémy would have understood, but obviously not Kerjean.

"I'll tell you one thing, Paol Kerjean. If women were running this war, we'd all be home by now."

Paol shrugged. “Perhaps.” He didn’t know how to answer her animosity nor how to explain himself when, if he were completely honest, there was nothing to explain, only excuses. At least she seemed momentarily distracted from taking on Jourdain.