June 1 - Walking Back

Fortin cocked his head at Pye, wondering just was he was still rambling on about. He made out the word "French", and looked over at Le Bras.

"He is asking to learn French?" he asked. That his companion spoke English was mystifying to Fortin. He'd never really seen cause to learn, himself. But, it certainly would have helped now to know more than the very little he had picked up.

Then, looking back to Pye. "Français," he said slowly, trying his best to enunciate clearly. Your word - French. It is français."

"What's this?" asked Langlade as he came strolling up. "Teaching a rosbif to speak proper?"

"Aye. Thinkin' of changin' his coat, this one," replied Le Bras.

Langlade stared hard at the greenjacket for a moment, and then shrugged. "Then best get started in teachin' him the basics, eh? Va te faire f-----," he said, slowly and loudly for the young lad to hear. "It's like 'bon jour.' Va te faire f----. Get him to tell that to the sergeant."

Pye had first repeated the word for French, and was convinced that perhaps the man did understand what he had wanted even if he did not understand english. Then another French soldier joined them and he seemed to have been told what his want of learning was. He arched a brow though. There was something suspicious about this eagerness. Sure, he did not know what "Va te faire f----' meant, but... was it really the same as bon jour?

He repeated it no less, a couple of times to get the pronountiation right. He then glanced at Langlade, towards Le Bras and spoke quietly. "Wot' 'zactly does it mean?"

The little group was just passing a cluster of men gathered over a cooking pot. Langlade apparently recognized them, and he winked at his friends. "Like this. Bon soir, Saint-Pierre!" he called to one of their number.

"Va te faire f-----," the man replied half-heartedly, not even bothering to look up from his soup.

Well, it was a sensible reply then. Or a sensible greeting anyway. That man did not know there to be a joke played on him - so Pye thought - so if he replied in kind. He repeated both. "Bon soir." and "Va te faire f-----." To himself. Very well, the second was longer but he thought he did master the manner of saying it quite well. He smiled broadly at Le Bras. See, he could learn quite fast!

Fortin frowned at Laglade.

"Don't tell him to say that!" he said. "Le Bras and I will be the ones to get in trouble for it."

To Pye, he said sharply: "No. Bad. Mal."

He blinked. So, was it like Bon jour, or was it not like that? It appeared to be bad. Bad was mal in French. He nodded. Mal. "S'cuse me but.... what does it mean?" He asked, hopeful that Fortin would tell him the truth when the others appeared to lie. Unless he was now teasing him? Darn the French language. It was too complicated!

And still the greencoat chattered at him in English! Fortin gave Le Bras a pleading look, hoping the man would translate for him.

"Tell him not to say it," he said. "We'll get in trouble for that, quick enough."

Pye studied Fortin. He seemed a bit upset and this made the young rifleman decide he could try a word very appropriate for such a situation. He took a deep breath, hesitated, grinned and uttered: "Merde!" Then looked at Fortin. Non mal though..oui?" He knew these two words and hoped he said it well.

"Quoi?"

Fortin stared at Pye for a long moment, trying to figure out why the young Englishman seemed so very proud of himself for swearing. He shook his head.

"It is bad," he said severely. "Don't say it to the sergeant. Comprends? Not to the sergeant. Très mal."

Langlade snickered. "He knows what he wants to say to the sergeant. Don't we all."

".. Mal.. Tres mal." Pye paused and raised his hand upwards and held three fingers up. "Tres?" He asked. "Three?" It was similar, but could mean a completely different thing. "no sergeant..." He nodded and glanced at the men who so eagerly told him the bad words. "Why .. .. not say?" He pronounced each word very slowly as if thinking that by making it slow it would suddenly be understood. This time his eyes were on Langlade.

"You go ahead and say it to the sergeant," Fortin retorted. "I'll wait here."

He made a frustrated noise at Pye as the boy spoke slowly to him. He was not going to spontaneously understand just because he spoke loudly and slowly.

"Learn a real language," he muttered, irritated. Then, louder: "No. Not to the sergeant."

"Go **** yourself!" Le Bras, who had been trying amidst the chatter to recall the English translation, announced suddenly.

Pye averted his gaze towrads Le Bras with a startled expression on his face. For a moment he thought the man just suddenly decided to curse, but then one and one was added and he nodded. "T' earlier... it isn't a greetin'...not t' sort o' polite." He murmured to see that Le Bras would confirm his findings.

"...Thank you.." He added, having it explained proper. "Wot is he saying?" He indicated Fortin. "Other'n'...did he say I shouldn't say it ter t' Sergeant.. that it was bad?"He looked ahead briefly , just to be sure they had not yet arrived at their destination.

"Yes. Do not swear at the sergeant," replied LeBras, speaking slowly and clearly. "As tempting as it might be," he muttered in French.

"...That's no differen' n' us then." Unsurprisingly. "Not n'lles they can't hear you. " He added with a slight shrug. "I shall be silent 'front of your sergeant. Bes' course o' action." Not to get anyone in trouble with his talk and language learned, that he might not have learned correctly.

He relaxed his hand at his side, the injured still at his chest. He was still thinking. Even now. What course could he take that would enable Cotton, and Newbury more so, to escape now that he remained with some strength. The longer that man would remain here, the greater the chance he would have himself beaten into an early grave. Pye sighed quietly. The longer he considered his options, the less likely it seemed that any of his early plans would come to be. He wished not to despair, wished he had more time, but Newbury was not getting better by the day.

Cotton could manage. The man was in fair health, and then there were others. Some of those he wished to remain as prisoners.. yet knew that they should be helped as they too were fighting the enemy at the very least. No..not unless the whole of the French guards would have become drunk. Only then this could become a successful escape. Perhaps that, or an event which would have all men looking one way. But since there was little chance he could innitate celebration...what else was there, left?

A fleeting thought even appeared in which he could have done something so atrocious that perhaps by everybody witnessing the enacted punishment of him with a deadly result.....he would have been willing to sacrifice that.

His gaze had become solemn in thought. All he did wish was to help his friends return to their army and their loved ones. Cotton to his Maggie. He bit on his lip. He felt tired, not from physical exhaustion, not from pain or injury, but just because what had appeared so possible before, now felt...quite not so. And his mind could not procure a better idea, a better choice. If only Newbury would not have become worse and worse.. as day would go. Only if he would have actually been healing with rest and all. His chick nestled herself in the hidden pocket and seemed to snuggle close to his heart. She was kindly quiet perhaps sensing danger.