June 5th - No longer black, but somewhat blue

Things had gone relatively well. A few days passed, his hand was still healing, but doing so in a fashion that did not suggest it needed cutting. Some trust had been gained. It was the second day - or was it the third - that he had doned his new uniform. The colours and cut still foreign just as the shape of his new shako. Atleast some of his clothes retained familiarity even if it was merely because their standard cut.

He had been dutifully learning the words, trying to pick more when he could. French was still a terribly hard language, but atleast by now he knew how to curse, how to thank, and say please, how to ask a few basic things and he knew how to request a drink or two and the word of challenge.

He had not run, when given the chance but remained in the company of other private soldiers, freedom close and tempting. He appeared completely disinterested of it. An errand he was entrusted with took him across the grounds to where the prisoners were held under guard.Over his shoulder he carried a sack which held the small amount of rations the French were willing to part with.

Cotton had almost resigned himself to whatever fate the French had in store. Maggie was not here, that much had become quite clear. And that he had not completely resigned himself to his fate was due more to that fact than anything else.

If Maggie wasn't here, there was only one place she could be - back with the army still. And that meant that he had to get out of here somehow so he could rejoin her. She was likely to be worried sick over his whereabouts, not knowing if he was wounded or not. At least she was most likely unharmed.

He glanced up at the soldier who'd been tasked with bringing them their food today. He looked a little like Pye, but that wasn't possible. Although... Thinking of Pye made him realise he hadn't seen the other Rifleman for a while. It was most likely, of course, that the younger Rifleman had decided to leave him alone with his gloomy thoughts. Which was only fair, apart from the fact that Cotton didn't like feeling depressed and did like having company.

Pye stopped beside some of the redcoated men. He reached into his sack and tore away bits that each man was given in turn. It was plain, stale bread this time of day, of which some the men were obliged to spare for the evening as well. He had made certain that each got only the amount that he was due, but addressed none in either English or French.

It was then onto the next group and then some of the riflemen. He braced himself and walked with confidence as if he was one of the Frogs and had but the Prisoners to feed, a duty he was to perform and then return to do another. He was well aware that there would be some of the French, watching.

He pursed his lips as he approached Cotton and tore a piece of stale bread for him. He had struggled some to go about the task, with one had much less useful than the other. Clutching a part of the sack under his elbow, he was able to do task somewhat. It was with his left - the uninjured - that he offered the food to rifleman Cotton, still keeping his silence.

And things couldn't possibly get any worse. It was Pye, handing out rations as though he'd been doing it all his life.

A bit of stale bread was thrust into his hands and for a moment Cotton thought the other man might say something to him. He wouldn't get a reply though; if there was one thing Cotton despised more than a deserter, it was someone who'd deserted from the Rifles, taking everything they'd offered and grinding it into the dust.

He had no idea how Captain Vickery could have been so wrong in judging Pye's character - hell, he had no idea how he himself could have been so wrong. And that hurt.

Jed Palmer, on the other hand, had no use for subtlety or the silent treatment. "Zachary Pye!" he exclaimed, about to scramble to his feet before his brother stopped him. "What the hell are you doing?"

Pye bit his lip and straightened a little. To any of the French he could not show anything but certainty, confidence and resolve that he was doing what he thought was right. This meant, acting as though he cared not for the opinions of his former friends.

"What does it look like I'm doing." He answered cooly, gazing away from Cotton. He steeled himself. He knew how disappointed Cotton must have been feeling at that moment but right now, that feeling mattered none. It mattered that he played his part convincingly. He thrust another torn piece towards Palmer. "Food..Somethin' ter keep you walkin'." He added and reached into the sack to retrieve the rest of the piece to hand it to the second brother.

With a snarl, Palmer grabbed at his wrist instead of the bread, pulling Pye down to the ground.

With an unpleasant jolt of adrenaline, Laramie realized what was happening and leapt forward. His hand found the greenjacket's collar and he wrenched sharply up and back.

Palmer choked, and his brother leapt up to help him. "Leave off!" Zeb Palmer shouted, lunging at the soldier who was gripping his brother's collar.

Laramie left off. Returning his hand to his musket, he reversed it sharply and jabbed at the other man's stomach.

Zebulon Palmer crumpled to his side with a groan, while Jed found himself being held by another Frenchman, both of them cursing in their own languages.

"Leave him alone!" Jed shouted at Laramie. "Pye, you bastard! What the hell have you done!" He would have liked to kick Pye in the head at that moment, if only his leg could have reached him.

"Took you long enough," Laramie snapped at the other Frenchman, before leveling his musket at the struggling greenjacket. "That's enough."

Faced with the barrel of a musket, Palmer was still.

Pye staggered backward. He had half landed in a heap, when he was yanked forward and had to thank his French 'friends' that he did not have anything broken, including his nose. He glared at the Palmers and with a curse, equally harsh, he brought his elbow across the face of the one brother that brought him tumbling down.

He spat, lifting the sack onto his shoulder. Some of the bread had spilled out of it earlier and this he kicked as if meaning to bring it out of the way. No more of the bread would be given to the brothers, and even for those still waiting, it appeared the giving of that day's rations was not so certain any more. "Face it.. you're prisoners. Ain't your rules yer t' follow." He muttered.

Jed shouted with pain and fury. His arms automatically jerked forward to cradle his bleeding nose, but they were still held by the Frenchman behind him. He had to settle for leaning his head forward, coughing and retching as the blood momentarily choked him.

"You're dead, Pye," he managed to gasp at last, looking up at him with pure hatred. "You're dead."

Pye stared at Jed, his uninjured hand balled into a fist. He was reminded soon enough not to attempt the same with the other. To the French he nodded as if thanking them. "Don't start, what you can't finish." He was aware of the gravity of those words, and though they were spoken to the Palmers they suddenly felt too much as if saying them to himself as well.

He took a step away from the riflemen. If they wanted any bread whatsoever, they could pick the remaining bit - he'd seen it was not as small as he innitially thought - off the floor. He'd have been daft to grant them more for the little display. "Merci." He spoke to the French, rolling the r unaccustomed on his tongue. "Shut it.. if you don't want to get worse for it." Or get taken somewhere where he would be under closer guard. This he did not want.

"You." Laramie turned on the jumped up little Englishman, "Shut it. They taught you that, didn't they? Taisez-vous, yeah? Now go. Walk. Move? Scram." With a disgusted sigh, he pointed away down the line. If the deserter caused any more trouble, Laramie had half a mind to let the English have him.

Taught him what? Pye did look bewildered because what the Frenchman said, made no sense. When he added it in French, it only left him more lost as to what it was all about. "What?.." And only then it downed on him. Did the man perhaps speak of the French teaching him French and not the British teaching him.... er, whatever else he did not understand and left him thus bewildered. The latter he understood as an order enough though, if not the cause for it.

With a curt nod of obedience he turned in the direction pointed to him. It was almost a relief to leave the Riflemen, but it was also a valuable bit of news as to their whereabouts and number. He knew how many were there now and who. Without being suspicious he could walk the paths he thought perhaps useful later. And while he did so, he could feed any remaining soldiers and, to that similar effect, the civilians too. He swore to be more careful though. If he meant to be 'of use to the French', getting himself killed by the prisoners would just not do.

Cotton crossed to the Palmers, spitting in the dust in the direction the French had taken their new recruit.

"You two all right?" he asked. He was disgusted with himself for being taken in by Pye. All it took was the offer of food and he'd be happy - it didn't matter what uniform he wore.

"Captain's goin' to go spare when he hears about this," he added in a low voice. "Don't believe I trusted him!"

"Then it's a good thing the captain won't hear about it," Jed reminded him bitterly. They all kept forgetting that the captain had been killed. And now Pye had joined with his killers.

Cotton felt wretched that he'd forgotten that Vickery had been killed, in his worries over Maggie, trying to think of a plan for escaping and now this revelation of the depths Pye had stooped to. He felt somewhat sick at the thought, and listlessly passed over the chunk of bread he'd received. Somehow, he didn't have much of an appetite any more.

"Friend o' yours?" asked Christian, stooping to snatch one of the pieces of bread that had spilled over the ground.

"That bastard?" Jed spat, wiping at his streaming nose. "No."

"You're stupid, Jed," his brother grumbled quietly as he eased himself up into a sitting position. "Save me some of that bread. He was a rifleman like us," he explained briefly, looking up at the newcomer. "Coldstreams, ain't it? Not many of you lot here."

"Sorry to hear that," Christian grabbed another piece off the ground and tossed it to the rifleman, "Aye, the Guards. Batman to their new lieutenant." He frowned, thinking of Woodmarsh and just what the hell he was going to do when he got back. If he got back. Captivity might not be so bad. Comparatively.

"You're a batman?" Zeb sat up and took more interest then. "So were you in the baggage when it got taken? Did you see the women?"