June 5th - No longer black, but somewhat blue

"Some, yeah," Christian replied around a mouthful of bread, "When they were rounding us all up. Why?"

"What a perfect bastard," Newbury snarled, feeling distinctly uncharitable because of the unrelenting pain in his knee. Not that Pye's changed situation didn't merit hot disgust. The worthless, conniving...

"The only woman I saw what got away was Missus Cotton." It was only with an effort that he dragged his attention to the new vein of conversation. The others he'd been with were prisoners now as well.

"But they didn't hurt them? My wife musta been with them," Palmer explained. "But I ain't seen nor heard from her at all, except for when that Miss Jenny made mention of her the first night."

That got his attention. "Jenny? Jenny Ross?"

Newbury shook his head. "Not that I saw. Seemed almost like they was in a hurry to bundle everybody off, actually."

A scowl came back to his face when the redcoat spoke up again. Who the hell was he anyway?

"Who the hell're you?" And what was Jenny Ross to him, for that matter? Or maybe more to the point, why the hell was he, Newbury, surprised to hear her name again, after the encounter the other day? What in the hell was wrong with him?

"Joe, calm down," said Zeb.

"Who the hell wants to know?" Christian retorted. There was something oddly familiar about the greenjacket, but he was damned if he could place him.

Calm down. That was rich, coming from Palmer. Newbury spat irritably onto the ground and wished he was fit enough to get up under his own power.

"I do," Newbury snapped back. "But if you're lookin' for Miss Ross, you'd better go bother them Frog officers. Or just piss off back to them other redcoats."

"For peace sakes, stop it, both of you!" Palmer snapped. "I just want to hear about my wife."

Frog officers. He could guess well enough what was meant by that. Bastards! Damn him for a useless idiot; he never should have left her. And this bloody greenjacket.... Christian glared at the other man. If he wanted him to shove off, he could damn well get up and make him. Before he could say as much, however, the other rifleman butted in and Christian rounded on him. "Why don't--" He broke off. What the hell was wrong with him? "I mean, what...uh..." Dragging in a long breath, he tried again, "What's she look like, your wife?"

"She's small, and got dark brown hair, and she's right pretty, and - what do you mean about Frog officers?" he suddenly asked Newbury, looking worried.

"Ain't that complicated, is it? Least two of the women've gone off with them," Newbury told him with undisguised disgust.

"Oh hell," Palmer said quietly, staring into the middle distance. He covered his mouth with his hand, feeling almost nauseated. "I'll kill any man that so much as touches my Sal, officer or not." He suddenly found himself wishing his wife were less pretty.

While he could not understand what they were saying, the gestures were plain enough.

"You," Jérémie said, looking toward Bright. "Is that lad gonna be sick?"

The Englishman snorted. "No. Jus' findin' out his wife's prolly took up with the officers, like them other two whores."

Small...dark brown hair...pretty... Christian tried to recall someone, anyone matching that description. The attack was just a confused jumble of memories, and after that his recollection seemed to get progressively hazier. The only thing he really remembered with any clarity was Jenny. But that wasn't helpful. An image of a woman hiding beneath a wagon came suddenly to mind. She'd had dark hair, hadn't she? It was hard to tell with her all curled up under the wagon, but she'd seemed smallish. Right?

"Saw a lass hidin' 'neath one o' the wagons when we was took. She took off runnin', though. Might've been her."

Palmer shook his head. "That sounds like Maggie. Cotton's wife, him there. Joe saw her under a wagon before she ran off. But Jenny said she'd seen my wife with the other prisoners that first night." The pain in his gut was all but gone as he faced this new worry. "I didn't know Jenny was bein' hauled off by officers. No wonder she was sick. I can't take this. I gotta see my Sarah!"

Joe? That sounded familiar. Christian seemed to remember screaming the name, though he could not for the life of him think why. "Easy, mate," he cautioned, "You just bloody attacked 'em. Might have better luck if you let things cool off a bit."

Zebulon Palmer did not look like a man cooling off. "I ain't seen any of the women since that first night. Have you? Are you friends with Jenny? She hasn't been back to see anyone."

"Attacked a bloody traitor," Jed Palmer growled, glaring at Christian. Like his brother, he had no intention of calming down just yet. He was still too angry at the sting of betrayal and the frustration of being prisoner. He wiped again, ineffectively, at his bloody nose. "Should beat the tar outta him, and then make him show us where the women are."

"Don't give him any ideas," Zeb snapped at his brother. "Pye ain't old enough to care much about women yet. But I wouldn't put it past him... Dirty snake. I don't want to remind him that the women are even there."

"Yeah. Friends," he replied shortly. Of course she hadn't been back. They were keeping the women separate. That had to be the only reason. At least he hoped to God it was.

Returning the other man's glare, he opened his mouth to retort, only to shut it again. He must be losing it, he thought. One blow to the head too many and suddenly he was ready to fly off the handle at a complete stranger over a stupid argument. "Sod this." Christian turned abruptly and started to move off. If the greenjackets wanted to get themselves killed, they were bloody welcome to it.

"Wait!" Zeb said. He really had no reason for keeping the redcoat with them, but it was refreshing to talk to someone different. The little groups had been keeping themselves to themselves for the past few days, but his fellow riflemen were driving him mad. "What's your name?" he asked lamely.

As if on cue with the conversation the men were having, or had just moments ago, there was a soft cry, that was carried to them. At first it could only be identified as a female, and that protesting vehemently. Only then could it be discerned that she spoke in Portuguese. Whatever might have triggered the attack, could have been connected with a discovery the French made very recently. Several men dead, stripped of their uniforms, mauled and with their parts of importance stuffed in their mouths. There was another discovery a few days ago, but that one was surviving for now.

Both these discoveries were the reason why the prisoners had not been fast on their way to France. The men were afraid of attacks such as these. When the Portuguese guerilla outnumbered the French soldier, it was all fair game.

These greenjackets were much too feisty for their own good, Bright thought. Typical. He glanced sidelong at Rosy and shrugged.

"We might fetch your lasses here, grasshoppers, if you want 'em so bad."

If it would get them away from the clutches of the officers, Cotton was all for it. The offer probably wasn't so friendly as it seemed, though.

Cotton was just grateful that his own wife had got away - if she was here being mistreated by the French, he'd kill the men touching her, bare-handed. She'd gone through enough, after all.

"'Course they'm wanted here - some of 'em are wives to the men round here," he said, wondering how else to get the women away from the French. "At least let their menfolk know they'm all right - have a heart, do."