June 5th - Water in daylight, see in the dark later

All the bread had been distributed. Pye had had a busy few hours, doing that and then having to attend few of the tasks which a few of the other French soldiers preferred to shirk from. Though, what else would a new lad be for, than to do the tasks that were tiresome, perhaps unpleasant, or just boring?
Going to and fro, he had only a short amount of spare time to feed his chick. His expeditions about the camp did not go to waste. Though busy with work, he was able to map the whole arrangement of the place in his mind. Still, he avoided going further where his presence could prove suspicious. Never straying to the 'outskirts' until called over again.

With gestures, hands moving through the air with emotion very known for the French, he was explained that he should accompany some of the prisoners to the river.

The ones picked could come and refill the canteens of their friends who would stay behind. Because Pye knew English, he could explain that too.

The Frenchman indicated Cotton. "Him." He said in French. "And him." He thrust his forefinger towards one of the other men. Pye approached, and with a slight nod said: "...Up,.. gather the other's canteens 'swell."

The Riflemen hadn't said all that much to each other during the course of the day since they had seen Pye in French uniform. Each man had been lost in his own thoughts. Cotton had sunk into a black mood, something quite unlike his usual cheerful self, and the others had left him alone and even the Palmers had toned their bickering down.

So why the French should pick him out rather than any of the others was anyone's guess. Cotton merely scowled at them and stayed where he was.

"Cotton. Collect those canteens.. get up, and lets get ter t' river." Pye spoke, his voice somewhat sharp. "If yer don't.. you will go thirsty.. All.. of them an' you." He indicated the rest. He did feel the hostility as clear as if there was a knife pressed to his neck.

"They'um near empty. " He knew that for a fact. "We won't wait."

Cotton barely restrained himself from spitting at Pye's feet. He didn't say a word but slowly got to his feet and collected the canteens, his contempt plain for all to see. The boy was right, of course, but there was no need to let him crow over the fact.

Pye took a step back to give Cotton some space. It wasn't solely out of courtesy. When he turned, it was no coincidence that his injured hand was on the side furthest from the rifleman in question.

He waited silently. He nodded to Cotton. "Walk." He indicated the direction. They were to pick two more soldier prisoners and then it was for them to go to the stream. All the canteens would be carried by the prisoners alone. Their guards only serving as escort.

And since when had Pye grown to be so... curt? Probably since putting on that damned uniform.

He rolled his eyes; he hadn't expected to do anything other than walk down to the stream, not encumbered by a load of canteens that were all but empty. He wondered idly if he could have a minute to drown the boy in. It would save the officers having to organise a court-martial and a firing squad, and would give Cotton himself some personal satisfaction.

It was only an idle thought, really, and Cotton knew that he wouldn't get the opportunity. Still, it would be nice to be able to dispose of someone who had totally betrayed his trust - and Captain Vickery's, too.

Pye walked in silence. He could make an attempt at conversation but he doubted that Cotton would speak to him. He mulled over what to say anyway. They paused again, another man was called to get up. Pye spoke the orders quick. Canteens. Get up. Walk.

They stopped a third time, the clinking of the canteens announcing their arrival to the next group. Pye glanced at Cotton then spoke the very same orders again. He withdrew to walk alongside the rifleman.

He spoke finally, though had little expectation of receiving an answer. He did not know if any of the French sentries could speak a word in English and treated them as if they could.

"Better not try to run when we get there...they'll shoot you." He paused. He wanted to know how Newbury was, yet could not ask that. It would almost sound like concern about a prisoner.

Cotton couldn't contain himself any longer, and spat at Pye. "Good thing for you I ain't got me rifle or I'd've shot you already."

He hitched up the canteens he was carrying and turned his head away, giving Pye the cold shoulder. After everything they'd done for the boy, he betrayed them and then expected to have a friendly conversation? Not with Cotton, he wouldn't.

Pye kept his face rather void of emotion. He blinked once at the threat and gave the other man a small shrug. What else could he do. Cotton turned and the conversation seemed to be over. If he were to start it, and be given the silent treatment, Cotton might appear a victor.

Te former rifleman looked ahead of them. Rather than attempt to goad another sentence out of the other man, he glanced at the surrounding vegetation. His eyes darted briefly to the right, past Cotton. Then it was back ahead again, his eyes narrowed on the path that they were taking. The sound of water became more distinct, the soft murmur promising a good fill.

The sentries at the front stepped to each side, leveling their muskets ready to thrust a bayonet at any attempting escapee.

The first of the men with canteens was allowed to step forward. Pye moved ahead as well. "One at a time." He spoke." You, wait." He hesitated as the soldier in question began to move towards Cotton. "No talking."

'No talking' suited Cotton very well in his unaccustomed black mood. He knew this stream from a few days before, although the Rifles had bivouacked a little further downstream. It would be no use as a route to rejoin the army, but it could provide cover and obliterate their tracks, allowing them to head in one direction before leaving cover and circling around in the hills.

Although using the stream at all would be obvious, too obvious. They would be best ignoring it - or even better, laying a false trail for the French to follow, if they chose to, even if doing so would waste time.

He kept his thoughts to himself, waiting his turn to move down to the water's edge to fill the canteens he was carrying.

The first man finished refilling all the canteens entrusted to him and withdrew with them slung over either of his shoulders. They were quite heavy now and weighed down on the man. The second man was called, leaving the rifleman to be the last. He looked up once or twice, seemed to consider his chances, made it half way up but then the courage seemed to have left him, as instead he took and uncorked another of the canteens, holding it down to fill it up with water.

"You're next." Which did not need to be said. Pye walked with Cotton, this being the prisoner that he was sharing the duty of guarding.

He stood a few steps further from the greencoat, his feet quite dry. He observed the rifleman, for any signs that might signify that he might think of running. He adjusted his own shako.

If Cotton knew the word 'patronising' and its meaning, he would have applied it to Pye in that moment, along with several even less complimentary words. As it was, he merely gave the traitor a look of withering scorn before unslinging the first canteen and stepping into the water to fill it. He didn't particularly like going wet-foot but right now, with Pye safely on the bank, it was a way of showing that he was better than the younger man.

Pye did not want to give the older man any reason to get shot. The look he was given made him realise how easily the other man could forget himself, attack a sentry for the hate that he felt towards him and then leave Maggie without a husband. He did not have a particular desire to get in the same pickle - which he could suspect as a dangerous possibility - as he had with that provost. The provost who was the cause of his broken fingers and his near drowning. The scene was just too familiar to allow him confidence to come closer.

He would fill his own canteen later. Though he did see one of their sentries kneel to do one such thing, he remained rooted to the spot. He tapped his foot against the ground a couple of times, impatiently. It felt as if the rifleman was taking god awful long even if he probably was no slower than the other two men.

Let the ex-Rifleman tap his foot. Cotton was going to take just as long as he pleased over this, and be finished in his own time. Well, so long as he didn't look as though he was stalling for time, anyway.

The one thing preventing him from pulling Pye into the water and holding him under, despite the satisfaction it would give him, was the knowledge that doing so would deprive Maggie of her husband. For himself, he didn't care any more, but he was damned if he would throw his life away for no good reason and leave her widowed.

"Fill them ter t' brim. We don't want to make another trip like this in too short a while." Pye muttered at the rifleman even if he supposed Cotton would have filled them at best he could anyway. There was another reason he wanted the canteens to be full, but he would let that rest for now.

He glanced at the other two soldiers. He had to drop his gaze for their own expressions were less than complementary.

Cotton wasn't quite sure whether he wanted to bang his own head on a rock... or Pye's. Probably Pye's, thinking about it.

He wasn't stupid - and Rifles training was completely ingrained in him by now, anyway. Who knew when they'd next get a chance to fill their canteens?

He rammed the cork home into the neck of the water bottle he was currently holding, wishing it was Pye's jaw on the receiving end.

Pye turned his back on the rifleman briefly. He appeared to be behaving. Several canteens filled and no attempt to do anything but what he was told. he could glare all he wanted. He turned to face him again and studied him at work. Then looking past him he watched the banks of the stream, observed the speed at which the water was traveling past them. He knelt and picked a bit of wood. The French sentries ignored him. If the lad wanted to play with sticks, so be it. The wood flew through the air and ended in the stream with a flash. It's pace was considerably light and as rapid as it first appeared it would be.

He glanced at Cotton again. Was he done? The banks were steep in some places, and rather easy to access and climb p to on others. There was a fair amount of vegetation, however it could not compare some of the lush forests he could remember seeing.

There was a splash and Cotton glanced in its direction before looking back to what he was doing. If the idiot wanted to play with sticks, Cotton wasn't going to stop him.

It was a fast-flowing stream, but he already knew that. Not easy to cross, of course, but then, streams in these mountains had never been easy to cross.

There would be a way to do it, if they wanted to - if they could get away. And with Pye now in the enemy's camp, Cotton was glad they hadn't said anything earlier about attempting to escape.

One of the Frenchmen muttered something in his own language to Pye. The boy did not understand, but a hand gesture was made towards Cotton. Then another followed, and this one indicated the camp. At first Pye thought the Frenchman meant to say that he should wait for the last prisoner while the rest would return to the camp. It only took a few more gestures after the look of bewilderment was clear on the boy's face, that he understood he was to tell Cotton to hurry up because they wanted to go back.

He approached the greencoat some. "Stop dawdlin'. And get it done." He uttered. "There's others what need getting their canteens filled."

Cotton was going to finish in his own good time. Especially with people nagging at him to hurry up. Especially when those people were Zachary bloody Pye. They'd pressed him into fetching water, they could bloody well wait until he was done.

He had two canteens left to fill, and they could damn wait till they were filled.

Of course, it would be like Cotton not to hurry up, when told too, especially if it was not Vickery, who requested that of him. Pye rolled his eyes. "...How's Newbury then? Gettin' worse?" Or better, which he hoped. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

Well, if the rifleman meant to take longer, he could take the risk of filling his own canteen. He was thirsty, so a few gulps of the water would not go amis either. Cotton was taking the time, that he had at his disposal. Damn that rifleman.

Giving the other rifleman a wide enough berth, he knelt by the water. He uncorked his own canteen, glanced at Cotton and then began to fill it with water, sipping a few handfuls of it as well.

Francois had just got back to the tents a few minutes late to find that all the canteens were being filled already by the prisoners. His own was empty so he did need the refill also. Turning to a corporal, he informed the man he was just going to go down to the stream.

As he reached the watering party, some were heading back already. He noticed Pye, now supposedly "one of them", he could hardly believe it. He had liked the young man even when he was an enemy but, in truth, now that he had revealed himself as a traitor to his nation and people, his opinion of Pye had changed much for the worse. No one likes a traitor. He also recognized the Englishman filling the canteens, that was Cotton. He could just imagine what the prisoners thought of their turncoat comrade.

Francois stepped up to the edge of the stream and held out his canteen to Cotton, pointedly ignoring Pye.

"Excuse me, but would you fill my canteen also? I would be grateful," he decided to be polite, even if they were officially enemies, at Cotton was an honorable enemy.

Cotton glanced up as someone held another canteen towards him. The words sounded polite at least. He shrugged and took it, dipping it into the stream and holding it there until it was full. He'd rather deal with a proper enemy than someone who'd deserted from his own friends to join them. He corked the canteen and held it out for the other man to take, before continuing with filling his mates' canteens.

"Gabriel..." Pye snapped lifting his canteen from the water. It was as full as it could get. "Cotton." He corrected himself with a voice that was no less harsh. "...You'll answer a question, when given one."

He had noticed how cold the other boy had acted towards him now, that he was on the same side and found it rather ironic. When they were enemies he was as friendly as if they were friends, but now that they were no longer enemies, he treated him as one. Well, it was all the same to him, as he did not care to make friends among the French. His actions may have appeared to do just the opposite, but then this was his intention.

He approached the rifleman. Almost done with the canteens. About time even.

Cotton raised his head to look at Pye, still with that same scornful look. "What d'you bloody care 'bout any of us, anyhow?" he said, and went back to concentrating on what he was doing.