June 6th, Early morning: What goes bump at night

"That's because I bloody-well am, man!" Padstowe growled. English as well as German - it must be Rifles then. "Open up my coat if you want to check."

Cotton scrambled to his feet, his face on fire. He knew that voice - and its owner. Captain Padstowe, the man who owned the watch he'd been flogged for stealing.

"It's Captain Padstowe, Sergeant," he muttered to Fischer.

Damn. And speaking as loud as that, he was going to bring the French down on them, too.

Zeb frowned up at Cotton, reluctant to release his hold on the stranger or his sense of caution. Captain who? He glanced up at the sergeant and then pulled at the man's jacket, revealing the glint of silver buttons and an officer's sash. He breathed a quick curse and let the man go.

Seeing now that this particular danger was past, Jed reluctantly released his grip on Pye as well, shoving him none too gently away.

Somewhere Padstowe heard a familiar voice, but he could not see where from in the position he was being held in.

"Is that you, Cotton?" he asked. "Tell them to let me up."

Ulp. Cotton swallowed. Definitely not good.

"Let him up - he knows Captain Vick'ry." That he knew Cotton ought to vouch for the man, in fact.

He breathed a sigh of relief as Zeb Palmer let go of the officer's coat as if it was on fire, scrambling to get up.

His overcoat was opened and his uniform displayed clearly for the Rifles to see. One of the men holding him swore, and then the hands gripping Padtsowe were released. The captain sat up gingerly, wincing as his shoulder pained him, massaging carefully along his colllar bone. He could have done without that.

Pye did not stumble for more than a step. Adjusting his blue coat he had other things on mind than seeing to the new man, who was not exactly a prisoner an longer, but a victim of mistaken identity. At best this did not concern him any longer. They'd get the man up and since he was not exactly the one sitting on top of the man, he could not take any blame for the treatment.

He turned, and while others were in fair shock at their discovery, began quietly for the boulder.

Cotton was caught between wanting to see if the captain was all right, and wanting to duck behind the Palmers and keep the hell out of sight. Captain Padstowe knew he was there, which wasn't good.

He bent, frowning, to ascertain how the officer was. "You all right there, sir?" he managed, his heart in his mouth.

"Awful sorry, sir," Zeb Palmer said belatedly, still feeling confused. Was this man an escapee like themselves? He wondered but did not dare ask.

"I have been better," Padstowe admitted, dusting himself down and trying to ignore the throb in his shoulder. Standing up would see the rest of his dignity restored. "Would you be so good as to help me up?"

Zeb reached down a hand for the man's arm, the one he was not cradling in pain.

Jed, however, was still keeping an eye on Pye. "Where you think you're goin'?" he asked, grabbing at the man's arm.

"..T' fetch somethin' if'n you don't mind.." Pye answered simply. "M' knapsack. Wot' I need. And summat else." Of which he did not care to share with Jeb, and would have preferred not to, if given a chance.

Cotton nervously offered his hand to help the Captain to his feet. However he had imagined their first meeting since Lisbon would go, it would not have been like this, not at all. He was unsure how much Captain Padstowe knew about the incident and its results, but whatever the officer had heard about him since, it could not be good.

"You ain't goin' nowhere by yerself, boy," Jed snapped, squeezing Pye's arm more tightly rather than releasing it. "Specially not in that frog suit."

"Much obliged."

Padstowe accepted the offered help and used the outstretched arms to brace himself up off the ground. Now in a better position to see his 'attackers' he could see that there were a fair number of them. How had their presence escaped his notice for so long?

"What is your purpose out here? I was not aware the column was sending parties this far in advance."

Cotton let out a long, quiet breath. He was doubly nervous now, unsure of how their report might be taken.

"Frogs attacked the column, sir. We was taken prisoner. We'm tryin' to get back to the army." He gave a helpless shrug. The officer might now be able to see their disarray and lack of weapons.

"I was 'way till now. You had no problem with that. Frog suit or no." Pye yanked at his arm, feeling the uncomfortable squeeze. "Smelled some freedom n' yer gettin' braver by t' minute." He clipped.

"I am sorry, sir," Fischer said, returning the man's pistol. "Sergeant Fischer, 5/60 rifles. We have escaped from the French just this night. Our captain was killed and we were captured. We have been prisoners for these five days." He was about to say more, but he turned his head to snap at the others. "Palmer, Pye, quiet! Cotton, you stay with Pye." Cotton knew the lad better than anyone else did, after all. "With your permission, captain," he added.

Escaped? That did make sense. Padstowe had noted that the French column carried some Rifles prisoners with it, yet he had not got close enough to discover which particular company they were from. They had done well then to get so many away so quietly. There was no doubt in his mind as to whether they might be deserters.

"I must congratulate you, then," he said lowering his voice. "A bold escape indeed. Do carry on, sergeant; I will not hinder your progress. What is your planned route back to the army?"

But wait... captain dead? Padstowe turned to Cotton, his expression sharp.

"Captain Vickery is dead?" he queried.

Pye glanced at Cotton. Could the man just let him go so that this merry reunion would switch to a merrier march back? He looked impatient. He did not want to have gone through all this effort just to have the plan fail because.. they had missed their mark. He was not told to stay put nor had he been addressed to be in need of dismissing. Technically - he thought - he could just scoot. "Goin'.." He murmured quietly.

"I don't... We think so, sir. It was a messy fight, he got sliced with a sabre, pretty badly and I dunno that he didn't get kicked in the head from one of the horses an' all." Even the thought that the Captain was dead was sheer misery. "I want to get back just as quick as we can an' find out for sure."

Though, really, it would be a miracle if he wasn't - if half the Company hadn't been killed, in fact.

Pye moved closer to the french boy and checked his bonds. Secure. He checked his gag and found, with some satisfaction that though Francois was breathing, he could still not make a sound. He got up then and turned to go about the boulder. He needed to fetch the remaining treasures and he could do it now. The Palmers be damned.

Maybe it was the jostling when an escaped Englishman tripped over him or possibly he would have come to anyhow, but suddenly Francois opened his eyes. Confusion greeted him. Where was he? Then he felt tied up and realized his mouth was gagged! It all came racing back to him then. He had attacked by that double traitor, Pye, and the last thing he remembered he was choking to death.

Momentary relief, he definitely was not dead, thank God! Though he was trussed up and helpless in the middle of nowhere. He could hear movement and low talking, in English. He had to somehow try and signal his own people what was going on. Maybe if he could get up?

He struggled but could not, he was too securely bound, next he started to grunt as loud as he could given the restrictive confines of the gag, "mmmph! mmmmph!" .

And now the French body was alive again, and making noise. "Shut it, you!" Jed Palmer snapped, turning some of his anger on the unknown boy in the ground. "Sarn't, this'un's awake. Friend of your's, captain?"

"He ain't his." He ought to have shut up and just left while everybody else was distracted with their new captain, and the stories that they wished to exchange, news that each side knew to be different, but instead he had to speak where it was not due.

".. I brought 'im 'ere." And the reason he was here, he was still waiting to retreive if these damned interruptions - he thought in his mind - did not keep coming up.