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

"No, where's the women," Zeb repeated. Pye really was a daft bugger.

"...In camp." Pye answered quietly. "Some are in the British camp." And some remained in the French, but he did not need to point that out. "Your rifles, are here." He indicated the various weapons bunched up together.

The impatient frown on Zeb's face was turning into an angry one. Was Pye playing stupid on purpose? "What? I mean our women. My wife. You said they'd waiting for us out here."

"I did not say yer wife would be waitin' fer you here. I said..yer sweethearts would." He averted his gaze from the French boy and stood. He did not feel he was safe turning his back on Zeb at that moment. Sadly, the truth had to be said. He just hoped it would not make that Palmer do something stupid. "Your wife is safe and hasn' been treated bad. When we get ter our army we can get at t' French again n' save 'er too... with numbers on our side." He added simply, his eyes narrowed on the man.

Palmer stared at his dim figure in the dark. His wife was still a prisoner in the French camp? After a brief moment of frozen horror, he reached out and took the rifle that his brother was holding for him. He wanted to beat Pye's skull with the butt of it, but there were more urgent things that needed to be done first. "We gotta go back and get 'em," he said with a muted fury.

"No." Pye answered shortly. "We don't have any gun powder, we don't have anythin' resemblin' ammunition.. we are too few and we raise an alarm now, we all get caught and shot dead." His eyes narrowed on Palmer. "Any one of us goes there alone, they'll know where he came from. Same thing. We are NOT going back." Was Palmer really so daft? So blind? Has his age not given him some advantage of common sense? Of reason?

Was it not obvious to him, that they could not have saved the women earlier, nor now, and that anything that resembled going back would be short of just calling out for the French to shoot them now and be done with it? "We are returnin' ter our army and then we will save your wife and t' rest o' them women. They ain't havin' a hard time now, Palmer. Well fed they all are, protected, an some.." He paused. "Some are even treated to rather fine dinners with their officers." That he saw and knew happen. He had fed the other women himself. Unless Palmer had married a Portuguese lass, his own was safe.

"So unless yer want ter be completely useless ter your wife, get up and let us start marchin' ter our own army." For a timid boy this speech rather showed how short of nerve he was at that moment and how impatient and unwilling to sacrifice the rest of the men for one Palmer's madness.

Jed spoke quietly in his brother's ear. "We can't go back, Zeb." He was not going to say that Pye was right, but he knew that it was dangerous to return to the French camp either singly or as a group. "We got no weapons without cartridges. They'd kill you or just make you a prisoner again. She'll be all right. That Jenny said she was all right, remember?"

Zeb looked at the French prisoner on the ground. "Where's his Frog musket?"

"Back in camp." Pye was not lying. When Francois asked whether he should take his musket, Pye had said he did not need it and he ought to leave it behind. The musket would only have been in the way, with all the weight and swaying of the other rifles.

"He's been woken up ter carry these. "

And he hadn't brought his musket with him? Poor stupid kid. Zeb snorted. "Never trust a turncoat, tadpole," he told the French boy, feeling almost sorry for him. He too had been deceived by Pye. "Well where's yours then?" he demanded, addressing the turncoat himself.

"What good will it be to you? You ain't goin' back. None of us is." Pye answered quietly. "We's sneaking away. T' burst o' musket will alert half of Portugal ter our location." He glanced at the French boy. He would live. Perhaps small thanks to his 'aid'.

Francois had the gag placed back in his mouth but in truth there wasn't much more to be said. The English were not going to take his advice and probably they were right not to. They'd already done too much in this foolish escape attempt. Now they'd need to run and just hope the French didn't run them down and kill them.

Not able to say anything Francois merely looked up and listened to their arguing, for that is mostly what it was.

The one soldier glanced down and said, "Never trust a turncoat, tadpole."

Francois merely nodded. However in a way he was trusting one right then, it was Pye who promised he would not kill him but leave him alive when they fled. All he could do now was hope that turned out to be true.

Cotton had finally had enough and interrupted. "Oh for God's sake, you two. You can argue all you like when we get back to the army, but if we'm goin' to manage that, we ought to be leavin'. Now!"

"..Not that I was tryin' to get that across for t' past...couple of..." Pye muttered haughtily and stood up. "We leave t' Frog here." He indicated the boy." He'll only slow us down, is a soldat and as such ain't of any use to us." There was a pause. "We leave him as he is now."

He then turned toward Padstowe. "...An'..see where we are goin' now.." And this was his final brave speech. He looked more timid after.

"But my wife's back there!" Zeb protested. Cotton of all people ought to understand. "I can't just leave her with them Frogs!"

"I hate to say it, but the brat's got a point. We won't be any use to our wives, sweat'earts and all that, by going back. Zeb. That goes for you too. She's got other camp followers that'll take care o' each other untill we get t' rest of the army."

He shrugged. "They might even give them back to us jus' couse of your wifey." He nodded to Cotton then and walked past the Frog. If the others decided not to kill the boy, he would hold his own opinion on the matter to himself.

"That's enough!" Padstowe snapped, bringing the argument to a halt. "Pye, stand fast."

He lowered his voice once more, casting a serious gaze at each of the men standing there.

"Now, I do not pretend to know half of what has happened here tonight, but I know that you all having escaped captivity it would be foolish in the extreme for you to go back for your women. My suggestion - and I hope I do not need to make it into an order - is that you return to our lines where you are most needed. The women will be safe enough where they are for now."

Thank God someone had some sense.

"C'mon, then," Cotton added. "I'm a-goin' if you ain't." And if the others had the sense they were born with, they'd come along too.

He glanced at the officer, feeling distinctly uncomfortable around him now, what with everything that had happened since Lisbon.

"I'm... I'm sorry 'bout your watch, sir," he added, wishing he could say it in private, but not knowing if he would ever have the chance again.

Cotton at least was talking sense, as Padstowe had come to expect from the batman, and hopefully the rest of the men would follow his example - he did not want to have to face taking command of a group of escapees and be forced to abandon his observations here in order to march them back to camp. He was momentarily puzzled, though, but Cotton's hesitant and apologetic mention of a watch. Watch? What did he...?

And then it all came flooding back to him. That fateful night in Lisbon - the night he was still smarting from - Vickery's subsequent letter and the wretched confession of poor Maggie. Cotton had been flogged for the theft of that watch whilst Padstowe had lain half beaten to death in Belam, no one to speak for him and no way to deny the charges himself. A hollow pit of regret opened up in the captain's stomach, and his face took on a sad expression.

"I am sorry too, Cotton," he said quietly. A humourless smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "It seems that Fortune frowned on us both."

What he wanted to say outright was 'I know you didn't do it.' He could not though; not in front of Cotton's peers. The rifleman had suffered enough without further reference to his humiliation.

"I never..." he began and stopped. What he wanted - needed - to say was that he hadn't been the one to take it, but he couldn't do it, not in front of the other Riflemen. And besides that, even if he had taken it, of course he would deny it.

"I'm in hopes you'm better now, sir," he said instead, and could have kicked himself. Of course the officer was better now - he would hardly be out here spying on the French if he wasn't, would he?

He glanced around. They couldn't hang around here any longer without risking bringing the French down on them which would mean they would all end up getting taken. "Reckon we oughta go, sir. Good luck," he added, unsure exactly why the Captain was hanging around here with a civilian cloak over his uniform, but sure that it needed luck, whatever the reason was.

"My shoulder has seen better days," Padstowe commented wryly. He was still cradling his arm from having been jumped by half a dozen Riflemen. "Otherwise I am well. And good luck to you too, Cotton. You'll need it more than I."

With that he turned and called Bethany over softly. The mare, having stood to one side watching the proceedings placidly, walked over and allowed her master to finally remove her nosebag. It was empty anyway, and so she did not object.

He hoped that he would see the officer again. He needed to explain... Did he, though? Most officers in Captain Padstowe's position wouldn't care two straws for anything Cotton would have to say, dismissing his words as an excuse and him as an embarrassment.

Captain Padstowe wasn't just any officer, though, or at least, from Cotton's dealing with him in the past he didn't seem to be.

"C'mon, lads," he said again, casting a nervous glance at the eastern sky. "Best we was out of here."

Pye waited silently, watching the exchange between Padstowe and Cotton. He was ready to go, and silently glad that the officer seemed to think going back for the women was equally a fool's errand. He would be someone the men would listen, had to listen even if they did not like it so.

He looked at Padstowe awaiting his order to move and then he would, silent as a ghost if needed.

Mounting with some little difficulty, Padstowe settled himself in the saddle, turning Bethany' head and facing the men.

"Carry on along this road, Sergeant Fischer," he said. "And you should get back to our lines swiftly enough. I wish you and your men success." He glanced at the Frenchman they had bound, a slight frown creasing his brow. "And take him with you. He's seen and heard enough to be a danger if you let him loose now."

He nodded to Cotton.

"My warmest regards to Captain Vickery, Cotton, if he still lives. My condolences to his family if he does not."

And so saying he touched his heels back against Bethany's sides, and trotted off into the dawn leaving the Riflemen alone on the road.

Carrying on along the road would be suicide... It was obvious that the Captain, as nice as he was, was no Rifles officer.

"Into the hills, it's our best chance," Cotton said.

Sergeant Fischer nodded, briskly taking charge. His English was good, though accented. "Cotton, you take point. You know what to do." He would not be able to fire a warning if they ran into trouble, but he would not need to be so far in advance of their small party as he would if he was taking point for the whole Company. "The rest of you keep together and I will bring p the rear."

As the men began moving, Zeb Palmer hurried to follow close behind Cotton. "Gabe!" he whispered. "Come on, Gabe, what if it was your wife there? You was all upset when your Maggie stayed behind in that town, and she wasn't even a prisoner there. And she wasn't even your wife yet!" Having been together for such a short time, Cotton could not have loved Maggie then as much as Zeb loved his wife now. But why could he not understand? Palmer was frantic to make someone understand the urgency of the situation.