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

"Sorry, Gabe," he said quietly. He looked over his shoulder, but of course he could no longer see the captain. "Seemed all right, for an officer. He don't blame you, then?"

"Wasn't your fault," Cotton said, with a shrug... and when had it stopped hurting enough to allow him to shrug? "You was only doin' your duty." He sighed. "Wasn't flogged for stealin' it from him. Was flogged 'cause they reckoned I'd pinched it from Captain Vickery."

And that Vickery had kept him on as his soldier-servant despite the verdict had to mean something, didn't it? By not turning him off, the officer had pretty much told everyone that he didn't consider Cotton to be a thief, despite the verdict.

All trussed up and gagged too, Francois could do nothing about his current situation but sit there and listen to the various Englishmen discuss all sorts of things, besides their imminent escape even. Maybe if they hung around too long talking some French soldiers might discover them. They'd pay for their dallying then, he thought with some satisfaction. Though a part of him did not want anything too horrible happen to Pye and the other one, Cotton. They seemed decent sorts, for Englishmen.

Then their officer, the man who had appeared out of the dark and had certainly not been part of the prisoners, spoke up.

"Carry on along this road, Sergeant Fischer," Padstowe 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."

Francois' eyes went wide. They were going to take him with them? Pye hadn't....but then Pye was not an officer like this man. Guess the situation was completely reversed now, he was going to be their captive instead of the other way around. At least the officer hadn't ordered the men to kill him, he was thankful for that.

Well, if he was going to be forced to run with them, someone was going to have to untie his bound up ankles. He waited to see who would make that move....

Sergeant Fischer approached the French soldier on the ground. He wasn't as old as the German Rifleman had thought.

"Sprechen Sie Deutsch?" he asked, kneeling by the lad's bound feet.

"...the boy.vwe can leave him. If wwe knock him out he'd be awake much later an' we'd be safe... Far from 'im. Cotton?" Pye spoke up quietly, glancing at the boy. They needed to move fast. He thought the boy would hinder them and... Well.. He knew how captivity felt and this partially clouded his proper judgement as a soldier, making him only human. One who felt at that time no ill towards the french fellow.

Cotton didn't particularly want to drag the boy along, away from his mates. They'd have to lie low and it would be harder to do so with a prisoner.

"Sergeant, we can't take him with us," he muttered. He couldn't kill the lad either; he was only young, and he'd just been doing his duty. He hefted his rifle.

Francois looked up at this sergeant and was surprised to hear him speak German of all things? He understood the question but that was about it, he certainly did not converse in German. All he could do was simply shake his no as a reply.

"Knock him out?" Jed repeated scornfully, smirking at Pye. "How you gonna knock him out without killin' him? Let's just leave 'im here, sar'nt, and get goin'."

"I'd tap him a little less hard than you would me , that's all. Ain't no magic in it." Pye replied quietly, though he did master a fairly good glare, at the Palmer. He did not look at the sergeant however knowing full well that whatever that man said would go. He looked at the boy on the floor and quietly sighed.

"Jus' leave him. We can't afford to drag him along with us," Cotton said. They couldn't really afford for him to go telling his own people where they'd gone, either, but every minute they stayed behind was another minute less to escape in.

He looked down at the lad apologetically. Damn it. "Sorry, mate," he said, and swung the butt of his rifle at the lad's head, hard but not too hard. "'Fraid you'll have a bit of a headache in the morning. Sorry."

Francois could do nothing but sit there gagged as the English decided whether to take him along or not. Then the one they called Cotton seemed to make a decision. He hefted the rifle so the gun butt faced the bound Frenchman below him.

"Sorry, mate," he said, and swung the butt of his rifle at the lad's head, hard but not too hard.

Francois saw it coming and closed his eyes, he had no real defense against the blow. There was pain but then nothing as he slipped into unconsciousness, his bound frame sagging to one side.

[The French arrive here.]