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

"Shut up, Joe," whispered one of the Palmers behind him. Then the blanket was tugged free from his head.

Ok. So either it was clear, or it was not. But, he supposed, if nobody said it was not clear, they must all have understood and would follow his directions as they were given. He moved forward. Peered to the left and to the right, listened to any sounds that might alarm him to an approaching enemy. There were snores, and there was some shifting of the men in their 'beds', but there was nothing to indicate a sober, awake person. He waved and then moved further across the open path, whirling around at the other side, to keep watch while the rest of the men were to follow.

Thankfully, the hissed admonition from one of the other Riflemen served to silence the one on his back. Good. The redcoat lumbered on after their blue-coated guide, taking as much care to be soundless as he could. These Riflemen were much better at stealthy movement than he was.

Surely it couldn't be too much longer before they were past the French piquets, though.

Zachary stopped again. gazing back at the assembly of riflemen. It was good that the rising grumble coming from Newbury was silenced. They needed stealth and at very best, no English spoken loudly enough that they could be heard.

They were approaching the second stage and then, if passing, and ending with the third they were all good to go.

There were still some subtle sounds that came from the camp, some that indicated it being filled with men of all kinds and sleeping manners. Of some drunks, some merry, who celebrated success, few others who cared for nothing but to live till the next day. From the direction of the surgeon's tent one could hear the wind bring a moan of pain at times, the sound of discomfort and souls that could not sleep as they injuries did not allow them. Others would not wake at all.

"Here we part..till we's across." Pye whispered and thrust his thumb in the direction that the small party was to take. " It's not far. When yer hear t' whis'l, yer t' move. Stop when yer reach t' large boulder, s' all covered in leaf ter t' sides but you'll know it. Got a low ditch there like this'un." Down a similar they were to descend now, having been of natural curve in the ground. It did not fully conceal them, yet it was better than nothing. It was not too steep, though had some mud that they might want to take care to pass. Just one patch and of this Pye warned before adding the final part that related to the boulder he had spoken of a moment ago:" an' wait there. I'll rejoin ye there."

"If you do anythin' at all to give us away, so help me God, you'll regret it," Cotton told Pye in a low undertone. It seemed to make sense, but Cotton wasn't quite ready trust Pye again, not after what he'd done in putting on a French uniform.

"How're you holdin' up, Joe?" He remembered the man carrying his friend and added, "An' whatever your name is."

".. I won't betray you." Pye answered quietly, but firmly. "..jus' follow this n'.. we'll all be out in a snap. An if yer think I've done sommat to make it harder, you're free to give me jus' wot' I be deservin'. But later, when we's safe n' free n' far enough."

With that he had gone quiet again, only to add."..when yer hear t' signal.. you move. Meet yer there." He had chosen the area with more vegetation and bush for them. It may have appeared that it was also more prickly, as he could not have chosen the type of bush, it would conceal, only not to be quite as comfortable about it."Keep t' Snowflake covered." This he meant the redcoat, who, without his red coat, did have enough white for it.

He crouched then moved forward, silently as a thief in the night and perhaps quite practiced in that, disappearing from view though, like a ghost or a bad dream.

"I'm upside down," was Newbury's grunted response. He was beginning to feel lightheaded from it and that annoyed him.

His self-appointed escort knelt down and leaned forward as much as he could to give the Rifleman an opportunity to rest. "Ain't a thing," he muttered. It would be better if he had both shoulders in working order though.

"We'll see about that," he muttered darkly as Pye vanished who knew where.

"How're you holdin' up?" he asked the redcoat, reaching to adjust the blanket to cover his shirt better. He fell silent again, listening for any sign of French pursuit.

"This ain't a thing," the redcoat replied easily. Even if the Rifleman he was carrying was proving a burden, he wouldn't speak of it.

"Too right it ain't," Cotton muttered darkly. "That there's Joe Newb'ry, that is."

He wondered vaguely if sitting down might not be a better option than standing around, although from where they were, he was willing to bet that the bushes around them were brambles or thorn-bushes or the like - they would be back home, and he had no real reason to think that there were no brambles in Portugal.

Newbury. That name was familiar. The redcoat frowned. Just like this other Rifleman-shaped shadow sounded familiar.

"Ah," he said when it came to him. "I ken ye lot. Mighta reckoned I'd see ye agin."

Cotton kicked at something that felt like a trailing bramble that had got caught up round his trouser-leg. "Sorry, can't say as I know you," he said apologetically. "Well. It don't help, bein' dark and all."

The redcoat smirked slightly in the darkness. "Yer mate near-to got arrested last I seen ye. Now here ye is agin, up t'yer ears in troubles." He sounded amused.

"Seems you're in jist as much trouble" Jed Palmer hissed at the redcoat. The man's smug demeanor was out of place in their current predicament. "Say that again when we're outta here, why don't you?"

"Quiet down, you lot." Came a harsh whisper. "We're not out of the woods yet." The French were near and the last thing he wanted was for one of the Frogs to hear them bickering. "Why's he taking that long, anyhow?" Here they were, sitting or half standing, some crouching, in the bush, waiting for a signal. He hoped that the boy would not fudge something up.

"Maybe he's not coming back," Jed muttered, shifting slightly. It would serve them right for trusting a traitor if he left them there to be found by the French guards.

"What's the point in bringing us here in the first place, then? Makes no sense. Unless t' brat got scared." Or had second thoughts about the whole thing. Only, if they were wrong, they could loose their own chance of escape due to mistrust. Bloody all to hell.

He was quiet for a few moments. Silence. Still no signal to suggest them to go forward. Except something in the distance, but which did not sound like a signal at all. Just sort of muted. Perhaps the wildlife making itself known.

Much further along the road, by the second boulder Pye had picked out to landmark his and the rest of the Rifles' route of escape (being a secluded location just off the road), a British exploring officer had halted and dismounted for a rest and to get his bearings. He was now sitting against the boulder in question, studying a map and consulting his notebook, at the same time taking the opportunity to consume the breakfast of a cold chicken leg and hard boiled egg he’d managed to obtain from some friendly natives the previous evening. His mare stood tethered a few paces away, happily munching out of her nosebag.

Padstowe pencilled in his present position on the map, trailing the tip along the road which the Enemy were following. He had been trailing this particular French column since Oporto with two main objectives in mind; to determine the Enemy’s strength and numbers, and to discover where they were headed and for what purpose. Continuous reports had been sent back to Sir Arthur regularly as he had moved in the shadow of the French, along with observations of the terrain, the state of the French troops and the attitudes of the people he encountered; who to trust and who to avoid. It was work that he enjoyed, and had been made easier in the last few days by taking the decision to remove his left arm from its sling. The shoulder still pained him terribly at times and he was most likely being rash with his health, but he could use his hand freely once more, and little by little, if he was careful, he was gaining more movement back in the limb. It was something to make him optimistic once again, after so many months of moving from one personal disaster to another... and of losing his friends. Yes, once again he was out here alone; not a soul to rely on but himself, and with only Bethany for company.

Cotton himself was crouching, his shako in his lap to reduce his visibility as much as he could. "It ain't bin ten minutes yet - don't think it's even bin five," he muttered quietly. Working for an officer who possessed a watch had given him a much keener sense of time than some of the others seemed to have.

He sighed, listening out for anything that could remotely sound like a whistle, thinking that if it didn't come soon, he was going to track Pye down and do something nasty to him.

Still the whistle did not come. More minutes passed and yet there was no sign of the young former rifleman. Not a single rustle of grass, or a whoop, or a broken branch to indicate he was close. Was it ten minutes now? Fifteen? It felt like hours already, and the longer they stayed in one place, more dangerous it was becoming.

Longer? the rifleman shifted in his place glaring into the dark. The damned turncoat. He tricked them again. The cursed bloody trickster. If he ever found him, he'd show him what happened with traitors.

He froze. There was a distinct sound of hooves. Cavalry? Were they sent cavalry? That did it. When he got his hands on the young upstart he'd wish he'd never been born in that miserable place. He went into a crouch ready to move. The soft thudding of horse feet was coming closer.

At first.

Closer, and closer and then it became more distant, quieter. There were no shouts. No sounds of recognition, of seeing them. What was this all about?!

They had been there for a while; Cotton's legs were beginning to get pins-and-needles. There was a sudden sound that made the Rifleman forget the discomfort he was in and perk up a little, moving his head to hear better.

Horses.

There was something wrong, though, something different, that he couldn't quite put his finger on. But it didn't sound like the usual sound of cavalry. It was more... disorganised, somehow.

And what about Pye? Had he gone back to the enemy, planning to betray them, to give them away? There would be no getting around the fact that they were escaping, not now, with where they were.

He wasn't sure if the French shot prisoners attempting to escape or not. He was sure that he didn't want to find out any time soon, though.

No more than a minute after the horses were heard, or perhaps half that, another sound came, carried by the wind. The sound was as near like a bird's as a whistle can be, but the 'chirp' was certainly that a rifleman might distinguish as signal.

It repeat itself, three times, then it went quiet. After a few moments it was heard again, once as if to confirm that this was not just mere coincidence. It was time to move. The French were not yet aware of them, but better to move quickly than to test their ignorance for too long.

"That's the signal. Lets move." The horses forgotten for the moment it was time to stretch legs, get to the second meeting point and if all was well be free thereafter. He got to his feet, dusted himself, unplucked a couple of thorns that gripped at his pant legs and then waited for the rest to make their move as well. They had to go together anyway.

"Well, come on then, lads," Jed said, getting to his feet. "Not waiting here any longer."

McCoy nodded, made sure that the redcoat who carried the wounded had the blanket cover him well, and that the same blanket would not slip off of the man or his load, nor suffocate Newbury in the process.

This done, he moved alongside with Jed: "Not long now, eh?" He indicated the slightly steeper slope with what appeared to be a natural dip, something like a ditch through which they would go. Now dry, he supposed it could also serve as the bed of flash waters, when there was a downpour of rain.

"How's you fairing with that?" He indicated his injury whispering his question, and then began the descend into the dark.