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

"Hurts like a bugger," Jed grumbled, wiping slightly at the dried blood beneath his nose. "Like to visit it right back on 'im."

McCoy nodded ducking a branch. "You'll get your chance. Once we're out there, it won't be hard to look the other way. He has it coming, what's I'm saying." He glanced over his shoulder to make sure the others were still keeping up. He was especially concerned with the one that carried the injured one. Even if Newbury had been a child, it would still have become a heavy load to carry eventually. He was debating suggesting to have someone else carry the man. They would certainly, when starting on their way back to the army.

"Think he lied about the women?"

"He wouldn't dare," Zeb Palmer whispered, narrowing his eyes at the thought. But before he could voice the promises of what he would do to Pye if he had lied, he heard a sound and froze on the spot. "Listen!" he whispered very quietly.

Padstowe looked up from his map. He had heard a sound; a chirping sort of whistle that was not unlike that of a nightbird, but something in its sound made the captain believe it did not originate from a bird. It sounded as it it had come from further along the road, nearer the French.

I that sound was what he thought it was he was no longer safe, and he needed to get moving again.

Carefully he folded up his map and tucked it and his notebook away in his inside pocket, then rising from the ground removed Bethany's nosebag, tying it up once again behind the saddle, all the time his eyes scanning his surroundings. He slipped one of his long rifled pistols from its saddle holster, holding it muzzle-downwards like a miniature club. He always travelled with his pistols loaded but unprimed, not only for safety's sake, but because when stealth was required in a scuffle he would rather dispatch his opponent silently that be the one to raise the alarm with an unexpected shot.

A figure in blue appeared up ahead of the rifles and somewhat to the side. It began lumbering towards them, paused as recognition struck it and then the pale of his teeth was seen clear enough in the moonlight as he grinned.

Good. They'd come. He waved them urgently to move along. So far that he knew the french had not been alerted of their disappearance yet. All this could change very quickly and though many horses were missing, the officers probably still had theirs. Which still meant danger.

He turned about and tensed when he saw a silhuette up ahead moving towards a four legged creature. Had they been discovered? He knelt low since he was more in the clear. He'd missed this creature entirely! When had he come?

But as he looked again, he could not see him any more. He bit his lip. Had he imagined a rider? He hoped so! He waited quietly to see movement, glancing briefly towards his little group.

Padstowe crouched down low and led Bethany away from the boulder into better cover by the trees, hoping that his long oilskin coat and peasant hat would help hide the red of his coat beneath. Still he could not see where or who the signal might have come from, and he dare not leave Bethany to go and investigate. It was probably best for him to mount up and escape, or somehow find deeper cover until the danger passed.

Well, there was the signal. Though Cotton wasn't quite sure where they were supposed to be going. There were horses milling about all over the place back in the French camp, and it looked as though one of them had got around in front of them.

Or maybe not... He was sure there had been a horse there a moment ago, but now it looked as though he could be mistaken.

"I am listenin'," he muttered at Zeb Palmer. "There's hosses be'ind us, an' I could swear there was one over there a minute ago." He pointed, though it was debatable whether his hand could be seen in the dark.

Zachary moved across to meet the small group, but did so in a wider circle, worried he might alert someone to their whereabouts. "...Hey.."He spoke in whisper, his blue coat actually rather good in concealing atleast part of him, if his trousers did not. "We need ter be quiet.." He whispered. "..I'm not sure ..but there might've been.. someone there." He was at a loss though, because he was no longer as convinced about it. Maybe it was just a shadow playing up on his fears.

"Did you see anythin?" he turned towards Cotton, trusting the man to answer honestly and quickly.

At least Pye hadn't given them away... yet. He still might, of course.

"Shadow over there. Looked like a hoss, dunno if there was anyone with it. Wasn't in the right place to be French, though," Cotton muttered, careful to keep his voice low so as not to give their location away.

"If you'm serious about not givin' us away, you want to get out of that clobber afore we get anywhere near our own lines," he added, sourly, with a glance at the blue French uniform coat Pye was wearing.

He would feel a lot more at ease if he had his rifle to hand, but beggars couldn't be choosers. He would most likely never see his rifle again.

Nothing. Padstowe took a step backwards towards the boulder, but stumbled as he trod of something soft and long, catching his foot and startling an short oath out of him. He regained his balance by leaing on the boulder, but as he looked down to try and see what he had tripped over he realised, to his horror, that it was a hand. A hand belonging to a body in French uniform. It must have been there all the time he been sitting there, long before even!

He had to move from here. Fast.

"I'm goin' ter.. but right now I'm more white underneath.. n' you saw snowflake o'er there." He indicated the redcoat. "T' white's glarin' obvious in t' dark." He averted his gaze towards their near final destination." ...We's needing to get over there 'fore we move on. Les' hope nobody's there..fer real. T' horses are plenty 'round now.. couse t' lines have been untied." He grinned at that. "so nevermind those.. if'un you just seen a horse... we's safe."

Unless it was prepared for riding of course. None of those were. "..I's got m' knapsack over there. An summat else."

He jumped nearly, at a strange, still muffled sound carrying towards them. Horses did not curse, did they? "...bloody.."

"Whatever that was, it warn't Frog," Cotton muttered darkly. "We got to go, now, afore them Frogs start thinkin' to look for us. Best we wasn't here."

Not the stream - their progress along that would be obvious, unless the damn Frogs were deaf.

"..We're goin' that' a way better we spread out then." He looked at Cotton. "if it's one o' em.. folk.. we can jus' get ter 'im before he makes a fuss that might alert anyone. " He indicated the boulder. There's easy goin' round t' left... somewhat slippery on the other side." He hoped dearly they did not find the rifles just yet!

"All right," Cotton said, glancing around at the other riflemen - and the stray redcoat they'd picked up. "C'mon then."

He led the way towards the boulder, hoping to hell that the redcoat would have the sense to keep down, even if he wasn't trained to keep out of sight.

He approached the boulder stealthily and tripped over something soft but heavy and unyielding. He was off-balance and tripped heavily, bumping into something else - or someone, which was worse.

He swore, viciously but quietly. That was a sure giveaway of where they were, if anything was.

Enough talk. Zeb Palmer was not in the mood for cautious planning anymore. If there was someone behind the boulders watching them, that person needed to be taken down. Especially if Sarah was out there waiting for them. Stupid clumsy Cotton and Pye, what were they doing? Resisting the urge to yell, Zeb launched himself in the direction of the unknown watcher. He managed to knock someone to the ground. As quick as he could, he covered the man's mouth. "Not a word, frog slime, not a croak!"

Pye saw Cotton go down, well trip would be a better way to go about it. The next moment he saw a silhuette and then there was someone already jumping on it. Only he did not know that for sure. Shoving forward again, he landed ontop of Zeb only to realise that... yes, this was their rifleman and what was beneath, probably was not.

Jed rushed to his brother's aid, wrapping an arm around Pye's neck and hauling him off of Zeb's back. If this little snot-nosed turncoat had given them away, he was sure as hell going to suffer for it! "Shut up, damn it!" he whispered unnecessarily.

The idiot! Ow. Pye landed on the floor cursing silently. He was not trying to hurt Zeb - who he only now recognised as being himself. "What he got?" He asked in sharp whisper. "Idiot." He added, quickly followed by:"Keep your bloody voice down." similarly in whisper.

From out of nowhere a figure came out of the darkness and tripped also, falling into him. Staggering, Padstowe turned and brought up his pistol to try and defend himself, but before he could focus on a target of any sort he was pounched upon from what seemed to be all sides. He struggled futile, but his attackers had tackled him to the floor swiftly, securing his arms, his legs, his waist - one clamping a hand over his mouth so his cry of pain as he was knocked down was stifled. The pistol was forced from his hand and landed a few feet away on the ground.

Sergeant Fischer seized the pistol and pointed it at the man as they held him down. He did not seem to be wearing a French uniform, unlike the prostrate body next to him - or perhaps it was not a body, since the lad's hands and feet had been tied. Had this man switched clothes with some hapless peasant?

"Who in hell are you?" the sergeant asked in his accented English. "French? Portuguese?"

"I am keepin' me voice down, bugger it all," Cotton growled. "Get off me, you fat lump!" This last was aimed at the idiot who'd landed on top of him as well as whoever it was Cotton had landed on.

Zeb shifted his position to allow Cotton to move, and he cautiously moved his hands from the stranger's mouth to allow him to answer the sergeant. He still held the man's head against the ground, ready to silence him if he tried to shout.

One of the men was speaking to him in English, but it was not an English accent... German? He squinted up; dark uniforms with pewter buttons. Rifles, perhaps, or KGL. The hand was moved away from his mouth so that he could answer, but his was still being pinned down hard.

"Neither!" he snapped angrily in his own clipped English. "And the question is who the hell are you?"

Zeb Palmer started in surprise. "He sounds English, sarn't!" he whispered. And officerly too, with that posh accent.

Pye glared at his 'sweet' company who's rudely yanked him of the pile. He paused in surprise. English? Deserter? One of the very few found to own estates in Portugal?

He placed his hands on the elbow of the arm that held him.