9 June; Roving

As he seemed to have spent the majority of the past days, Newbury was slung unceremoniously over the jacketless redcoat's shoulder. The others had decided on this being the best thing, in the interests of speed. Easy for them to say, he thought grumpily. They weren't the ones being jostled about like a sack of turnips.

He had long since given up trying to keep track of where they were or what sort of ground they were passing over. It was easier to let his eyes unfocus and pretend to be far away. That at least made it easier to ignore the constant pain in his ribs from the regular motion of the redcoat's shoulder as he walked. It did seem, however, that they were bound to walk all the way back to England though.

Certainly they'd get back to the army some time, or else Newbury suspected they might just walk all the way back to England.

What it was, in Cotton's opinion, was high time they came in contact with someone in the British Army. Picquets or videttes, preferably, though he'd settle for a scouting party.

Having no ammunition for his rifle, nor even a sword bayonet for it, was making him jumpy, and he'd been jumpy ever since they'd finally got away from the damn Crapauds. At least Captain Padstowe had set them on the right path, though whether he'd been able to fore-warn anyone on the British side that they needed to look out for a straggle of Riflemen remained to be seen.

"How you holdin' up, Newb'ry?" he asked, aware that his mate wasn't in the best position possible - as he hadn't been for the past few score miles.

The sole fact that they had left the French behind brought some peace to the young former deserter. He walked in silence, having agreed that Newbury's means of transportation benefited their speed most, although it was certainly not preferred neither by the man being carried - so it seemed and was rather reasonable to expect - nor by the one doing the carrying.

He arched a brow and glanced in the direction of the injured and their very close friends and partners. He listened carefully.

"Eh," the upside-down Rifleman grunted. "Reckon m'face's more red'n my jacket."

It was annoyingly difficult to form words with his chest bouncing, however lightly, against this redcoat's back.

"Your jacket's green," Cotton pointed out absently, looking for any trouble or any sign of anybody friendly at all apart from their small group.

If it was possible, he might have chuckled. Instead he settled for a strangled-sounding gurgle. "Not all've it."

Well, that was true enough, of course. "Relax, we'll be back afore you knows it," he said, turning to see how his mate was - if he could see him, of course.

Where the hell were the damned picquets? The Army couldn't have got that far away already, could it? He didn't think he could take much more of this endless walking after them.

The sound of voices caught Burke's attention, and he moved towards the sound, rifle at the ready. He listened carefully, moving forwards as quietly as he could, and was surprised when he realized that the voices were speaking English. The came within view, a small ragtag bunch, with one figure slung over the shoulder of another.

Burke frowned at the sight. Couldn't be a good sign. However, it seemed, as he peered through the closing dark, that they were rifleman. Burke was fair certain he recognized at least one of them from when one of their lads was missing.

"Oi!" he called, pulling up his rifle just in case. "Hold it there."

"Mhph," was Newbury's reply, for the redcoat carrying him came to an abrupt halt.

What in the hell...?

"Oh, put him down, do," Cotton told the redcoat. "Hey - friends! Don't shoot!" He moved in front of the others, his rifle held over his head in both hands, trying to make himself obvious to the soldier who'd challenged, not an easy task at this time of night when wearing dark green.

Pye slunk back a bit, unnerved by the new arrival not because of the good news it would tell them, but because of the current situation. McCoy cleared his throat behind him, and the lad remained in place. He muttered a quiet request, which fell on deaf ears. Atleast from the man behind. He was of mixed feelings. Thrilled they came back , but wishing that he might have been able to relieve himself of a garment which, albeit blue and not as obtrusive in the dark as glaring white.. was still not the best sort to march into the friendly camp in.

Newbury's bearer came to a sharp halt and with him poor Newbury who indeed resembled .. or rather was much more red than the collar of his coat would have been. But, with satisfaction Pye realised that, Newbury was alive.

It amused Newbury, distantly, that he was lowered to the ground more care than he'd been lugged about with. The change in positions made his head swim, however, and he curled up as much as he could on the ground, instinctively protecting his throbbing ribs.

The redcoat straightened up and looked toward the dark blob of the British picquet, silent but expectant. His own wound was paining him and had broken open again sometime the day before, staining his shirt afresh. He was not in a much better state than the grasshopper he'd been carrying and in fact would not have been able to bear the poor fellow's weight much longer.

Cotton's shout had convinced Burke to lower his rifle, and he moved up to the group. He cast a concerned look at Newbury, not sure if he was dead.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph," he said, getting a good look at the amount of blood on the man, and the bedraggled appearance of the rest of them. He turned, addressing Cotton. "What happened to ye?"

"Got cut off and captured by the bloody Frogs," Cotton replied. "Still not sure how we got the rifles back, though we've lost our swords, powder-horns an' cartridge pouches. It's bin a bloody nightmare gettin' back here, I'll tell you that."

Pye shuffled a bit behind the bigger redcoat. Quietly he began to slip his knapsack of his shoulders. His intentions were not to rid himself of it, or to find rest on the ground there. They were simply, to remove what he wore beneath.

There. the knapsack off, quickly on the blue coat now. He glanced at Cotton briefly. Rifles grew on trees of course!

"I'd imagine!" Burke said, impressed. "'S a wonder ye lads got back!"

He gestured towards Newbury, brow creasing with concern. "He gonna make it t' th' surgeon?"

"He'd bleedin' better - we didn't bring him all this way with us to lose him now," Cotton said in determination. "S'posin' you got any surgeons still with you. What the hell happened, anyhow? All we know is there was Frog cavalry all round us, and the Captain went down like he'd bin pole-axed. And we was surrounded an' cut off."

There was a grunt from Newbury to indicate that he had no intention of giving in now. But other than that, he made no move to unfold himself from his guarding position. Now that he was down on the ground and stationary, it was becoming apparent to him just how sore he was.

It was heartening to have some proof that the wounded man still lived. If he was aware, couldn't be too bad off, right?

"There's a few surgeons - or good as - back at th' camp," Burke replied. "One o' them fixed Capt'n Vickery up good as new. Don' doubt he could help yer lad there."

"Fixed the Captain...?" Cotton asked in sheer disbelief. "Where is he? How is he? And... damn. Got to get Joe to a surgeon afore he passes out on me - or worse."

And how was Maggie? He hadn't dared think about his wife, although it was hope of seeing her again, holding her, that had spurred him on when things had seemed almost impossible.

Fixed....Wait. Captain. Which captain. The captain? Captain Vickery? Fixed him? He was NOT dead? He was alive? Considerably well? He had to make sure. "...You've fixed captain Vickery? Is' him, who's ..alive?"

"He's not dead?" He repeated half way out of his coat. He felt the good sort of disbelief, only marred by dread that he had misunderstood or that there was a different captain there, that they spoke of.

Burke grinned slightly at the shocked looks on the men's faces.

"Aye, he's alive," he replied. "Though, I ain't th' one what fixed 'im! No kind of surgeon, me."

He slung his rifle over his shoulder. "I'll give ye a hand gettin yer lad back t' camp, then. Sure folks'll be right glad t' see ye."

"He'll need it," the stained-shirt redcoat said, stirring himself from the chilling fingers of hypovolemia that had been blurring the edges of his awareness. "An' don't ye let that'un out of your sight," he added with a nod toward their now-unnecessary guide.

Newbury uttered a low whine in the back of his throat when a pair of hands closed around his arm. He was just getting comfortable here, dammit. Why were they making him move again so soon?

"What's wrong with 'im?" Burke asked, glancing over at Pye as he moved to help Newbury. The lad looked tired, and not overly threatening. Still, he was certainly getting glares from a couple of the other soldiers.

Burke pulled one of Newbury arms around his shoulder, shifting to support behind the injured man's back. He nodded his thanks as a German sergeant moved into place at Newbury's other side to help, mirroring his position.

"Alright, mate," he said quietly as he stood up. "Here we go."

There was a snort from Jed Palmer. "Only a bleedin' Frog, him."

"Urrh," Newbury said as he was levered upright.