9 June; Roving

"Easy, there," Burke said to Newbury. "Have ye back an' fixed up in no time."

He looked from Jed Palmer to Pye in surprise. The lad didn't look like a Frenchman. "Frog? Prisoner, then, is he?"

"Ain't a Frog." Pye protested sharply, even if that had been the same argument through out the walk from the French camp. McCoy nudged his side. "Back on with that coat o' yours, Froggy."

The lad looked back at the man, glared at him, sighed and looked quite unhappy to obey. "Ain't no real Frog." His gaze shifted to Cotton. Could it be atleast him to confirm his story. But that rifleman might well have been thinking of his miss Maggie and no longer about their long march. His chick stirred from her sleep, chirped and squirmed though she was not let free exactly. Pye feared that the moment she might be allowed to stray from him one of the Palmers would kill her.

"..take care with n' of Newbury n' t' other one... please." Well, frankly he did not care much about the redcoat whom he did not know well enough, but he did want to see Newbury survive his journey to the surgeon.

The news that Vickery was alive made him feel happier. He'd felt rather bitter when told of the opposite. Even if injured, he was now fixed and would.. survive a good time longer.

His own current situation though was not looking up at all. Nothing he would say could sway people to believe him if his fellow riflemen decided to end it for him. Not even the fact that he had done it for them. Nobody would have believed it. He sighed.

"He ain't no Frog," Cotton said sourly, though that might even make it worse for Pye in the long run. Not that he cared, particularly, after what Pye had put him through in the past few days. He'd trusted the boy, dammit, and to find him in a Frog uniform had... It had hurt. Quite apart from his treatment of Cotton and the others once he'd got it on.

"It's goin' to be for the Captain to sort out," he added, somewhat less sourly, at the realisation that Captain Vickery was alive and could sort out the whole stupid mess.

"What's all this?" A redcoat loomed out of the growing darkness, his white trousers competing with his crossbelts for brightness. He carried his musket over his shoulder but was ready to swing it down if needs be. There was a pair of chevrons on his sleeve that more or less justified the brusqueness of his tone.

Perhaps if he was very quiet, very invisible and motionless the redcoat would not see him. He glanced towards Newbury and the men helping him. That was a very fine distraction. Hopefully it would draw the man to him. Now best be as quiet as the mouse in the process. He did not think Cotton's earlier retort, that he was not Frog, expressed any support.

It was perhaps just saying how it was...and it could very well be much worse than if he had been a Frog.

Cotton straightened. "We got cut off in the skirmish a few days back, Corp'ral. Wantin' to rejoin our Comp'ny."

Don't let any of these sods keep him from his wife and the Captain for a minute longer than necessary... or he was likely to lay them out cold, and damn the consequences. It had been quite long enough as it was.

Had they indeed. The corporal grunted. Sad luck for them and all.

"And how do I know you ain't all deserters lookin' for a second bite off the apple?"

"Because we're part of Captain Vickery's Comp'ny that got rode over by the fu... 'scuse me, Corp'ral, God-damned Frogs about a week back an' we was took prisoner. You can send to ask Captain Vick'ry if you want - he's in command of the 60th with the Second Division, attached to the Second Foot Guards. An' I'm his batman an' me wife's down there with them some'ers, too."

And if the Corporal did not get the hell out his way now Cotton probably would do him a damage.

This was even better. The corporal curled his lip. All right, then.

"Hewes! Bell!" The two men appeared at a brisk pace. "See this lot get to the Sixtieth's camp, since they're claimin' to be Rifles. Cap'n'll join up with you in a second."

The corporal didn't even bother pretending to smile. "Straight to the provosts with 'em if there's any trouble!"

Cotton had no intention of causing any trouble - heading straight to the Sixtieth's camp was precisely what he wanted.

"You goin' to be all right, Newb'ry?" he asked, looking down at his skirmishing partner in concern. "Or d'you want me to give you a hand? Sar'nt Burr looks just about done in."

"Oh grand," Newbury replied, a trifle stiffly. It felt strange being propped up between Burke and Sergeant Fischer. The mention of Sergeant Burr made him blink and glance toward the burly redcoat. "Sorry," he added.

"Here, I'll take him," Cotton added, addressing Burke. They couldn't take the other lad away from his duty, after all. "Where's the 60th camped, then?"

The corporal watched the turning-over of responsibility for the wounded Rifleman without expression. "Somewhere back that way," he replied, jerking a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the direction.

Burke was careful as he switched places with Cotton. He had heard good things about the man, if he were actually the Captain's batman.

"Good luck, lads," he said. "Ye're almost there now."

Casting a wary glance at the red-coated corporal, he gave a quick smile and dropped a wink at Cotton. "Don't doubt the Captain and yer missus'll be pleased as punch."

Almost there now. That sounded good enough to Newbury. "Just so long's there's rabbit stew," he said, making a feeble attempt at humour.

"Ye never know," Burke said with a chuckle. One could certainly hope - they all looked like a meal would not go amiss.

Catching a stern look from the corporal, he gave the group a nod and moved off to resume piquet duty. Wouldn't do anyone much good if they all just gathered around a group of their own.

Jed Palmer snorted and moved to follow the two lads carrying Newbury. "Don't let this one do any huntin' though," he grunted.

The two redcoated escorts were glowering at them expectantly, as if impatient to get on with their errand.

Pye moved quietly when it was his turn. A bit like a cat, unwilling to betray any of its steps, his exhaustion at the moment did not quite show. He had carried his knapsack in the palm of his hand and tried to inch his coat off, a second time. Not much good that that would do. He was rather glad that the fuss went over their injured. It had two benefits. The injured were taken care of well, so Newbury could have the full treatment first and not have his aches greatened, and second, it meant he was safe from notice. He did not know what would happen, did not regret his actions that brought them to return to the camp, but he still wished that thanks to some miracle he might not still get to hang for something he did not consider he did wrong.

Cotton wasn't quite sure who he wanted to see the most: The Captain, or Maggie.

Probably Maggie - but he needed to know the truth of the claim that Vickery wasn't dead.

"C'mon then," he said. "Sure we can find some stew for you, Newb'ry." He turned to the redcoats who had been designated their escorts. "Let's get goin', then, show 'em we ain't dead."

Within the first few steps, Newbury decided he was perfectly happy to be on his own two feet instead of bouncing about over somebody's shoulder. He wasn't so sure about the prospect of having two sour-faced redcoats as escorts, though.

"Even if we feels it," he mumbled ruefully.

"You're on your own two feet, you can't be that dead," Cotton retorted cheerfully. He was feeling more cheery than ever at the prospect of seeing the Captain and being reunited with Maggie soon.

"Stow it," one of the redcoats grumbled.

Newbury settled for a halfhearted grunt in answer to Cotton's jibe.

Cotton shrugged, and began to whistle The Girl I Left Behind Me.

Pye was quietly coming along, always at a pace that did not disturb the one behind him, it being McCoy so that he would not make a complaint. He glanced at the redcoats. Atleast his blue just looked dark and his knapsack fairly well placed. He suddenly wished for a new green coat and then, that Vickery would not see him this way. Later he only wished for some respite and rest.

These Riflemen were definitely a ragged lot, Hewes thought. Ragged and disgraceful. Trust his corporal to dump this sort of foul duty on him and Bell. Uppity Irishman.

"Quiet," he snapped, pointedly ignoring the splash of red on one Rifleman's sleeve that hinted at Hewes being outranked.