6 June, morning - Bump on the head

(Some time after What goes bump at night)


Foucheaux hopped across the stream and scrambled up the other side to have a look, muttering curses at the mud that worked its way into the fabric of his trousers. He had paid good money to have them cleaned, and he had hoped to keep them that way for a little longer. As he carried on, muttering the whole way, he thought he saw something dark up ahead. A smallish bundle wrapped in rope. Some satchel dropped by the escaping prisoners perhaps? Then with surprise, he recognized the shape. Feet. Boots. Booted feet.

"Caporal!" he called, pointing excitedly.

"Keep your goddamn voice down, Foucheaux!" St Laurent snapped hoarsely, hurrying down the opposite bank and across the stream to join the other soldier. "What is it?"

"Legs!" he exclaimed in a barely moderated tone as he scrambled over the rocks in his path. "Over there, see? Ain't it legs?" He paused to let the corporal catch up with him, suddenly feeling doubt. What if it was a trap? Or worse, what if it was only legs, left behind by the Portuguese after tearing some unfortunate French soldier apart?

St Laurent put a hand on Foucheaux's shoulder lest he go charging forward again and peered into the grey half-light. Sure enough, it looked like a pair of legs.

"Wha's goin' on?" hissed Navarre.

St Laurent jumped half out of his skin. Damn but that little Basque bastard could move quietly. Taking in a breath to steady himself, the corporal pointed toward the trussed up bundle.

"A'right." St Laurent signaled to the others to spread out and, leveling his musket, gave Foucheaux a shove forward.

Foucheaux flinched at the shove, but he moved cautiously forward anyway. Why did it have to be him? He was almost certainly going to puke if the legs had been torn off. He tried to blot out that mental image. At least it was still dark enough that he would not have to see much detail. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and approached the feet slowly. He circled around the boulder and then let out the breath that he had been holding. It was a whole body, not a partial one.

"One of ours, St Laurent!" he called back as quietly as he could.

St Laurent swore under his breath. Not again. He didn't think he had the stomach for another of the Portuguese' leavings.

Pushing past Foucheaux, he stopped short at the sight of the boy, not bothering to moderate his cursing this time. "It's that bleusaille, Sevoir," he called over his shoulder, dropping to the ground next to the boy. He had better not be dead or St Laurent was going to kill him.

Foucheaux knelt down to help him roll the boy onto his side. He pulled the stuff out of the lad's mouth and stared to see if he was breathing. "Is he dead? Hey, Sevoir! Are you dead? Poor kid."

The men moving him and even more so, removing the gag roused Francois to consciousness if not clarity. He opened his eyes and blinked. Faces.....it was hard to see....oh, and merde! His head hurt!

"Help.." he managed to spit out, confusion and dry mouth notwithstanding.

"All right, kid. You're safe now." He grinned at St Laurent with evident relief. "Well how about that. He's alive, Cap!" He unsheathed his bayonet at set to work freeing the lad's hands.

"I can see that, Foucheaux," retorted St Laurent, trying not to look as relieved as he felt. Rocking back on his heels, he glanced up at the other men who were starting to crowd round curiously. "Navarre, Davout. Spread out and keep watch. We still don't know what he's doing here."

"Here, let's have a look at your head," he said, once Foucheaux had finished cutting the boy free. The lad's hair was matted with dried blood, making it difficult to see anything. "You got any water in your canteen, Foucheaux?"

The voices were French not English and it brought a wane smile even thru the discomfort of being bound and the pain of the headache. It was all coming back to him now. The English had tied him up, discussed maybe taking him with them on their escape but then the one they called Cotton ended that option with a sudden swing. But he had been found, rescued by his own people. Not the Portuguese, thank God!

"The English...the riflemen we captured...they've gone...escaped. They grabbed me and tied me up...hit me. I'm not sure when," he had no idea about how much time had passed.

He winced as fingers explored his tangle of hair checking out the extent of his injuries.

"They've got weapons too....their rifles," he figured he'd better admit the truth, however embarrassing given his part in it but the troops needed to know their enemies were armed. Though he wondered if they had any ammunition to fire the guns

Foucheaux finished slicing through the rope at the young man's feet and then put his bayonet away. He looked up at the corporal's words. "Water? Oh, yeah. Here. How you feelin', Cornflower? Slow down. Have a drink." He was not exactly listening to the lad's jumbled ramblings.

Taking the canteen from the boy once he had finished with it, St Laurent sloshed some water over the wound. That was a bit better. It didn't appear to be bleeding anymore and, while it looked painful enough, did not seem serious. "Eh, you'l live," he muttered, handing the canteen back to Foucheaux.

It felt better, even with the headache to be able to move his feet and hands again. He rubbed his wrists for a moment as he tried to focus in on the men over him. Then a canteen was offered, he took it eagerly and swigged a few big gulps to water that dry throat.

"Merci," he handed the canteen back with a wane smile.

St. Laurent proceeded to dump some of it's remaining contents over his head, the water felt good even on the wound. There was blood but it was mostly dried and he gladly agreed with the man's verdict that he would live.

"Yes, I'll be fine. I think I can walk, if I can just get up," he raised a hand for one of them to help pull him up. They did not seem too worried about his new about the escaped English so, for the moment, he did not talk more about that unseemly incident.

Getting to his feet, St Laurent reached for the boy's hand. "A'right. Up you get." He put two fingers to his mouth and gave a short, sharp whistle, waving Davout and Navarre back in. They had wasted enough time chasing through the woods. The boy was the first sign they had found of the prisoner's trail and that they had found him at all was more luck than anything else. He doubted that they would be so lucky again.

Foucheaux stood close next to the boy, ready to catch him if he should fall. "What now, Cap?" he asked St Laurent without taking his gaze from the unsteady lad.

"Back to camp," replied St Laurent, slipping his musket off his shoulder. "You alright to walk, kid?"

As Francois was helped up, he winced once more from the headache but at least he did not suffer a dizzy spell so he could keep his feet. He made a slight face at the sharp whistle but said nothing. All things considered, he was very lucky he was alive. The English could have killed him so he would not talk. Or he could have found tied up by roaming Portuguese and that would have been a most unpleasant end.

His question didn't need to be asked when St.Laurent decided they would go back to camp. The pursuit of the prisoners was over apparently. Not that he would have been any help - he didn't even have a weapon even if he would have been completely fit. He was glad to hear the decision.

"Merci...for finding me...and rescuing me. I suppose I will have to make a report to an officer?" he asked.

St Laurent laughed. "You'll need a damn sight worse than a bump on the head to get out of that, lad."

"And maybe report to a surgeon too," Foucheaux said, watching the lad as he walked beside him rubbing his wrists. Was he rubbing at his throat too? "Here, what's wrong with your neck?"

"Oh....well, I was jumped by the Englishman and he began choking me....I went unconscious I guess," Francois answered as he felt his tender neck, he once more realized that he could have been killed then, he was lucky, very lucky.

There was the small party that had been sent ahead. Rousseau was glad to have found them. Rather them than the Portuguese. He had a message to deliver as well. The horses were discovered missing, grazing all about. The prisoners were still at large, though it appeared these men were somewhat luckier to find a clue as to where they might have gone.

If there wasn't an example made of them.. they were facing the danger of more of the redcoated men attempting the same seeing the French as lax. "Ahoy." He waved to get their attention and then quickened his pace to rejoin them. He gazed inquiringly at Seviere. The lad had been noticed missing in camp. But it was thought that he was perhaps only missed up due to the sudden 'chaos' that reigned at the discovery of men gone.

Well he appeared worse, injured. Perhaps a prime source of information then, if he might have caught sight of the prisoners. "Sir." He averted his gaze to the captain.

St Laurent waited with sharp impatience for Rousseau to get near enough to speak. The sound of the other soldier's approach had put them all unnecessarily on edge and if the corporal noticed that Navarre waited rather longer than was strictly necessary to lower his musket, he made no comment.

He was about to demand what Rousseau wanted with them, but the man's first word stopped him dead. Sir? "Are you blind, Rousseau, or just stupid?"

"Where's the prisoner escapees?" Rousseau inquired, ignoring the remark. "That one looks very much one of our own." He glanced about again, but saw that these men were returning without having been successful. Well, they did bring a boy back, but not those they went out to catch. Why on earth were they then going back? All of them.

Foucheaux let out a breath and a curse at the sight of Rousseau. Everyone was far too jumpy. It was too early in the day for this mess. "Oh, we got 'em in our pockets. What do you think? I damn near shot you just now."