6 June, morning - Bump on the head

"Dunno," Paol answered under his breath, "It all looks the same."

"Aaagh!" Foucheaux exclaimed, startling everyone, including himself. He had stepped directly into a hole, and his leg was sunk nearly to the knee. "I'm fine, I'm fine," he called as he worked his foot free. "I remember that hole from before. I remember thinking 'that looks like a deep hole, better watch my step.'" He gave Kerjean a smirk. "Nearly there."

Francois jumped at the cry and swiveled to see the threat. It was only Foucheaux though and he was already extracting one leg from a hole, he had not been wounded. The boy took a deep breath and kept walking. The ground was getting easier to negotiate and even better, there did not seem to be any more Portuguese. He wondered if their losses might have been too grievous for them to see the profit in continuing the fight?

The growing pain in his arm and face seemed to dull everything except itself. It was a struggle to stay alert, to keep up. He had lost all track of time. He barely reacted to Foucheaux's outburst.

At least they were out of the swamp. Not quite out of danger, but St Laurent had never expected to make it even this far. His eyes moved over the small group. They were all exhausted, but some were flagging badly. Laramie, his eyes fixed unseeing on the middle of Navarre's back as they carried Balincourt's stretcher, was one.

"Seviere?" the corporal called, looking around for the boy, "You alright to take over for Laramie for a while?"

Bastien had been at the rear to keep an eye on any Portuguese that might follow, but at the cry he quickly spun around. Before he could decide to come over, however, Hugo shook his head clearly.
"Hole!", he mouthed, making a few expressive gestures with his hands, not exactly singing Foucheaux's praise, but not being unfriendly either. It was more in the vein of 'What could we expect, I should have kept a better eye on him'.

The lieutenant nodded and waved them on. The older tracker turned to Foucheaux.

"Come on, then." He shrugged. "At least now the whole herd behind us knows where that hole is, and will do their best to avoid it to avoid looking silly. Otherwise it would just have been one of them."

Greville grinned and joined in.

"Just try to call out a bit more softly, next time. I wouldn't mind seeing some Ports in that hole!"

"Oh shut it," Foucheaux grumbled, not caring if they heard him or not. Maybe they would take a tumble through the brambles. He did not want to admit even to himself that he was experiencing jumpy nerves rather than wounded pride.

Paol shifted closer to Foucheaux. He didn't appear to be limping at least. "You alright?" he asked quietly.

"Be better when we're back in camp," he muttered. He squinted at a bright spot in the distance. "Look. Is that a tent?"

"Seviere?" the corporal called, looking around for the boy, "You alright to take over for Laramie for a while?"

Francois was only a few steps away though with his back to the man but he turned about at the mention of his name.

"Oui, corporal. I will do it then," he quickly agreed then shouldered his musket first before exchanging places with Laramie. Luckily Balincourt didn't weigh much.

Paol squinted in the direction Foucheaux was indicating. "Where? I don't see nothin'."

"Way up there, straight ahead!" Foucheaux exclaimed, pointing. "I'm sure it's a tent, that whitish spot!" His impulse was to run toward it, but what soldierly instinct he had told him to be cautious. "Should we call out for the picquets?"

"Are you sure you're al--" Paol froze. As if invoked by Foucheaux's question, from the trees somewhere ahead of them a voice called out in French.

"Bayonne!" Paol called back hurriedly. For several moments there was nothing, then some rustling and two blue coated figures were suddenly visible among the trees.

"You from First Batallion?" one of them demanded.

"2nd Company. Why?"

"They been wondrin' where you lot got to. Rest o' the patrols got back ages ago."

"Vaindieu..." the other man muttered as the small company drew closer, "What the hell happened?"

"We're back. We're back!" Foucheaux called to the men behind, in case they hadn't noticed.

Now that his job of leading the way back to camp was fulfilled, he slung his musket and rushed back to the stretcher bearers. "All right, let me," he said, taking over from one of the 17e fellows. He forced a grin at poor young Balincourt, but it hardly mattered because the lad's eyes were closed. "Nearly there, little whale. Home again."

Bastien grinned at the piquets, quickly coming forward to identify himself and his men. When the formalia were done and the men from the two regiments would separate, he came over to the stretcher, quickly checking up on Ballincourt, too, then offering his hip flask to St Laurent. This time his smile was genuine and charming.

"We're home again, Sergeant. My thanks to you and your men. Now get your arm treated. If you stand there stoically bleeding much longer, the piquets might even think you are the hero of the piece, and how am I to explain myself to my colonel then."

He flashed a more toothy grin at Sevière.

"I think I must ask you to give my pistol back ... The colonel berates me enough for being irresponsible and unorganized. If I manage to turn up not properly equipped with weapons while walking into Portuguese traps, I can kiss future promotions goodbye."

St Laurent accepted the flask, though his face lost none of its seriousness. The alcohol at least washed the taste of blood out of his mouth. "Thank you, sir," he replied, handing it back, "And... it's just caporal, sir." He would, he thought bitterly, be lucky if he was even that by the time this was over.

Bastien's eyes quickly flew to the man's arm, checking, then shrugged. He took the bottle back, recapped it and put it away.

"Well, in this case, Caporal: The day so far was a mixed pleasure, and I would by far have preferred to find either our horses or our prisoners, but hopefully the rest of the morning will be more to your liking. Heal well!"

He quickly touched his head, then turned and strode away, trying to seperate the two groups. Before he went to report to the officer of the watch, he send four of his own men to take over the prisoner.

Hugo, who had been standing nearby, gave a friendly shrug and tilt of the head, then shouldered his musket and joined the rest. Grenville followed him, only turning his head and jerking it in their direction as an afterthough.

Francois was so relieved to be back with the main body, he had survived, almost all of them had. He had so badly wanted to fight the Portuguese and kill some, well, now that it had happened, he felt more of a sadness than triumphant or joyful. He'd killed his first man.

His thoughts were interrupted by the officer...he blinked and listened.

"Oh yes sir! Of course! Your pistol, sir," he immediately handed it on over to the man, "And thank you sir. It's a fine pistol."

Foucheaux and his partner eased their makeshift stretcher to the ground. "Kerjean, go and fetch a surgeon here," he said quietly, looking askance at the corporal. Saint Laurent should be giving the orders, but the man looked ready to keel over.

Bastien smiled and took the weapon back, lovingly polishing the brass fittings with his sleeve.

"Yes, it is. Used my first spoils of war for it, has repaid me ever since! And now, good night ... or rather morning, or whatever. See you when we are celebrating in Lisboa!"

The prisoner had been taken to be under guard. With that Rousseau and Morel's babysitting hours were ended. They looked at each other, making faces. "You smell." Morel muttered and waved his hand infront of his face. "So do you." Rousseau replied wrinkling his nose.

"Mon dieu, one would think a horse died , lay in the same spot for a week and then you decided to roll in it." Which was replied with. "And right back at you."

The pair decided they could return to the 86th to see if they needed any more help and, a bit, because they could and had wanted to go to the river anyway, which was in about the same direction.

"Yessir, and good luck to you too, sir," Francois wasn't sure if he should salute or not at the leavetaking but decided not to.

Later he joined a few of the other soldiers, he wanted to be with his comrades and not get separated. Maybe it was still from the unpleasant memories of being grabbed by the escaping English soldiers and then the menace of the Portuguese.

"Mind if I accompany you two?" he asked.

"Come right ahead if you can stand the.." Morel began, then he looked at Seviere recognising the lad. "Ah,.. you won't mind the stench, so you are very welcome." He chuckled softly.

"What went on with the officer?" Rousseau asked curiously.

"Merci," Francois nodded and fell in beside the other two soldiers. All three of them looked a sight.

"Oh, I'm not certain. He went off I would imagine to inform his superiors about the prisoner we took. I hope it was worth the cost," Francois sighed.

"Our primary intentions were not to get new prisoners, just the old ones. But.. I guess, we could not have gotten that, so we settled for what's what. " Morel murmured, glancing at Seviére. "We were lucky enough to get out of it.. cause some losses to the Portuguese too. That counts for something."

"Yes, but lost two men. And never did find the English prisoners. Though if I hadn't been so stupid, they would have never escaped," Francois was still bitter about that incident. Served him right for actually liking that Englishman Pye. He was made a fool of.