6 June, morning - Bump on the head

"The hell are you doin' out here, Rousseau? Thought they had you chasin' after horses."

"How'd you know about the..... nevermind that." Rousseau answered. "I've been looking for you. We need to get those prisoners back.. or else." The orders were just something along those lines. "...That or help the cavalry get their mounts back." Even if the damn horsemen could do well to do that part alone. It was their horses, which had not been under good enough guard and were now missing!

Foucheaux snorted a laugh. "Oh ho, so the cavalry's finally ready to admit they need our help, but only as stable boys?" He shook his head, but then turned to the boy at his side. "Do you know anything about it, Sevoir? Maybe the prisoners took 'em."

"Holla, so that's where our little truant's got to. You don't have by any chance that damn prisoners at hand as well?"

The cheerful question was instantly followed by the arrival of an equally cheerful young lieutenant of the 17ème, who obviously didn't set too much value on his life or proper procedures.

Horses?

"No, they didn't steal any horses, least not while I was with them," Francois shook his head, "What they did when they knocked me out, I wouldn't know."

It was an officer present now, Seviere was not thrilled to see his arrival.

"Holla, so that's where our little truant's got to. You don't have by any chance that damn prisoners at hand as well?"

"No sir, they ran off. I'm not sure which direction, they hit me on the head with a rifle butt," Francois had the blood and bump on his head to prove it, not to mention the rope burns on his wrists.

"Stand down!" St Laurent shouted to the others over Seviere's reply, "It's one of ours." He drew in a long breath and released it with a murmured oath. His heart was still hammering in his chest and, though he lowered his musket, he did not shoulder it. There was something cathartic in just holding it and at that moment he was gripping it so tightly his hands ached.

Slowly Navarre and the others who had melted into the woods at the sound of the officer's approach materialized into the open. "Caporal St Laurent of the 86e, sir," St Laurent said stiffly, "Sent to track down the missing prisoners. Only, like the lad said, trail's gone cold. We were lucky to find him at all."

Rousseau had his own idea why the men were returning. If they found the very spot where the prisoners had knocked this lad out, the trail was as fresh as it could be. They had stood at the very spot from which the prisoners had gone onwards. If only they had looked about rather than been in a hurry to return. The reason for that? He guessed they were afraid, and their clutching of muskets as if their lives depended on it, only proved himself right.

"Sir." He stood back a little. He had a mind to suggest that they return to the spot and search around the area until they found something that betrayed human presence. Or at very least, several 17th could be sent ahead to do so. They knew to search the land far better.

The young officer answered St Laurent's stiff greeting with a rather perfunctory salute. "A pity! Seems we have to hunt them down then." He didn't sound in the least daunted by that prospect.
"Lieutenant Prayon, 17ème Légère. Here to find prisoners, horses and soldiers."

He turned over his shoulder and gave a short whistle. When a portly serjent came through the bushes, Prayon nodded towards him:

"Can you coordinate with Serjent Fernet? No need to bump into each other unnecessarily."

Then he approached Sevière and touseled his hair. When his hand came away wet and sticky, he carelessly ripped off his own cravat and handed it to the young man.

"Nice-sized bump. Here, pack this on it. D'you need a sawbone or are you up for some more fun?"

Foucheaux gaped at the officer who was so carelessly rubbing the lad's injured head. The young fellow might be a blue cornflower with a funny accent, but he was their blue cornflower. And hadn't he just told the officer that the prisoners had hit him in the head? And since when did the 86e take orders from the cavalry? Foucheaux shot a glare to St Laurent, wondering what the corporal would do.

"With respect, sir," protested St Laurent, "That's a question better put to our surgeon."

"Then I think you just answered it, Caporal. Walk or carry? I'm afraid the riding option has disappeared into the night."

Francois stood there surprised when the officer approached him and then winced when the man rubbed his head. That hurt!

"Excuse me, sir," he pulled his head away a bit too late.

The officer noticed blood then provided his own cravat to the young man who took it with a bit of uncertainty.

"Umm, merci, sir. Oh, and no sir, I do not need the doctor. I can keep up," he was quick to answer the officer's inquiry, though not really eager to chase the escapees in the dark. At night, far from major camps, the French were in Portuguese territory, where those devils held the upper hand.

Foucheaux scowled at the boy. "Of course you need the surgeon, idiot. Just look at you."

St Laurent regarded the officer warily, not entirely sure what he was implying. It sounded like he had given him permission to take the boy back to the column, but one could never tell with officers. "Like I said," he turned back toward Seviere and Foucheaux, "That's for the sawbones to decide. C'mon lads, let's go."

Rousseau observed the lad and then the rest of the French they had discovered.

"He can be escorted back with but one man to see him arrived at the surgeon. The rest ought to go and continue the search. Especially as you have discovered the area where the prisoners had languished for longer. It is getting lighter as we speak." Which it did. The morning was becoming quite pleasant, and warm. The last remnants of darkness soon to be reserved for anywhere where the thick vegetation prevented sun from piercing through.

He looked at the officer. Atleast the discovered lad was eager to go and do his duty. The men seemed more eager to just return. He would go far, if he survived his years.

"Yes, I'd agree that this young man will not need quite that much of a guard back to the surgeon. He'd shame our esteemed commander if he had that many men in attendence. But if your men prefer to begin their day in a less taxing way, you may leave the prisoners to the 17th and go hunting for those horses. They must have left quite a trail and shouldn't be too difficult to find."

A muscle along St Laurent's jaw twitched, but he swallowed the insult. "Sir," he managed to choke out the acknowledgment.

"Rousseau," the corporal's voice was taught with over-control as he turned to the other man, "Since it means so much to you, you may stay with the 17e, if the Lieutenant is willing, to search for the prisoners. Or come with us. Your choice."

To the others, he jerked his head in the direction they had come and started to move off, only to be brought up short by the memory of something the boy had said. Damn it all. "Sir? The lad reported that the prisoners had got hold of some rifles. They'll be armed, if you find 'em."

Francois really had no desire to see the surgeon, he wasn't exactly filled with confidence in such a man's ability to actually help much. His own father often remarked that doctors kill as many as they help. It was only a bump and he was already up and around.

"Sir, begging your pardon, but I think we need every man we can get to find the fugitives...and horses also. I can keep up, I am sure of it. I request permission to accompany the search not go back to camp," he drew himself up as straight as he could and hoped for the best.

"Sir? The lad reported that the prisoners had got hold of some rifles. They'll be armed, if you find 'em," said Laurent.

Francois just had to comment, "Yes they have their rifles but not shot and powder. Those were not with the rifles. They are little more than fancy clubs."

Foucheaux glared at Rousseau but said nothing to him. He would deal with him later. But he was surprised at the younger lad's insistent volunteering. "You scared to report to the captain, Cornflower?"

Rousseau stood silently this time around. While their return would save face to the regiment and not mark them as cowards, the ones that were part of the expedition would be far from happy that they still had to do it.

He glanced at the young lad with the bump and nodded. For whichever reason, be it guilt ridden or eagerness, he insisted to come along. Again he thought that the lad would go far, if his eagerness was always to serve and do duty or beyond duty. Perhaps he might one day be the commanding officer.

"No, if you feel up to it, by all means stay here. Nice clean night air will do your head probably more good anyway."

Prayon grinned at the young soldier, then drew a pistol from its holster and handed it to Francois.

"Here! Until the British restore our property to us, you better take this. Please don't use it as a club, though. We need to keep some higher standards than those insular barbarians. Can you show me the spot where they tried to change the shape of your head?"

Turning towards the other men, he added:

"Every man not afraid of some dogs with clubs or a few Portos, continue the search. Everyone else, give your name to Serjeant Fernet and stay here as a reserve. En avant!"

St Laurent stared in disbelief. Interference from officers was something one came to expect, but to sashay in and waltz off with one of his men.... Mere de Dieu.

Fighting down the surge of helpless frustration, he turned to the others. "Right. Change of plans. Looks like we'll be coordinating," he made no effort to disguise his contempt, "with this lot. Least until we get back what's ours. An' you can forget about lookin' for broken twigs and shite, just keep alert. Foucheaux, you can find your way back, yeah? Let 'em know, Goyette or someone, that we found the boy. We'll meet you back there when we can. Seviere! You're with us or have you forgot what color your blasted facings are?"

Rousseau had found just standing quietly, kept him out of making any obvious decision which might anger one man or the other. He could simply and without worry follow an order, once given and then blame the order itself for his actions.

Perhaps it had been better than if he had spoken out as he did earlier, but he could not have helped himself, and the orders he was to deliver were clear anyway. He was only passing on, what he was told himself. Just as well, he wanted those prisoners back, so that the others would not get any silly ideas to also club their captors for the benefit of a quick escape! With that he glanced from the 17th officer to St Laurent.

The officer agreed with his assessment that he could continue on. Francois even got a pistol from the man, that would give him some sort of weapon since he did not have his musket present. Of course there was still the matter of powder and shot, also back at camp. Still, the officer told him not to use it as a club.

"I will take good care of the weapon, sir," Francois assured him.

The officer also made a request.

"Oh yes sir, I can show where I was, it's very close. The English might have left tracks too," again Francois was agreeable and eager to show he was a decent soldier. It rankled him how Pye had made a fool of him.

St. Laurent obviously did not share his enthusiasm though, Francois could tell.

"Right. Change of plans. Looks like we'll be coordinating," he made no effort to disguise his contempt, "with this lot. Least until we get back what's ours. An' you can forget about lookin' for broken twigs and shite, just keep alert. Seviere! You're with us or have you forgot what color your blasted facings are?"

"I am proud to be one of the 86th. I would never forget such a thing," Francois retorted. The officer had seemed to be the only one going and the others heading back to camp, that was why he stepped forward to accompany the officer. But if his comrades were all going, he'd be glad to stick with them.

Prayon laughed out loud at St. Laurent's obvious contempt. With a grand gesture, he motioned Sevière to lead the way, then fell in close beside the younger man. For all his apparent unconcern and swaggering he was quite alert, though, for his hand always was close to his sabre and his eyes continuously scanned their surroundings.

His serjent starred contemtously at the group from the 86th and looked as if he'd like to comment, but when his officer walked away, he settled for a disgusted "Hmmpf!" and hurried to take a postion at the lad's other side, shooting accusing glances at the lieutenant from time to time instead. Under his breath, he grumbled:

"As if they'd be any help now. They probably trample all over the English footprints and jump at every early bird. And with them clumpsy oafs the Portuguese will probably hear us from a mile away and then we're in the suds. You should have send them back. Now we have to keep an eye open for them as well."

In this vein he continued for several more seconds before Prayon, not at all disturbed by this insubordination, exclaimed laughingly:

"Oh, stop it, Fernet! You're putting our young friend here to the blush. 'Sides, the marshal ordered us to fight the Portuguese whereever we find them, and it is rather more convenient and certainly more dignified if they come to us instead of us having to search for them."