6 June, morning - Bump on the head

"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."

They were not near enough to hear the serjent's commentary; the lieutenant's laughing response, however, carried a bit farther.

"Oh ho," remarked Davout under his breath, "the maréchal told him. Well, don't that just say it all." There were smirks from several of the other men. "Go on," joined in Navarre in a whisper, "How may pairs o' trousers d'you think he's worn through the knees on?"

"What? Goin' after the proverbial maréchal's baton?"

"It ain't in his knapsack, I can tell you that much," murmured Laramie and the discussion dissolved into stifled bursts of laughter. With the notable exception of young Balincourt who just looked terribly confused.

St Laurent bit down on the inside of his mouth in an effort to keep a straight face. "That's enough," he called over his shoulder, "Mouths shut. Eyes and ears open, 'less you fancy losing 'em."

If he had heard any of the 86th's badmouthing, Prayon didn't give any signs of it. He swaggered on and it was a wonder that he didn't start to whistle as well.

Rousseau shook his head. He said nothing to the commentary, but thought they were rather unfair of the new officer. It was clear he had not come to the present station by just talking away and retreating at the first sign of danger. Of course, serjeant's own words could have been avoided. The 86th usually did not take it lightly, when their skill was taken into question.

"The sooner we get there, an' catch 'em or see that we can't, the sooner we can go back." He cleared his throat pointedly at that. He would have added that if any of them wanted that baton, they would not get it by sweet-talking, but decided against it. There were officers present so it was the wiser to do so.

(I can't speak for Rousseau, he may have drifted nearer/farther, but the two main groups aren't quite near enough to overhear whispering.)


St Laurent shook his head. "I said ears open, mouth shut, Rousseau. Not the other way 'round."

Francois let the others talk, he just kept moving and looking ahead of him, trying to discern any signs of movement. The English prisoners had those green coats so they would blend in better than the more typical redcoated English troops.
Actually though he knew some of his 86th comrades did not, he liked this new officer. The man seemed pleasant enough and determined to do his duty. To Francois' mind, their duty was to pursue the prisoners, even if some of the veterans lacked enthusiasm. Of course, the young soldat had never actually seen any fighting.

"Did the British set loose those damn horses? And, if you don't mind me asking, why did they take you along in the first place? Not to say that your company is not very desirable, but it's rather unnecessary to bring somebody along only to clobber him later."

Bastien rattled on in his usual style, perhaps even less coherent than usual, but he never looked at Sevière. His eyes darted to every moving shadow in the dark.

"I'm sorry, sir, but I never saw any horses with the English. Perhaps that all happened after I was knocked on the head? Or could there be other English...raiders perhaps about?" Francois answered the easy question first.

The other question he was more reluctant to explain, since it involved his foolish trust of that lying Englishman, Pye.

"Umm, they used me to carry some of their rifles out to them, sir," he tried to keep it short and not very revealing.

Bastien raised a questioning eyebrow.

"And why did you do such a thing? I was under the impression that they were unarmed before. And I'm sorry to have to point out that it is rather unusual to carry weapons out to prisoners. Couldn't they do their dirty work for themselves?"

Someone, St Laurent thought grimly, had been rather lax in impressing upon the boy the merits of selective memory, especially where officers were concerned.

"No doubt they dragged the boy along, hoping to get the location of our pickets out of him, sir, and when that didn't work, stove in his head and left him."

Bastien took his eyes off the bushes to glance cooly at St Laurent.

"I'm quite sure that something like this would have been his story, but unless this knock on the head has damaged him to a greater degree than he has admitted, I think I would prefer to hear it first hand. And even your rather glib explanation doesn't answer the question how they made him cooperate to get the rifles and leaves me to wonder what kind of enemies we might be up against against. So unless you prefer to run into ambushes or get to know your enemies only when they actively try to kill you, I suggest you don't interrupt his report with uncalled for assumptions."

He waited a moment to let this sink in, then resumed his study of the surrounding landscape.

"And why did you do such a thing? I was under the impression that they were unarmed before. And I'm sorry to have to point out that it is rather unusual to carry weapons out to prisoners. Couldn't they do their dirty work for themselves?".

Francois realized he'd said too much and appreciated St. Laurent trying to cover for him. Although it only earned his comrade a sharp reprimand from the officer.

No, he'd have to explain it all himself, Francois then proceeded.

"Sir, I regret to say but that I was tricked into it. Our officers have seen fit to allow some Englishmen who claim to want to switch sides to wear our uniforms and serve with us. One such man came up to me and told me an officer wished some rifles brought to him from the wagon where we were storing them. I was willing to help, giving the man the same sort of trust our superiors already had. He then jumped me and the rifles were seized by the escapees."

Yes, he had been fooled but he wasn't the only one. The officers had permitted the Englishman to pull off the subterfuge. Surely, they too played a role in it.

Rousseau did keep his mouth shut. He really did not care a rats arse why the others were so unhappy at having to return to the area where the prisoners have last been seen and they had discovered this lad. If they had cold feet, it was not his business. He'd thought some were braver than that, but it appeared that all they were brave enough for, was to chase defenseless prisoner women, prisoners of war that were too injured to fight back and were also unarmed and.. perhaps a poor scared chicken or two.

Those tasks they have done very 'bravely'. He'd seen it done, ignored it. "There." Though they were not on the hunt for the horses, he had spotted one, not far away. "Got one of them strays in the way."

Almost before Rousseau had finished speaking, Bastien had turned in the direction the man had indicated. Through squinted eyes he scanned the area, then he slowly and silently drew his sabre.

"Three men spread out to the left and right and follow me. The rest stay here until we call for backup."

With only a short glance to see whether his orders were obeyed, he slipped into the undergrowth towards the animal.

Then suddenly a shot rang out, somewhere to their right, but behind them. The night air carried the sound clearly, and the horse reared and trotted off.

The young lieutenant suddenly dropped from sight as he flattened himself to the ground.

"17th, follow in skirmish order! 86th, advance with all caution behind us."

The hiss was succinct and clear, and the sound proofed that the lieutenant was already moving towards the shot.

Another shot, closer this time, rang out, accompanied almost immediately by a flurry of movement among the trees some ways distant. A ragged figure dropped from the lowest limb onto the ground and took off running.

Bastien darted to one side, rolled and came up again, some feet distant from where he had been before, and signalled with his sabre to stop advancing. He had drawn his other pistol, but the distance was too great to attempt a shot, so he put it away again. From behind a bush, he carefully studied his surroundings for a moment, then fell back to the cover of a large boulder and gestured for the NCOs to join him.

The second shot was harmless enough, but the first shot, that had come from the direction Foucheaux had headed. A single shot. St Laurent felt sick.

The NCOs from the 17th were moving up to join the officer and, after a brief hesitation, St Laurent joined them. He didn't know what else to do.

Morel was behind the NCO's, but as he was part of the 17th rather than the 86th, he was ahead of that troop. Two shoots in close succession meant little when spread out so wide. Except if there were two parties that would both engage with the enemy.

Only, there was no shooting after those. A full out engagement would raise alarm and plenty of firing would commence. Morel caught sight of the running figure just moments before it disappeared and was moving to his feet to go after it, when the order came not to.

Rousseau glanced at St Laurent. Did the riflemen get hold of their gunpowder and ammunition? It would prove to be more dangerous if it was them that tried firing than if it was, instead someone else of the enemy.

They had nobody of their own up ahead, he thought, else the options of what was going on could only become more numerous. Rousseau remained with his own, gazing ahead at the officers gathered up.

There suddenly was a shot. Francois stopped dead in his tracks. Then another....but who was firing at who? The 17th officer hit the ground and for just an instant Francois thought the man had been hit? But no, he was alright. Strange, were officers supposed to behave in such a way? He thought they were to remain standing in order to inspire their men.

Francois held the pistol given him then prepared it to fire by pulling back the firelock. He unfortunately would only be getting one shot so he intended on waiting for a certain - and hopefully close range - target. If the escaped English prisoners had found ammunition for those long range rifles of theirs, the French were in trouble.

This officer summoned the NCOs so Francois merely remained where he was, exchanging looks with a few of the other 86th soldats. They didn't make the decisions, just waited to carry out the orders, whatever they would be. Francois felt his heart beating rapidly, this might just be his first battle...or skirmish...whatever they called it.

When the NCOs had come to him, Bastien took a deep breath, then said quickly in a low voice:

"Two shots, one from the direction of our camp and the party that went back. Maybe a trap, but we can't ignore it. Only volunteers to go on, the rest falls back with all caution. Make contact with our party if you can, otherwise report back to camp. We'll reconnoitre. See that it appears that all are going back."

St Laurent relayed to his own men what the officer had said and saw with dismay a kind of quickening in them. They were eager for a bit of action, especially if it meant an opportunity to revenge themselves upon the Portuguese. Beneath their expectant gazes, the corporal resisted the impulse to squirm; he was not one to run from a fight, but neither did he see the merit of seeking one out.

He braced himself, but found he could not dredge up the will for another shoving match, especially when, if he were entirely honest with himself, he feared to be branded a coward by the men who only a month ago had been his mates.

He gave the order to fall in with the other volunteers.