9th June: Morning quiet

It was a few days now, that he had been stuck, bound to bed with little to do but hope that his injuries would heal. After he had suffered the fever and had returned from its clutches, days seemed as like to one another. Awake again, earlier than the others, he stared at the side of his wagon.

He had planned this several times before. Perhaps attempted it too, and even now he was not certain he was to be successful, or go far. But it was time again and so he slowly began to push himself up. He turned his feet a couple of times to renew some of the circulation in them. He was barefoot but for the bandage wrapped about his feet. He managed to get himself into a half leaning position, more weight placed to one side.

He waited, and while he did so he tried to test the extent to which his legs were willing to obey him. The stab he had sustained in one made the leg feel stiff and painful under the strain. He bit his lower lip and began to lean forward, shifting his balance to the soles of his feet and there forward so that he could stand. Half bent he shuffled to the entrance of his wagon determined to continue now that he had put himself in motion.

He stood, barely steady at the very end of the wagon, tugging at the flap to have it open. The next step was not as easy as the present shuffling, for it required much weight to be put to the leg that would see him a step down from the wagon's height.

"Un, deux... trois.." Down he went, off the wagon. He stumbled a few unsteady steps, limping heavily on the injured side. He breathed some relief and smiled to himself, when he stopped, and had been able not to fall to the floor alltogether.

Good. But now where to? He looked around, slowly so as not to cause himself dizzyness. A few tentative steps. Some, he was more encouraged to do. More limping forward, when he acquired a piece which should have held a candle, but was now used as support. He looked forward to finding a better piece..when able. He strayed further from his wagon and closer to his host regiment, breathing in some fresh air.

Francois turned his head at the movement in his peripheral vision. An injured man limping along, one of the all too frequently seen walking wounded accompanying the column. Something about the fellow looked familiar though? Wait, was that the man they had found wandering out by himself, having luckily eluded the Portuguese? One look at the eye and that confirmed it for the young recruit.

He decided to step up to the man, just to be polite and inquire as to how the fellow was doing.

"Good morning, I see you are at least up and about. A good thing no doubt," Francois smiled.

(OOC: Is Etienne wearing anything indicating his officer's rank? It would affect how my guy addresses him.)

(OOC: He wears a Sheet, with which he is usually covered in his wagon, if that. He has no indication of the regiment he belongs to let alone rank. )

Étienne jumped at the sound, that came close to his ear until he registered it as very French and thus still quite impossibly of a Portuguese person. His eye skimmed across Seviére's form. At first he did not seem to recognise him, and took a step back, shifting his weight quickly off his injured leg again. "...Good morning." He whispered hesitant then after a good long moment added. "Sol...Seviére?"

He recognised the boy from the time that he was discovered by him and the others and he managed a tired smile, relaxing. "..You are awake early." And he hoped the surgeon would not have seen him gone. That man was a rather stern creature and he was yet able to come through with his threat.

Francois smiled, pleased the other man even remembered his name.

"Yes, Seviere, very good.....or Francois, if you'd prefer."

"Soon you will be marching right with the rest of us," he tried to encourage the other fellow.

"And yes I am up early. I'm one of those on picquet duty today. My officer is very displeased with me and has decided to keep me occupied with as many duties as he can throw at me," the young soldat shrugged. After his blunder he even felt he deserved it.

"Francois." Saint-Hilaire repeated, and knew that he would remember that name. The lad was friendly and his optimism was warmly accepted by the injured man. He would march with them, perhaps in a different uniform and of a different rank, but he looked forward to abandoning the wagon and everything that was connected with it, including the sleepless nights and pain.

He averted his eye towards Seviére. "What have you been said of having done, that displeased your officer?" He asked.

"As the sous-lieutenant said, I was a fool. I trusted one of the English prisoners. I helped them escape with their rifles, not intentionally of course, but I was tricked," Francois frowned as he spoke.

The actual details were quite embarrassing.

"Though the man I trusted had been accepted into our army by some officer someplace. He had claimed he wanted to be a turncoat and serve with us rather than the English. And he was lying. He must have been as convincing to them as he was to me."

That the young soldat trusted a prisoner so much as to let him escape with the rifles, was startling to the injured Frenchman. But as he continued the picture cleared in his mind and he learned that the prisoner had no longer been one, when he was being trusted. That the man who tricked this lad, had been instead a turncoat, a deserter to his side and changed his side soon after. He had heard rumours of the escapees and only now he had those confirmed.

This was the lad who knew better as to what happened. "What had been done to catch those men?" He asked, as he heard nothing of them being brought back. Something of the sort would certainly have reached even the surgeon's wagons. "And please, can you tell me what happened, exactly?"

"Bring them back? I do not think anything has been done about it. A patrol found me outside of camp - where the prisoners had bound me and struck me unconscious. Then we all went back. It was dark and well.....you certainly know about the Portuguese and how they lurk about waiting to pounce on small groups of our men," Francois answered.

As for his embarrassment, now this fellow wanted full details. Francois sighed.

"I suppose I could tell you what happened. It's nothing I am proud of. But I put some of the blame on the officers too for so easily accepting English renegades into our ranks. The man's name was Pye. He had been one of those green uniformed riflemen. But he declared an interest in serving on our side so he was released from captivity and made a soldat."

"That evening he showed up and stated the sergeant wanted us to move the captured English rifles from where they were in a wagon to a different place, and could I help him carry the things. I found him a decent enough sort when I had earlier talked to him while guarding him and some others. I agreed to help and went with him. We got the rifles and were carrying them as we talked. Suddenly we were a short distance from any fires and he jumped me and bound me up...gagged too. He was joined by more English and the whole lot was about to leave when some other fellow came out of the dark. I believe him to be an officer but not of theirs. More likely a spy even. He talked with them and ordered them to take me along. Luckily they didn't obey when he left and instead one of them knocked me on the head. Even more luckily the Portuguese did not find me trussed up like I was...."

"This is not good. If they do not show vigilance at catching the escaped, many more will attempt to go down the same path. They will consider us weak, and the army who gives up all too easily." The young man mused. If this was true and the French had given up so quickly at attempting to catch their enemy's escaped and one even who appeared to have been a traitor, deserter of sorts, what message would this send to the rest? An army in shambles for the neglect was hardly something he wished to see faced with the Portuguese.

"..Do mark his name and not forget his face if we catch him again, or any of his kind that would have switched sides so easily. They need to be made an example of." He shook his head again, and felt the world spin for a moment, his knees growing weak, his leg already hurting enough.

He stumbled and caught hold of the lad's shoulder, looking apologetic but glad that the other was there or else he knew he would have struck the ground. "Pardon me....may we sit somewhere." He whispered. "..You.. you've learned from your error? " It was perhaps the lad's inexperience that caused him to fall pray to a trick such as that. It could have happened to others and though it was inexcusable it was worse that the escaped prisoners had not been caught.

He tensed at the mention of the Portuguese. The lad was lucky, very lucky. But the danger he was exposed because of mistake was bad enough and Saint-Hilaire felt he needed no scolding. The Portuguese.. the lad was not a traitor himself, helping the English escape. Certainly he could not be, when tied so and left for anyone to find, for the worst types to find. Had he been assisting them, he might have disappeared altogether, coming with them. Or at the very least he would have been let go to return, safe and with a story of pledged innocence. He was not in it with them. He had just been fooled.

(Sorry, missed this one! )

"..Do mark his name and not forget his face if we catch him again, or any of his kind that would have switched sides so easily. They need to be made an example of."

Francois nodded, "Oui, I would know him anywhere."

Before Seviere could say anything more though, the injured man stumbled. Luckily he could use Francois for support.

He stumbled and caught hold of the lad's shoulder, looking apologetic but glad that the other was there or else he knew he would have struck the ground. "Pardon me....may we sit somewhere." He whispered. "..You.. you've learned from your error? "

"Oh of course, let's find a good spot to sit then," Francois looked around and saw a large enough rock, that should work then steered him toward it.

"It was a stupid mistake but I learned, I would never trust so easily again," Francois vowed, being careful to prop the wounded man up until he could sit.

Saint-Hilaire leaned to the side as he placed himself against the large boulder, and made full sore that his back did not come in contact with anything. He knew he should have returned to his wagon, yet he felt he could spare a few moments more out in the fresh, open air.

"I am surprised, though glad it did not happen, that he did not kill you once he had gotten his own. How did this happen? Did you escape?" He tilted his head a little, so that he could observe the lad with the one good eye.

Francois stood close to the injured man, just in case though the rock should serve as a decent enough seat for the time being.

"He jumped me from behind and in the struggle, choked me. When I woke up I was gagged and both hands and feet bound. Some other Englishman, not from the prisoners I assure you, came up out of nowhere...he was an officer but perhaps on some mission for he traveled alone then disappeared to go on his own soon afterward...anyhow he told them to take me along with them as they headed back to their army. But one of the other men....his name is Cotton, he is a more experience soldier than Pye...he waited until the other man left then apologized to me just before hitting me with the butt of his rifle. Knocked me out cold."

He sighed, "But that was his intention, I am certain. He didn't want to kill me, neither did Pye. For you see, earlier I had treated them decently. Shared some food and wine with them, that sort of thing. So in that way, I was indeed fortunate."

"I see. You are fortunate. " Saint-Hilaire slowly nodded. "Not in choosing your friends, but certainly in growing close enough to them that they had not thought to kill you." He watched his hands, the fingers were bandaged making them look as if he was wearing cloth mittens. He sighed.

"Have you made a report to your officer about it yet?"

"Umm well....I told one of the lieutenants last night when some of our unit found me and untied me. It seems the cavalry had some of their horses disappear last night too," Francois shrugged, it had not been very impressive a performance for the French this past night.

"Horses? Are the two events related then? Or do you think somebody else had had them disappear? Did the prisoners ride, when they left you?" He knew he was interrogating the lad, and that he wished to know of this event which had not concerned him at all. But his mind needed food for thought quite literally. Having to lie in his wagon all day with nothing to do had been making him feel that his mind was just slowly deteriorating. His dreams did not allow him to sleep well either, or sometimes at all. He could not afford going mad. He did not want to.

"Did they find their horses , do you know?" Since Francois was not of the cavalry he would not be surprised if the lad did not know the answer to that question. His bump might have seen him straight to the surgeon , even.

"I'm sorry but I know nothing about the horses. I saw no horse at all amongst the English. They were on foot when they left me," Francois wondered why this soldier was so interested in everything about the night? Why, one would think he was officer, the way he acted......

"Ah thank you." Saint-Hilaire smiled and then turned to look over at the camp. "So, after this ordeal, you've at least found yourself some relaxation with the fairer gender?" It was something that was meant to change their topic of conversation and put the lad more at ease. He'd learned what he could, and while it did not concern him all that much, he was glad he was not ignorant of the happenings around the camp. He had been tempted to ask how much better the prisoners were guarded now, but decided it was quite about pointless to do so.

He was not known yet as an officer, and to betray such interest being a soldier would probably not go down well. As for the women prisoners he had heard that they had. It was about time they were returned. Else some of the men might forget why they were here in the first place. Not for tumbles in the sheets with the enemy, but for the bringing that enemy back where it came from.

"Relaxing with the fairer gender?" Francois was taken aback by the question.

"No, the other day I said hello to a few of the English women we hold but that was about it. I believe they were to dine with some officers. They get all the priviledges, the officers," the young soldat shrugged.

"They do not." Saint-Hilaire smiled. "But the women appear to do, if they dine with the officers. Are they ladies or mere camp followers?" He arched a brow.

It would be unusual for the latter to attend such festivities but anything was possible with the other officers. They were not the uptight, class driven gits, after all.

"Oh, they are ladies, English ladies. At least they did not seem like camp followers to me," Francois replied, he had not had much chance to see them let alone speak to them though.

"..Hmm.. Still, worse even. They by chance understand our language." He averted his gaze feeling quite tired. "...we best be rid of them the soonest we are able... the English will thank us for that as well.." He rubbed at his temple. ".....Thank you for keeping me company,.. Seviére. And for the time when I was discovered."

"Unless they were not truthful, they certainly acted like they did not speak French though I have heard one was a quick learner and was picking it up quite well," Francois reported what little he did know about them.

Actually he regretted he had not been able to spend more time with the women and converse with them but such was his bad luck with females it always seemed.

"By get rid, I assume you mean give them back to the English?" Francois had to ask, certainly the man was not suggesting something much darker? Why such an action would make them as bad as the Portuguese.

The man was polite though and thanked him for the company and his rather minor role in finding him badly wounded not so long ago.

"It is my pleasure. I am glad you were found and not left to die out there, it would have been a most tragic loss," he assured the other man.

"Yes, give them back to the English before they know all our secrets." He answered with a faint nod. "I would not have them slain as they are just women...Women we have no use of, unless they were to step to our side and be helpful to our wounded and friendly to our men." He studied the other. "It has happened before."

But one could trust better someone who has been loyal to one side or the other from the beginning, than to trust someone who had changed their coat and mind, the moment that their situation was different as well. It was not impossible, but it was certainly something that would raise suspicion.

"..You are kind." He murmured. "But.. at the moment, for the moment, I am not useful to our army. I only take space and time, and medication for my wounds from others, but give little back. It appears it would have not been such a loss." He smiled faintly. "I am glad though....the death would not have been swift, though it had neared me by the time that you found me."

Francois was relieved to hear the man only meant return the ladies to their countrymen, to him also that seemed the fairest thing to do. War was grim but they were not a bunch of barbarians.

Etienne murmured. "But.. at the moment, for the moment, I am not useful to our army. I only take space and time, and medication for my wounds from others, but give little back. It appears it would have not been such a loss."

"Nonsense! You got this way thru serving France, being wounded does not lessen your value any. We are all French citizens, in good health or not," Francois didn't like to hear the man deprecate himself like that.


He smiled faintly. "I am glad though....the death would not have been swift, though it had neared me by the time that you found me."

"Those damned Portuguese. I understand we are in their country but they need not fight war like they do. And then we gain our revenge and back and forth it goes. Do you see how this will all end? Or is France doomed to fight endlessly in both Spain and here?" Francois was not optimistic.

"We might be victorious, but the price will be great." The wounded Frenchman tried to relax some. Seviére's words were kind and true. He was a good lad, and with the way he expressed himself, carried himself even, Saint-Hilaire had no doubt that the other would rise to become something great.

If he survived that long, of course and if the war was to last long enough for men to gain their promotions. Anyway, the boy was promising, then and now even if he had done an error just recently. People were people, they trusted. And others were able to use that. By learning from it, one grew.

"In Portugal, in Spain, the people need to see that we are here to liberate them....but I believe they only see us as the enemy, as the one who had done something to them... just as they done to us. I do not know how we will convince them otherwise. But let us hope it shall be soon." He looked at Seviére. "There is a war..an honourable battle.. but this is not it. This is just slaughter. With the Portuguese and the Spanish, it's just murder."