6 June, morning - Heading back to camp

[Foucheaux comes from here]


Foucheaux was grumbling as he walked back to camp, plodding along with the mud squelching inside his wet boots. Bloody officers, bloody cavalry, bloody English. At least he got to go back and make a good report. It could only be good news that they - that he - had found their lost cornflower - if anyone had noticed him missing yet. And that they had found the trail of the escaped prisoners. Surely Goyette would be pleased to hear that, if he could manage to find Goyette. At least he didn't have to follow orders from that jolly fool lieutenant of the 17e.

He shouldered his musket immediately and pointed it in the direction of the sound. Had there been a sound? Maybe it was the prisoners. Maybe they had come back, or had never gone away. And they had rifles now! Or what if it was the Portuguese? This close to camp? It could be! "Who's there?" he demanded. "Show yourself!" Why had St Laurent sent him back alone? There it was again! "Show yourself!" A crackle of branches, and he fired.

The sound of a gun firing had Roux running back in the direction of the camp, hurrying ahead of his companions. Gunfire certainly could not be a good sign. Perhaps the escaped prisoners had lain in wait and ambushed another of their soldiers. Or, the Portuguese could have sent scouts. Either option was worrying.

Ahead, he saw Foucheaux, holding his musket, but no sign of anyone else.

"Foucheaux!" Roux called, drawing close. "What is it? Are we being attacked?"

Foucheaux looked up, ashen faced, to note the arrival of a reinforcement. Too late. "Roux," he gasped in a croaked whisper. "I think... I just shot a horse."

"You... what?" Roux asked, staring at Foucheaux. Behind him, he vaguely heard the sounds of the other two soldiers catching up, but he paid them no mind.

"You shot a horse?" he asked loudly, words coming out slightly strangled. Then, dropping his voice: "One of ours?"

The cavalrymen were going to kill them. Roux was sure of it.

"Shhh! Who's that?" he asked Roux, hearing the sounds of his followers. But now he was afraid of his own countrymen rather than the English or Portuguese.

"Euh.." Roux had to think for a moment to remember the names of the other two men. "Guillot and Lambert, I think."

He shook his head, not wanting to be distracted, and drew closer to his companion. "But, a horse?" he asked in an undertone. "What happened?"

Foucheaux had not reloaded, but he fixed his bayonet onto the end of his musket. "I saw something moving and I shot. But I think it was a horse." He began moving forward through the brush.

Roux followed Foucheaux, tugging his own bayonet from his belt fixing it to his musket.

"You're not sure, though?" He would have thought that a horse was a readily recognizable animal. If nothing else, they were rather large and noisy.

There was a clatter as Guillot came hurrying up to join them. Lambert was not far behind. Both had their muskets out, and were looking around in confused suspicion.

"What's going on?" Guillot asked. "Did you find the Englishmen?"

"Sh!" Roux hissed. "We don't know. Foucheaux shot... something. We're gonna go look."

Foucheaux used his bayonet to push aside branches in his path. He did not have far to go. He had hoped to be wrong, but there it was. A big, bleeding, beautiful dead horse. "Oh merde," he muttered quietly. He crossed himself on impulse. A bit silly, he thought a moment later, though maybe it was to protect himself from the wrath of the cavalry.

"Fichtre," Roux cursed, stopping next to Foucheaux and staring at the dead horse in dismay. They were doomed. Completely doomed.

Lambert stared down at the creature, its chestnut coat shining like polished wood. "How much money d'you suppose a beast like that's worth, alive? Maybe it was an officer's mount."

Foucheaux began to laugh, surprising even himself. It wasn't funny at all, but he couldn't help himself.

"Don't think it'd be worth much now," Guillot said doubtfully. His brow was creased in thought, not getting the joke. "Maybe to the cooks, but no officer's gonna want it."

Lamberts eyes widened greedily. "Cooks?"

"Well, yeah," Guillot replied. "It's dead, isn't it? Not good as a mount anymore."

This caused Foucheaux to explode with laughter.

"Shut it!" Lambert complained. "You're makin' me nervous."

Roux had to bite his lip to keep back laughter of his own. The more Foucheaux laughed, the more he felt the urge to join in, and it was not helping their situation.

He looked back to the dead horse. They had to do something about it, and soon. The officers would not be pleased if they found the four of them standing over a shot horse.

"You know," Roux said slowly, "mebbe he's not so wrong. Cooks is good at dealing with meat, right?"

Foucheaux finally started to calm down. The talk of cooks and meat was reassuring. Perhaps he was not going to be blown to kingdom come after all. "Meat. I'm good at dealing with meat. I eat it!"

He laughed again, and and this time Lambert grinned. "And it's not gonna get any deader, is it? Dead is dead. Waste not, want not, that's what I always say." His eyes gleamed as he pulled out his bayonet.

Guillot's eyes widened.

"You mean we're going to cut it up?" he asked, looking a little nauseous.

Lambert stretched out one of the horse's hind legs. "Well it ain't gonna cut itself up! Don't worry, man. Think of it as a big rabbit." He gave the animal one final kick in the belly to make sure it was dead, and then he began cutting through its thigh.

"Not there!" Foucheaux said from a safe distance. "Cut it at the top, near the joint."

"Not going to accomplish much with that bayonet," Roux said. He frowned for a moment, watching Lambert saw at the creature's thigh.

"Oh, for--. Haven't you ever done this before?"

Tugging a knife free from his pack, he pushed Lambert slightly to the side. "This'll do a bit better."

"Careful, you'll have to explain all that blood!" Foucheaux cautioned. He watched the proceedings with some skepticism. "Shouldn't we fetch some help? What about DuBois, isn't he a butcher, or something?"

"Yeah, but he's also a cheat and a scoundrel," Lambert grumbled as he watched Roux's progress.

Foucheaux thought again. "What about Mme. Benveniste?"

Guillot turned to look at him, glad to have an excuse to look away from the dead horse.

"Which one's she?" he asked, brow furrowed.

Foucheaux looked over his shoulder. "She's the one who handled those candlesticks, remember?"

"Oh," Guillot said vaguely, nodding. "Right."

There was a slight pause. Then, he asked, "Which candlesticks?"

Lambert shook his head. "Best not to know."