13th June, afternoon - Prisoners return

The ragtag group of released prisoners had been marching for two days. Upon their release, they had been cordially escorted to the nearest assembly of British personages that their French hosts could find, which had been the first division of the army, rather than the second. After a short and welcome rest among their own countrymen, they had set off to rejoin their own division.

There came a cry, then a clamour from the front of the column. Christian tensed, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of what had caused the outburst, still half expecting some treachery on the part of the Frogs. However it was not French soldiers that met his eyes, but a small group of their own men.

They were back, really and truly. The revelation which had been hanging over him for the past two days, but which he had never fully believed finally sank in.

"Jenny, look!" he cried, suddenly giddy with joyful relief. But he had no sooner pointed out the soldiers than, quite without thinking, he pulled her close and kissed her on the mouth.

Jenny barely had time to look down at the men below the hill, a group of soldiers in green, before Christian kissed her. She laughed with happiness and relief and kissed him back, standing on her toes to put her arms around his neck. They were back. Finally. She surprised herself with the thought We're home.

The riflemen, for riflemen they were, had apparently just spotted them too. There was a shout below, and she was about to wave when she saw some of the rifles being pointed up at them. Her instinct for self-preservation caused her to duck. She was not about to be killed by her own people after surviving the ordeal with the French!

"What the...?" Cotton asked, distracted from what was going on with the map-making, and pushed the nearest rifle down. "They'm wearin' skirts, you!"

Well, not all of them were wearing skirts, but enough of them were.

"Captain?" he called, looking across at Vickery, who had seen the new arrivals, and had already told one of the onlookers to fetch Sergeant Fischer, before crossing to speak to them himself.

Edward came towards him, spyglass in hand.

"Mostly women and some soldiers. Our side, it seems. What is happening, Cotton?"

He looked at the other soldiers, some still pointing their rifles, but he did neither order them to stand down nor commented, only arched a questioning eyebrow at Cotton.

"Think they'm the prisoners the French took t'other week, sir," Cotton said slowly, and nodded as he recognised some of the women. He was very thankful for his sharp sight now, and grinned. "Yes, they are - I can see Jenny Ross, an' Missus Palmer."

Polly pushed her way forward through the crowd of women until she caught sight of Jenny and Christian.

"Jenny!" she called, laughing and feeling happier than she had in weeks. "Look! It's th' camp. We's 'ome!"

Pye looked on at what all the commotion was about. He too had had his rifle up, though he had had to snatch it from where he had left it propped, when making some of the adjustments.

"Hey, the rest of them are back." He looked on with relief. Having had some of them escape was all great, but.. seeing all of them back, was so much better! They would not return to France, as the lad had feared. They were here.

"Freddie!" He pointed in the direction of the arrivals. "They're back too!" He might not have had any that he particularly had his eye on - of the girls, nor any that he had much known - of the men, but some of them had been friends, or the affectionate ones of his new or old company, or just of their army, that was enough to be glad to see them back.

Sarah Palmer pushed past the crowd and rushed towards the captain who was coming to meet them. No matter that she had heard he was dead. She had more important things on her mind. "Captain! Captain Vickery!" He probably wanted to speak to the soldiers, but she was not going to wait. "Captain, is my Palmer with you? My husband Palmer, Zebulon Palmer," she specified, just in case the captain had forgotten.

"Keep back a bit," warned Christian, trying to shepherd Jenny and the younger woman several ranks deeper into the crowd. "Least until that lot figure out what's goin' on." He flashed them a lopsided grin then, before turning and shouldering his way towards the front. He wasn't sure if his uniform was even recognizable in its current state, but it was worth a shot. And Jenny had kissed him. There could have been a hundred weapons pointed at him for all he cared at that moment.

Freddie barely knew the people now walking towards them, but he saw the personal joy on the other men's faces, and he felt the joy of knowing that sometimes indeed people came back. So he gave back Pye's grin, raised his arm and waved.

"We must cook something special tonight for them! A Fest!"

Someone was shouting his name, which was ordinarily not something Vickery particularly liked or encouraged. Palmer... Ah, yes.

He turned to the Rifleman who was looking toward the group, half-hopeful and half-fearful. "Go and see your wife, Palmer," he said quietly. Palmer didn't need telling twice, and was off running almost before he'd managed to say "Thank you, sir!"

The grade of the hill had grown progressively steeper and Christian was obliged to check himself rather suddenly to avoid slipping. The fellow behind him was less successful and his bungling attempt knocked Christian forward. His foot caught on a protruding stone and he pitched head first down the slope, rolling several times, before sliding the last several yards to land at the feet of--oh, bloody hell. Scrambling up, Christian offered the green-coated officer a clumsy salute. "Private Michael Christian, 2nd Foot Guards, sir."

Vickery couldn't help his mouth quirking in a half-smile as one of the newly rejoined men tumbled down the hill, coming to a stop right at his feet. He returned the man's salute, smiling as he did so. "Good afternoon, Private. I hope you don't think that we Rifles expect such deference as a matter of course. A simple salute is enough to satisfy even the most particular Rifle officer."

Another man in the group picked his way down the slope more carefully, though he finished at almost a run. "Cresswell, sir, surgeon to the 2nd Foot Guards. We got several injured with us, sir. Including this one," he added, giving Christian a wry glance. He reached into his jacket for a crumpled piece of paper. "We had to leave the worst of 'em with the 1st division, sir. Got a list of their names here."

Christian's face flushed. "I, uh--yes, sir. Sorry, sir," he stammered, not half certain what the officer had meant, though his manner had seemed good-natured enough. The arrival of one of their surgeons, however, effectively eclipsed his own unfortunate entrance and Christian edged away to give him room.

He caught sight of a familiar face among the green-jackets, a man a bit older than himself, and his face broke into a grin. "Glad t'see you lot made it back. Frogs were in a right state when they found you gone."

Surgeon Aimes trotted up to where he spotted the green-clad figure of Captain Vickery. He wasn't quite sure what exactly he was supposed to do; everybody seemed to be walking under their own power and he certainly, God help him, would not without direct orders start to check the women for any female problems. However, prisoners coming back, perhaps even a colleague coming back, and none of them looking in too bad a shape, was a sight exactly designed to lift even his usually rather sour mood, and in an almost friendly tone, he asked Captain Vickery:

"Send for, captain?"

Vickery had taken a crumpled piece of paper from someone who had introduced himself as Cresswell, and now held it out towards Aimes. "This is apparently a list of the wounded with the First Division. I believe your colleague will know more about which of those present here is wounded, and who is fit. I am afraid I can be of little more service than that - I know very little more about this than you do at present."

Cotton grinned at Christian. "I just flamin' bet they was," he said, and frowned in concern. "They didn't take it out on any of you, did they? A-cause, well, if they did, we never meant for that to happen."

"Aimes." Cresswell gave his colleague a weary nod that might have included a smile had he not been so exhausted. And then he overheard the rifleman's words to Christian. "They most certainly did," he snapped, though his vehemence was against the French rather than Cotton himself. "This one can tell you how they clobbered him all over the head; he can still barely walk a straight line, and some of 'em can barely stand. Disgraceful, that's what the Frogs were, sir," he added, including Vickery in his sweeping grimace. "Disgraceful. I think some of the lads might need a bit of help down."

"Beg pardon, sir," he said, stiffening somewhat. He glanced towards Vickery nervously, but he hardly needed to ask permission to go and help the returning prisoners down the steep hillside.

"Don't pay him no mind," muttered Christian, who had half a mind to clobber Cresswell all over the head. "Weren't 's bad as all that."

"Ain't easy to... to not pay no heed to a surgeon," Cotton pointed out reasonably enough. "Whyn't you take a sit down over here an' have a breather?"

"Cook something special? That's half the army what's coming back." Pye looked incrediously at his friend. He was overreacting, but many of the men were not even of their regiment, and would be returning to theirs. There were plenty of camp followers to be had and he could not imagine where they could get just enough food for all of them.

Not that he protested at getting something special done. It would be good and they could eat it as well!

He observed the camp followers curiously trying to make out if they were all that he had remembered feeding, when he was so told. There were certainly some of the soldiers. "Some are missing." He mused, not finding some of the familiar faces in the crowd. But then, later the reason for it was or would be answered. Some were not well enough to come along, because, it seemed, some of the French got just a wee bit upset!

"Creswell." Aimes nodded curtly. He looked the other surgeon over once, then beckoned an assistant. "Get him to the waggon and settle him so that we can start working there! And take the one clobbered over the head right along! You there! Help him!"

He didn't even ask Creswell for his opinion.