6 June, late afternoon marching

"Don't I know it," Margot sighed, thinking of the three hungry mouths currently huddled in the back of the wagon. Glancing over at Marie-Eve, however, she clucked her tongue. The poor girl did not have nearly enough meat on her bones. "We must find a way to fatten you up before you fade away completely."

She grimaced. "Rémy won't even recognize me when he comes back." Whenever that was. She looked up ahead and grinned. "Think we're stopping. You can fatten me up now, Madame!"

Margot gave a throaty laugh,"With pleasure, m'dear. Gilles?" she called over her shoulder into the wagon, "We're goin' to need that firewood I told you about. Double quick. And no stealin' it this time, remember."

There was chattering affirmative from behind them and then silence. Margot shook her head, pulling up on the reins to slow the wagon to a halt. That boy was picking up bad habits by the handful.

Marie-Eve strapped the baby to her back and quickly got to work. It did not take long to retrieve her collection of pots and sort out which ones needed to be filled with water. It was handy to have able bodied children around for such tasks as fetching and carrying. "You're a lucky woman to have this extra help," she commented as she pulled out a basket of their special cargo.

Mathilde smiled shyly into the pot she was wrestling out from the back of the wagon at the indirect compliment.

"Aye," Margot responded happily, "I'll keep 'em." Retrieving the carrying pole and buckets, and settling wooden yoke across her shoulders, her smile took on a rueful twist. "Enjoy your little one while he's small, though. They learn to run almost before they learn to walk. Especially the boys," she added as a wail from Philippe signaled the unfortunate end to yet another such ambulatory adventure.

Mathilde scooped him up almost immediately -- for such a slender child she was surprisingly strong -- cooing softly to him and inspecting the scrape on his cheek with a practiced eye. "He's fine," she announced, but Philippe did not appear to agree.

It was not long at all before they had their first customer. Foucheaux was exceedingly eager to inquire after the evening's special, even if it was not yet ready to serve. "Evening, Marie-Eve, Margot. Mathilde." He was rather pleased with the alliterative effect of saying their names together, and pleased too with the prospect of a good dinner after a hard day.

Margot took one look at him and straightened up, brandishing a large cooking ladel, "Don't even think about it! You come anywhere near my cooking in that state and I'll turn you into soup." Good heavens, the lad was filthy! "What the devil happened to you?"

Foucheaux looked down at himself. "I been marching!" he protested in quiet bewilderment.

"What? On your stomach?"

Foucheaux looked down at his facings and breeches. To be sure, they were rather muddy from the early morning's unexpected excursion. And now that he thought of it, he remembered they had been clean before he had climbed the bank of that stream. And the encounter with the horse and then the Portuguese had not helped. He had not seen Mme. Benveniste since then, he realized.

"There was a bit of action in the morning," he confessed lightly. His attention was focused on a pebble by his toe.

Margot swore softly. Of course. News of the ambush had trickled back to them, but none of the details.

"Did you kill any Portuguese, Marcel?" demanded Gilles, who -- normally bored by the cooking process -- had come running at the sound of Foucheaux's voice.

"Gilles!" Mathilde's dismayed cry was echoed, rather more sharply, by her mother. "That's enough. I thought I told you to keep an eye on the cook fires. Don't give me that look!"

Normally he would have objected, but his mother's tone -- not to mention the large spoon in her hand -- brooked no argument, so sulking fiercely, he wandered away.

"You're not hurt?" asked Mathilde, wide-eyed.

"He's hungry," Margot interjected, "He can't be that badly hurt. There should be water left in one of the buckets, luv, would you bring it here?"

Mathilde hesitated and, lowering her voice, repeated, "You're really not hurt?"

He looked wearily at the girl and mustered a smile. "Nah, I ain't hurt. Caporal Saint Laurent got a bit hurt. I seen the surgeon take a musket ball outta his arm. Maybe he'll show you later, the ball. We saved it for him." He would not mention Balincourt or Davout just now, though. He looked up at Margot. "He got his jaw hurt too, and maybe some soup..." He trailed off, the gloomy mood of the morning crowding out all his sensible thoughts.

Margot clucked sympathetically, setting down her weapon of choice, and advancing on Foucheaux. Poor child, he did look exhausted. "Sit yourself down, m'dear," she said gently, indicating a stool by one of the nearby fires. "Can't have you collapsing right here in my kitchen. People would blame the food. And then where would I be?"

A bucket of water was deposited near Foucheaux's feet. Mathilde herself was come and gone like a shadow, retreating to the fire her mother had just left where she regarded Foucheaux with skeptical concern over the rim of a large pot.

"There now," began Margot, wiping her hands on her apron, "Coat and trousers off."

He had sat down obediently enough, but at her last order, his shoulders drooped and he looked at her warily. "I only got a few centimes, and I'd rather have food. And some broth for the caporal."



Marie-Eve gently took the tin cup out of his hand. "I'll get you some lovely nice broth."

"Tsk! Did I ask you for money, eh? Daft thing." Margot shook her head. "Now, let me see your clothes. We'll get you cleaned up and then get some food in you. Aye, and some for Eugène as well."

He was too tired to argue, so he shrugged off his crossbelts and began the task of unbuttoning his coat. His progress was slow, for he found that he was exceedingly tired now that he was sitting down. "Might be some blood on it. Horse, probably." He looked dispassionately at the waistcoat underneath. It had fared a bit better, being mostly protected by the coat. Now began the task of unbuttoning his gaiters so he might remove his shoes so he might then remove his trousers.

"Be just a minute," he said.

A tall figure lumbered into view with Gilles riding on his back, half choking him with the vaguely musket shaped stick the boy carried everywhere.

"Paol!" Mathilde cried, leaving the fire to greet him.

"Hullo, little one," he smiled, swinging Gilles down from his back. Then, seeing her face fall, "What's wrong?"

"Your face, it's scratched up like Marcel's. You were in the ambush?"

"He hit one of the Portuguese with his musket and his head exploded!" Gilles announced gleefully.

Paol winced. "No, nothin' like that, little one. Really. It's alright."

Still frowning, she took his un-bandaged hand and pulled him towards the cook fires. "You're here for food?" she asked hopefully.

"Came lookin' for Marcel," he admitted, "But food don't sound half bad."

A look of mild bewilderment crossed his face as he caught sight of Foucheaux sitting in just his shirt, but he simply nodded a greeting and dropped to the ground beside the other soldier.

"Just come from the sawbones' wagon," he said in a weary undertone. "Balincourt's doin' alright. The caporal ain't awake, but he seems a bit better."

Foucheaux grimaced at the mention of the sawbones. He did not particularly want to think about what was going to happen to poor young Balincourt's leg. "Poor old cap," he said instead. "Gonna bring him some broth." If he didn't fall asleep first. Now that they had stopped marching, his momentum was completely gone. "How's the hand."

Paol snorted softly. "Sawbones says he'll sew it to my leg if I rip the stitches out one more time."

Margot appeared a moment later carrying a bundle of clothing and some sort of makeshift rack which she placed by one of the fires and draped the clothes over. It was hardly her best work, but it would do for the moment. She greeted Paol with a look which managed to be at once concerned and exasperated, as though to say, not you as well!

"What do you think?" she asked Marie-Eve, gesturing to a large, steaming pot. "Ready?"

Marie-Eve smiled up from the table where she was carefully separating out the meat and solid forms from the broth for Saint Laurent. She had just taken a bite. "Yes. It is heavenly. We should charge 20 francs for a cup. But not for you lads," she added. After all, they were the ones who had provided the meat.

Taking this as permission, Mathilde eagerly scooped a cupful of stew, popping her fingers into her mouth as some of the scalding liquid splashed onto her hand. However, scalding or not, it certainly tasted wonderful. Wiping the lip of the cup clean with her apron, she presented it to Foucheaux with a shy smile.

"Thanks, little'un," he said absently, taking the cup from her. It was still too hot to eat, but it smelled delicious. He looked back up at her. "You're not so little anymore. You're gettin' tall. Did you make this?"

Mathilde blushed to have such notice taken of her. "No. Well, I helped..." she admitted, looking down at her feet.

"Mathilde's turning out to be a good cook, just like her mother," Marie-Eve said.

But Foucheaux was barely listening. "Mmhmm," he mumbled over the edge of his cup. He was too hungry and it smelled too good to wait. Food! Hot Good food, with meat in it, meat of known provenance. He muttered a colorful curse of appreciation for the stew's flavor, then added a half-hearted "Sorry," in the young girl's direction. "It's good." He could not think of a strong superlative that would not be offensive, so he simply repeated "Yeah, it's good."