Upstairs in the Crown

Drowning? What? It took him a moment to grasp Foucheaux's meaning, then he laughed. "The washing room, you mean? It is meant to be filled all up with water!"

He had discovered it himself earlier, and now resolved to show Foucheaux the room's harmlessness. After, of course, they got rid of this redcoat. It would be possible with Paol's help, Jérémie thought.

"Foucheaux's just swam clear across the Channel to find us," he said lightly, his face alight with a rare good humour.

Paol looked uncertainly from one to the other of them. "Really?"

"Kerjean!" Foucheaux cried, grabbing him by the shoulders and slapping his back. "No, I didn't swim, but you both look wet yourselves. What is this place? And why are you wearin' them coats? Is that some weird prison uniform?". He looked over his shoulder at the redcoat, wondering if the man was going to make him put one on.

The Frogs -- three of them now -- just stood there nattering, casting occasional glances in his direction which Christian found irrationally annoying. "I don't suppose any of you lot par-lay awn-glay?"

Foucheaux's grin faded as the redcoat addressed them. Speak English? "No," he answered simply. And then, since they were communicating, he asked, "Have you got any food? Something to eat?" accompanied by suitable motions.

Food? He could think of three different questions to fit the Frog's gestures, but the answer to all of them was the same. "No."

Foucheaux's face fell. "He doesn't have any food," he informed his companions rather unnecessarily. Then his slow brain caught up with their earlier conversation. "Washing room? Did you say it was a washing room?" he asked Blanchard. "What for? Why'd they put me in there?"

"It's... very nice," Jérémie replied. "They took our uniforms to clean them, I think. It was raining when I arrived here."

Maybe they could get another of these wondrous robes for Foucheaux, if any of those sailors came back. He wasn't sure this redcoat would have any idea where to find one. But food, on the other hand...

"There is a bar downstairs, but it has strange things in it. And the washing room is for washing." He eyed Foucheaux critically, only just able to conceal a smirk. "Maybe you needed it."

Foucheaux frowned in confusion. "A bar? In prison?"

"It's not a prison." Jérémie searched his brain for the right word. "More of a... country inn, I s'pose."

"A country inn?" Foucheaux repeated, clearly confounded. "Why are they keeping us at an inn? Is that normal?" Again he stared suspiciously at his guard. "I don't remember anything about the journey here. Have I been ill?"

Jérémie shrugged. "Les Anglais," he said. He had little idea about the why and how of this place himself.

Foucheaux could not wrap his brain around the idea. "But we are prisoners?" he persisted, glancing at the guard. He only now noticed for the first time that the redcoat was not armed. Neither did a quick glance around the room reveal any weapons he might have laid aside. "That guard - we could take him, easily!" he whispered. "Are there more guards in the passage?"

"We are, mostly." This was a point Jérémie was no longer certain about. He shrugged. "There are English sailors downstairs. Soldiers and officers, too. You would not get very far."

Foucheaux was about to speak, but he stopped himself, eyes widening. He sniffed the air. "Smell that! Food! Hot roasting meat! Is there food downstairs? Food?" He turned and asked the redcoat. "Something to eat? What do you call it? Food, down?"