June 17th, afternoon: Food that dead men eat

As usual Francois did his part, in this case however unpleasant it was, he was a soldier afterall and these were his fellow soldiers even if they were dead ones. He would want the same for himself if some day he fell. They had to place the corpses into the hastily dug graves next.

One old veteran, Hugo was his name Francois believed, kindly offered the boy a chew of his tobacco. Francois smiled at the fellow but shook his head.

"Oh, thankyou but no. It's your supply and to be honest, I tried it once back in France at the depot assembly and I got sick. But I do appreciate the offer."

Saint-Hilaire gave one of the soldiers the order to see if there were any final letters in the pockets of men, or anything that they were to send away to their families. He asked this be brought, so that it later could be sent off. It was a dark business, earching the men, but it was the least that could be done for them now. Atleast their families would know, and receive their final thoughts and perhaps for some, this could also be means of recognition of who they were.

He stood then and watched the land that surrounded them. It was not solely a wait to see whether the enemy was near, but also to make certain that the Portuguese would not claim this chance of distraction, to attack.

After a while he walked slowly towards Bastien. "... We are soon going to be ready, sir... the dead will be burried and their families, should it be possible, notified of their relative's bravery.." Nicer words.

Hugo shrugged. He was about to put the pouch away, but some inborn politeness, or perhaps it was kindness, made him hold out the pouch to Kerjean as well, although a bit more reluctant. But after a moment he shrugged again and shook the pouch slightly in invitation.

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Bastien nodded slowly. "At least we found them. Come, let us take a look at where those snipers were supposed to have been. Must be over there, I think. Perhaps we can learn something more."

The gesture took him by surprise and he smiled, grateful for the offer, but shook his head. "No. Thank you."

There was a sudden buzzing in his ear, and he brushed the offending insect away with a shoulder. Flies. The poor bastards were crawling with them. Maggots as well; their writhing movement beneath the flesh giving the horrible impression that life somehow lingered on.

His expression sober once more, Paol nodded at the dead man before them. "Give me a hand with this one?" he asked Hugo.

"Lets." Saint-Hilaire agreed and straightened slowly. He followed along with the other, glancing at the men still hard at work. The smell was quite strong, the sight no better, but atleast these men had not been caught by the Portuguese and had suffered a relatively quick death. That the wildlife caught them, could only have been avoided if they had been burried, and even then the animals did have a knack to attempt digging them out.

"..And the officers?" He inquired, having not seen all of the dead.

Bastien pulled a folded piece of paper from his sleeve and opened it, glancing down at the list of names although it was unlikely that he really needed to consult it.

"There was only one with them, a Sous-lieutenant Glenchevaux. I can't see him anywhere."

His mouth twisted unhappily.

"I'm not sure what that means."

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Hugo with a brief nod tucked the pouch away again, his face both understanding and a bit grateful. Silently, he knelt down at the corpses head and put his large hands under the man's shoulders, ready to lift, another nod signalling that he was ready.

With an answering nod, Paol lifted from his end and together they lowered the body into the shallow trench. For a moment he stared down at the face, its mouth twisted in death and crusted with flies, and caught himself wondering if it had been like this for Maugan, just one more nameless face in an unmarked grave. But he quickly pushed that thought away and, murmuring some half forgotten phrase, he crossed himself and began to scrape the loose dirt back into the hole.

Hugo helped him, and occasionally he shot Kerjean sharp glances - he had noticed the expression crossing his face a moment earlier.

He seemed to struggle to say something, but the right words didn't come. In the end, when they smoothed down the earth, he only did say:

"We buried them properly."

Paol mopped a damp, filthy sleeve across his face and nodded. "Aye."

The two officers appeared to be still in discussion, and after a moment he pushed to his feet and moved to retrieve his canteen from amidst the pile of his coat and kit. "C'mon," he beckoned the other two, cocking his head toward the nearby patch of deeper shade.

Hugo looked around himself vor a moment, trying to gauge what still needed to be done, then nodded and dropped down in the shade.

"No officer's body!", he remarked, uncapping his own canteen and pouring a little bit onto a piece of cloth he pressed to his forehead.

The hot and hard work of burial finished, Francois then joined the others to sit in some shade and relax while they could. It seemed that an officer was missing amongst the dead. Of course what had happened to him they all could only guess. Taken prisoner by the Ports to interrogate for information perhaps? Or taken back to their camp for torture? That is what had happened to one of their current patrol officers, the poor devil.

He silently vowed if he was ever surrounded he would fight to the death before surrendering to the likes of the Ports or the Spaniards too.

Paol shook his canteen thoughtfully. "Maybe the English captured him," he suggested.

"Best thing for him", Hugo agreed. He he pulled his pouch out of his coat again and took a bit of chewing tobacco.

After thinking the problem through for several minutes, he asked:

"The English make lists, don't they?"

"You're right, I'd rather be captured - if I had to be - by the English. They are more civilized," Francois nodded.

"Lists? You mean lists of prisoner names? I'm not certain, I've heard that usually only officers get exchanged not enlisted men."