__ June: Disagreements

"What is it?" the lieutenant demanded, doing his best not to snap at the shadowy figure which materialized out of the dark woods at the sound of his approach. Since the raid on the Portuguese village, the pickets had rarely been quiet. It almost never amounted to an exchange of fire, but then it hardly needed to. He hadn't seen his men so on edge since the retreat from Oporto. Tonight was no exception.

"One of the 17th's pickets is missing, sir."

"What?"

"Well, we thought we heard somethin' out there, but what with the 17th's lads being so close by, right across the stream like, I thought mebbe it was them. Only when I sent young Bielieux to check, there weren't no sign of 'em."

"You're sure of this?"

"Checked it myself, sir."

For a moment, Jarreau simply stared at the man. It could be nothing, a simple administrative error, or it could it could mean that their pickets had been breached and the entire column was in danger.

He cursed under his breath. "Get back to camp, tell the captain everything you just told me. You. Bielieux? Get word to the 17th. The rest of you," he continued, turning to the men who had accompanied him, "We'll hold this position until we hear otherwise."

Trying not to think about the hell he would catch if this turned out to be a false alarm, Jarreau settled himself back against a tree and stared into the darkness. It could not have been more than a minute since the others had left when he saw Navarre tense. He had heard it too, the sound of movement coming from somewhere ahead of them.

Incidentally, a rather similar scene was playing out only a short distance away - although the picket line here was more than 300 yards downstream.

The leading actors here were a very young and tired Sous-Lieutenant by the name of DeChagney, who was told to go on with the inspection, a fatalistic sergeant who shrugged and carried on with his duties, and a very irritated young lieutenant, who - after having send back to report - went to find out where the missing pickets had disappeared to. Another less fatalistic, but more worried sergeant followed him.

So when they finally found some movement on the other side of the river, they approached it from the side the enemy would come from ...

There was a faint shuffling as his handful of men brought their muskets up to their shoulders, then the clicks of hammers being cocked back. The sounds of movement were closer now and unmistakeably human. Jarreau straightened up. His hand, resting on the hilt of his sword, clenched around the grip and bracing himself, he called out the challenge.

Charcot would insist later that someone had bumped his elbow, either Couture or Lanlaire. But for whatever reason, and against all his training and volition, his musket fired into the darkness as if on its own.

"Hold your fire, God damn you!" Jarreau shouted, furious and expecting at every moment to feel the blast of an answering volley.

A string of oaths and profanities ran through Charcot's mind, but at least he managed not to say them aloud. Instead he stepped back to busy himself with the task of quietly reloading. Maybe the lieutenant had not recognized him in the dark. Or maybe he would forget, if they came out of this alive.

A startled, very French oath cut through the darkness.

"Friend, for God's sake! Give a man time to answer!"

Bastien finally tore through the brambles that had halted his progress. The shot fortunately hadn't hit him, but it had hit a tree not three feet away, as the splinters of bark in the lieutenant's hair attested. It also seemed to have slightly ruffled his cheerful spirits (or perhaps the fact that he had had to search for the piquets in the first place had); when he finally was close enough to be recognized, he gave his name and rank in a definitely sarcastic manner before asking:

"If it is not too much trouble: What the heck are you doing here? The piquet line is a good deal closer to the enemy than you are!"

By the way his face twisted the next moment it was likely that he had not intented the implied insult in his words, but they were hanging in the air, and the way he squared his shoulders after a moment, pride and anger in his stance, made clear that he was not going to apologize for stating the truth.

"Devil take the enemy!" Jarreau spluttered, striding to meet the other officer -- it was hardly the first expression that sprang to mind, but it was the first he could reasonably utter. "This is the picquet line. Christ, I thought your lot were supposed to be good at this!"

"We are! Which is why we are where we are supposed to be, while you are nearly five minutes behind us!", Bastien angrily snapped back, broadening his stance.

"Stop trying to blame us and move your men, for heaven's sake!"

"I will not open an even larger hole in the line just to make room for your damned ego," Jarreau fired back.

Bastien had already drawn breath for a heated response, but when he heard the last words of the sentence, he stilled. In a very calm, very flat voice, he asked:

"What, pray, are you implying, Lieutenant Jarreau?"

Jarreau was too tired and too angry to take any notice of the change in the other man's demeanor. He simply barged on. "I don't imply anything," he snapped, pronouncing the word with distaste. "I meant," he continued, speaking slowly as though to a child, his voice rising with frustration, "Exactly what I said."

Suddenly the anger and fierceness seemed to drain out of Prayon. His face closed off and he bowed with stiff, antiquated formality.

"If this is your opinion of my motives, Sir ... My friends will be calling on you in the morning."

His voice was emotionless, even polite in a cool and distanced way.

Ignorant of the ritual nature of the other man's words, Jarreau gave a short bark of laughter. "Is that a threat?" he demanded incredulously.

"Consider it more a promise, Sir. I believe it is no longer appropriate that we talk to each other, but will you at least move one of your men directly to the river so that it is covered? I will do the same."

"On the ground!" Duuring hissed in Dutch.

God, they were lost. The night was as dark as possible, he could barely see anything trough the woods and then there had been a shot, and now he heard voices, and to make things worse, he had no idea if they were friendly or from the enemy. He looked back his small group, who just looked as black shapes with muskets, and spoke very softly: "Warn the sergeant, I've heard something."

A whisper went from shapeless mass to shapeless mass, and then a whisper returned.
"He isn't here, corporal"
Duuring cursed silently. "How do you mean, he's not here? He was with us five minutes ago."
"I don't know, corporal. Vlucht and Vogeltje are also missing.
God, then who did they have?
"Count, damned, count yourself, but silently" he ordered, and started himself. The counting slowly went on, and it turned out Duuring now commanded eight men.

The night had been a bad one from the beginning. Why had it been HIS company that was chosen for picket duty, and why had it been HIS company that had found its flank uncovered, and why had it been HIM and his section that were chosen to find those missing soldiers. God, he hated this night.

"So what do we do, corporal?" an old voice asked. How funny to command men twice your age.
Duuring thought for a moment. They could go back, and then they would probably have to explain why they failed to carry out the orders. Or they could advance, find themselves with enemies and be taken captive before morning. Duuring cursed again.

Well, better to make a bad decision then none at all. Duuring switched to his heavily accented French and shouted into the night:

"Who goes there, Friend or Enemy?!"

"What the devil are you --"

"Sir!"

Jarreau broke off, turning on the man who had spoken with a look that promised unpleasant things if the interruption proved unnecessary.

"There's something else out there, sir," came Navarre's hoarse whisper.

"Steady," Jarreau rasped, seeing his men's muskets already trained on the outlying shadows. "Finger off the trigger, Charcot, unless you damn well mean it this time."

Moments later a call sounded from out in the darkness. The words were French, but heavily accented, an accent furthermore which Jarreau recognized.

"Lt Jarreau of the 86e," he shouted back, "Identify yourself." Then, low enough to be overheard only by his own men and the other officer, "What the devil are the Dutch doing here?"

Dammit, so Jarreau had recognized him. How did he do that in the dark? Officers!

Frownig, Prayon tilted his head as if trying to remember something, then slowly said to Charcot, although he spoke loud enough that Jarreau could easily hear:

"I believe there was a Dutch patrol out tonight."

The officer seemed to be speaking to him? Why?? Did he expect a response? Keeping his gaze and his musket pointed forward into the dark, Charcot decided to risk silence. None of this made any sense at all.

Duuring relaxed and stoop up, feeling like he had spent an hour in a little box. Damn picket duty. He was sweating, a little from fear, mostly because it was very warm in his greatcoat. They had been ordered to wear it over their white jackets to make them less see able in the dark. Still, the young Dutch corporal thought as looked back to his men, their single crossbelts were still making them a perfect target.

"Corporal Duuring, 2eme de Ligne...Hollandais!" he shouted back into the night.
He prayed his French was well enough to explain this Jerreau what was happening.

"Muskets on safe, we don't want to shoot any of our dear allies" he ordered his small section.
Some white grins appeared, followed by small clicks.

Duuring slinged his own musket on his back and shouted again:
"We are coming out! Don't shoot!"

Here and there in the dark the white blaze of a crossbelt was visible now, moving steadily towards them.

"Sir..." There was a warning edge in Navarre's voice, "The 2e's uniforms are white."

And whatever was coming at them out of the woods was not.

"Hold your fire," Jarreau ordered. His voice was calm, but the thought of what else might be creeping up on them, if not the 2e made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. "Keep your muskets ready, but hold your fire."

There would be a logical explanation, he told himself. If the Portuguese wanted to surprise them, they'd have done it already. They didn't need a handful of looted crossbelts and a Dutch deserter for that.

Bastien had heard Navarre and frowned.

"What are you wearing?", he called out, pulling a pistol from his belt and checking the lock. He had taken position a few feet away, making clear that this was Jarreau's call and he was only a spectator, but that obviously didn't include standing aside should it come to a fight.

Of all questions possible, this was undoubtly the last one Duuring expected. His men stopped behind him, not sure what to do; their corporal was the only one who spoke French.

"We wear greatcoats!" Duuring answered. He had no idea how to say 'and our uniforms below it', though he had no doubt he would remember later, when no longer needed.

Then two groups were now some 50 meters apart, and Duuring started to understand the confusion. "Make a line, show some order" he told his men. They, alltrough they weren't sure what the use was, obeyed by standing in a single line.

Duuring started walking towards the French line, of whome some were still pointing musket barrels at them. It was hard to recognize men from officer here, but he saw someone holding a pistol, and by his reckoning, only officers had pistols.

He thought about unslinging his musket and giving a proper salute, but with so many muskets still aimed at him, that probably wasn't a very smart move. He settled by a single arm-salute and the words "Sir. Permission to report".
It was probably best to stay very correct and polite.

Giving the order to let the patrol through, Jarreau stepped forward. "Go ahead, caporal."