7th June, evening; A visit from Eris

The first shout came from the part of camp where the officers' tents had been set up. It was a startled, slightly-squawking cry of alarm. Then there was a hoarse bellow of anger. After it was a brief silence, which was broken by the sound of glass shattering.

This eruption of noise was unusual enough to capture the attention of most of the men in the company's camp, just in time for them to spot a pale blur of motion that came hurtling away from the officers' tents. The running man was on a course that took him almost straight past the company's fires. Somebody cursed in surprise when it was realised that whoever was running past at such a pace was not wearing a stitch of clothing.

Meanwhile, cries of panic were going up from the officers' tents, where the bright glow of flame flickered against the darkness.

"Was that--" Couture, his mouth hanging half open, stared after the running figure. "La vache..."

"P'tain!" Something in Gauvin's tone caused Couture to turn, but the other man was already on his feet, and almost in the same instant Couture saw why: fire. There had been a bit of rain the day before, but the parched earth had sucked it down so fast, he wasn't sure it would make any difference, and while he might not have been overly concerned about the officers bivouac, things could go ill if the fire spread.

Scrambling up, he aimed a kick at Kerjean's prone form -- the lazy sod could sleep through anything -- and started in the direction of the blaze. "C'mon!" he called over his shoulder to the others. This mess was worth a look, if nothing else.

Leclerc was loose. He knew that the instant the commotion began. What else could cause such an uproar? Jérémie remained where he was, kneeling by a fire with a cup of thin broth in hand, unwilling to get involved in any mess the sous-lieutenant created. The rest of the company was hurrying toward the tents, where the fire was, though it was doubtful how many of them would be any use in putting the flames out.

It seemed that the naked officer was being ignored for the moment, at least. It was probably just as well. With a sigh, Jérémie set his cup down next to his pack and stood up. Hopefully nobody would steal the cup or its contents. He had kittens to feed, after all.

Equally hopefully, he would not find himself singled out to deal with Leclerc again. Jérémie moved after the others, most of whom were near enough to the officers' tents now to block out much of the light from whatever was burning.

Paol opened his eyes; it was dark, too dark to be reveille, and the sounds were all wrong. He sat up, staring groggily after the others' retreating backs. What on earth--? For some moments he made no move to rise; the dull, feverish ache from the night before was back and all he wanted to do was sleep. But there was nothing for it, and with a half-hearted curse, he pushed himself to his feet.

Moving in the general direction of the commotion, he caught sight of Rosy, lagging a bit behind the others. Before he could catch him up, however, an officer -- an imperious looking sous-lieutenant -- pushed his way through the crowd of onlookers. "You there!" he snapped, seeming to recognize Jérémie, "Get after him!"

His eyes fell on Paol and he added, "Both of you. Now, damn it!"

For an instant, he wanted to ignore the sous-lieutenant's command, but no good would come of that. Even though no good would come of chasing Leclerc the Madman.

"Yes sir," Jérémie said tonelessly and turned about to dutifully run after the now-distant Leclerc. At least it would not be difficult to keep the officer in sight. The pale blob of his bare backside was impossible to miss in the dark.

Paol lengthened his stride, struggling to keep pace with Jeremie. The other man seemed to know what was going on and that, for the moment, was good enough for Paol.

Cries of surprise came from ahead of them as they pounded through the camp, and for an instant Paol caught sight of a pale figure illuminated by one of the fires. The man was stark naked and running like all the demons of hell were after him.

"What's--what the hell?" he gasped, more confused than ever.

"Leclerc." It was, in Jérémie's opinion, the only explanation necessary - but he had the benefit of previous experience with the sous-lieutenant's particular... ailment.

This was like chasing a hare in full flight, though. Their unclothed quarry was determined to get somewhere. Jérémie was worried, suddenly, that Leclerc would reach the picquet lines and, owing to his present state, would succeed in getting past the men on picquet. There'd be no running him down then.

Perfect.

"Christ--" the exclamation slipped out, jarred and ragged between gasps, "He ain't half flyin'!" The officer showed no signs of flagging either as his headlong flight threatened to drive beyond the outskirts. Then, without warning, he veered, arching back into the midst of the camp.

This. Was. Insane. Where the hell was Leclerc going? More to the point, where had he gotten the stamina to run like that without so much as a faltering step?

"What - " Jérémie began, startled into a near-halt when he saw the officer abruptly pitch over, his forward progress stopped cold.

Then a woman's voice rose in a harsh, ringing oath. Oh. Oh.

"Ah, hell...Where'd he go?"

That was not a question Jérémie dared answer. At least not yet. He hurried forward, wishing his lungs weren't burning so. The woman's voice was lashing out again, rather like an invisible whip.

A weary, heartfelt curse slipped past his lips when he realised Leclerc had been knocked sprawling and was now being held down - by the same bull of a woman who'd tried to slap Couture's ears off his head. Brilliant.

"Let him up!" Jérémie said, even though he thought Leclerc would be vastly easier to control with somebody all but standing on him. Hopefully he would not regret this.

Staggering to a halt, Paol caught Jérémie's shoulder to steady himself, dragging in painful lungfuls of air. "Why're we--" he began, then caught sight of the pair on the ground. Oh.

The woman, one of the prisoners, had taken down the sous-lieutenant with all the speed and efficiency of a falcon strike and now, in much the same manner, she held her prey pinned to the ground. Given the chance, he half expected she'd complete the analogy by disemboweling the poor fellow -- if her tone was anything to go by.

But at least they had stopped running. With a glance at Jérémie, Paol stepped forward and reached for the woman's arm.

"Is this," the woman demanded, "your property?"

That was one way of describing it, though not perhaps one Jérémie cared for. He took hold of the woman's arm and gave it a tug. "Let him up," he repeated. On the ground, Leclerc was babbling some nonsense about cavalry charges - which in the circumstances made sense, considering how his flight had been so shortly stopped.

"Get these others back!" Jérémie added, realising the rest of the British women were gathering around them. Did these sentries think they were only here to watch, damn it?

Unnerved by the sudden press of bodies, Paol dropped to his knees, grabbing hold of Leclerc's arm just below the shoulder and lifting. "C'mon, sir, up you get."

With Kerjean helping Leclerc to his feet, Jérémie was left to face the Englishwoman and her daunting air of authority. What was it that women like these did to create such an effortless ability to make themselves in charge of almost any situation? It was not just this one, though her formidable vocabulary was cowing on its own.

"Thank you," he said, at a loss for anything else to say.

The woman sniffed imperiously. "Someone had to stop him," she replied, with the barest of glances toward Leclerc. "If this is how your officers truly behave..."

From Leclerc came a baffled sounding, "Where'd the cavalry go?"

Cavalry? Sure. Why the hell not?

"Dunno, sir," he answered, honestly enough.

Most of the women had drawn back a bit when Leclerc was hauled upright, though some had remained stubbornly where they were and Paol, suddenly aware of the open hostility and curiosity of so many gazes felt his face flush. They really ought to get out of there; though glancing from Jérémie to the English woman, he had the oddest impression that he was waiting to be dismissed.

"Good heavens, and I thought our lads were desperate," laughed one of the shadowy forms, looking the officer up and down with an appraising eye. Her French was much less refined than the older woman's, but still comprehensible.

Jenny rolled her eyes. "Make cover of him," she said in her own awkward French. "And take him go." Idiots, all of these French. Idiots or madmen!

Leave it to these women to come circling around like carrion birds, Jérémie thought unhappily. He moved to step partway in front of Leclerc in an attempt to conceal his nudity. It was nothing like as good as a blanket or a coat, but until somebody fetched a blanket, it would have to do.

"Step back," he said firmly. "There isn't anything to see here."

"No," Janet agreed, unable to entirely hide a smirk, "Not much."

But she had more sense than to call the fellow's bluff, and with a gesture of mock obeisance, stepped back, drawing one of the other women with her.

"Show's over, m'dears."

Paol stepped into the fledgling opening which the woman's retreat had created, fervently hoping the sous-lieutenant didn't take it into his head to make things difficult. "This way, sir."

The surgeon's wagons were nearby -- at least he thought they were. Montreuil would have blankets if nothing else.

There was space around them now. Not much, really, but enough to allow them to make a retreat. Jérémie turned toward the sous-lieutenant, preparing to help guide the poor fellow toward the surgeon's wagon.

And very promptly realised there was a problem. Namely, Leclerc had a canteen in his hand. Where in the hell had that come from? He wheeled about to stare at one of the sentries, who was just withdrawing his hand.

"What did you give him that for?" Jérémie demanded, even as he tried to grab the canteen away from Leclerc. He could smell the faint whiff of wine even from where he stood. Of all the stupid, senseless things...!

"Thief!" The sous-lieutenant cried, clutching the uncorked canteen to his chest. The canteen's contents sloshed everywhere, then Leclerc was flailing about with the canteen, uncaring who was unlucky enough to be in the way. "Thief!"

The wide-eyed sentry stepped back instinctively. "He only wanted a drink!"

Paol grabbed for the sous-lieutenant's arm, grimacing as the canteen smacked against the nest of bruises which covered his chest, slopping its contents down his front. "Steady, sir.... no one's stealin' nothing."

"Get his arms!" Jérémie snapped, one hand coming up to block the canteen before it could slap against his face. Damn it!

Grab his arms? Shit... How the devil was he going to manage that one handed?

Taking the only alternative he could think of, Paol slipped behind officer, dropping his arms down over Leclerc's and pulling the sous-lieutenant tight against him in an awkward bear hug.

"Now what?"