7th June, evening; A visit from Eris

That was a lot more useful a contribution than those other idiots had made. With Leclerc now suitably restrained, Jérémie grabbed the canteen. Hopefully the officer would calm down once the canteen was out of his possession.

Jérémie hadn't reckoned on Leclerc's determination to hang onto the canteen, however. He cursed in surprise when the sous-lieutenant headbutted him and the wine-filled canteen dropped from both their hands to land in the dirt.

"Thief!" Leclerc shouted, again, and tried to pull away from Kerjean.

A harsh, slightly-braying laugh erupted from behind them. The Englishwomen were still watching them.

"Hey! Easy--" Paol pulled Leclerc back sharply, away from Blanchard. The sous-lieutenant's elbow dug into his chest, prompting an involuntary string of curses as Paol struggled to maintain his hold. The officer was a slippery bastard when he set his mind to it.

Jérémie had had quite enough of this foolishness. This was more than enough humiliation for one night.

"Hold this," he snapped at a nearby sentry and tossed his musket at the man. Then, with both hands free, he tried to get enough of a hold on Leclerc to drag the lunatic officer to the ground.

The three of them landed in a tangled heap. Leclerc's wildly flailing limbs struck out indiscriminately, but somehow Paol found himself kneeling on one arm and using the rest of his weight to pin Leclerc's shoulder. Blood dripped from his nose as he turned to look at Jérémie. "Alright?" he gasped.

Now that they were on the ground, it was possible to pin the officer down. Jérémie put one knee on the small of Leclerc's back and suppressed a grimace.

"All right," he replied, ignoring the feeling of fire in his cheek where Leclerc had scratched him.

"You men!" A voice demanded. "What in the hell are you doing?"

Here came the bastard who'd sent them on this crazy errand. He'd missed all the fun, Jérémie thought wryly. "We found Sous-lieutenant Leclerc, sir," he said blandly.

Paol bent his eyes on the ground, aware with a sudden and unpleasant clarity of just how bad this must look. Still, the officer had told them...what, exactly? Paol found he could not recall what the man had told them to do with Leclerc. But he had to have known that the sous-lieutenant was out of his mind? For all the good that would do them now.

Not daring to move, Paol looked up, watching the newly arrived officer warily. He only hoped Leclerc didn't start bleating about thieves again, or worse.

"How does 'finding him' include throwing him about like a sack of flour?" The officer demanded.

Clearly, Jérémie thought, this idiot had not seen the fight Leclerc had been putting up. Or maybe he had and still thought inappropriate measures had been taken. "It was necessary, sir," he replied.

And then, with what was proving to be an unhealthy habit, Leclerc burst out with an indignant, "The bastards burnt my tent!"

"We didn't burn nothin', sir," Paol protested, worry and confusion coloring his voice.

The other sous-lieutenant frowned. "You have struck your head, Leclerc. You are not talking sense. Let him up, damn it!"

Bad things were likely to happen once Leclerc was on his feet again, but there was no choice but to obey. Jérémie shifted and with a glance at Kerjean, helped Leclerc to stand.

"I need a drink!" Leclerc stated, his gaze coming to rest on the fallen canteen. "Get me a drink, before they take it all!"

A drink? Paol fumbled automatically for his own canteen, but it was back by the fire with the rest of his kit, and Leclerc, it seemed, had something rather more specific in mind. Still, Paol hesitated -- it had been the sentry's canteen which had set the sous-lieutenant off in the first place. Though, in all likelihood, the outcome would be the same if he did not receive it now.

With a glance at Jérémie, Paol fetched the canteen off the ground -- it was empty, or near enough -- and offered it to Leclerc.

Leclerc snatched the canteen from Kerjean's hand and immediately tipped it up to his lips. Despite himself, Jérémie cringed, dreading what was likely going to happen next. Though what did happen was not quite what he expected.

The sous-lieutenant cursed and flung the canteen at the other officer. "They drank it all, the thieves!"

"There's more where that came from, sir," Paol hazarded. He had been spared the canteen's trajectory, but still looked as though he half expected a blow to fall from some quarter. "Could show you, if you like."

Something in the other officer's expression hinted that he'd had his fill of this foolishness, which hopefully meant they could very shortly get out of here. Jérémie did not like the stares from the Englishwomen, who were still lurking about too close by.

"He will get no drink," the other sous-lieutenant said firmly. "Get him out of here."

That, Paol thought wearily, is what had been his intention.

Shifting position, he reached for Leclerc's arm, bracing for another struggle. At least the canteen was well out of reach this time.

"Where to, sir?" Jérémie asked, a trifle reluctantly.

The officer made a face. "His tent of course." Then the man frowned as he realised the impossibility of that. "Oh. Er. The surgeon's wagon will do. Move along then!"

" 'Bout bleedin' time, innit?" An unseen Englishwoman called out, though her words were beyond Jérémie's understanding. It was difficult to mistake the tone in which they were spoken, however. His face flushed and he took a particularly firm hold of Leclerc's arm.

Montreuil was not going to like this.

For the moment, Leclerc seemed less fiercely inclined to resist, and they were able, blessedly, to put some distance between themselves and the female prisoners. The attention Leclerc drew as they approached the surgeon's wagons, however, was no less keen, and the presence of the other sous-lieutenant did little to deflect the curious stares.

They were nearly to the wagons when a shadowy form, bolder than the others, made to approach them, drawling an appreciative curse. "Back for more, Rosy?"

Paol recognized the voice and the snickering laugh as belonging to Bertrand, Montreuil's assistant; though he hadn't the first idea what the man was talking about.

The colour in his cheeks had been subsiding, but Bertrand's remark brought it straight back. He looked away into the darkness and tried not to think about the marks still on his left hand.

"Where is Montreuil?" Jérémie asked, deliberately not answering the question.

Marie-Eve looked up and spoke reproachfully, as if to a child. "Monsieur Leclerc. Sir, where are your clothes?"

Bertrand smirked, as much at the woman's question as the startled look on Kerjean's face and the sudden tightening of his hold on the sous-lieutenan's arm.

"Oh, he's around," he replied, in answer to Blanchard's question. "Somewhere."

"Then find him," Jérémie directed with a flash of sudden heat. "Or we'll leave Sous-lieutenant Leclerc with you."

"Alright, alright..." retorted Bertrand, his tone mildly aggrieved, "No need to up with your hackles." Shaking his head, he turned away and wandered off to find Montreuil. Some folk had no sense of humor.

Bertrand had left behind a blanket by the fire. It was probably his own blanket, but Marie-Eve did not care. She picked it up and gave it a shake before holding it out to Leclerc. "Here you go, dearie, let's wrap you up, all right?" She held the blanket open and averted her gaze by looking at his escort, her face full of questions.

Bertrand's departure was a relief, as was the offering of the blanket to Leclerc. The evening was therefore improved just a tiny bit. With a sigh, Jérémie helped wrap the naked officer up in the blanket. If Bertrand objected to this, it was none of Jérémie's concern.

"It has been an unpleasant evening." He was not prepared to elaborate. The particulars were best not gotten into.

That pretty well summed it up, Paol thought, grateful that Blanchard had answered the unspoken question; Rosy always seemed to know what to say -- or what not to say -- unlike himself.

"Thanks," he told Marie-Eve; the blanket was the first bit of help anyone had given them.

The sound of a rapid, impatient step announced the approach of the sawbones. Montreuil, his face like a thundercloud, halted before them, his sharp glance wordlessly surveying the three of them, but rather than the scathing rebuke which Paol had been expecting, he simply nodded. "Take him to the cart," he snapped, gesturing to a vehicle not far away. "I will be with you momentarily. Not you, sir," he added, bringing the other sous-lieutenant up short. "A word, if you please."

As they stepped away, Paol could hear the sounds of the muffled conversation rising behind them. The sawbones seemed to be reaming out the officer, of all things.

The cart. Right. At least now Leclerc was nominally covered. Carefully suppressing a grimace, Jérémie draped the blanket around the naked sous-lieutenant's shoulders. Leclerc's response was to try to shake the blanket off, but the firm grips on both of his arms made this a useless exercise.

"Come on, sir," Jérémie said quietly, tugging Leclerc's arm so the officer would walk forward. If they could get him to the cart without incident, there might be hope for an end to their involvement in this foolishness.