22nd July, evening; Up Spirits

"Right, yes, thank you. Goodbye." The words all seemed to jumble together in their hurry to get out of her mouth. She turned to go, then seemed momentarily to think better of it and added, "Say 'goodbye', Suie," before hurrying off.

For now, that was it. He let out a sigh and lifted the mug to his lips for a quick sip. It was a purely reflexive action. The result of a guilty sense of relief at the meeting's end. In a moment, the mug was empty, a fact he did not realise until no more liquid came out of it.

Time, then, to find the others, and hopefully get at least half a game of cards out of them before the wine overtook them. Jérémie stowed his mug and the two bottles in his pack, which he slung from one shoulder. Then he got to his feet and retrieved his musket. If he was lucky, he could find the little group without being waylaid by an officer.

There was a female raised voice as Mathilde moved closer to the wagon. "Oi, you! Foucheaux, is it? Get out of there!"



A sleepy face emerged as the man sat up from his place among the laundry. "It's Charcot. I came to see Mother Margot and then I wanted to see Beefsteak..." He trailed off and gestured at the sleepy black and white kitten he had disturbed by moving. "She looks like my Mitaine."

No matter where he put it, Paol had found that his flint always managed to find its way to the bottom of his pack. Along with anything else he might happen to need. Shoving aside his spare shirt, his fingers brushed against oilskin, the small packet containing Baptiste's letter. He paused, but only for a moment, then thrust the packet away and fished his hand deeper into the pack.

There. With a soft, exasperated oath, he withdrew the piece of flint. It was only a matter of moments before the sparks took hold in the tinder and hardly longer before they spread to the dry wood. That was one thing he could say for Spain -- and Portugal for that matter -- fires started easy.

At the sound of someone approaching, he looked up, a smile spreading across his face when he saw it was Blanchard, and called a greeting.

There was Kerjean. Good. Jérémie lifted a hand in return to his friend's greeting and, without ceremony, set his pack and musket down.

"Evening, Kerjean. Got a mug handy?" It was perhaps a bit without preamble, but he was thirsty and reckoned the other man was too. It had been, as ever, a long day.

"Aye, somewhere," he said, hauling his pack over to rummage for the object in question. "The little cat ain't making off with your kit now, as well as your food, is he?"

He pulled out the cup, gave it a cursory wipe with his sleeve and handed it over.

With a grin, Jérémie produced the bottle he'd previously opened, as well as his own mug. "Not yet," he remarked. "But he was very interested in this."

Oh. Paol grinned. "Smart cat. Where's he got to, anyway?"

"Mathilde has him. He won't know I'm missing." He filled up both mugs, then set the bottle aside. "Any of the others around?"

"Aye, should be." Craning his neck, he tried to see over his shoulder. "Foucheaux was here not too long ago. Went to fetch some water, I think. And Roux ought to be around. Thanks," he added, taking back the cup. He swallowed, almost without thinking, then looked at Blanchard in surprise, "This ain't half bad."

"Hopefully Roux has his cards." Jérémie sipped at his own wine. "It's not, and I'm glad for it. Sometimes the Spanish get it right." Maybe, anyway.

"Dunno about cards, but I got some dice?"

That would work. Dice were more interesting than cards anyway. He nodded. "Yes, that's fine. Where are the others, anyway?"

"The sergent grabbed a couple of them right off," he said, balancing the cup on his knee as he reached into his pack and withdrew a small bag. "For picquets and the like. And you know how Gauvin's been goin' on about a run into town. He'll be off tryin' for that, like as not. And Bielieux with him." He frowned slightly, "Dunno 'bout the others, though."

He upended the bag and let the contents spill onto the ground between them, a number of crudely carved wooden dice and the well used, but fine pair of bone dice which had belonged to Manasse.

A run in town would have been in order, had he not been otherwise prepared. Jérémie shrugged. He was not about to go around advertising his good fortune to the whole army either.

"As long as nobody else is needed for picquet," he remarked blandly. The possibility of being summoned away from his leisure was not one he wanted to think about.

"Anyone need shooting?" Foucheaux muttered as he dropped on the ground beside them.

Paol looked up, half laughing, "What?"

"You heard," he answered without explaining further. "What's the news here?"

Paol couldn't help the faint flush which sprang to his cheeks and he hastily masked his embarrassment by corralling the scattered dice. Nine years and he still got tripped up by the simplest sentences.

It would be best, perhaps, to act as though that exchange had not occurred. Not that this was especially difficult. Especially since it was Foucheaux.

"First," said Jérémie. "Do you have a mug handy?"

There were priorities involved here, after all.

Foucheaux shrugged himself free of his pack and untied the knot that was holding his mug. He handed it over to Blanchard and only then said, "But you've got a mug already."

Instead of replying, Jérémie took Foucheaux's mug and filled it with wine. Then, after handing it back, he lifted the bottle slightly in Kerjean's direction, wordlessly asking if a topping up was needed.

A slow smile spread across Foucheaux's face, mirroring the slowness of his brain. "Oh. Thanks, Rosy!"

Paol hesitated a moment, then held out his mug with a murmured thanks.

Fishing around in his haversack, he pulled out a crumbling, misshaped disk, an ashcake left over from that morning. It was quite hard now, but breaking off a piece, he dipped it in the wine. "Firecake?" he asked, proffering the remainder to Blanchard and Foucheaux.

"You're welcome," Jérémie said, directing the remark at both of them as he filled up Kerjean's mug. Once this was done, he corked the bottle and set it carefully aside. A grin lightened his face a little at Kerjean's offering. Wine and a snack. It was more or less perfect.

"Yes. Please." He accepted the offering and broke it mostly in half - it would pass, he thought, since the two sides were not too uneven - and held one out to Foucheaux. At least this way they were all assured of a share, he thought wryly.