9th July, midday; Going incognito

Kirridge was last seen here. Mayden was last seen here.



Precisely what Mayden had been thinking, doing a runner with Jack, was impossible now to say, but with three days now gone by since he'd done it, going back was not an option. Never mind that there was little enough for him to fear, for he had done nothing wrong. Except for abandoning the company, anyway.

Both of them had since discarded their uniforms, in Mayden's case stowing his in the back of the wagon they were following. Jack had burned his own the same night he'd bunked off, though both had retained their rifles. These were concealed beneath the wagon. Their clothing was now the rough, patched stuff common amongst the Portuguese muleteers, which would, hopefully, help them avoid notice from any of the numerous roving patrols.

What Mayden didn't know about Jack's choice to run was plenty, but he refrained from asking any questions. There was some sort of trouble afoot. That much was as plain as the split and bandages around Jack's left wrist. All the same, he couldn't quite say why he'd run as well. Except that it seemed the correct thing to do at the time - lads of the Ninety-fifth should look after each other, after all.

" 'M burstin' fer a piss," Jack grumbled unhappily. "Bleedin' army, allus marchin' 'eadlong inta nuffin."

Mayden simply shrugged and glanced warily around. The wide-brimmed straw hat he wore helped keep the sun off his face, but he was still getting used to it. Pushing it back a bit on his head helped, though part of him wished he could wear his forage cap instead. "Piss down your leg, then," he muttered and ignored the glare turned his way from Jack.


Mayden is next seen here.

Sykes drifted back along the train. He had business with one of the Portuguese, but thus far had been unable to find the man. His native compatriots, predictably, knew 'nothing'. He only hoped the bastard hadn't gone and died; that would be... inconvenient. So he kept looking, scanning the faces as he passed, but after the first handful they all began to look the same, black hair, black eyes, miserable as sin. And then -- Sykes' gaze slid over two figures and kept on going as if he'd noticed nothing.

What the devil was that Greenjacket doing there? And dressed like that? Unless -- Sykes smirked, his interest in the muleteer suddenly forgotten.