27th May, morning; with wagons

"Habit? Oh no. Not with me rifle." The lad looked appalled to even think of it. He looked at the red snake broken off by wagons at times and by the civilian clad women. He unbuttoned half of his coat and after a moment of thinking stuffed the animal there. It would stay so just till they reached the wagon, where it would be safely stored elsewhere. His pack was a good place.

"Never thought lookin' covered in mud wouldn't be a bad thing." He smiled. So used to the peculiarity, the attention to his uniform which had to be better than best, the riflemen really did look different. Their time wasn't spent pipeclaying their crossbelts. But the rifle had to be ready and clean. He began to climb up the slope again towards the bush. He needed the rigle first, before he would return. "Thanks fer teaching me, Gabe." He smiled and looked over his shoulder.

"You'm a Rifleman now, an' don't you go forgettin' it," Cotton replied, and grinned at the sight of the younger lad. "You'm welcome, Zack, lad," he said, following Pye up the slope. "We all had to have someone teach us the way of things here, after all, most of us bein' redcoats first. It's easier, sort of, in the Rifles, 'specially if you've got a good dose o' common sense. An' listen to the others, ask if you need help, that sort of thing." He adjusted his grip on his rifle, slipping it into the Riflemen's ready position. "An' you already know the Captain'll talk with you about stuff, don't you? Jus' don't get familiar with him, that's all - I mean, I know you wouldn't forget he's an officer, but jus' keep it in mind when he's talkin' to you, or if he does summat that looks strange, that's all."

"So's.. you sayin' if he hugs me or summat, I jus' stand there at attention and look like t' sky's awful interesting n' I've a mind to find a bird on it to shoot?" He couldn't imagine being a sort of fellow , a friend as he was with Cotton, with the officer.

Vickery confused him, he made him nervous because he was afraid he would do something wrong. He didn't know how far he could go, and felt like inching back all the time and fighting the urge to test. The sort that made skilled thieves into caught sort. Always testing how far one could go. He bit his lip thinking on it. Captain Vickery was the sort of officer he hoped to have. Not the one that would make a habit out of beating and flogging, humiliating and discouraging his soldiers, not the sort who would make them tremble in fear more from him than the enemy, but one that all of them would be willing to fight for. For the man - because loyalties to the crown were hard to consider by the lad. He didn't have them, simple as that. Brought up in the band of orphans, thieves, pickpockets, and beggars, he barely had a loyalty to begin with. Some exceptions of course even now considered.

"What am I to do if he acts real odd?" he asked as he found that the silence had gone for a good length of time. "M' glad them provosts had moved their noses where they're at. .." He added with a slight smile. "..smelly ol' things." And then he seemed more interested on the rabbit, or the suggestion on what he was to do if Vickery began to dance a jig in the middle of the night.

Cotton couldn't help laughing. "He's about as likely to give you a hug as... as... as you are to see a blue tree," he said. "I mean, well, if he gives a strange-soundin' order, he'll want it obeyed right off. Though he might explain it afterwards, like - if he needs to." He shrugged. "He ain't mad, y'know. Jus' he might be a bit diff'rent from the sort of officers you had afore. Only, well, if he says to do summat, he's the same as them, an' wants it done, and fair sharpish, too."

"Right. Do it even if he tole yer to jump of a' cliff like." Pye was serious when he said that, just as serious as he seemed to be about following that order to a T. "I know he ain't mad." He added defensively as if Cotton had accused him of believing so. "Maybe, a little, in ..lettin' me join you, but I don't go n' complain about that." He chuckled. "Jus' be real grateful that... that I can die in t' uniform I chose servin' t' man I'd be loyal to of me own free will. That's... that's more n' I can say mos' of the men here are able ter do. ..none I'd know in the 33rd, no." He shook his head. "So's.. a freedom of sorts...A real nice feeling." Even if he was obliged to follow orders and could be killed if he deserted, left. He was afraid enough of the other , flogging, though, to really care for a run. That, and of course, not thinking it would be right, in the rifles.

"Well, I dunno that I'd go quite so far as that - though if he did say to do that, he'd sure as hell say why first." They'd reached their packs by now, and Cotton paused as he pulled his own pack onto his shoulders. "It's real nice bein' in the Rifles. You know you'm 'preciated, here, which you ain't in the Line. An', well, y'know, the Captain'll do his best for us 'cause we'm Riflemen - we'm better'n the poor sods as stands in line, 'cause every Rifleman is a sharpshooter. Means we can aim at the enemy prop'ly, which the Line soldiers can't."

"But there's a benefit in not needin' ter aim all that exactly like." Pye said as he thrust the rabbit into his pack where it was wrapped further into a bit of fabric just so that if it bled, it would seep first into that, than into all the rest of his belongings. "See..., you could fire with yer eyes closed, n' wouldn't be t' only sod." He paused and grinned. "N' we did... they do aim a bit... jus' it's the direction rather than aimin' at a plume of t' right officer type."

He flushed red. "...not'n I.. you're right." He added quickly. "Pardon." He added apologetically and looked about. "We need ter find Newbury, don't we , now?"

"Mebbe, but with a rifle you know you'll hit the one you shoot at, which you don't with a musket." He adjusted the straps of his pack. "Aye, we do, though I dunno where he is. Can't be too far off, though."

"Might be by a wagon or other. " He paused and then pulled Cotton back with him, so that neither was seen from where they stood by the wagon. On the other side he saw the strutting of the pair of men in the hated coats and with those expressions of importance. There was still a slight stench to them, though much fainter now as they had done a fine job in washing it out.

Pye made a fine check that the rabbit was nowhere to be seen, not a hair of it, not an ear, a foot, or even the fuzzy tail. He wiped his hand and had a similar expression on him, as the first time he'd seen them before one had been pushed. The men continued atop their own horses. They hadn't been found guilty it seemed. Or if they was, the law did not go the same for them as others, it was what Pye thought at least.

Up ahead they stopped a lass which had been leaning down. She had been close to the bush and did look rather suspicious. Pye hadn't seen her till she stood up and till they got close enough to tell her so. "...do ye know.. wot' 'appened to those Portuguese?" He whispered, his hand clenched into a tight fist.

The little yellow ball of fuzz seemed to like wandering around on the mule's back. Newbury kept a watchful eye on the chick, lest it wander too far and fall, but the tiny creature seemed to know its boundaries. How Pye thought to keep a chick tucked into his bread bag defied understanding.

Grinning at the chick, Newbury offered it another couple bread crumbs. It wasn't such a bad creature, really.

The chick chirped happily at the offer of food. There was never too much food, always too little. In this it resembled its owner a little bit. Though unlike its owner it would probably have thought to be fussy if the food did not agree. It hopped closer to Newbury and pecked at the bread crumbs, taking a beakfull each time. If this would take much longer, Newbury could well earn greater affection of the bird than Pye. He was certainly in its good books, if it held any.

It looked up at him with its inquiring eyes, chirped and pooped on the mule's back without a moment's thought for decency. It was a lot happier now, that it could stretch its legs, and though it had been more wobbly than if it had such excercise all the time, it was certainly also more energetic than when it first left the bag. Fresh air and a free range did it good.

"Well then," Newbury said, chuckling. Trust a chick to consider itself at liberty to relieve itself anywhere it pleased. "That's gratitude for you, ain't it?"

"You there. Grasshopper," a harsh voice called out. Newbury started in surprise, managing to turn himself mostly toward whoever'd spoken, before his knee twinged and he found himself in the dirt.

Provosts, he saw from his new position on the ground. More accurately, provosts from the previous evening. Great.

Boy, if it could fly, it would peck their eyes right out. Peck em good, make em blind and then it would poop on their faces and make off with their noses! It would scratch their cheeks till they bled and, the little chick was making a harsh sort of sound and running up and down the mule's back in panic. It stopped at the end, wanted to get off, but couldn't so it ran forward again then back. It managed to do so all the way till it slipped of the mule's rump. It made its version of a sharp cry and bounced of the ground rolling and then at last stopping.

It looked dazed and stumbled a little then, seeing the provosts it ran at them with all the furry of a cock, only it wasn't that probably. It chirped upset, and pecked at one shiny boot , as if thinking such form of intimidation would scare the 'evil' man.

"Hey there!" One of the provosts cried, lifting his booted foot to stomp at the insane chick.

Oh for - Newbury scrabbled forward, managing to sweep the little yellow fuzz-ball out of danger. He got his hand well-pecked for his efforts, but it was better than having to explain to Pye that his pet had gotten crushed by some lumbering oaf of a provost.

"Get up," another provost snapped. Newbury obeyed, however awkwardly, the chick safely cupped in both palms.

The chick pecked angrily at the palms of the man confining it. It knew it was Newbury, but why was he stopping the attack? The men were vile, anybody could feel that.

They needed a proper pecking, skin beaked till the chick reached bone! It settled down a little, but was still chirping and scrambling around the hands, its little clawed feet digging into the flesh and it's soft fluffy hide brushing against the skin too.

Ow ow ow. Newbury grimaced at the sharp nips of pain as the chick pecked insistently at his hands. Cursed thing!

The provosts were regarding him with open distaste. "How come you by this animal?" The taller one asked, nodded pointedly at the mule. "And that... chicken."

"Ain't mine, neither of 'em," he replied. "Mule's my cap'n's. An' the chick belongs to a mate. I'm just lookin' after it for now."

"Indeed." The second provost looked unconvinced. "It is a well-laden mule, is it not?"

Newbury shrugged slightly. "It's an officer's mule, ain't it? 'Course it'll be well-laden."

Well that was it. If the man did not mean to let it go the nice way, it would make off with a bit of his skin and make him let go that way. It became less haughty and moved less all of a sudden. It felt almost as if it settled down.

Moments passed, when the conversation was going and the men inquired about the mule.The bird waited and then, suddenly, without warning it sunk its beak sharply into the soft flesh of the rifleman's palm, at the same time digging it's clawed feet into it. It hoped it would work though.

"More laden," the first provost said, "than any other mule we've seen in the baggage train. Rather suspect, ain't it, Smith?"

"Aye," Smith agreed. "We'll have to search the packs, grasshopper. Make sure there's nothing stolen in there."

Newbury's eyebrows drew together sharply. "Can't do that, sirs, that's Captain Vickery's things. There's nothin' stolen in there neither. I'll stake my rifle on it - ow!" He nearly dropped the vicious little chick in surprise when it bit down fiercely on his palm.

Why was it harder to scramble up slopes than it was to run down them? His legs were hurting a bit by now, but at least they were nearly back at the baggage wagons.

His heart almost stopped when he saw Newbury and the Captain's pack mule surrounded by Provosts.

Hadn't they caused enough trouble already?

The chick saw an opportunity and tried to use it before Newbury got his wits about him. It jumped up and began to squirm through the tiny crack, that was now open. It certainly told the provosts what they deserved. All in chick talk, but it was a rather unpleasant sort of chirping that went through the ears. It might've also begun to attract attention, or atleast it was loud enough to be able to do so.

Pye heard the loud chatter of panic, his eyes locking on the forms below. He misinterpreted the cause of the distress. Thought it was the provosts, who were squeezing the life out of his pet bird. It was enough to give his descent a rush, a push really to make it down faster. He didn't care if he slipped. And seeing the provosts harrasing their fellow, perhaps he cared to quicken his pace for that too. The damn provosts. The bloody damned provosts! They ought to be hanged, the provosts, not the people they chased!

What the...? What were the provosts doing to the Captain's mule?

He ran forward and put a hand on its bridle. "'Scuse me, sirs, this here mule belongs to Captain Vick'ry, of the 60th." He added, mentally, An' whatever you'm plannin' on doin' with it, bloody well keep your hands to yourselves an' get lost!

The cursed chick had drawn blood. Newbury was tempted, for a moment, to let the evil thing escape from his hands and take its chances with the provosts. He wasn't in a hurry to get into trouble with Pye for losing the chick, though. So he scooped the would-be runaway back up again and resolved not to give it half an inch of leeway, no matter how badly it pecked him.

"That's what I told 'em," Newbury told Cotton, when the other Rifleman finally appeared. Took him long enough, hadn't it?

Smith looked smug. "As we told him, it seems that this mule is more laden than any of the others here around. So we are bound to search it, to ensure it carries no contraband. We have already determined this fellow to have come by unlawful goods," he added, with a nod at the chick Newbury was trying to keep contained.

"What?"

"It don't, then," Cotton retorted stoutly. "Packed it meself, ain't I, bein' the Captain's batman an' all. Only reason it's carryin' more'n any other mule roud here is 'cause it's the only one the Captain's got, an' it's got his tent an' camp furniture an' all." And if they did unpack it all, they'd find nothing, and who'd have to re-pack it, and get even further behind? Cotton, that's who.

"An' that chick hatched from an egg that was issued as rations, 'cause no-one knew it'd bin sat on, that's what. Sir."

"The chick came from n' egg I was given as gratitude!" He stumbled over the 'big' word and glared at man that accused him of theft. To consider his chick contained illegally was unjust! He only then heard what Cotton had said and it wasn't exactly as it happened, in both ways it was not illegally got.

"It was a gift, a .. a form of thanks by the local Portuguese. She's not illegaly mine! She's jus' not an egg anymore!" He took a step forward so that he stood infront of the rifleman with the chick still in hand. He was protective of his chick - oh and Newbury a bit too, but the man was big enough to know how to take care of himself ! - and made it clear enough, his eyes hateful, his gaze fierce and without fear. For once he seemed not to shy away, but these were provosts and he did loath them.