26 May, evening; wagons

Newbury comes from here.


It seemed that the night's entanglements were finally over. Newbury hoped they were, at least. He was bone-tired and his knee and side were aching fiercely. The prospect of spending what was left of the night curled up under his blanket was more appealing with every step.

He ignored Cotton for the entirety of the journey, in large part because he had no idea what to say and no inclination to say anything even if he did know. What was the point?

His anticipation of a peaceful bedding down was spoiled when he reached the wagon at last, to discover that Jenny Ross was already there. Ah. Smothering a sigh, Newbury limped around to the far side of the wagon, there to ease himself down onto the ground. So much for tucking up into the back of the wagon itself.

Jenny was surprised to see him there again. Not locked away in some guarded tent to await punishment in the morning? Well, she was not going to monopolize the wagon while he was nearby with his pathetic injured knee.

"Wagon's yours," she said curtly, jumping down and grabbing her pack.

What? Newbury looked up at her in surprise, somewhat alarmed by her tone.

"Where're you off to?" He asked, before his brain engaged and screamed at him for posing such a stupid question. Didn't he know by now not to do anything but shut up when a woman said something in that sort of tone?

"Sorry," he amended, blushing.

"I'm off to Oporto. Wagon's yours; so is this," she added, plunking down the French razor that she had picked up earlier in the day. "Cut a provost's throat with it."

Or any man's. Or your own. Men.

Newbury stared at the razor, feeling a prickling sense of unease take hold. He made no move to even reach for it. So that was how it stood. He remembered her attempt to get him to defend himself and felt a shred of shame.

"Rather use it on Pye," he murmured as he looked away.

She shook her head slightly, rolled her eyes, and turned to walk away. In her ordinary state she would have kept going, but she was more than her usual self tonight. She was angry and disgusted. She stopped and looked back at him, still sitting there nursing his knee, the injury that kept him from being able to fight the French but which was no hindrance at all to attacking a provost, even in charade.

"You're stupid, that's your problem. Why did you do that?" She did not bother to disguise the contempt in her voice.

"Course I'm stupid," he shot back reflexively. "I'd bloody have to be, tryin' to keep that flamin' idiot Pye outta trouble, wouldn't I?"

Curling his lip in sudden, unexpected anger, Newbury glanced up at her. It was easy for her. She came, went, and did as she pleased, with no regiment or officers to put any real limitations on any of it. Nobody to bloody answer to every time some stupid thing went wrong.

"Must be nice," he went on. "Bein' able to pick up and move along 'cause there's nothin' else worth takin' where you're at."

She had partaken of too much drink this evening. It was something that she rarely did. And she knew that it had stripped away some of her veneer, eroded some of her reserve, chipped away at her self-control. Ordinarily she would have walked away, deciding that this was an argument not worth fighting. She knew that now, but she did not care. She was angry and she would show it.

"I bloody well have to, don't I. It's take or be took with you lot."

Was it really.

"Nobody's bloody keepin' you here," he snapped. This was stupid. Even moreso than anything else that had happened that day. " 'Sides of that, there's prolly half a sodding army that'd let you take from 'em all you like, so it's no sense to me why you stay 'round here t'all. 'Specially if we're all so bleedin' stupid."

It was a sodding army. And they were all bleeding stupid. They would be bleeding stupid in Oporto, they would be bleeding stupid in England, they would be bleeding stupid in France, both now and forevermore, amen. She stood there, dull, staring at him. Her flare of fiery anger had passed, and she was left with only the underlying emotion, something that she scarcely recognized. Disappointment.

It would pass. She would rebuild her fortifications in the morning.

"Good night, Newbury."

Newbury said nothing. Again. It was a common theme that evening, wasn't it. Instead, after a pause, he struggled up to his feet. This shouldn't have happened. The trouble with the provosts shouldn't have happened. This whole God-damned day should not have happened.

Wordlessly, he picked up the razor and contemplated it a moment in the shifting darkness. Then uttering a quiet curse, he turned and flung it away into the field that stretched along the road. It was all a waste. Every last good-intentioned bit of it.

He pulled himself awkwardly up into the wagon, unable to bring himself to even return her 'good night'. He'd regret all of this heartily in the morning but just in that moment he was in no mood to care.

Cotton had heard the raised voices, but no actual words. And then Jenny appeared around the wagon, walking away fast.

Whatever had happened between Newbury and Jenny, he couldn't say, but after everything that had happened, Newbury probably wanted some time alone without Cotton dogging his coat-tails. He got up to follow Jenny, deciding that if Newbury wandered off again, Cotton would take the blame for not being there to stop him - though Newbury would have to be really stupid to go off yet again.

"Hey - Jenny Ross. Wait there a minute;" he said, hoping she wasn't so angry she was going to slap him in Newbury's place, or something.

Jenny turned and gave Cotton a withering look, but perhaps it was too dark to see. So she snapped at him.

"What?"

Cotton was getting riled himself. Looking after two supposedly full-grown Riflemen who made idiotic decisions was making him wish that he'd never spoken up yesterday, which would have meant he'd still be with the Company and away from the sheer insanity of this place.

"I dunno what you think, Jenny. Miss Ross, an' I dunno what you was yellin' at him for. He's a damn fool, savin' your presence, but he is, but he didn't do whatever it is you think he done. Ain't got the brains he was born with, I think sometimes. He was coverin' for someone else."

As if she even knew what had happened back there, or that Newbury had admitted to anything at all. He shouldn't have spoken up, and he sighed.

"Sorry for pokin' me nose in, I am. Now I'm goin' to go off an' find Maggie an' mebbe have a bit o' supper." And try to get rid of the headache that was starting.

"What are you talking about?" she asked impatiently.

"Gabe, where you been?" Maggie asked, running to meet him with a smile. Then she stopped and looked at him and at Jenny, feeling the tension and anger in the air. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"What Newbury said, back there, to them. It weren't true - he was coverin' for someone else, so there ain't no need to blow up at him. He's already had that from the Cap'n." He sighed. "Or am I runnin' ahead an' missin' summat? I hope you weren't arguin' about that, anyhow."

He turned as Maggie came running up, and gave her a tired smile. "Me head's killin' me, Maggie lass, with tryin' to think an' get folks not to go runnin' off an' doin' summat that'll land 'em in trouble. Don't s'pose you've got a fire an' a cup of tea for a man, have you?"

"Of course, Gabe," Maggie said gently, hooking her arm in his to lead him there. She looked over her shoulder. "You want one, Jenny?"


[They go here]

At first, Newbury wasn't sure he'd ever get to sleep despite the weighty pull of exhaustion. He stared up at the canvas covering over the wagon and tried to squash the insistent circling track of the day's events that run endlessly around his head. It was more annoying than the stab of pain that came nearly every time he shifted his leg.

Eventually, however, he gave in to weariness. It was undeniably cool and his worn blanket was, by itself, not wholly adequate at keeping out the chill. Newbury was tucked up into a loose ball to make the most of his natural body warmth. At least he was mostly asleep, finally.

A draft came through under the blanket, but then a pair of warm hands and arms slipped around his waist.

He shivered at the unexpected ruffling of the blanket, then blinked and came awake enough to mumble a bleary "Wha - ?"

"It's me," said the warm body at his back. "You're cold. Want some tea?"

Tea. Newbury rubbed absently at his eyes and nodded. "Please."

She reached behind and produced the mug to set it on the floor of the wagon in front of him.

His brain was waking up, however slowly. It was enough for him to register that it was Jenny who'd offered the mug of tea. Any thought beyond that was non existent. Tea.

"Thank you," Newbury said, sitting up just far enough so he could reach for the mug. "You're back," he added a little lamely.