Finally, chapter three. Thanks everyone for patience and support.

PLEASE REMEMBER: I rewrote Chapter Two, so if you've only read the first version, you might want to go back and check out the improvements.

And I still think there is better stuff ahead. All this background to get to the good stuff...

The Rules of Warfare:

Part III: A Price to Pay

An aching head and trembling limbs, which are the inevitable effects of drinking, disincline the hands from work.

- George Washington

Louisa groaned as a hand tentatively nudged her upper arm. Opening her eyes, she was met with a dark, unsmiling face.

"Miss," a deep voice whispered. "The men are moving out in a short time."

"Thank you." She sat up and rubbed the sleep from her eyes, smiling at the slave as she rose. The headache was dull but oppressive, the random rays of sunlight bursting through the treetops an unwelcome greeting. A sense of foreboding settled on the back of her neck, leaving her with the thought that she was not going to be well when the day was out. It would not be a surprise.

"What is it to be?" she asked, yawning.

"They say drills."

Louisa looked up at Occam for a moment. "I'm not to go then?" He shrugged. "Alright," she said, picking herself off the ground and stretching. She was glad, at least, that one person was not too pretentious to befriend her, though he still had not called her by anything but 'miss.'

She collected her bedroll, watching others readying themselves as she fastened it to Gatsby. Tavern men stayed down by the end of the island, fraternizing amongst themselves, townsmen the same in the middle, and Martin and the officers through the mission door. Louisa took her coat from where she had left it on the ground and slipped it on, leaving the buttons undone, before crossing the isle to speak with her commanding officer.

"Excuse me, sir," she said from the doorway. "I'm told the men are to go through drills today. I am under the assumption that I should not be attending."

"That's right," he said in return. Martin was collecting various belongings and adding them to the packs he had slung over his shoulders. After a moment he looked up at her. "You said you had a musket, Miss Headrow. Have you ever fired it?"

Louisa blinked a few times, perturbed by his question. "Yes, sir."

"And did you hit anything?"

"I may not have a lifetime of experience like the rest of your men, but I am capable enough. I have been successful in shooting myself an adequate food supply when I was unable to buy it in a town." She crossed her arms in front of herself and leaned on the mission wall. "I daresay a man is a bit larger and a bit slower than a pheasant."

The tavern man who had sat in on their conversation the previous night laughed as he sat by the dwindling fire, in the same spot he had been in before. "Probably not as flavorful too."

Louisa smiled at his comment. Martin nodded in acknowledgement but hardly smirked as he thought. "Another time, perhaps, Miss Headrow."

"Yes, sir," she said without argument. Louisa had turned back to leave, but spun on her heel, a finger over her lips thoughtfully. "Might there be a stream nearby, sir? Something that's not swamp water?"

"There's one not far north of here," he said. "I suppose you might come along with us and I'll point the way."

"Thank you, Colonel."

Louisa busied herself with further securing Gatsby's burden as she took glances at the men around. One was preparing coffee nearby and random whiffs of meat cooked over fires began to entrance her, making her stomach rumble for nourishment. She moved sluggishly over to one of the fires, and sat on an unoccupied log.

"Can I get a cup of that?" she asked quietly, gesturing to the coffee and expecting to be turned down. The man gave her the once over, but, to her surprise, poured a portion into a tin mug and held it out to her. She grasped the cup and brought it up to her lips, carefully sipping at the hot liquid. It was thick and strong, disgusting by her home time's standards, but a welcome imbuement. "Thank you."

The man grunted in response.

"Name's Louisa Headrow," she said, reaching out a hand which he eyed wearily for a moment. He brushed his own off on his pant leg and grasped it.

"Curly." He went back to his tasks for a bit while Louisa sipped at her coffee. She took glances up at the man across the fire, opposite her who picked at his fingernails with a blade – the blade he had held to Louisa's throat the night before. "This is Rollins," Curly said eventually, motioning to him. Rollins looked between the two and nodded.

"Come for a fight, then?" Rollins asked. "Them British, I mean."

Louisa nodded.

"Can't blame you," he continued. "Might as well get a few shots in if you can."

Louisa nodded and then handed the mug back to Curly as she stood. "Thank you, again."

"Good to meet you," she said, nodding at Rollins. He inclined his head but said no more.

As they rode out of the swamp and back into the meadow, Louisa concentrated on feelings she had long forgotten. Her hips moving in rhythm with the saddle, the warm sunlight on her eyelids, and the cool sting of early morning crispness in her lungs, all welcome after what felt like years without. Things she had never thought twice about before this time were suddenly beautiful.

She drew in a deep breath of clean air, marveling at the crispness of her vision. Sobriety was an anomaly, especially that early in the morning. Hell, consciousness was an anomaly that early. The cloak with which rum had hidden simple things had been lifted. Between drunken nights and hungover days, she hadn't seen more than ten feet in front of her clearly in months.

The trees were clearly defined, leaves rustling individually instead of one large splash of color. The tall meadow greenery swayed in the wind, and she could pick out random stalks of golden, sundried grass. Louisa smiled at how easily she could see the difference.

But still, in the back of her skull, an ache was nagging, telling her it was coming for her later.

Colonel Martin pulled back to ride next to her, pulling the woman out of her thoughts. "We are going to head up this path here. It'll take a bend to the left and come to a long field, behind a few feet of trees. Easy to see if you're looking for it. Do you mark me?"

"Yes, sir."

"Your stream, miss, is going to be nearby so if you need anything we'll be close." He held out his hand and pointed ahead. "Continue straight down until that bend and go straight into the woods. Do not turn once you've left the path. You'll see the stream soon."

"Thank you. I won't be long."

He nodded. "Return to camp afterward. My son stayed back to organize rations. You said you would work to stay. I left my instructions with him."

When Louisa found the small brook, she tied Gatsby a bit downstream and sat on a large flat rock to remove her boots. Somewhere far off, she heard a mass of musketfire, surely the men gaining practice. Her feet were sweaty and collected dirt, but it felt liberating to stand barefoot on the rough earth.

When she next reached into her pack, her hand brushed a cold metal object. She pulled her hand back for a moment, then extracted her empty flask. Turning it over in her hands, she studied the carved lines and small dents long the edges. A cursive LFH was engraved in the bottom right corner. It had contained nothing but alcohol in the past year, corrupted from its original purpose, carrying water when she was a housemaid to keep her from having to drink ale like everyone else. She used to tie it to her thigh, under her petticoats, and take it out for a sip when no one was looking.

She set it on the rock and continued to rummage through her pack. She pulled out a chunk of soap and a rag, set them next to her flask, and began to undress. The last thing she removed was a long strip of linen that was wound tight around her chest, binding her breasts.

Although the stream was cold, Louisa trudged in and began to scrub away weeks of sweat, spilled alcohol, and dirt.

As she rode Gatsby back to the Spanish mission, she took a sip of the stream water collected in her flask, eager to flush out her body's toxins. Corporal Martin was pulling a needle and thread through a ragged flag as she tied up Gatsby. He tried to stuff it behind himself when she came through the mission door.

"It looks like you're better than me at that, sir."

"Sewing?" His cheeks heated subtly. "I was just… I had to learn after my mother passed on."

"I'm sorry to hear that." She came closer and sat across the smoldering fire from him. "I never really learned. My mother didn't care for it and I was only just recently showed how, but only enough for clothing. I can't embroider at all."

He pulled the flag back into his lap. "I found it on the ground at a camp. Hate to let it go to waste."

Louisa smiled. "Your father said you would have instructions for me."

The Corporal stood to retrieve an armful of clothing and blankets that were in need of mending. He gave her a needle and a spool of thread. "I'm sure the men will be pleased that they don't have to sew for themselves," he said conversationally.

"I'm sure they will," Louisa answered.

For awhile they sat in silence, only the animal sounds and crackling of the fire around them.

"Why are you here?" the young man asked suddenly.

Louisa shrugged. "Tired of being a drunkard, I suppose."

He eyed her quizzically for a moment.

"Oh, yes, you missed my first impression on your father. I was not at my best." She nodded. "Corporal, I –"

"Gabriel."

"Sir… Gabriel, you seem to me a man that has a deep understanding of this patriotism and a very potent moment in history – a passion for the cause. Why can't a woman have the same feelings?"

He thought for a moment, a smile twitching at his lips. "I can understand that."

"I don't need to be accepted, I just enjoy the company, and the experience."

He nodded. "Miss Headrow, I know my father can be quite… difficult at times."

"I don't blame him," she said. "Not many men at all would trust a woman to fend for herself. It means very much to me that he would care enough about a stranger's wellbeing to try and turn me away."

Gabriel shrugged.

"But thank you for your help in convincing him to let me stay."

"You're welcome."

The militia returned that afternoon, tired and hungry. Louisa had been able to choke down a small bit of food that had been offered to her by the corporal. Her stomach was beginning to become volatile. By night, she had almost finished the whole pile of clothing.

The men sat around the fire, all at some point looking up to eye the woman that sat nearby, struggling with a needle and thread on a patched and worn jacket.

"You'd think her mother would've taught her at some point," one of them said at the way she fought with her needlework.

"Women of ill-repute don't need any other trade," another returned.

"She's not of ill-repute," one of the tavern's men said in return.

"How do you know?"

"Tavern wenches don't dress in men's clothing. They wear dresses and paint up their faces."

"You would know."

Louisa glanced up at them as she worked, not perturbed by their comments, merely observing as if she had nothing to do with the conversation. She hadn't done needle work in nearly two years, and never to the standards of an average woman of the time. It would have been easier, she decided, if her hands hadn't been shaking so badly.

By the time she finished, sweat dripped down from her brow and her stomach had tied itself up into knots. A jittery feeling was building in her and she yearned to ask one of the nearby men for a nip of whisky to dull the budding pain. She draped the jacket over the log next to Martin, nodded at him, and went to lie down on her bedroll. Her face, she could feel, had paled, and the only thing she could do was pray for some kind of relief.

Nearly a fortnight passed in similar fashion while the men became better at their drills and Louisa became worse at holding her food.

It was late in August when Colonel Martin let her have a day free from her duties after he saw how sick she was becoming, allowing her to rest for most of the day. She could hardly get a minute of sleep, tossing fitfully back and forth through the night and day. By nightfall she was able to get up for the smallest bit of food and a sip from her recently refilled flask of water. The men eyed her, illness eliciting more resentment than pity among the majority.

Louisa shook as she sat on the log by the fire, heavy-lidded eyes dark with lack of sleep and skin sallow in sickness. She kept her back straight, however, and fought to keep the dignity that she had left. Suddenly she stood and walked determinately away from the gatherings, making it to a secluded spot behind the horses and some trees before she emptied her stomach. Feeling as if she weren't finished, Louisa sank to the ground and waited. Her inebriated self-appraisal had been spot on; she was a drunk if there ever was one, what she would have effectively called an alcoholic. How she ever let it get to that point was a blur, literally.

Three long years since she had watched television, read a book by a real electric lamp, used an honest-to-God toilet, and for all the things she missed, none had borne a greater pain than losing a static life; a life in which she did not have to play the ambiguous woman, drifting from place to place a nameless, lost fool. The drink had dulled the pain every once in a while, then once or twice a week, and soon every single day. And, unsurprisingly, Louisa found that the ale had never rid her of it, only added to her self-disgust and soon she stopped thinking about it altogether.

It was a wonder she set down the last drink that night in the tavern. How badly she wanted a drink, if only to make the feeling go away. She wanted to curl into a ball and cry – she wanted to scream – she wanted respite from this horrible, edgy nausea and splitting headache. She wanted a drink just to stop it, but she did not want to begin this cycle anew. She had washed herself of this, and she would stay clean of it.

Louisa shuddered with the thought of what she had allowed herself to become and vowed to never have a drink again in her life. She braced herself again as the sickness overcame her, and emptied her stomach once more.

"Are you alright?" An accented voice said from behind her as she finished. She might have snapped 'obviously not' but was finding that things she used to say while drinking were not the things she actually wished to utter. She wanted to yell – yell at anyone, but the sober part of her restrained her speech. The voice had been ambiguous, she noted, neither overtly kind nor harsh, but to snap was to risk a false judgment.

Louisa wiped her mouth on the back of her hand and turned to the man behind her. "Major Villeneuve," she nodded in acknowledgement. "Yes, sir, as good as can be expected."

His eyes moved back to the camp and to her again. He did not turn his head or change his impassive expression as they did and simply continued, "The men are talking."

She looked up at him, waiting for more but when it did not come she nodded. "I suppose they would."

"They are saying that you are with child."

Louisa ran a hand over her face, massaging her throbbing temples as she went. "Let them think what they want."

"I do not think it is proper to speak of a woman – any woman – in this way openly as they do." His expressionless gaze did not give way, even as Louisa's brow rose in surprise at his admission. There was a very subtle sympathy in it, she thought, the fact that he might bother to express his disapproval at all the most influential.

She nodded again. "I am sick; I am very sick," she admitted, not meeting his gaze, the stone-faced stare becoming too much for her at once, and whispered her next, "I drink too much. Too much for too long, and my body is now punishing me for it. I will be fine in a week or two, I am sure."

"It is my hope that you will be." He turned to go but Louisa stopped him.

"Merci beaucoup, Monsieur Villeneuve," she said. "For telling me what they say."

The Frenchman looked back over his shoulder, brow suddenly softened and he nodded, "Avec plaisir, Mademoiselle."

Louisa let her head fall back against the tree she was leaning upon. Sobriety certainly brought more kindness than was given to the drunken fool.

NB: With all the French I have written so far (I have bits and pieces from future chapters) I try to put it in a context where the meaning is discernable, but I will still provide translations for ease/reference.

French Note: Avec plaisir (trans. 'you are welcome' or literally, 'with pleasure')