On the road to Lisbon

Sharpe halted them again, and was slightly surprised when Maturin asked Perkins to help him. He had spurned offers of assistance from Sharpe, and seemed as though he did not want to admit that he was hurt and needed any aid.

His instincts were on high alert. Something was wrong. He could not see anything, nor could he hear anything, but getting away had been too easy, even considering they had two wounded men in their party. He checked the priming of his rifle and moved back to have a quiet word with Harper.

Perkins helped Stephen from his horse and sat him down a few yards from the group, the doctor stretching out his leg and gently massaging the muscles around the wound, his cloak wrapped around him, for a chill had come with the darkness, and began to move away. Stephen stopped him by touching his forearm. "Rifleman Perkins, it was been brought to my attention what happened to you in the priest's house as a result of my companion's confusion. I wanted to assure you that had I known what was happening, I would have put a stop to it immediately, and I am sorry that such a thing should have happened to you."

Perkins nodded and gave him a ghost of a smile. "It's all right, sir. I'm all right now."

Stephen smiled kindly back at him. "I am glad to hear it, Perkins. Now," he said, with a final stretch, "I ought to go and check on Captain Padstowe's shoulder. Are the shoes suiting you well? They are not too thin?"

There was a sound - was there? Now many sounds of something in the woods, moving directly towards them, plunging loud through branches with no regard for stealth. And drawing nearer, the identifiable sounds of panting, choking, wild gasps and sobs.

Stephen reacted instantly; he ripped the cloak from about his neck and stuffed it out of sight under a bush. As did Perkins, and some the Chosen Men, aiming their rifles to where the noise was coming from - he was even more impressed by the fact that some of them looked away from the emanating noise into the woods all around them. He hesitated with the papers, and thus did not have time to hide them as well before a man came stumbling into the clearing.

Eyes closed against the stinging branches that he thrashed away from his face, the man did not see them until he was in their midst. A startled cry at the sight of their rifles, anguish and collapse, weeping.

Clip, clop, jingle.

[Good night - my horses will become nightmares if I keep them up much longer]

A cry, wafting on the night air. Calderón was awake as though he hadn't been asleep at all. Something was wrong. His two companions were stirring, more sluggishly than he, and were left behind without a second thought. His bare feet carried him over the ground as swiftly as they could, his sense of urgency trumping all else. Something was wrong and he had a sickening notion as to what it was.

There was more noise, not unlike the sounds of unease. And closer. He had the direction now and slowed to a creeping walk, nearly toppling over with the speed of the shift in pace. It would take him far longer to get to whatever the disturbance was but he preferred not to be discovered if he could prevent it. His height was a boon to him now. It was easier to avoid presenting a silhouette even in the dark when one was short and small. Of course, he could not tell how much distance lay between him and the source of all the noise. All he could do was inch along and listen to everything around him.


OOC - Calderón will be lurking in the bushes or what-not for awhile. He's a bit removed from things yet.

Good night!

Sharpe wished his group was bigger; how Hogan expected six of them to protect Padstowe and Maturin, he didn't know. Yes, Padstowe could generally look after himself, but he didn't usually have a bullet-hole in his shoulder. or at least Sharpe hoped he didn't.

His instinct still pricked at him, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. As the man came crashing through the trees, he raised his rifle along with his men, yet kept a watchful eye on the trees surrounding them.

He was pleased to see some of the others do the same. If they got out of this, he would have to think of some way of showing his thanks and appreciation of them. If they got out of this...

Harper, who had maintained his watch on the rear of the group, kept his focus there; rifle unslung and ready for action, he scanned the area they had just travelled through, but could see no movement. Turning his attention back to the stranger making his way towards them, Harper glanced across to see what Sharpe, or their new companions, would do.

Sharpe trusted Harris and Cooper to be able to deal with the new arrival and went to stand beside Harper.

"Keep a good lookout, Pat. I don't like the looks of this, and I'm sure he ain't the only one following us."

But whether there were only one or two more civilians, or the whole French army, or something in between, Sharpe had no idea. And he didn't like it. "The sooner we get back to Lisbon, the better."

"Aye Sir, can't argue with you there. It's almost too quiet."

Harper glanced at their mounted companions, deliberating for a few seconds before voicing his concerns. "How are they holidng up?" He nodded at Padstowe and the Doctor.

They were holding up. The frantic stranger was not. Unable to hold even himself up, he was sobbing on ground in apparent exhaustion. Seeming to realize that he was not, in fact, about to be shot, he looked up and spoke in ragged gasps. "Help me. Help me. Please!"

Corbeille, who had slipped off to follow the civilian St-Laurent, returned. "I think he's got their attention, Sir. He's gone into a heap on the floor, sobbing and calling out like he was on the stage. A right cissy, I'd say. But the English can't just leave him there. Even their lookouts are going to be distracted, not knowing what the problem is."

"Right. As quietly as possible. Corporal, you go left-about, as agreed. And - unless anyone sounds the alarm - surround the clearing on my signal. As quickly as you can manage it. And at that point, make as much noise as you like."

"Wait!" Padstowe nudged his horse closer, his hand going back to rest on the hilt of his pistol. A civilian in fine closthes, miles from anywhere... and by his accent not a native civilian. He did not like this at all.

"Hagman, Cooper; keep a sharp lookout." Then he turned his attention to the man. "Parlez-vous français, monsieur?"

Now keeping a careful eye, and his rifle, on the stranger, Harper watched him carefully. Padstowe didn't seem entirely sure of him - maybe there was something to be concerned about.

Sharpe turned towards the sound as the newcomer collapsed, sobbing.

He wished he could put a name to the feeling he had in his gut, but he knew that by the time he could do that, it would be too late. It always was.

He hoped that he was over-reacting and jumpy for no reason. And how he wished he'd been able to bring all his men with him, instead of the half-dozen he had, including himself.

He was going to have words with Major Hogan when - if! - they got back to Lisbon.

He checked his rifle and made sure that he could draw his sword, thankful he'd had it sharpened before they'd left.

St-Laurent raised his head to the major. "Français? Yes, sir." His chest still heaving and his heart truly rushing, he still presented himself as a man scarcely able to speak. "Please. Please, for God's mercy."

[OOC: Captain, not major. Yet.]

French. It was true that most of the civilised population of Europe spoke French; but there had been a far too fortunate lack of pursuit so far, and now this gentleman turning up out of nowhere...

"Damn Froggie," he murmured under his breath, though loud enough for most to hear, before speaking to the man in French. "State your business, monsieur?"

Breathing from horses and men, the sound of saddles and bridles, the crack of branches and the mad flight of birds disturbed from their roost in the trees. But the wood was full of noises, even without them. The scream of a vixen, a barking croak from frogs somewhere damp, a low undisturbed chirring from some bird.

But every inch of Raoul's skin was aware of the imminent danger. They could surely not get much closer before someone noticed them. A horse behind him broke wind, and snorted as its rider responded.

There. Shapes in the darkness. A horse - not one of theirs - snorted. They were being followed, and their pursuit had caught them up.

Right, time for action. This was not the place to panic, or allow others to panic. He stepped back to Padstowe and grasped his healthy arm.

"We're being followed. At least one man on horseback, possibly more. I don't know how many in total, but we're likely outnumbered." Which wouldn't be too difficult; there were only eight British altogether.

There was a shot, somewhere to his left - Corporal Barth's group. The wood made the sound echo strangely, but it was not, he thought a musket or pistol. Riflemen, Ickx had said. Well, longer range they might have, but that would be of small advantage here in the woods. All three groups would take that as the signal, and the men around him were already moving faster, getting into position. Thierry followed instructions, seizing the reins of Ickx's horse, keeping him back. Not a good idea to have a stray civilian get into the line of fire. Although ...

They did not quite break into the clearing as one. This was a totally unrehearsed exercise, and Raoul thought they performed it creditably. The amount of crashing as each horse appeared through the bushes that had taken advantage of the light in the clearing was impressive, and its threat somehow increased by the randomness of each appearance. An interesting stage effect. The muskets, all levelled down at the group in the clearing, made their point.

"Stand still!" he cried out [in English, of course]. "Drop your weapons! STAY STILL, or we fire!"

Stephen saw Sharpe move to Padstowe to mutter something. He too had heard the horse, and he pushed himself up with a hiss. He stopped, and became completely still, unnaturally poised, as one, and then another horse, and then more randomly appeared from all sides. Perkins went to raise his rifle, and Stephen grabbed his arm; there were already ten horsemen surrounding them, looking down their muskets at the group.

Harper chose a group of the horsemen who were standing relatively close together, and kept his sights on them, the rifle pointing at the one closest. He couldn't deny that he was surprised by the turn of events, but had faith that they would get out of it. Somehow. If not...well he wasn't going down without a fight.

Hussars. Blast. Padstowe looked to Sharpe and shook his head steadily. Ten horsemen, but he suspected that there were more not yet arrived at the clearing; already they were hopelesly outnumbered. He smiled tothe horseman who had spoke - an officer it would seem - and gestured to the civilian on the ground.

"Good evening, monsieur," he said politely. "Is this yours?"

"Not, you might say, a personal possession, but yes. He is with me. And if the large sergeant does not immediately drop his rifle, he will find out that size makes an easier target. Dumoulins, en trois, le grand sergeant..."