6 June, morning - Bump on the head

"Corporal!" Roussau might not have needed to say it, but at first he thought their officer had been shot dead and orders needed to come in quick succession or else they would have posed themselves as greater targets that they already were.

He began to load his musket, tearing off at the cartridge. There was no order needed to tell him that they had to have their muskets ready as soon as possible. French pattern, the weapon had a different size of balls to the English, not that this mattered the least in getting rid of the Portuguese.

"Leave him," St Laurent snapped at Seviere, letting Davout's body slide to the ground as chaos erupted around them. He brought his musket up and fired into a patch of scrub over which hung a small cloud of smoke. If he hit anything more than folliage, he had no idea. The Portuguese seemed to be simultaneously everywhere and no where. His men were fighting muzzle flashes and smoke, movements in the reeds.

"Keep moving!" the corporal bellowed, "Keep with the 17th." God help them if they were cut off from the larger body of men.

A figure sprang from the brush in front of him and St Laurent had time only to recognize that he was about to die when the man went rigid, the blood tipped point of a bayonet emerging from the his chest. The corporal had to sidestep as the body was shoved forward off of the blade and Navarre, drenched and bloody, but very much alive, thrust his way out of the reeds behind it. He said nothing, merely fell in beside St Laurent.

Another ragged volley. St Laurent saw Balincourt go down, but Laramie had him on his feet a moment later, half carrying, half dragging the younger soldier along.

"Leave him!" Seviere heard the barked command and he immediately let go. It was sad they've have to leave their comrade behind but there was no choice now. At least the damned Ports could not torture Davout later.

More shots rang out, Francois winced as a long reed right next to him was literally sawed in half by a lead ball snapping thru the air, luckily it hadn't plowed into him. He needed a weapon. He was helpless in this mess.

Another youngster, Balincourt, went down but fortunately was half helped to his feet so at least he was not killed. As Laramie pushed Balincourt forward, Francois lunged for the musket, saving it from falling into the swampy water. Balincourt looked in no condition to use it so Francois determined for now the weapon would be employed by him then. He still couldn't reload it after it fired, Balincourt had the ammunition pouch but the musket had a bayonet on it. If nothing else he could stab any Portuguese who came close enough. In the meantime he kept up with the rest, determined not to be left behind to certain death or worse.

Bastien carefully worked his way to the nearest Portuguese, hiding in the reed. His face was split in a mad grin, and he didn't seem to be bothered in the least that any second a bullet might end his life. The Portuguese, shooting with an old fowling-piece, had his back half turned to the French officer. The young man slowly breathed in, his muscles coiling up, ready to strike. His sword was muddy, a good way to prevent it from reflecting light, and he kept it steady in his hand.

The Portuguese was taking aim; Bastien took another breath, then in one elegant motion flung himself forward, the point of his sword aimed at the vulnerable spot between neck and shoulder. If his victim turned around too soon and managed to fire, then Bastien would probably be dead. The nick in his upper arm, just enough to stain his uniform, showed that he was not bullet-proof. But if he got in close enough ...

It was worse than the battlefield; worse even than the street fighting in Evora. St Laurent dragged in a lungful of the heavy, fetid air, fighting to stave off panic. Just keep moving and keep together. If they could do that, then--he had no sodding idea.

Dropping back a pace, the corporal turned, flinching as a stray ball tore at his cheek, but no one had fallen behind that he could tell. There were more shots coming from behind them now. From behind and on their flanks, fewer and fewer from their front. Beneath their feet the ground was growing firmer with fewer patches of brush and reeds to slow their progress. They were nearly there.

Francois sloshed along with the rest of the heavily breathing soldiers as they struggled to find a way out of this swamp. This had been a horrible idea, he couldn't help but think. No time for complaining or recriminations though, they just needed to escape from this ambush first. Then maybe head back for the French lines and safety.

He had volunteered for this so he could get a crack at the damned Portuguese but now he just wanted to live!

At the hill's shallow crest, they turned at bay, forming a square around the wounded, making the best use they could of the natural cover. There was some sporadic fire from the Portuguese, but it was largely ineffectual at first. Ranging shots, thought St Laurent grimly, taking stock of his men.

All were accounted for, though young Yves Balincourt was in no condition to fight. His face was white as chalk and he looked on the verge or tears, clutching protectively at the bloody fabric around his knee as the corporal knelt beside him. The younger soldier began to speak in an agitated stammer and St Laurent realized, to his shame, that the boy was trying to apologize.

He cut him off roughly, "Don't be daft. You hit anywhere else?" Balincourt shook his head. That was something, at least. "A'right. Pass me your cartridge box."

Giving Balincourt's shoulder a swift squeeze, he rose and returned to his place in the ranks. "Seviere," he called, tossing the cartridge box at him, "You still got that bayonet I gave you?"

They were at least out of that damned swamp, Francois was thankful for that much. But the Portuguese still lurked about and kept firing the occasional shot into the French. And where the devil was their officer? Had he been killed or had he snuck off again?

St.Laurent was up next to them suddenly.

"Seviere," he called, tossing the cartridge box at him, "You still got that bayonet I gave you?"

Francois caught it and now at last he could actually fight back!

"Merci!" he'd load the musket as fast as he could now, "Oui! I have it!"

And fix bayonet too. While it was hard to imagine running that thing into an actual human being, if it was him or the other fellow, let the other fellow die.

Rousseau saw or better heard a cry when the officer - Bastien - attacked one of the Portuguese. He began sloshing in that direction rather, pulling his friend along. If the officer needed help, they were damned well going to offer it. His musket was loaded and held clean of the marshy, muddy floors. His companion to the right of him, had been equally successful.

In his other hand he carried the standard infantry sword. It was not as popular in use, because there was already a bayonet to use on a musket, but at this time, it could possibly come into use as well. But everybody had been supposed to have one. A cumbersome, though good weapon when wanting to roast meat on too.

They saw the rest of the soldiers head for higher ground. All good then. They could possibly offer cover if things went ahead and were worse. He fired in the direction he had heard words in Portuguese. "Lieutenant! We (in this case it was the rest of the soldiers now standing in a square) are nearly out of the swamp. We'll cover you."

Bastien nodded crisply, cleaning his sword in the dead man's clothes.

"Good. Take his musket and anything else of use. If you want to join the fray down here, stay a few feet back and be ready to shoot should I miss. If not, you better head back to the rest."

He pulled some spare bullets and a powder horn from the corpse, handed them to Rousseau, then found what he was looking for and pulled a long, thin knife free. Sheathing his sword, he weighted the knife for a second to get a feeling for it, then oriented himself towards the next Portuguese.

"Alright, let's see whether we can't bring a few more down with their own tactics."

He'd fired a musket just a couple times back in France during the perfunctory training the army had given the conscripts heading for Spain. So he knew the mechanics of loading then shooting but this was the first time he'd be using the weapon in anger, against an actual foe out to kill him and his comrades.

Unlike wooden target boards, the Portuguese were not stationary or in rows or even easy to spot as they flitted about all around the beleaguered French. Twice Francois brought the musket up to his shoulder to aim only to have his planned target vanish. Finally he was not as patient and when another shadow appeared off to the far left, he pulled the trigger. The musket kicked up a cloud of smoke which obscured whether he had even hit anything. Somehow he doubted it. Still, it was good to actually be able to fight back.

Now if only someone would lead them out of here......

He began to reload as fast as he could.

Jesus, not again. Not two more. St Laurent scanned the swamp at the base of the rise frantically--Rousseau and Morel had been just behind them--but there was no sign of the two men.

"All ranks, kneel," he shouted, "Don't make yourself any more of a target than you have to." The corporal remained on his feet; the slight elevation of their position allowed a better view of the surrounding swamp, but he could not see it from his knees. What he saw, however, gave him little hope: there was no clear way out, but one direction was the lesser of several evils and that, God help them, was the way they must go.

Movement in the reeds some distance to their left caught his eye. A massive swamp hole discouraged similar enterprises on their right flank, but it was only a matter of time until the Portuguese had them outflanked, if not surrounded. They had to move now.

The corporal's whole body jerked as something slammed into his arm, thrusting him off balance. He stumbled, but a hand on his shoulder kept him from going down. Keeping a firm hold of his musket with his left hand, he looked down at his arm in surprise. A purple stain was already blooming around a tear in the fabric of his coat.

He swore once, vehemently and then dropped to his knees. His heart was hammering violently, but the panicked desperation of a moment ago had gone.

"You," he demanded, singling out one of the 17th's men; he was somewhat older than the others and had struck St Laurent as the unofficial leader of the small group. "What's your name?"

"Brunet."

"Right. Brunet. You see that snapped tree to our west? When I give the order, you take these two ranks of men--make sure they have have their muskets loaded--and make for that point. We'll cover you from here, then fall back to your position while you cover us. Laramie? You and Balincourt are with them."

Half rising from his crouch, he searched again for any sign of the two men who had disappeared. It seemed unlikely that, being killed or wounded, there should be no sign of them when they were in plain sight a short while before. But what else could he think? He would give them a few moments, but no longer. He could not afford to wait for the dead.

"Sir." Rousseau nodded and backed a pace. His musket was ready. Morel picked the second musket, the older make, luckily still loaded and not soaked in the marshy waters. It would fire atleast once.

His slung the old one over his shoulder and held his own at the ready. "Sir, are we then going to proceed back to our men?"Morel asked, while Rousseau scanned their nearest surroundings for the Portuguese. Some had gone after the bigger force, perhaps thinking that that was all of the French left. There was no way that either of them would have left the officer to remain there alone. The danger was too great, the possibility that he was either killed or taken prisoner great. He was an officer and that was reason enough to stand at his side.

The appearance of a Portuguese man startled him, for the bastard was all too close for comfort and had flung himself towards Morel. Rousseau's musket had gone off, engulfing them all in smoke. Morel stumbled backwards against the weight of his attacker. Then there was a splash, and the body of the Portuguese man rolled into the filth and lush, still twitching and wheezing.

Brunet bristled. How did this man dare to simply decide to go against the lieutenant's orders? Admittedly, they were even more crazy than usual, but that was not for some corporal of the 86th to decide. What did they know about fighting in a swamp anyway? They were just line soldiers.

"The lieutenant has ordered us to stay on that hill!", he reminded the man through clenched teeth, his eyes searching the swamp for any sign of the Portuguese.

"The lieutenant is dead," St Laurent retorted. "We need to look to the living."

"You ...", Brunet barked, then recollected himself and lowered his voice.

"You don't know that. He'll be out there, finding us a way out, or killing Portuguese, or finding the two you are missing, but he's not dead."

Brunet's voice was defiant, the voice of a man who knew that he migh be wrong, but would never admit it to his opposite.

"Good man!"

Bastien nodded approvingly as he pulled Morel to his feet again.

"Yes, we'll go back, but first I hope to find one of those Portuguese who will be answering a few questions for us."

He tilted his head in the direction from where the next shot was heard.

"I think this might be a suitable candidate."

Catlike, he crouched down and vanished in the reeds again.

"We're dead if we don't get off this goddamn rise!" the corporal fired back angrily, "An' I ain't goin' to let that happen. Now make sure your men are loaded and prepare to fall back."

Rousseau and Morel had each loaded their weapons and started after the commanding officer. Morel was grinning. They were all in danger of dying, but if they didn't, there could talk of it to the others, perhaps even boast a little.

"Try to keep him in sight." Rousseau muttered. Morel nodded. The first man might have been quicker on his feet, but two pairs of eyes were always better than one, looking out for danger and the officer.

They ducked through the reeds. Some of the Portuguese were just about now realising that the French were not all gathered in one little spot. It was not just the dead French in the reeds.

With three men, taking down the next Portuguese, still busy reloading his cumbersome weapon, was nearly obscenely easy. He turned as one of the soldiers made a noise, Bastien leaped at him from behind, and the thin sharp blade found its mark.

"Alright!" Bastien grinned wildly at the two soldiers.

"One more before we reach the rising, and that one I would like to take alive. Got to be careful now. They are catching on ... D'you know how to take out a man silently without killing him?"

Still with the main cluster of soldiers, Francois reloaded and fired a few more times, what with the lack of accuracy on a typical musket and the hard to spot Portuguese lurking about, popping up and shooting then disappearing, he doubted he hit anyone.

But by continuing to fire, they made the Portuguese be more careful about lining up their own shots.

As for their officer, he either was dead or had abandoned them. Francois was for getting out of there as soon as they could.

The corporal was outranking him, so Brunet relayed the order to load and be ready. That part they would need to do either way.

"The lieutenant and the others could still be out there! And we aren't in more danger here!", he tried to reason with the other man again.

"Those are just Portos! It's not like there is a British division out there!"

They might still be out there? Damnit, did the man think he didn't know that? thought St Laurent, struggling to load his own musket. He didn't have time to argue. He didn't even know what to say. And why the flaming hell wouldn't his arm work properly? "Just be ready to fall back when I give the order."

The others were loading and firing as fast as they could. Laramie had Balincourt on his feet. All that remained was for him to give the word. If he was making the wrong choice... That didn't bear thinking about. He swallowed, hoping to God he didn't look as scared as he felt, and gave one final glance towards the base of the hill, but there was still no sign of Morel or Rousseau. He turned back to Brunet, "Go."

"Knock 'im on the head, just hard enough, sir?" Morel grinned. "Could threaten to cut his throat and cover his mouth for a good measure, sir. Might work too." Rousseau suggested, thinking that clubbing a man might make him unconscious, but with the excited trio, it might as well end up with clubbing him to death instead.

"What if they leave before us?" Morel whispered, his eyes averted to the marsh grass ahead of them. It was not as easy to take a prisoner as it was to kill a man.. especially if they were Portuguese.

He would not live long in camp anyway, probably. But, they'd do it, if the officer wished it. "Allow us to deal with that, sir. "We'll have your bunny live and kicking..." There was a pause. "Well, alive anyway."

There was some danger to be getting injured by friendly fire. Hopefully though luck was on their side.

"Good." Bastien nodded, then pointed with his chin in the direction of their intended victim.

"I'll play bait, you take him down. The moment you have him, carry him towards the others. Don't mind me, I'll follow."

Then he set off again, cautiously circling in a wide arc to approach the man from the other side. One time he had to stop suddenly and keep silent, as another Portuguese passed nearby, and shortly before he had reached his target a French bullet passed uncomfortably close overhead. But when he thought that Morel and Rousseau were in position - it was hard to say for sure in this terrain, but there was a blue spot between the reeds now that looked like a bit of cloth - he went a step forward and stood up a bit without hestitation, clearing his throat; the Portuguese twisted around in surprise, his fowling piece swinging in to point straight at the offficer.

(Allhands aboard to safe him? )