Pombal

Vickery's company, and the Light Companies of the three Regiments left the Division, heading east to circle round to harry the departing French. Edrington, still with Wellesley and the Staff, watched them go, and looked down at the rest of his battalion, and the men of Sharpe's company, awaiting the signal to move on a frontal assault on the small town.

Once that signal was given, he would join them. For some of his men, and officers, this would be their first taste of battle.

Sgt. Grey watched the infantry march off. It chafed to have to wait for the foot soldiers to reach their positions, but large grey horses were rather noticeable and not good at sneaking through the bushes. They would have to wait for their turn.

He stroked his horses neck. Mare No. 172, newly asigned to him. Known affectionatly as 'Bunny', for her exeptionally large ears and fluffy white tail. Grey resolutely stamped down any feelings in regard to Baldr's death. It did not do to attach yourself too much to your horses. In wartime the losses were just too great. Back in England, there had been a rumor that the KGL Hussars had to kill all their horses when they left Corunna. He shuddered.

A good fight, that's what he needed.

It had been an uneventful march that morning, in that the French had not tried to attack the column. The light company had kept pace, although they had to pick their way through groves of oak, and across stream beds cut deep into the soft rock. Not a green country, but some of its features were similar to those in the North or the Welsh mountains, including a tiring amount of climbing up and down. Once, they had not been able to cross until they had practically returned down to the level of the road, and he wondered how the Rifles were managing, further out still. From glimpses of the column he had seen how the officers had gathered in knots - Wellesley and the staff cantering forward, their colonel talking to the captains, and the captains to the lieutenants and ensigns...

When the drums summoned them back, the Light Company were brought forward, and sent off, back into the hills, with the 62nd and 33rd Light companies, and the 60th. They were deployed in skirmishing order, to harry any French that were leaving the town, while the Division took care of those that remained. Spread out along the hillside, above a rough track that wound its way up into the hills to the east, Williams could see French uniforms, already on their way. The captains consulted.

Willoughby observed with mild curiousity as the first men left for their stations. Bella might have been sensing that it was no play- She was as behaved as the best trained of the horses.

If he looked back he could see the cavalry sitting put on their large animals, whose coats were easily marred by mudd and more obvious to be seen thanks to their colour. The tension was building. For some it would be the very first taste of battle and even for those who had experienced it before, it was still the excitement and fear of death that held them on edge.

It was hard going. There was no path to follow, that was not made by goats. The men had left their packs with the baggage, to help make this easier for them, but still one occasionally stumbled or slipped and swore, though Vickery had threatened dire things if he heard any raised voices.

Cotton was with the Captain, who was making full use of his countryman's ability to read the ground. Vickery pointed out one way, and Cotton frowned before shaking his head.

"Stream's too wide there, sir," he said, though he couldn't have said how he knew that. "You want t'be a bit further over to the left, where the ground ain't so steep. Might not be narrower, but it'll be easier crossed."

He nodded, accepting the Rifleman's judgement without question, hoping that they could manage to get around to the other side of the village without alerting the French to their presence.

It wasn't easy terrain by any means, but Newbury found himself relishing the strain and effort of keeping up with his company in the unfriendly landscape. The work kept him from thinking about yesterday's fiasco and the blowing up for it that he hadn't yet received from Captain Vickery.

They were close to the French picquet lines now. Would they have the chance to get into a proper skirmish, or would the French run off again? Newbury hoped for a fight. He wanted to make up for his oversight.

"We better get in 'mongst 'em," he muttered, already impatient with the pause.

Wellesley waited, watching the Light Companies move into position. Beyond them, in the village of Pombal - a maze of narrow streets and dillapidated houses - he could see the distant signs of movement as the French troops adjusted their positions. There was a low wall running along a field boundary which was where the French had placed the majority of their skirmishers; but his troops would be coming in from two seperate attacks, spreading the already thinned French forces and hopefully leading to a quicker victory.

Once pushed back into the narrows tsreets of the time, the attacks would splinter into smaller groups, each taking their own engagements - and if there was one thing Wellesley knew he could rely on his men to be good at, it was to fight. The majority of the army was created from the sweepings of the British gutters, and so gutter fighting was a speciality.

He waited a few moments more, then turned to his staff.

"Let them go."

Two aides wheeled their horses and cantered off to carry the orders to start the attack.

Having carried the order to the light companies to beging the attack on the Pombal, Hunter rode back slowly, constantly looking back at what he could see of the first manoeuvres. Due to his preoccupation Firebird took a somewhat curcuitous route. Turning back his attention to the world outside of Pombal, Hunter saw Wellesley in the distance looking still and forbidding, and though it was unlikely that the General was even registering his existence right now, Hunter was about to spur Firebird forward but something made him look left. There was a small villa that stood just outside Pombal, probably because the owners wanted a big garden, and George was riding only a few yards to the right of it. And there in the window he saw French, just a few, probably last minute plunderers or even deserters cut off from the rest.

Shooting officers was a standard practice and in the moment of absolute clarity Hunter knew that he presented a perfect target: too close even for muskets to miss, his uniform too unmarred by the fighting. As the French fired on him, he pulled on the reins shouting 'Down, down!' and Firebird fell, jarring them both painfully against the ground. Behind the curtain of the smoke a French voice jeered, thinking him dead. Somewhere behind him the sounds of the fighting filled the air.


[OOC: sorry if it's too early for any shots fired, but my fingers were itching for them. I can always edit if there's a problem]

The aide cantered on to the 27th after passing on the General's orders and Edrington gave the signal to advance, the column moving into line as it approached the low wall. On the flanks the companies moved beyond the line of tirailleurs, to take them from sides and rear. Already there were shots being fired, both by the French and by the Rifles with their longer range.

[If I do or order anything incredibly stupid that will result in the annihilation of the 62nd or even a good part of it, please let me know. I am not Lord Rust, honestly]

And there were shots being fired and they were close enough - finally! - to fire back.

He decided that the loose skirmish chain would be best here, each pair working independent of the others, and blew his whistle for that order. There was no need - yet - for the louder notes of the bugle. Joe Cavender was grinning at him as he ran, clutching his precious bugle, trying to keep up. He was a good lad, Vickery thought, distracted by a musket ball that zipped past him to splatter harmlessly against a rock.

[No; you don't have a moustache.]

Wellesley's head whipped round sharply to the right at the sound of musket fire crackling so close. He saw that a villa had been occupied by the French, and apparently had just shot down one of his ADCs - his heart skipped a beat when he saw that it was Hunter. He had been assured that building had been abandonned. He drummed his fingers against the pommel of his saddle in irritation. He should have gone to make sure himself!

"Sanders," he snapped. "Tell two of the 27th's companies to move in on the villa. I want the French out of there."

Carty waited next to Harris, rifle ready, waiting for a word from Lieutenant Sharpe. He was calm; he had been in close fighting before, and while he was not strong in the least he knew that he was fast - "damn fast", the riflemen said. He reckoned he had a good chance, but he darted a look at the sky and smiled sweetly in case the Blessed Virgin should be kind enough to look out for him.

There was little cover between them and the low wall, and it would be the longer range and better targetting possible with their Baker rifles that would make the difference. Harris looked at young Perkins, and even younger Carty, and smiled as reassuringly as possible. Carty was likely to try to get there first, as if it were a race...

The manoeuver, if succesful, meant that George would have some seconds to get away before the French reloaded, but as they struck the ground, and heard the jeer, he realised that to the onlookers it must have looked as if he has been struck by bullets and went down and that meant that the French might be a little slower reloading. Nevertheless, the horse was meant to lie down slowly as if it was about to sleep and the rider would lie down against its back. It was a manoeuver designed for stealth and not for saving one's skin in a battle. Now, Firebird was lying on its side, her body heavy against George's leg trapped under it. 'Come on. dear, up we go', he urged the horse and she struggled up, with George having to wrap his hands around her neck to be able to remain in the saddle. It seemed to him as if it took hours for them to get back up, but the French did not fire and when he finally looked up at them, he saw surpsise and annoyance there.

Kicking his heels against Firebird's flanks he directed her round the side of the villa and over the low fence around it's backgarden. There he leapt from the saddle and wiping the blood that streamed from the cut on his forehead and was starting to sting his eyes, he drew out his pistols and rushed indoors.

The first two were slow and he shot them as they came down the stairs to 'meet' him. Leaping over their bodies, discarding the pistols and drawing his sabre and a dagger, he ran up to the first floor. There were another two there. George caught a bayonet lunge one of them made onto his sabre and holding their weapons locked, stuck the dagger he had left into the man's gut. The other soldier tried to get George, but he managed to twist away. Kicking the gutted Frenchman off his dagger, George went for the last one. For a few moments they fought, but then the Frenchman, frustrated, thrust at him, and George sidestepping the bayonet cut the man's throat with the sabre. The arterial spray caught him squarely on the face, his own blood mixing with the enemy's.

Calmly Hunter wiped his weapons and gathering up his pistols on the way out, remounted and galloped back to the small knot of staff around the General. The Frenchman's blood was already drying out, creating a bloody mask on his face, but the rivulets of liquid still kept running from the cut on his forehead, down the sides of his nose, onto his mouth and finally stopped at the neckerchief.

[OOC: Gah, I'm so sorry there were only four]

Reserving himself to a few paces forward before they stopped again, he turned to observe the closest source of the shots. Seems like one man was down, as was his horse, though most of the view was briefly obstructed by thick smoke.

Spurring Bella to trot further along the line, so that the view would not be obstructed by rock and stone, he leaned in the saddle, and squinted his eyes to see. Sir Arthur was already shouting and order and the poor French who might have thought themselves triumphant would soon be swamed by the British forces.

He glanced over his shoulder, and briefly noted the outline of the surgeon's wagon and several others further back. No french in the forests surrounding them, just down below where the lone villa stood. And so as he looked he'd missed the action that followed the fall of a rider.

"All right, lads, let's get to that wall and get the bastards out of there!"

There was the whistle. Newbury went forward eagerly, almost forgetting his partner in his haste. "C'mon!" He called back, needlessly.

The French were firing, which was a fine invitation for the Rifles to shoot back. Newbury paused to kneel and fire; it was a shame that it took so damned long to reload, he thought as he pulled a cartridge from his pouch.

[Yes, but there's still a sizeable French garrison in there. Two companies of 27th should clear it; especially if one is the grenadiers.]

Wellesley had been relieved to see Hunter get back up with his horse again; but felt a stab of anger as the boy rode towards the villa gardens - no doubt to indulge in some mindless heroics. Idiotic youth! He very pointedly redirected his gaze to the advance of the skirmishers, knowing that he could do nothing to aide Hunter, and that should he survive the 27th would soon be there to help him.

The goingfor the Light Companies towards the wall was difficult - not much cover for the attacking troops - but here it was that the range and accuracy of the Baker rifles told; the 60th were keeping the Frenchmen's heads down whilst the other two companies hurried forwards.

Cotton knelt, aimed and squeezed the trigger. He thought he saw a man fall before a vagary of the wind blew smoke across his vision. He had another cartridge out and was reloading even before he'd had time to think about it.

A rifleman ran past him to his left and knelt himself, but he paid him no heed.

"Ready!" he called, slamming the ramrod back into the brass pipes under the barrel of his weapon and waiting for his partner to fire.

Harris set off, stopping, firing and reloading. The French were firing back, of course, but were also now under attack from the sides, and their muskets did not have the range... He glanced across at Carty, to make sure that he did not allow his enthusiasm to get the better of him.

Wellesley it seemed was pointedly not looking in his direction when George returned to the group. No doubt he was angry at him for not returning quicker. Unconsciously, George licked off the blood that stained his mouth, and too faced away from the General, running the back of his hand against his face, smearing the fresh blood that welled up on the cut. He watched the fighting, patting Firebird soothingly once in a while.

They were still walking behind the infantry, but the men's impatience transferred itself to their horses and they had to keep tight reins to stay in formation.

Sgt. Grey swore impatiently. That little wall looked perfect for jumping...

Carty flashed a bright, excited, nervous grin at his best friend, paired with Cooper, and then looked up at his own partner, Harris. At Sharpe's word he sprinted like a devil, remembering to drop into a strange genuflexion and cover Harris, shooting a Frenchman aiming in their general direction with his musket.

"Ready!" Newbury snapped, jerking the ramrod back out of the barrel. He worked quickly enough but was sure he could reload faster if he put his mind to it.

Sharpe knelt, fired and watched the Frenchman drop to his knees, clutching at his belly. He reloaded rapidly, watching and waiting to see where the French were weakest.