Pombal

"Do you."

That meant he was an irregular. Calderón's eyes narrowed. He knew of no irregular who had sided so openly with the British. Did the boy have a wish for death?

Wait. He remembered seeing a boy amongst the other irregulars, on the road back to Lisbon. And this boy professed to know how the irregulars treated their enemies. The scout gripped his musket tightly. What were the odds...

"You were with them," Calderón hissed. There could be no mistaking his meaning.

Hunter recognised the man gripping the musket as the informer and the hostility between him and Fernao was proof that the man was an irregular. It seemed that the boy was after all not paranoid. He had to be in time, he would not be able to stand the thought of the boy dying. He shouted to the Firebird in Russian, urging her on.

Fernao stared at the musket with a sick fascination. He could not believe the man, even an irregular, would shoot one of his own, whatever fears he had before.
'So you know them, do you?', Fernao snarled again. 'Do you also like torturing your victims? You must, you are prepared to shoot one of your own. What, the French are not enough to satisfy your sickness?' Fernao felt like he was on fire, the dagger now glinting in his hand.

So he was right. The boy had been there. He'd been with the men who'd torn the wounded Frenchmen apart. Calderón curled his lip in disgust and slapped his musket up to shoulder arms. He wouldn't shoot the boy, it wasn't worth the powder and ball. Not even the dagger the boy had drawn was provocation enough.

"You would know that better than I," the scout snarled. "You were there, I was not."

Fernao stiffened.
'What, they did not let you play? I swear to God, I would have traded my place to you, had I known you wanted it! I am sure you would have been great friends with those bastards! The French might be an enemy but to treat them like you and your friends do, makes you just as bad if not worse!'
Firebird's hoofs were thundering close now.

"To have wanted that would be to have wanted complete dishonour," Calderón snapped. "I was not there and I have no wish otherwise, knowing what transpired. My business did not concern the pursuit of escaped French hussars."

Clearly the boy did not remember the Englishmen they had been escorting. Perhaps it didn't matter. The scout shook his head.

"You would do well to not let the others see you," he spat as he turned away. There was still fighting to be done and wasting words on that boy would not see any good result.

Hunter thundered up to him, as Fernao stared after the man wide-eyed. he did not draw his weapon seeing that the boy was no longer in any immediate danger, but the boy looked shaken. A cold anger seized him. He got off the Firebird, a little slower than usual, remembering the kitten hidden against his chest and walked up to the man.
'Can I have a word with you, senhor?'

The red-coat officer was following him now. Calderón rolled his eyes.

"No." His answer was short and firm. He had spoken his piece to the boy and this officer had no place interfering. Not unless he wished to know far more than he should.

Hunter smiled.
'Of course you don't, but I'll say one thing and then we'll leave. I do not know, whether you are one of those who the boy escaped from. If you are, then leave the boy be: he does not agree with the methods you use. I too do not agree with them, but if the boy comes to any harm, I shall make an exception', Hunter's vocie was low and calm, for the anger burning in him was not that of someone exasperated with their commanding officer, it was the anger of a man, who in battle killed in cold blood and not in the roaring frenzy of a berserk.

How quaint. 'The methods you use.' Calderón snorted.

"Do you mean those who he was with, when they tore apart wounded men and burnt them alive?" The scout shook his head sharply. "You would do well to keep out of matters you do not understand."

He turned away. It didn't matter, he realised, that the boy and now this red-coat believed him to be no better than those butchers. He couldn't speak of the truth without severe consequences, even if he might've wished to. Instead, Calderón contented himself with walking away.

'I do not understand them and neither I do wish to. My concern is the boy', said Hunter calmly. It seemed after all that this was a false alarm. The kitten chose that moment to pop it's head out of the jacket, meow and sniff at his muddied clothes, sneezing in the process. Hunter groaned and muttering: 'I hate this day', mounted.

Fernao followed him obediently, even as George berated him for skulking about. Then as they approached the staff, he squeezed the boy's arm.
'And now go, find some milk for the cat'.

He let Fernao go, then looked down on the tiny head sticking out from his jacket and curiously studying the world.
'Why do I get the feeling that you will prove to be a menace?', he rubbed the cat behind it's ear, making it purr. The sound soothed George worries and even Henry's death did not pray on his mind quite as much. He glanced up to see Sanders just about bursting with curiosity and Brandon smiling gently at the kitten. Suddenly, he realised that he did not even think of not keeping the animal. 'I think I'll call you Wolf, all that's left is finding the princess', said George remembering the old fairytale. He continued petting the cat, his mind settling fully on the task, a gentle smile tugging at his lips.

Many of the French had wandered the streets of Pombal fleeing from the irregulars and the British, while others have been found throwing their weapons down and giving themselves up willingly. javert must have been able to escape or either he was not yet found amongst the body count. At one point the men might discover the sailors that had been kept under watch, imprisoned by the French till they would be taken onwards. If they were found, perhaps the French would've fled already or if not they would fight against the attackers or give themselves up to them swiftly? It all really depended on how they have treated their prisoners and how eager the latter were also at escaping.

None of this was the knowledge of the Hussar, as he rode through the bloodied, abandoned streets. Up ahead, left and right he still could hear shouts and muskets fired. Sometimes there was even a less familiar sound of a rifle scoring a point, and a less frequent scream of a man in agony of injury.

Beside one of the houses he saw a small figure who was bending over a larger body. At first, in the gloom and the smoke that lingered about, he had thought it was a child weeping for her parent. The child kept on lifting and lowering her hands in abrupt motions over and over again. There was a glimmer of light at one of such drops and he began to recognise the details of a French uniform. Or what there was left of it. The little girl, covered in blood that had dried and made her curls cling to her face and her dress heavy and filthy and cold, did not look at the rider that passed her. Instead she continued. Up, and down. And in her hands she carried a short blade, perhaps such that was found on muskets when it was secured to one.

The Frenchman was long dead, and must have died a long while before, not recieving that first injury at the hands of this girl. It was a gruesome sight no less. Perhaps one of they few villagers that remained, a family that knew better or thought they did? A stray child left behind or brought in by the enemy, all questions that would remain unanswered.

She at last lifted her gaze and looked at the horse and its rider. Her eyes were empty, her face set firm in one expression only, and it wasn't the joy of a child, nor tears of one. She suddenly dropped her weapon, hate seen on her face, not recognising the uniform of the man for friend, nor knowing if it were foe. She squealed like an animal ready to flee, and then turned and ran as fast as her feet could take her. Before the Hussar was able to move, the child was gone.

He didn't go to persue, but rather he turned another corner, the French blade in hand. He saw glimpses of red coats left and right, entering houses and leaving them. Some brought out with them the French which had been hiding in hopes that the British would not discover them, others.. well others did other.

Willoughby lost sight of lord Edrington but guessed the battle was near over any ways. There were more and more French giving themselves up, and less and less of those still able or willing to fight.

"Hopefully it would have been," the General said in reply to Hunter, before lapsing into silence again and watching the town. The soldiers were funnelling into the village, their redcoats moving like so many ants within the maze of low stone walls. The French had all but fled, and many were just being let go by the British; no doubt aware that the French had not had much fight within them to start with.

Beyond the village the cavalry, blown from their repeated charges, were scattered in small clumps and lone figures - some still in a private pursuit of one Frenchman, or picking through bodies. Wellesley frowned in disapproval.

"Bullen," he snapped. "Get down there and tell the Greys to reform and secure any prisoners, then bring them back to the village."

Bullen departed at a gallop, then the general realised that Hunter had wandered off again. Turning to look for him, he saw that he was talking to Calderon and his servant. Calderon seemed unhappy, voices were raised and the man left, clearly dissatisfied, casting a dirty look at the boy. Whatever had he done?

Hunter then came riding back, and as he drew nearer it was clear that he had... a kitten sitting in his coat breast. Brandon smiled as the young man petted it, and Wellesley just shook his head. What a day!

It was easier to find milk then he expected: a young Portuguese woman, folowing the army, fetched him a small jug. He found Hunter near the General again. Acting as if no other officers were present he rode up to George, waving the jug triumphantly. Then a thought struck him.
'Erm, how are we going to feed him?'.
Hunter took the jug, then asked him to show his hands.
'Do you have any water?'
'Yes, in my canteen'.
'Then wash your hands'.

Grumbling a little, Fernao complied, then Hunter told him to cup his palm and slowly poured a little milk into it. Plucking the kitten out of the coat breast he straightened put his hand and sat the animal on it, bringing him to the cupped palm. It didn't not take long for the cat to start lapping at the milk. He finished two palmfulls, and George put him back into the coat breast where the beast lay purring loudly and contentedly.
Fernao grinned.
'What am I to do with the rest?' he asked, meaning the milk.
'Don't you want any?'
'No, it's for kids!'
Hunter snorted then snatched the jug away from him and in a few gulps emptied it. The white drops of liquid on his mouth slowly turned pink where they touched the dried blood. Licking them off Hunter handed the jug back to Fernao.
'Now, go away. I'll take care of Wolf'.
'Who?!'
'Oh, I am going to call him Wolf', grinned George.
'No, you are not!'.
Hunter swatted at him, then chuckling said: 'I am, and I'll tell you why later, it's from a fairytale'. Fernao noticing rather disapproving glances from some of the officers decided to leave, but not before he growled 'You're mad' at Hunter'.

The fighting seemed to be over. By now, the 2nd squad was herding any french leaving the village to the growing mass of prisoners, while the 1st squad guarded the prisoners and searched them for weapons.
Captain Poole was sure he was loosing his mind. A number of french officers were talking at him, but... they didn't seem to speak english and he didn't speak french.

Where were the infantrymen when you needed them? Sorting out prisoners was definitely the infantrys job. Poole looked around desperately.

Major Bullen slowed to a trot the last few yards, then reigned in next to Captain Poole.

"General Wellesley's compliments, and he requests that the colonel that he reform the troops and escort your prisoners back to the village as quickly as possible."

[What is the Greys colonel's name, anyway?]

Captain Poole was relieved. "Yes, sir. Only, I am not quite sure all these officers have given their parole. We seem to have a language problem."


(ooc or do we give parole? I am not sure of the grammar in this case)

Bullen looked around at the gaggle of stray officers and infantry, all staring up at him, hoping that he would provide some clarity on the matter.

"We'll sort parole out when we've got them all to the village," he said, deciding that now was not the time to be picky. "Take their swords at least."

He then raised his voice, speaking in French.

"Messieurs, your attention if you will! I am Major Bullen of General Sir Arthur Wellesley's staff! You are to surrender your swords to this officer -" Here he indicated Poole. "- and then you will be escorted back to the village. Once there, those who give their parole shall have their swords returned and their terms will be drawn up!"

Firebird soon began to grow restless from standing so still. George let her walk about a bit, keeping close to the staff group. They ended up at the back of the group. Fernao found them there. He was still bearing the jug.
'I thought you went to return it', said Hunter.
'Well, I decided it can a little. I brought you water. You have got to wash your face'.
Hunter nodded gratefully. Dismounting, he gently took the kitten out of the jacket wanting to give him to Fernao, but the boy practically shied away. Instead George, shrugged out of his jacket, placed it on the ground and settled the animal on it. Unbuttoning his waistcoat, he told Fernao to dismount. Bending he held out his hands, now free of bandages, palms up.
'Pour, then'. He proceeded to wash. Thankfully his uniform jacket protected his body from the mud, so he was only obliged to wash his face, neck and hands. Having finished his ablutions, he wiped his face with a hankerchief and dressed again, deciding to keep his dirty jacket on, since his breeches were muddy anyway. Fernao sniffed. 'Well, you look a little better'.
George remounted and continued walking Firebird.

Colonel Brandon intercepted him on one of the turns.
'How did you come by him, Hunter?, he asked indicating a tiny grey tail sticking out of Hunter's jacket.
'I didn't, sir, the boy did, but Wolf seems intent on treating him as prey'.
'Wolf?'
'Yes, sir, a fairytale prompted the name'.
'A fairytale? Are you not a little old for them, Hunter?', chuckled Brandon.
'Perhaps, sir, but my horse is called after the same fairytale, it seemed fitting'.
'Well, perhaps, you'll tell me about it in greater detail, when we have time', said Brandon and returned back to his place beside the General.

[OOC: I hope it's ok to have used Brandon.]

Things were going well below, it seemed. The fighting had all but stopped, and Bullen had prompted the cavalry into some sort of order - now regrouping, disarming and shepherding their prisoners back towards the village. Not that there were many prisoners. Half of the French regiment had already been leaving Pombal, and of the remaining half what the British had not cut down had been allowed to escape.

Hercules tossed his head impatiently, stamping a hoof irritably. He wanted to go and find that mare again, only his rider wouldn't let him, and he stamped again, having had enough of standing still.

Wellesley caught the stallion's mood, and patted his neck, hopefully calmly.

"Well, gentlemen," he said at last. "Victory seems to be ours. Shall we descend and mingle with the triumphant hoards?"

He gave a half-smile at his own words, said with a somewhat ironic tone, and urged Hercules into a trot, making his way sedately down the slope.

George let Firebird follow the group that started on its way into Pombal. He glanced down and tucked the kitten's tail into the jacket, but Wolf had other thoughts: he clambered up George's shirt to his first place of residence at the back of George's neck and under his hair. As they reached the settlement, George looked impassively at the remnants of the battle: the blood, the corpses, the wounded and the prisoners. Firebird stepped gingerly over a body and snorted distastefully. He felt the kitten move about: 'Don't stir, Wolf, its no sight for one so young'.

Hercules picked his way through the narrow, smoke-shrouded streets, lifting his hooves with practiced calm over the bodies. There were redcoats and Frenchmen side-by side; victors and losers, wounded and exhausted side by side. The General halted his horse near a small shop, his cold gaze fixing on a young man in the uniform of the 62nd.

"You there," he said curtly. "Can you tell me where I will find Colonel Edrington?"

When the fighting stopped the Hussar decided to see if he could find himself a better weapon than the ones he'd first discoved. He slipped of his horse and carefully threaded among the dead and dying. Weary of any that might strike in their last plight for a kill.

Some food was taken from a dead man's coat and tucked into the saddle bag as the horseman continued. He took some coins found sewn into the lining of one of the others. He treated the bodies with care and a small sense of respect, even if the enemy and French. Still he took what he needed.

(yep, he's taking. But uhm, as are the others over to the left, right and centre, too.)

Captain Poole called over two troopers and stared to collect the frenchmens swords. Once the officers were disarmed, he looked around.
"Sergeant Grey!"
"Yessir."
"Take your sub-division and escort these gentlemen closer to the village. Find someone to properly take their parole. And if you come across any infantry, send them this way to lend a hand."
"Yessir"

Grey motioned to the troopers carrying the swords to follow him and started calling his men.


(our fearless leader is Lieutenant-Colonel James Inglis Hamilton, but I don't really want to NPC him. My language skills are not up to staff-level conversations)

"Too bad, there was no proper cavalry..to be had." He wouldn't have minded discovering a heavy cavalry's sword, thought what he would find would do. He glanced over his shoulder and then slung himself in Bella's saddle, straightening out a little.

"Careful there,.." He said more to himself than his horse as they passed back to the centre of the street, where there were fewer bodies and less of the debriss.

The fighting was over. Now order had to be restored. The wounded to be taken to the surgeons, prisoners to be rounded up and looters. Anything that had survived the arrival of the French, and some things that hadn't, was seen as fair booty. Money stolen from the dead, live chickens and a smoked ham, a painting of an elderly man, clearly taken from one of the houses around the town ... Even if the French had stolen it first, it did not mean that it could be stolen again. Edrington looked round at the sound of a number of horses, to see the General. He saluted.