OPORTO, 22nd May - Barca d’Avintas

The ground shook as the cavalry thundered past, and Lt Jaeger joined the HUZZAHing of the red and greencoated men around him. The shouting turned into coughing as the cloud of dust the hooves had kicked up enveloped them, but right now he was willing to forgive the horsemen for that.

v Lossow's face broke into a wide grin as he heared the infantry's cheering. It would drive his men to give an even better account of themselves, right under the eyes of the centipedes.

They were going at the full gallop now, he on the left, the staff officer - what was his name? - and Sgt. Hassler on the right, with file after file following closely behind, hemmed in by the stone walls on either side of the road.

The trees flew by and v Lossow could see the Fench rear now, drawn up in close column with bayonets ready, watching them approach.

"DRAW SWORDS!"

The reassuring hiss of sabres sliding out of scabbards almost drowned the sound of the hoofbeats on the hard road, and v Lossow flashed his own sabre. He could see the French clearly now, nervously clutching their muskets, waiting for the order to fire, and Lossow quickened his pace, loosening a bloodcurling scream, wanting to unnerve that first recuit to shoot too soon, to waste their volley on him, so the tighly packed rows of men and horses behind him had a chance to bring their swords to bear.

George pulled out his sabre and then joined von Lossow in his intimidation tactic. Only it wasn't a scream that he let out but a piercing continuous whistle: a cacophony of sounds would be better than just shouting. He twirled the sabre in his hand, - the lack of guard allowing for it's easy movement, - and let Firebird thunder ahead, keeping pace with von Lossow's mount.

Some of the 15th too erupted in a roar and plunged into battle alongside KGL.

A roar and a whistle from the front was followed by the men of the 15th. Some joined in, some remained quiet as they brought their weapons to be ready for the battle to commence.

Willoughby adjusted the grip at the reins. This was it. A moment of worry was replaced with the sense of the moment, the strange thrill that made men mad, or quite so excited to clash against the French.

There, the first man lost his nerve and a foot-long flame stabbed at v Lossow, directly to his left, where the soldiers had sheltered behind the wall. The closely packed rear followed suit, and suddenly the French were hidden by the powdersmoke of a ragged volley.

v Lossow felt Bam shudder as something smashed into her and as she faltered he pulled his feet from the stirrups; then he was airborne, hurled across the wall, keeping a hold of his sabre by dogged determination. By some mmiracle he wasn't skewered on the infantry's bayonets, but fell amongst the men. He heared the clang of sabres against musketbarrels, and a large shadow passed over him as a horse was forced over the wall, and he saw a flash of steel as a bajonet slit it's belly open and the glistening guts dropped into the dirt, and the horse went down screaming and flailing it's hooves, forcefully clearing the area of infanty and Lossow tried too shield his head.

George saw von Lossow fly over the wall and directed Firebird at the wall, a little to the side of von Lossow's 'trajectory', thinking it would be better to land onto the bayonets than trample the German officer under the horse's hooves.
Thankfully, the French immediately surrouding von Lossow were distracted and driven back by his and his horse's 'flight'. Firebird landed onto the ground, and straigtening, reared almost immediately with a wild snort, as she smelt the blood of the other's horse. George held on with his legs and swung the sabre at the closest Frenchman. His horse, feeling as wild as his owner, was lashing out with her feet at the soldiers.

As he got to his feet, a frenchman lunged at him, but just them another horse came over the wall, loosing no time to kick the frenchmans head in. The redcoated staff officer and his mound left a trail of destruction amidst the french, and Lossow had to admire their skill.

Getting a firm hold of his sabre, v Lossow set to hack his way through the French infantry, looking for a french officer he could relieve of his mount.

With such a great body of horses, it was bound to get slowed down at some point. The chaos threatened to break out as men had to wait for the ones infront to get further ahead. Horses neighed, but still followed where they were meant to go. For the most part and rather on average.

"They didn't run, exactly." Willoughby threw in Williamson's direction, Kenley shrugging.

Once they were in range of the French, the slashing began. Herrero thrusting forward rather than seeking out a place to flee to, his rider slashed across a man's limb, kicked at one that had leaned in too close in an attempt to have a step at the animal. Hoofs came thudding down with a crunch as bone came appart of another poor soul. It felt like wading through a thick river of bodies, and probably the description was not far from true.

Soon von Lossow and Hunter were joined by Pierce, who unlike his fellow officers, made no sound as he charged into the midst of the French infantry. At first he was alone, but then he and Hunter joined forces in mowing down the French.
Firebird received a glancing blow on he crup, not deep, but the pain made he buck violently, and though Hunter managed to hold on, he was in no condition to fend off the enemy. A bayonet almost plunged into Firebird's chest, but was fended off by Pierce, who received a stab from another man into his thigh for his troubles.

A infantry officer did v Lossow the favour of attacking him. By now, v Lossow was in no mood for playing around, so he deftly avoided the clumsy stroke, buried his sabre in the surprised man's armpit and pulled him out of the saddle.

He pried the reins out of the dying officers grip and vaulted into the saddle. The horse, a small bay, didn't seem bothered by the change of ownership, and v Lossow urged her on to rejoin the fight.

Willoughby's pelisse served well usually to protect the hand that held onto the reins, though it did little now. Not untill a man had tried to pull on it, his arm sliced through with Kenley's sabre. The bloodied remains fell to the ground, leaving the two riders sprayed with the blood that came from the part still attached to the wounded man. A sure stab at him ended the agony.

"Take that , oy, yer lot, don't you know is runnin' meant for you!" Kenley remained as true to himself as always, though his voice sounded more strained, and his expression less perky.

Willoughby shoved a man to the side, them all pushing forward again. A bayonet was thrust upwards, but instead of the animal's body,it was deflected by the saddle, partially tearing into the soft woolen, once white shabraque that lay under it.

The owner had been relieved of it fully in the next moment.

Word came up the column; the British had caught up and were engaging the rearguard. Tired, muddied and numb Javert swung his fusile from his shoulder and took the leather rag from where it had been tied around the lock. As he suspected the relentless rain had nevertheless soaked through to turn the priming into a thick grey sludge. He flicked the mess from the pan, wiping it on a bit of his greatcoat which had managed to miraculously stay dry, and opened his powder horn to re-prime with fresh powder. Next to him Roussel looked up, a blank, weary expression on his face.

"What you doing that for? Won't do you much bloody good."

"The barrel's still dry," Javert said, cupping his hand to keep the worst of the wet off the powder before he snapped the lock shut and re-tied the marginally drier leather. "With any luck it'll spark."

Roussel snorted.

"One shot. Fat lot of use that'll be gainst bloody rosbifs with their bloody sabres!"

"It isn't the rosbifs I was thinking of," Javert said darkly. Roussel made no reply, but trudged on.

v Lossow paused after having jumped his new acquisition across another wall. He was on a little height now and took the time to survey his surroundings.

Their combined cavalry had broken into the closely formed rear of the French column, at ah heavy loss, though. The French had fired from almost point blank range, sheltered behind the stone walls on either side of the road, and while the sabres had cut down their opposition and caved a way into the French rear and across the walls, the toll was high. The ground was covered with men and horses.

But now the French had broken and both cavalry and infantry hurrying up from the city had begun to round up prisoners. v Lossow wiped tiredly at his face, and was mildly surprised as his hand came away smeared with blood. There was much to do, and little of it pleasant.

Awed, Lt. Jaeger watched the cavalry charge into the tightly packed French ranks. The fire by the French over both walls was terribly effectual, as the threes were nearly close to the muzzles of the muskets, and the men with bayonets in the road did not give way till cavalry charged right into them, then the whole batallion fled in great confusion.

The cavalry then started to cut off prisoners, and more redcoats came along the road and Jaeger ordered his men forward, to keep on the heels of the retiring brigade, snapping off shots as they went.

Herrero refused to move over a dead body of another of the horses.

A sharp jab at his sides made him jump. His muscles were tight, and the body felt riggid as he continued, a few steps - lucky few slower, as the fire had left them both mostly unharmed. There was a glancing bullet that had - earlier too - skimmed across the brass heart binding leather at the chest of the horse, leaving an indent on it. Perhaps the amount of powder had been too little, or the quality of it was worse, but had it been stronger the horse mayhep would not have been as lucky.

Herrero gave in to the command again, for the horse ridden the first time into battle he was exemplary as was, and pressed on. The toll on the riders and their steeds was great, even so it was the French, who began to back away and break. And then at last they were running.

Some were stopped, surrounded and lead back, others were trampled and some successful.

The rear was broken. What looked like an entire battalion's worth of assorted cavalry and infantry streamed past, desperate to avoid capture and that was enough for those pulling the waggon of wounded in which was Fabier. The drivers halted the horses, hurriedly dropping the traces and untying the harnesses. When he realised what they were doing Javert's eyes widened and he ran towards them.

"Hey!" he shouted, brandishing his musket furiously. "Hey, keep away! Stop!"

But even this formidable giant could not stop the waggoners in their flight. They spared him barely a moment's attention, thinking of nothing now but their own salvation - all thought of duty or compassion gone - and with the horses free they mounted up and rode away, abandonning the waggon with all its occupants on the muddied road in the driving rain. Javert felt a numbness within his chest; the feeling he had always had when things had spiralled so out of control that there was nothing else left to do but carry on existing. The waggon lay abandonned - no guard, no surgeon, no cover - and figures streamed past in frantic hurry, the shots of guns, clashes of sabres, cries and whinnies of horses coming closer by the minute. Self preservation was screaming at him to run, to follow the crowd and live to fight another day; but the numbness pressed down on this feeling, squashed it and ground it out of existance. Everything else had failed but he was certain of one thing; Fabier was in that waggon, and for what little was left of his life Fabier needed him, therefore Javert could not, and would not run. He sensed Roussel next to him rather than saw him; felt him twitching, anxious, constantly turning his head back towards the sound of battle and then staring at the corporal. He could not hold him, Javert realised. He was on his own.

"Go," he said flatly, and crushed Roussel's feeble protest by saying; "One of us has to survive. You go, and if I make it I'll send word."

His relief all too obvious, Roussel nodded, a nervous smile on his face.

"See you in Paris, eh?"

Javert nodded, not returning the smile.

"Paris. Goodbye, Roussel."

"God help you, Javert."

And he was gone.

Alone amongst the crowd, Javert fought his way across to the waggon and heaved himself up onto the driver's seat. Once settled he discarded his sodden bearskin, fixed his bayonet and glared at a couple of voltigers who were climbing up the back of the waggon in the thought of raiding the wounded's pockets. Now faced with resistance in the dark and fearsome form of the grenadier corporal, they paused only a moment before jumping down and stumbling away into the rain. The gunshots were getting closer and closer, Javert could now see flashes off the rocks further down the path.

"Easy, my soldiers," he said firmly, calmly, to those under his guard. "I'll see you safe, I swear."

It may prove a hollow promise, but saying it aloud made it seem in this hellish time of rain and despair as if he had the strength, the courage and the means to keep it. He steadied himself, kept his eyes of the road, and waited.

The riders were of the two kinds. Those that were rounding up the prisoners and taking them back, along with the army and foot soldiers with the similar idea on their mind, and those who continued to ride after the enemy, lashing at its bottom and keeping the men on the run.

Amongst those was Willoughby, his oddly coloured horse standing out much less now, as blood and dirt covered his fur.

The small detachment of the 15th rode together nearing the wagon(s which could carry anything from something of worth to what they did, the wounded.

"Look at them run!" Kenley had been wounded, but not so severe as that he was to remain behind. "Not right of, but they are sure runnin' now. Look at it. t' wagon." He motioned in the direction, no horses seen to pull it now. "Might be somethin' o' worth in 'ere!"

"I bet there isn't." Countered Williamson, his eyes on their prize.

"Less bettin' more hackin'." Paine muttered as one of the stray soldiers had turned around in a desperate, last attempt to bring another down with him.

"First there, gets ter pick first." Kenley piped in, grinning from ear to ear and as the road was much more clear of men now, he kicked his horse sending him into a gallop. The tired animal only with a great effort did, as told. Others followed. The spotted horse and his rider to their left.

The first of the English cavalry were in sight, chasing away the last few stragglers with sabres glinting and wild whoops of exhilaration. Javert sat and watched; solemn and immovable. A small knot of cavalrymen, not so wholly absorbed in the chase, had noticed the waggon and had broken off to investigate - doubtless hoping for some honest pillage as a reward for their hard pursuit. Unconsciously Javert's grip tighted on the stock of his gun. This is it, he thought. Here they all died, or by some miracle they might yet survive.

"There's some Frogs by the wagon." Which was all too obvious to see.

"Mus' be something worth while." Another muttered kicking his horse into a faster run. "Ain't if they left it behind." Lyre spoke as the small troop of men continued, eagerly towards their finding.

"You want to bet on that?" There was no guess in who had that said, but Forbes silenced him with a hand raised. "Hush it."

The wagon came closer, and the sabres were drawn ready to intimidate and attack. "The wounded, maybe." Willoughby commented.

"..You there." The riders spread to encircle the wagon for they haven't seen much danger yet come of it.

Javert watched the cavalrymen encircle the waggon with his eyes, sabres pointed in his direction, but did not move. One of the men shouted at him insistently, for all the good it did. Javert stared back at him sullenly.

"No talk English," he said, utilising most of the few words he had in that language.

The men exchanged glances. Some shrugged, for their knowledge of language was limited to English and otherwise to the words useful in Portugal, most often to buy drink or at best, get the women. There'd be French too, but if they did, they kept their mouths shut. If this was a wagon filled with treasure, the latter had to be terribly well hidden.

"Ey, anybody 'round here talk the Frog tongue?" Williamson scanned his little troop nonchalantly. He didn't feel it worth the effort and turned to motion for the Frenchman to step a side least he wanted a sabre in his back before soon.

The spotted horse was moved forward, standing diagonally towards the burly man's own. His rider turned around to look at Javert, lowering his sabre.

"..You're surrounded. It would be in your best interest to give yourself up as prisoners." He spoke in French.

Javert started slightly, surprised to meet an Englishman that could speak any language apart from his own, then shrugged again, not moving.

"I can surrender," he said. "But they can't." He gestured at his comrades lying groaning about the waggon floor. "Best to take it as granted they are prisoners."

Kenley leaned closer to Lyre:" They'll jus' slow us down. Look at 'em. Can't we just leave them here and go after the ..." Lyre was nodding in agreement, his face grim. The wagon proved to be of little worth. Wounded Frogs groaning and moaning, possibly many of them would be dead by the end of the day.

"Very well. " Willoughby studied Javert as if seeking the reason for why the men seemed familiar.

"Ey, we ain't catering them all the way back." Williamson protested, his eyes ahead on the retreating tails of the French. "Ask him if they have anythin' worth while. "

"Yeah!" Kenley piped in.

Willoughby rolled his eyes, then focused on Javert. "You can walk, I reckon?"

"Yes," Javert replied.

"Then, you will walk. "

There was a groan from a few of the riders. "Oh, come on now, we aren't really.." The younger voice complaint came from the talkative chap.

"Taking them back? The Frogs are too far for us to catch up in time to get any of it." His eyes were on the lad. He had as much voice as any of them. "Unless you want to break a horse's leg, galloping all the way there."

The youth made a scowl. Williamson made no protest, nor did the other of the bigger men, which was a great relief. The more senior men agreed with that, though cursing their luck in taking that turn.

Willoughby looked down at the wagon to see if any of the wounded were well enough to walk or carry. "No funny business." He spoke in French.

He knew they would have to take a few horses to get the wagon moving. "I want all weapons on the floor there, should you or your wounded have any."