31st May; Clash of Arms

The British patrol had stirred up a response from the French. Messengers, riding fast, raised the alarm about the engagement between barely-seen greenjackets and a troop of cavalry. Long after the bold little patrol had withdrawn to their own lines, the French column had been boiling with activity. For much of the previous day, in the hours after the night-time ambush, regiments had prepared themselves.

Now, before dawn on the 31st, they were in motion, marching back over the same, deplorable road they had been fleeing along only two days before. The distance between armies had closed and within hours the opposing vanguards were in sight of each other. There was still some ground yet to cover, but the intention was clear. The French desired to make a fight of it.

Mounted messengers galloped up and down the British column, bearing orders to the various regiments. For the Rifles, in their usual places at the front of the army, the task was skirmishing. For the redcoated infantry, it was deploying from column to line. The cavalry, to their chagrin, remained in reserve. All movement would occur soon, as the two armies came within striking distance of each other.

Kyle was with his company trying his best to keep his men calm, and ready. He was still a bit afraid of meeting the French in combat. He was human after all. Even though he'd fought in a way already, and saw some of the worst parts of it he still had a bit of fear left in him. As every man did. Though Kyle didn't show any signs of his fear. He was good at keeping himself under control and remaining calm. If he didn't his men might lose moral or think of Kyle as a coward. He couldn't care less about being a coward, but he didn't want to see his men lose hope in him. That was the thing he feared most. He didn't want his brothers to lose faith, or think he did. Kyle remembered times when he'd seen, and heard about whole regiments being wiped out due to lack of faith, and courage. He'd seen one of his friends come back home in a wooden box due to those reasons. Kyle didn't want any one of his troops families to have to see or feel the way he did. Nor did he want his men to lose a friend.

Kyle was marching beside his company, and was doing quite well with keeping up with the main column. He could hear the sounds of gun fire behind them. It gave him a shiver. He knew that his company would soon have to fight the French he just didn't know when. He really didn't want to risk any of his mens lives. Yet he knew he'd be saving other mens lives, and also taking lives; the French.

Kyle stopped for a second and began to look around at the soon to be battle field. The area was muddy, and wet. That was all they needed was to slip and fall while the enemy picked them off like they were still targets. Kyle facepalmed as he figured out just how he could use the area to his advantage. Just he didn't know if it would work. He would need help going through with it. No, he would have to worry about that later, for now they had to keep pulling back. Yet the French were right at their heels so Kyle knew combat was going to be coming up soon if not now.

Kyle halted his company as orders were brought to him. They were to get ready and head to the front lines. "Oh for-" Kyle was cut short as one of his colours came up. "What are our orders sir?" The colour asked, knowing Kyle had just recieved them. "Well theres to be a skirmish Colour, and we are to form at the front as is normal for us Rifles." Kyle replied in a rather annoyed tone. He didn't like the fact his troops were to do the hard fighting. Oh well, now was not the time to worry about this. So Kyle told the Colour to get the company to the front. Within minutes Kyle's Company was formed and ready for battle. Kyle looked around once more to see the other companies form up in battle lines. This was going to be a long and bloody battle.

Their night patrol had stirred the Frogs up into a fighting temper. Sam Mayden could not help feeling relieved. It had been getting tiresome chasing them with no sign of a concerted resistance. They'd had some cracking good fun tearing into that bunch of cavalry too. That'd teach the buggers to make themselves such great targets!

It had led to the present situation, with the two Rifle regiments spread out in skirmish order ahead of the main column, ready and eager to put their beloved Bakers to deadly use. Mayden, being part of Mister Sharpe's detatchment as he was, was certain that no matter what the rest of the skirmish line did, there would be plenty of action for himself and his fellow thirty-odd Riflemen.

"Keep your eyes on 'em, boys," somebody called out, as the French skirmishers were spotted on their own advance. Mayden checked the flint of his rifle and was glad that he'd remembered to replace the previous one, which had begun to chip. He'd need his rifle to function perfectly, every time. Not much farther now, he thought. The French skirmishers would find themselves at a distinct disadvantage in only a few minutes, when the Riflemen began firing. Muskets simply could not match up against the Baker rifle.

"Ready for it, Ben?" Mayden asked, directing the question to his partner, a broad grin on his face. Not much farther now at all. He kept an ear tuned for the first shot, which would inevitably come from Dan Hagman. And there it was. That single, clear snap of a rifle bullet splitting the air. "Crack at 'em, Ben!" He cried to Perkins, as he dropped to one knee to take aim at a distant Frog.

His Light Company were late moving up to their place in the skirmish line. The delay frustrated Blackwood no end. Last-minute orders had separated them from the rest of the regiment, a move that he suspected was a result of their success at working alongside the Rifles during that night patrol.

At least, he thought wryly, they might get a teasing taste of action before the skirmishers withdrew and the Lights rejoined the regiment. Blackwood was glad now that he'd sent his horse away with his batman. It was far better to be on foot, especially in a skirmish line - you were too tempting a target otherwise, and inevitably in the way.

"Hold your fire," he called along his line, as the Riflemen began firing. They were within accurate range for their weapons, whereas the smooth-bored muskets were not. To fire now would be to waste lead. But with the Rifles now quickening their pace to close the distance, even as they leap-frogged forward in pairs, it would not be long before Blackwood and his company would be able to fire as well.

"Mind your pairs!" A sergeant bawled when a younger soldier began straying a little too far ahead of his fellows. Not long now, at all...

The French skirmishers endured the harrying rifle fire with admirable steadiness, keeping their advance to a controlled pace. Many of them were veterans from the pursuit of the British the previous winter and had been faced with the galling accuracy of the Bakers before. A few less seasoned men returned fire, but the range was still too great for their muskets to have any effect.

A few minutes later, however, there was a more concerted fire. The two loose lines had, at last, come to grips with the other. Musket fire rippled disjointedly along from both sides, though the British musketry came from the right, where the lone company of redcoats held the flank. Targets on both sides were plenty, but the Riflemen were more difficult to knock down, owing to their less-obvious green jackets.

Men moved from cover to cover, doing their best to kill without being killed themselves. At this, the British Riflemen proved the most adept, though their French opponents were hardly incompetent foes. Within only a few minutes, there were bodies sprawled across the ground on both sides - not a great many, even with the lethal accuracy of the Bakers, however.

All the while, the main bodies of infantry from both armies marched steadily toward each other, each prepared for the coming contest.

"Officers! Go for the officers!" Sharpe yelled, taking his own advice to kneel and aim his Baker rifle at a moustachioed man who was urging his men on, using his thin-bladed sword to point out targets, despite the disparity in weaponry between the French and British.

He squeezed the trigger, careful not to rush the shot and jerk the rifle off-target. He had another cartridge in his hand with the end bitten off before the powder-smoke had fully cleared away.

"Hagman. Two men to load for you!"

And what was happening on their left? Their right was being held by Vickery's men of the 60th, with redcoats beyond them, but he wasn't at all sure what was happening on his left.

He primed the pan, closed the frizzen and had the rifle turned about without even thinking about the motions, which were almost instinctive after sixteen years of carrying a firelock. Powder down the barrel, the cartridge screwed up and rammed down without even removing the ball from the paper wadding - doing that would only waste time, after all.

There was a man down, but Sharpe couldn't see from this distance if he was wounded or killed - or even see who it was. There would be time and enough to bury the dead later, after this skirmish was over.

Perkins heeded Mayden's shouted words, his rifle ready and loaded. He braced it to his shoulder, lifted it and aimed. He had sought out a target earlier, though his inexperience was there and clear, he did as well as he could without a word. There was a burst of smoke and a lick of flame, when the ball pierced through the air. His target had been struck at the shoulder. The Frenchman clutched at his wound. It was the one that had held a weapon, which now dropped from it, blood quickly marking lines through his shirt down to his hand and over it.

The 95th were advancing in fair order, loading their rifles, poising them, and firing at the enemy, which was responding in turn. More eagerly when the range had gotten smaller and men could be wounded more certainly.

Perkins glanced at his partner, gave him an uneasy grin and wiped at his face, which had a few faint dark stains on it. "There." He pointed at a man, an officer who had stood by his men. The direction of that group had changed a little. They weren't running away however. Instead they seemed to move back just to cross towards their left.

Kyle looked up to see the left flank was weak. He wasn't happy to see this. It would provide the French forces a perfect chance to cut throught them with ease. So Kyle knew what had to be done. He waved his hand up and signaled his company to march. Kyle and his men were doing fine, the musket fire was flying past their heads. It was enough to shake some of the men up, and at the same time fill them with adrineln. Kyle's blood was flowing, and his heart was pumping fast. He could feel it. It felt good, a little to good. He shouldn't let it get to him. He had to keep his head. He could already see the French skirmishers marching their way closers as calm as ever. It was something that amazed Kyle, something that made him have a powerful respect for his enemies, even though this was only the second time meeting them in combat.

Once Kyle's company was setup on the left flank he readied his company to fire. The first line went into a crouch, and the second remained stading, and the two first lines took steady aim. The other lines behind them readied for their turn to fire, and cover their fellow rilfes. At last they came into range, just not into the range Kyle wanted. He looked down the line to see some of the other rifles fire. Kyle shook his head. The French to fired, as they continued down towards them. Within seconds they came into the perfect range. Kyle smiled then swung down his hand ordering "FIRE LADS!" As soon as his hand pointed towards the French his company opened up a volly of well aimed shots. A good number of French soldiers feel to the ground clutching their wounds. Kyle was impressed by how well his men did with just that one volly. Kyle then ordered his men to get some cover while they reload. While the first two lines broke off into cover, the other two made their volly. It showed an equal amount of damage. Kyle then ordered the men to fire from cover as to avoid getting shot.

Once Kyles company was in fire he ordered a fire at will. Just as the other rifle units were. Once that was done he looked down the line to see a red coat company come up and join the lines. It baffeled Kyle. He'd never seen a red coat company come down to join in the front lines, yet it did raise his spirits a little. As he looked down the line he also noticed some of the green rifles had fallen. He knew some were dead, but he prayed and hoped most were wounded. Kyle the shook his head, and bent down behind cover. His company was doing well. The colours were keeping the men firing straight, and making sure they were actually aiming their rifles instead of blindfiring.

Kyle looked around, he didn't like the fact all he had was a pistol, and saber. His pistol would do nothing at this range, and neither would the saber of course. Kyle looked around for a rifle. He had to join in. He didn't like sitting out and letting his men do all the fighting. Within minutes he found a rifle. Once he had shouldered it he returned to his men. "Alright lads take steady aim, and make your shoots count! If you can aim for the officers, and sergeants!" Kyle ordered as he took aim. Once Kyle had taken steady aim, and found an officer, he pulled the trigger, sending a ball flying towards the officer. The French officer was hit. His neck was hit, the man held his neck coughing. Kyle could barely see, but he knew the mans blood was seeping down from the wound. Kyle also made sure that his company had their baynets fixed and ready for when it came down to hand-to-hand.

Get the officer. Perkins had pointed him out and Mayden marked him down, not taking his eyes off the soon-to-be unlucky beggar. In about... five seconds, that man would be a corpse. He counted off the seconds in his head, then steadied his aim. Perkins would have finished reloading by now. Half a breath out, hold it, squeeze the trigger... breathe. The Frog officer was down, handily knocked out of the action by Mayden's bullet.

"We'll turn their skirmishers back right neatly, you see that we don't!" The young Rifleman cheered, a fresh cartridge already in hand. He bit the end off and began immediately reloading. "Don't need any help, neither. Not even from them 60th lads!"

Rifle and musket made the air crackle with sound. Powder smoke choked throats and stung eyes. Mayden glanced down for no more than a heartbeat, to spit the lead ball down his rifle barrel, and when he looked up again, he saw that some of the blue-coated Frenchmen had gotten disconcertingly close to their part of the British skirmish line. How the hell was that happening?

"Mister Sharpe!" Mayden cried, even as he stirred into motion. He and Perkins were on the leftmost end of the little detachment. with Cresacre and Tongue being the trailing pair. The other pair had spotted the danger as well and needed little urging and no orders to ready themselves to keep the skirmish line's flank from being turned.

"Fix swords!" Somebody shouted. The long sword-bayonet made a fearsome sight when it was fitted onto the rifle's muzzle. Both of the older Riflemen beside them already had theirs fixed. Mayden's fingers scrabbled for the hilt of his own sword-bayonet. Fix sword. Hurry!

How was it that they, as Riflemen, let themselves get snuck up on like that? Mayden couldn't understand it. He knelt to fire at a French sergeant. There was just enough time to reload once more, if he was quick about it. Prime the pan. Powder, wadding, ball. Ram. Return.

"Ready!" He cried, slipping his ramrod back into its tubes and coming back to his feet. Almost too long - some of the brassy Frogs had spotted them and were coming fast. They wanted a scrap, did they? Well then!

every now and then as any lieutenant he repeated his captains command still being amazed by the sight of greencoats having preformed a fire line before turning to cover though that didnt mean less damaged caused by the greencoats, where unlike the redcoats who only had fire and retreat the riflemen always kept on fighting which he imagined at times could leave heavy loses.

as he heard the command to fix bayonets he finally noticed the French advance bit amazed to see the probable charge of the French they only couple of days ago had chased on the run amazed but still didn't see the sense in it why loose more men who're still demoralized by the defeat and loss of so many men? then again the French hadn't bin smart most of the time trying to take over countrys allied of the British who they suffered defeat to many times before he thought.

he looked around him and picked up a rifle from one of the dead riflemen deciding it was about time he did some damage to the French he took an aim and shot a corporal in the leg as he saw him fall over, then Espen took the cartridge belt of the dead soldier so he could move down the line of necessary and still reload, he started to reload the rifle as he had bin trained.

Kyle looked around he could see the french get ever more closer. Time was running away from him. He was rather annoyed at this. The French kept moving foward, even after having losing quite a bit from the first volly's of fire. It was amazing yes, but annoying to see since they were now within spitting distance. Why they kept moving forwards after having lost their officers, and fellow brothers was something Kyle found rather amazing. Maybe it was the fact they wanted blood for their past defeats to the english. Kyle mearly shook his head, and looked around at his men. So far everyone was still up, and fighting. Good, he'd need each and every man before this small skirmish was over. This was after all only a small skirmish, and was going to be nothing compared to the fighting that layed before the green coats.

Kyle moved along his line, making sure every one was doing their best to keep the french under fire, to try and sending them back up the way they came. He was also making sure they were keeping their heads down. He didn't need dead soldiers, he needed live ones. He didn't want to picture their families back home crying over them, and blaming Kyle for their lose. He had to have the feeling thrown on him before in the war in india. That was a bloody war, which costed a lot of brave mens lives. It was sad, yet it was war.

The French were now ready to charge. "Shit." Kyle thought as he looked he saw what was going to happen now. This fight was going to get that much worse pretty fast. Kyle bit his bottom lip as he saw the french start their charge. Kyle quickly reloaded the musket, using a round he had found on one of the other dead rifle men nearby. "One shot..." Kyle muttered to himself as he aimed down the rifle. As he did the French were now running towards the line. Then Kyle pulled the trigger. "...One kill." Kyle finished as his shot hit one of the french soldiers rushing towards them. "Ready for Close combat lads!" Kyle yelled down the line, as he drew his pistol which was loaded. "Don't show them any mercy, for you shall not have it returned!" Kyle called out as he shot a French soldier almost at point blank range. Kyle put his pistol away and used the rifle to fight.

As the French came smashing into the line Kyle was swinging and blocking attacks from the French soldiers as they slammed into the front line. Kyle screamed out, ordering his men not to give the enemy a single inch. He was doing his best to calm, and control himself. He didn't want to see his men die. He'd rather be the one to die before them. Kyle cared for his men, his brothers. After all he'd lived, and fought with them. They all knew what it was like.

After a few seconds of fighting Kyle had to throw away the rifle due to it being bent, and badly scarred. Kyle then drew his saber. The same saber his father had given him. He had never used it before in his life. This was going to be its first time fighting with him. After drawing the blade and cutting down a French soldier Kyle looked around in time to see a enemy officer about to cleave his head off. "Not today..." Kyle thought as he ducked down dodging the blade by a mear few seconds. Kyle quickly recoved sending his blade towards the enemy officer. The officer quickly blocked, he then swung around trying to send Kyle off balance. Kyle was ready for this though, he was reading his movements, and moved back a bit, then sending his fist into the mans face. The man met with Kyle's fist. It gave him a little shock. Instead of standing there shocked he quickly made him move. He sent a jab Kyle's way, Kyle quickly moved to his left allowing the blade to fly past his gut, as he did he sent a quick counter towards the man. The officer made a fast jump to the side avoiding Kyle's counter. Kyle was amazed at the shear speed. The battle between these two was turning out to last longer than they had BOTH expected.

As Kyle, and the officer fought the two armies remained locked in a deadly struggle for life. It was a battle to the death, and soon a victor would emerge. The loser would suffer more then the victors. Sadly both sides would have a fair amount of dead piled up on each side. This was something Kyle really didn't want to see, as it brought him sadness to think of their families. But he was a soldier, and he was in a war. It was kill or be killed, it was that simple. Yet there were still some who still tried their best not to kill. Sadly they lost their lives, due to their hesitation. It was the main cause for many men dying on the field. It was the common error that lead to death in battle.

Kyle and the officer were still fighting. Their blades clashing hard against each other. Trying to kill their opponent. Kyle was sending perfectly well made attacks, and counters, just as the other man was. They were both fighting as if there was no one else around them, they were both so focused on each other, and trying to send their blade into the others gut. Kyle was getting a bit tired as was the other. Yet they pushed on. Kyle started to push the man back. Sending slash after slash at the man. The man quickly lost his guard, and Kyle took this moment, and made the final move. His blade entered the man, going straight through the soft flesh. Blood began to flow down the saber. The French officer looked at the blade in his gut. He wasn't shocked, he amazed. Before he died, he looked up at Kyle, and smiled. Kyle just then Kyle was filled with regret, but he hide this, and quickly pulled his blade out of the man. The French officer fell to the ground hard, his blade flying from his hand. Kyle looked down at the man for a bit, then quickly rejoined the battle.

Kyle looked around for his one of his officers. One of the only ones that had built up a quick friendship with Kyle. "Wolf! Dammit, Wolf were are you?" Kyle cried out, fighting through the French to find his friend, and fellow officer. Who he hoped was still alive.

The first Frog came lurching in toward him, bayonet fixed to his musket, intent on cutting some unwary Englishman down. Mayden parried the man's first strike, using his longer sword-bayonet to keep the Frog's triangular blade safely away. Shift his grip on the Baker and bring the sturdy rifle butt into play. Then, in the next movement, bring the long sword-bayonet back into the fold. It was over in three quick blows. Parry, club, stab. The Frog toppled backward, having been impaled through his middle. With that first threat dealt with, Mayden moved on.

If he had been given the benefit of the larger picture, he would have seen that the beleaguered Rifle company was holding its own. His vantage point, however, was far more limited. He saw only that the paired-up greenjackets had come under a close assault and stood to gain from a little surprise assistance. Mayden hollered a meaningless challenge as he leapt straight onto the back of a second Frog, using his weight and momentum to carry the blue-coated fellow quickly to the ground.

The Rifleman he'd saved snorted a laugh and applied his brass-capped rifle butt to the Frog's head. He helped Mayden up, telling him he "was only that bloody mad!" before spinning away to fire at another Frenchman. Mayden turned away himself, looking around for Perkins. Damn it all! He'd lost sight of his partner. Not good, not good... Mister Sharpe was going to kill him for that.

"Ben!" He cried, swinging his rifle butt at a Frog who seemed to consider him an easy target. What the hell had he been thinking, separating from his skirmish partner? Where the hell was Perkins? He was really going to be for it... "Perkins!"

There! His mate appeared from the low-hanging cloud of smoke, looking dazed. He still had his rifle, though. Mayden stepped over a dead Rifleman and clapped his mate on the shoulder, using eagerness to conceal his relief. "Got 'em on the run now, don't we? Serves 'em right!"

Perkins managed a shaky grin. "Aye. Course we do."

"C'mon then!" Now that he'd found his partner again and therefore saved himself from Mister Sharpe's wrath, Mayden was keen to get back to the fight. "Let's get 'em while they're still hoppin'!"

He fired two more times more before he saw the French charge he dropped the rifle and took out his sabre he had bin given by his fire which he had used, also his flintlock, he heard his officer yell ready for close combat and repeated the order, faster then he had thought the entire line were in close quarters a French charged Espen, rather surprised he quickly blocked the thrust from the musket with his sabre and quickly cut the French soldier across the chest rather surprised by the damage it did he hadn't expected all that blood, he couldn't let it get to his head specially not in battle he were an officer after all.

he quickly turned and fired a shot at a man who were charging him with his flintlock and saw the french soldier quickly fall he put the flintlock back into his belt and looked around, before he heard somebody yell his name he looked around and saw the captain, he picked up his pace and ran over to him and looked down the line, "yes sir!?" he asked.

Load and fire. Load and fire. Brisk, steady movements. Sergeant Burr kept his ramrod in hand when he lifted his musket to fire again. He did not know how many times he had repeated this cycle, for he never bothered to count. What he did know was that his company was giving a good accounting of themselves. The French skirmishers were doing damage of their own, of course, but they were not as steady as Burr and his fellow Light Bobs.

"Stay wi' yer pairs," he rumbled, troubling himself only slightly to raise his voice. The fellow he was paired with, a rough-looking West Country man, grinned and waited until Burr was nearly finished reloading before taking aim to fire. Close by, a young - and green - soldier blushed fiercely and hastily back-pedalled to rejoin his skirmish partner. Silly beggar would learn soon enough. Not everybody in the army was as uselessly daft as those Riflemen, after all.

He could hear Captain Blackwood thundering out orders from a little farther along the spread-out line. Fix bayonets, was it? Burr reached for his bayonet where it hung at his left hip and calmly fitted the long blade into place over the muzzle of his musket. A lad would have to be careful not to slice up his knuckles reloading now.

"Steady, boys," the Scotsman said coolly. There was no sense in rushing into anything here, it was only a skirmish. The real fighting was yet to come. "Steady and keep firin'."

Mayden's shout made Sharpe look up. The French were nearly past them, dammit. How had they got there?

"Fall back! Fall back!" he called, hauling his whistle out and blowing the signal for the riflemen to fall back on the redcoat line. He hoped they weren't too late - getting cut off wasn't what he had in mind, and he would no doubt hear about it if any of his men got captured simply because the French had managed to slip past them.

He was glad to hear Harper repeat his order, and to hear, further along, the whistles of the sergeants and officers of Captain Vickery's company of the 60th.

He grabbed Cresacre as he ran past. "Face them - and don't run!" Though they would be running soon enough. But to have them running now could lead to the redcoats and the inexperienced men panicking and that could lead to the line breaking - and that could lead to the British losing this battle. If you could even call it a battle; it was no more than a skirmish really.

"Up to twelve paces, turn and fire!" He suited actions to words, kneeling to aim at a sergeant somewhere out in front of his men, encouraging them onwards. The bullet took him in the throat, throwing him backwards, and a shot whistled past Sharpe's ear as he stood to move back before turning to reload.

He heard the whistles and was able to guess at their meaning, despite not being possessed of a whistle himself. The Riflemen were falling back, as he saw when he looked away to his left. With good reason, too. They had nearly lost their flank. Sporadic fire continued to ripple doggedly from both sides despite the abrupt dissolution of the British line. This would be a hotly contested movement.

"Lights!" Blackwood cried, determined to keep the whole skirmish line from crumbling entirely. He was pleased - and not a little impressed - that the greenjackets were making an orderly withdrawal, but a retreat was a retreat. Good order could last only so long. Fortunately, the main British line was by now formed and not far off. It would take little enough time to reach safety. With luck. "Lights! Close up! Reload and make ready!"

That was the biggest advantage of a redcoat light infantry company, he thought with no small measure of fondness, as he watched his men hasten to form a rough line. They could fight as skirmishers and also as part of the line, whichever was needed. That flexibility was about to come in very handy.

Blackwood lifted his sword, keeping an eye on the steady backwards movement of the greenjackets. "Sergeant Northcut! Your platoon form oblique order to the left! Sergeant Burr! Hold fast!" It was not how the oblique fire was meant to be used, but in the situation, it was the best option Blackwood saw. The greenjackets were largely out of their lines of fire by now. He waited impatiently for the formation to shift, then he pointed his sword at the unruly scattering of Frenchmen. "Fire!"

The concerted volley was not likely to do any substantial damage, especially given the unusual formation, but it was not expressly meant to. It was more as a covering tactic, giving the Riflemen a few more unharassed seconds to close with the line. A mere handful of Frogs were cut down by the volley, while others turned their attention toward the bold little company. Blackwood forced a grin. It was time to make his own withdrawal.

"Lights, reform! Charge bayonets; steady, lads. Step back, march!"

He was not about to turn his company's backs to the Frogs, even while retreating.

Perkins had been loading his rifle when his partner had gone off and disappeared in the cloud of smoke. Had he not dropped his gaze just then, and he would've known which way to turn exactly. Having lost him at that moment though, he felt equal relief upon discovering Mayden again. His of course wasn't as well concealed, yet it took only a single grin before his attention was set back on the dangerous approach of their French counterparts.

Determined not to loose sight of the other men, he hastened his step to keep up with him. Orderly though, he moved, lifting his rifle. He took aim. Steadied himself as best he could. Waited, and then fired, without even taking a moment to see whether his target had fallen. The retreat was sounded and thus this took priority to follow. With the corner of his eye he caught the red coated soldiers beginning their own retreat. "We'll get them, Mayden. Come."

He had to step carefully over another fallen man, a dead body left with its blood still drying where the bullet had made it's hole. With the French so close, slipping and tripping could prove fatal. His bayonet sword was fixed, making the weapon steadily heavier and yet at close quarters, deadlier again.

Even the redcoats seemed to keep themselves in order. Weavering and fragile as it was, the men weren't yet running for their dear life. It made the young lad grin. Of course the riflemen did better. Were braver, and still in good order of retreat. It would show the other ranks, it would.

Damn but those bloody redcoats were retiring in cool, steady order. Mayden turned and fired, determined that he and his fellow Riflemen should not be shown up in any respect.

He heard Mister Sharpe's shouted order and grinned. Twelve paces and turn to fire. Got it! They'd show those Frogs - and the redcoats too - that even in retreat, the Rifles were still no force to be taken lightly.

"I'm hard on your heels, Ben m'lad," Mayden told his partner cheerfully, managing somehow to reload on the move. "We ain't done 'til we're back to the Line!"

Most of the rest of the company from the 95th were turning, having reached the twelve-pace marker, but their line was ragged. No matter! Mayden rattled his ramrod back into its tubes and lifted the rifle to his shoulder again. Turn and fire it was!

Turn, fire and continue in the retreat. Ben Perkins had remembered how on one of those days they had lost nearly all, but gained a 'new' leader in the form of Sharpe, how they had even lost themselves probably, though he had a firm belief that Sharpe would never have done so, and would merely have strayed on the path. But he had seemed eager to rejoin at that time, very eager and much more than most of them.

The line was coming nearer and nearer now, and the enemy was still on their tail. How could it have happened that instead of being the ones to chase the French back to Paris or what other place he had heard Harris mention before, they were going the other way themselves. He, Mayden, the whole of the 95th, and the rest of the redcoated army too.

The French skirmishers were abandoning their pursuit, recalled by the rattling drums. They had come dangerously close to the waiting British line in their zeal to get one last crack at the retreating skirmishers. Too close, in some instances. The Riflemen knocked several more down before the French finally made their own withdrawal. Blackwood halted his company after a dozen paces and permitted them to reload. The retreating French had fallen back into some semblance of order, which invited one last volley before they were out of range. Then, with this last exchange of fire over, he wheeled the company and moved them briskly to rejoin the regiment.

Colonel Trevor troubled himself to ride to meet them and offered a few words of praise, before giving orders for the company to hurry and take their places in the ranks. Despite himself, Blackwood smiled. They had a few minutes to clean out their muskets before the real fighting began. "Clear your barrels," he called, pacing leisurely in front of the two ranks. "Steadily now. Clear out and reload, lads."

They had time, but not much. The French line had stirred back into motion, though Blackwood could not think why. Not that it mattered. There was shortly to be plenty of hot work for everyone to do. He took a cartridge from Sergeant Northcut and reloaded his pistol. For the moment there was nothing to fear and he was determined to demonstrate that fact. Keeping his head was necessary if he wanted to keep his men calm, after all.

Damned uppity skirmishers, Starling thought. What the hell made them think they were special, just because they got first crack at the enemy? He watched the Rifles and that one company of redcoats come scuttling back to the Line and scoffed. That skirmish had been nothing more than a waste of powder and ball.

He had been a light infantryman himself, of a sort, but not in such useless terrain. This country of increasingly steep hills and rocky ground was no place for a fighting man. Forests and mountains were much better suited. At least for him.

"This is shite," Starling grumbled, covering his growing boredom with annoyance. Why couldn't they give those French bastards a volley?

"Quiet in the ranks!" A sergeant snapped.

An officer on horseback trotted down the line. "Not long now, my boys. Not long at all."

Starling rolled his eyes. Not for the first time, he wished he'd stayed in New York. There was nothing for it now, of course, but he wished it all the same. He let out a long sigh and thought he might be able to take a short nap while they stood here waiting.

There was a sudden bang and a familiar ominous whistle. Starling looked up and saw a faint puff of smoke on the far side of the advancing French line. Artillery. It was about to become pretty hot on the ground, wasn't it? Perhaps he should not attempt a nap after all.

"Here they come, my boys," the mounted officer called. "Keep steady. We'll not let 'em pass ungreeted now. Right, my boys. Make ready!"

They were not the only ones, either. Starling readied his firelock and heard the ragged chorus spreading all along the Line on either side of him. Good then. The sooner they got the chance to lay into those blue-coated swine, the better.

"Form up next to the Light Company, there!" Vickery was using his sword to point with, and had to grab one Rifleman who was running past, intent on going who knew where.

"Next to the Light Company!"

There was no mistaking the sound of artillery opening up. Dammit. How had they managed to keep hold of their guns at the pace they'd set after abandoning Oporto?

There was no time to answer that question now. "Fire in your own time - make every shot count! Sauerbier! If you're wasting His Majesty's lead, I'll stop it out of your pay!"

Now how, Mayden thought with a light trace of panic, had the French gotten artillery this far? He gripped his rifle and reached automatically for a fresh cartridge. That was just lovely.

Artillery. Just what he bloody wanted. "Go for the gunners!" he shouted, before ripping another cartridge open and loading his rifle again, forcing the ball down past the fouling in the barrel.

Cotton sprinted into place and dropped to one knee to reload his rifle. He might be the best shot in the Company, but if he couldn't use that skill here, he was worthless as a soldier. He turned as Vickery's hand landed on his shoulder. "Get that officer there," he said, pointing with his sword. Cotton nodded wordlessly and finished loading before bringing his rifle up into his shoulder.

The rest of the battlefield seemed to disappear. All that mattered was him, his rifle and the officer in his sights. And firing at a moving target was much harder and more skilful than firing at the practice targets set up in a peaceful field somewhere. He squeezed the rigger and the flint fell. The resulting cloud of smoke obscured his view, but he nodded. Vickery clapped his shoulder. "Good shot, Gabriel!" he said and moved down the line, pointing out targets for other men as Cotton reached into his pouch for another cartridge.