31st May; Clash of Arms

Seeing the French line break and advance reigned in the feeling of triumph that the arrival of the cavalry had instilled. The battle was far from over.

Burke hissed a curse under his breath as he burned his finger on the barrel of his rifle. It did not even slow his loading of the gun, however, and he soon had the gun up, aimed and fired. He saw a Frenchman fall, though whether he was wounded or killed was not something there was time to contemplate.

By the sound of it, the left side of the line was getting a rare drubbing. There were cavalry laying mightily into each other amid the increasingly sporadic volleys of musket fire. He had heard the trumpets blaring. It was going hard for somebody but Starling could not see who.

There was plenty for the Twenty-seventh to do along its own front though, without worrying about any other regiment's troubles. Starling kept his movements brisk, following the shouted commands. Why couldn't they break ranks and put these uppity French bastards to the bayonet?

And there were the cavalry - and not before time. Finally they could stop worrying about the horses and start concentrating on what the French infantry were going to be doing. Whatever that was going to be, all he needed to do was listen to orders and keep firing.

He spat dryly before reaching for another cartridge. Powder tasted absolutely foul!

The cavalry was not being given the battle in an easy, 'hunt and chase' way. Instead of facing with the regiment of foot, where the effort would be most put into finding and stabbing at the fleeing men, hoping that the same men would not form a square, they were faced with their equal, the cavalry.

What appeared an easy run at the enemy, was becoming a stressful toil of strikes, with bodies of horses pushing against one another as well as their riders. Going neither forward, nor back for more than a few steps. A few of the Hussars broke of from the main body, had taken a turn to run into the melee again. One or two of those were shot. There was one who turned to retreat because his wounds had become so bad that he barely even held himself in the saddle of his horse.

William was proud of being the one who had sounded the horn when the orders was given and had charged with the rest to battle, only the battle was bloody both on their own side and the enemy side, he hadn't bin in all this large battles before atleast not he didn't want to remind himself if he had, it was terribly hard to manouver the horse to swing his sword, their were both friends and foes, the french infantry and cavalry aswell as the 15th, in williams eyes this was chaos but his loyalty for king and country kept him going.

He swung his sword hitting an infantry man over the chest seeing him fall down while the blood flowing there was no time to think about it Will though before turning the horse and going for the next foe he saw, as he was about to swing again he heard the whisteling tone of a bullet passing by, Will gulped knowing it was a close one before hitting the next foe

"They're comin' again!" Mayden cried, his mouth stained and dry from powder. Those bloody Frogs weren't going to give up this time, were they?

As much as it pained him to admit, the cavalry were doing well. They were keeping the redcoats in their squares and were playing merry hell with the late-arriving British dragoons. The infantry, of course, were doing their bit too. And why not? It was almost more fun to shoot at a British horseman as it was a greenjacket, or a redcoat.

Leclerc was ahead of them, again, his sword flicking out toward the tight ranks of the enemy as he got close. How he had not been killed yet was anyone's guess. But he was just what they needed. Jérémie and his fellows surged up toward the greenjacket square.

There was a sharp, satisfying rattle as their bayonets clashed together.

"Hold fast! Hold fast!" Blackwood had since flung his musket away - the flint had crumbled - and now had his sword in hand. His relief at seeing their cavalry finally arrive was going fast. The French infantry was still very much a threat and they clearly knew it. Their renewed charge showed that well enough.

They would hold their square. They had to. To be broken meant certain disaster. He slashed at a Frenchman who tried to plough his way between two Riflemen, stopping that danger short, but there were more Frogs pressing hard against the square's thin ranks.

"Mind their infantry!" Corporal Tunney bellowed, spurring his mare forward. He galloped carelessly over a howling Frog who turned just in time to see his death riding fast at him.

It was a well-timed warning. A trooper close to Stubbins' left had his horse shot out from under him and in an instant the man was gone, his ability to advance with the others lost. Stubbins slashed down at a blue-coated Frog with a musket and immediately had to flick his blade up to block a strike from a dragoon. The enemy was all around them in two forms, which made it hard to concentrate on mediating the threat from either.

At least their presence was helping their own infantry. In all this wild rushing madness, that had to count for something.

They were fighting a loosing battle. Well, he did not yet know that, but he was feeling overwhelmed by the many directions and sources that he could find danger strike at them. There were not only the French dragoons that they needed to worry about. But the musket balls come from the French infantry, and lately even the infantry itself. The green coated square, their own 'footies' were of hardly any use.

They were fighting their own battle, bayonet to bayonet. Willoughbysaw another trooper fall, and caught glimpse of Stubbins, before having to concentrate back on his own. It was a matter of survival as well as fighting. Whether any of his friends or even himself thought about the king and country right now,... well he did not. And he doubted the others did. His advance was obstructed by several bodies, one of a horse, and by those standing, of the French kind. From his left came an infantry man, or was it a pair of them. He kicked at his horse's sides bringing the animal half way up. It was enough that Herrero turned and kicked its front hooves forward. Fortunate it was he, who struck first, the bayonets missed his belly.

No time, to consider it a success or a failure, a musket ball made its way through his pellisse, loosing in direction and strength some as it struck the thick wool fabric, two layers of it, and skimmed a bit of braid. Then with a cling his blade was raised just in time to parry one that would have sliced a good deep cut in his unprotected shoulder or perhaps neck, if it had had a chance.

An arm grabbed for his leg. He saw the French soldier there, probably willing to yank him down. The man was bumped off by another trooper, much less with intention than by accident. His horse had tried to back away from the assaulting Frenchman and had stepped on an infantry man instead. Having not expected it, and having perhaps a moment to spook, the poor soldier was given a good kick to remember him by. While nudging his horse into a turn, Herrero missed much of the kick, but had his rider still somewhat unbalanced.

Catching himself just in time the small 'duel' continued, only it would have been more of a duel if they had the space and the commodity of only facing each other. Forbes was wounded, but in no way out of the fray. Kenley was somewhere at the centre of the happenings, but was being pressed back. The boy had received some of the cuts. None were fatal, and possibly the boy would brag about them later, if he survived.

for each step forward, two were made back. Or so it felt like it. "They're bloody everywhere!" Forbes yelled. "The bastards should..." Harrell began, but did not finish. A ball had struck through his throat, went up through his brain, made indeed a terrible mess, and quite at the same time a blade slid under his ribcage at an angle having his body slowly lean forward. The man was dead and a dead weight on the sword of one of the French troopers.

it was a bloody mess he thought survival was the primary task right now not killing the french although it ended that way survival meant killing and the swords was hitting around and the bullets flying chaos and it was all around him the screams of people falling the smell of gunpowder the bodies even his own sword was red it got on his nerves but he was fighting on although a tear found its way away from his eye.

He saw an infantrist advancing and quickly parried his bayonet and kicked him in the face now he was close enough as he cut towards the man falling backwerds he hit him across the throat so he dropped dead he quickly tryed to turn the horse keeping an eye on infantrist although there was bodies everywhere from horses and men he didn't concentrate on what was happening outside this battle but he hoped it went well.

As he looked up he quickly reached to turn his body so the dragoons cut only hit his arm, it hurt like hell but will fought on the adrenaline did he could still use his arm although it was now bleeding he moved his sabre back and started fighting with the dragoon, ofcause the dragoon had an advantage his arm wasn't hurt, their swords was locked and Will didn't have much hope before a bullet hit the dragoon making the dragoon fall off the horse and hit the ground.

Will looked around for the superior who was giving the orders after all he needed to be within hearing range incase orders was given to blow the bugle though he wasn't sure where he was to much chaos, he kicked his horse in the side to make it turn a bit and he got it to do so as he turned his head he felt like he was punched in the face he quickly tried to regain his sight and found out he had bin he had ended on the left side of one of the dragoons who had quickly defended himself with a punch, and had then now started to try and do a cut after having turned in the moment of confusion and again Will was locked in a sword fight this time he wasn't lucky enough for him to fall but had to defend himself for his life, praying to his god while fighting

The French were pressing at them hard. Their muskets slipped past the shorter Baker rifles to jab half-blindly at the grim-faced Riflemen. In turn, the Riflemen and their redcoated comrades used their firelocks to stab back, trying fiercely to hold their ground.

"Fire!" Sergeant Talbot bellowed. "All you lads who've loaded, fire!" It was a desperate move but there were more Frogs than there were men on this face of the square. They had to be pushed back. He lifted his rifle to his shoulder and tugged sharply at the trigger. There was a scattered volley from around him but was it enough?

~

Corporal Tunney had gone down, thrown from his dying horse. Another man ahead of Stubbins had flopped bonelessly from his saddle and was dragged away by his horse, one leg caught in a stirrup. The odd shot from a carbine whined past, all but inaudible amidst the clamour of swords, shouting, and musketry.

"Form!" Captain Gaines was yelling. "Form! Form, for God's sake!"

The troop had become scattered, hopelessly dispersed and entangled with their enemy. Stubbins tried to spur his mare toward the beleaguered Captain Gaines, but his way was blocked by a knot of French infantry with fixed bayonets.

"Watch your backs!" Stubbins cried, wheeling his horse away from the hard-eyed Frogs trying to surround him.

The British troops were making no more progress. The order to form was widely noted, but much as they would have liked, they were hard pressed to follow it through. Herrero could not hold his ground against the taller and heavier horse of the cuirassier opponent. The lighter French troop had at last been joined by their slower, heavier counterparts.

And to make matters worse. They were everywhere and they were fresh, while the 15th Hussars were already tired from the time exposed to fighting. It was time to admit, that the retreat looked ever more certain.