31st May; Clash of Arms

Burke heard Lieutenant Sharpe's shout, and hurried to load his rifle once more. The air was thick and dark, crowded with smoke and chaos, but he could see the glow from the fuse of the gun. Aiming up and to the left of that small target, he pulled the trigger, feeling the familiar kick of the rifle jolt through his shoulder, hoping that he had taken out at least one of the French gunners.

He didn't wait for the smoke to clear, however, there was never any time. His blood was pounding through his veins with the excitement of battle, and he hastily tore into the next cartridge, pouring it into the heated barrel. Swinging the rifle back up to the advancing line of Frogs, he took aim and fired again.

"Good shot, lad!" he called. That had been a particularly good shot from Burke; Sharpe saw the glow of the slow-match vanish as the holder dropped with a bullet in his chest. Someone else had snatched up the match and Sharpe aimed his own rifle at a point where he imagined the holder's chest was.

His mouth felt gritty and dry and he could taste the salty bitterness of the powder; he could do with a drink but couldn't waste the time necessary to get to his canteen.

Burke swiped sharply at the sweat running down his forehead before it could get in his eyes, feeling the rough grate of powder from his sleeve left in its wake. His lieutenant's shout of encouragement had pierced through the heat of battle, and given him a small swell of pride that emerged as a grin. The Frogs were still coming, though, and he didn't dwell on it. Just how many of the bastards were there?

A bit of movement through the smoke caught his eye - another French soldier advancing in haste. "O, no you don't, m'lad," Burke said under his breath, pulling his rifle up and firing. His hand was reaching for another cartridge before his brain even thought to search for another target. There were plenty more, of that he was certain.

The artillery fire, provided by a single light gun, faltered under the precise attention given to the gunners by the Riflemen. One more round was managed before the last brave Frenchman fell victim to a rifle bullet. His companions abandoned their cause and their gun in favour of self-preservation.

Heedless of the failure of artillery support, the French infantry carried on their own fight. One or two columns were deploying into line, what remained of their officers sensibly trying to match the British arrangement.

"Keep steady, you boys," Burr cautioned his men. They were shivering with anticipation, wanting another crack at the Frogs. He had to keep them focussed. Volleys were flashing out from other regiments down the Line, adding to the fire the Rifles were giving in their own time. Over the tumult he heard Captain Blackwood's voice coolly calling out, "Front rank! Present, fire!"

The Lights added their own volley to the mix, finally joining the fight. Burr felt a grin threatening. It was about time.

Load and fire. Keep those damned Frogs from getting too close. Mayden forced his ramrod down the barrel, grunting with the effort. It wouldn't be too much longer before his barrel was too fouled to use.

"They're stoppin'!" Somebody hollered. Mayden squinted through the powder smoke and just barely saw the French line - if it could be called that - come to a halt.

"Damn," he muttered and aimed his rifle at a Frog who was missing his shako. This was a bold lot, wasn't it? Going directly toe to toe with them...

The French volley was not much in comparison to the fire rippling out from the British line, but the fact it was happening at all baffled Mayden thoroughly. He fired into the thickening clouds of powder smoke but had no idea if he'd hit his mark.

"Bayonets!" A raspy voice was shouting. "Bayonets!"

Now what, the young Rifleman thought, in the hell did that mean?

This was something interesting, Blackwood thought. The French, enduring a withering fire, came to a halt to deliver a volley of their own.

"Close up!" He called, glancing along his company's front. The volley, while not particularly impressive, showed at least there was some steel in their enemy. "Fire!"

The second rank answered the French fire with a unified wave of lead. Blackwood kept a wary eye on the opposing line. If they were prepared to bear the stiff fire from the British, they probably had another card to play.

Ahh hell. Those damned drums were rattling again and the French were coming on, faster now, it seemed. And they had fixed bayonets. What did they know that the redcoats didn't?

"Charge bayonets!" He called, feeling strangely like they were all about to catch merry hell. "Steady now!"

Perkins had fired a moment after Mayden and then heard the raspy voice. He looked questionably at the man. Bayonets. He saw the smoke clear, heard the rattle of drums, which could unnerve the enemy. It began at a steady rhythm and then began to pick pace. The French were coming towards them, their weapons all sporting the sharp pointed bayonets, fixed.

"Sword bayonets. " He said in wonderment. He reached for his own and halted. "The Frogs. They aren't running." He stated the obvious, glancing again, at Mayden. Something was up , but what? Did they just receive reinforcements which could have given them the push?

The man next to Burr sagged forward with a gurgle, a lucky French ball in his throat. The man immediately behind him stepped forward to take his place. Burr himself hardly noticed this. His attention was on the enemy, with a peripheral awareness only of the motions of loading and firing.

Captain Blackwood's shouted order gave him pause, however. Charge bayonets? They were about to receive infantry, why shouldn't they carry on firing into the bastards' faces?

Not that it mattered. A shout came rolling down along the line, taken up and passed along by the regiment's officers. Fix bayonets and charge. The Lights had the advantage in this, having their bayonets still fixed. Blackwood repeated the command anyway, for form's sake, then he was moving forward with the company's first rank.

He was daft, but that was part of the game. Burr levelled his musket and, grinning now, went forward too.

Stupid Frogs. Who did they think they were? Starling clicked his bayonet into place. It didn't much matter. They were about to skin the bastards alive.

"Twenty-seventh will stand fast!"

Or maybe not. Starling groaned.

"No," Mayden agreed. "They ain't."

He couldn't think why, either. It seemed so... he couldn't think of the word for it.

Stand fast, or charge. What was the command for the 95th. He looked back at Mayden questionably. Averting his gaze he heard a musket ball whiz past. "The Frogs are going to run any minute now... aren't they?"

"Oh, aye - they're runnin'," Burke said, overhearing Perkins' question. "Right at us."

He cursed as he burned his hand on the heated barrel of his rifle. Regardless, he lifted the gun and fired off another shot. Much more of this and he'd have nothing left to fire. "D'you know if we're meant t'be chargin'?"

"Noo-o," Mayden said, drawing out the word a little. He was staring wide-eyed at the disordered ranks of French infantry surging toward them. "That's not... look there!"

He pointed as the onrushing infantry seemed to scatter, mere yards shy of crossing bayonets with the wild, cheering redcoats. Behind them, a troop of dragoons trotted purposefully forward, sabres drawn.

"Those bastards!"

They had made a terrible error. An error they might not be able to recover from. Blackwood stopped short, nearly getting bowled over by a man behind him. "Lights!" He thundered, straining to be heard over the drums and the sudden blare of a trumpet. "Back to the line! Fall back!"

Not all of his company heard him. Some had only enough attention for the enemy. Others were wheeling about, running headlong back toward where their greenjacketed counterparts had stood firm. Blackwood put his sword across the neck of a bold French infantryman and repeated the order at the top of his voice.

It would be a miracle if even half of them made it back without getting cut down by those wicked sabres.

Burke followed Mayden's gaze and outstretched finger, and cursed as well.

"Mary, mother of God," he breathed, staring at what was bound to become a massacre. Where had they come from?

Shaking off the shock, he pulled his rifle up sharply, aiming towards the oncoming dragoons. "Here we go agin, lads," he muttered. Hopefully they could somewhat cover the infantry's retreat.

Sweet Jesus. Cavalry.

They'd fooled those blockheaded English. The redcoats had come charging directly into the trap, howling like mindless banshees the whole way. Jérémie hastened to reload his musket, while the dragoons went past behind him. It was about time les Anglais got put back onto their heels.

He lifted his musket and took brief aim before firing. Then he joined his fellows in resuming their advance, this time following the cavalry as close as they could.

Perkins stared at the oncoming French. They tricked them. The men could not stand, would not stand and were running back towards the green coats. There was an officer he barely heard shouting, over the melee. But his shouts were unsuccessful in bringing order to the chaos that the arrival of the cavalry had caused in the lines. This time.

But even that was not enough. Along with the cavalry the infantry appeared to advance again. He lowered his sword bayonet and loaded his rifle. He glanced at Mayden and then jerked his gaze back to the approaching wave of horse and man. "...There's no way..." His voice trailed off.

"Fall back!"

Burr heard Captain Blackwood's bellow an instant before he saw the danger himself. Bloody hell. The sergeant grabbed the nearest man and flung him back toward the Line. "Back, you boys," he said briskly. "Steady now. Get back!"

He could not retreat himself, however. Not with Blackwood standing out there like a fool. Damned officers. "C'mon, sir," Burr called as he checked and reversed another redcoat's advance.

It was already too late. The slaughter had started.

"Blackwood!" Vickery had seen the danger too late. "Get your men back!" He turned to Cavender. "Fix swords! Rally square!" The Riflemen were shifting, coalescing into the rough shape of a rally square, a small clump of men all facing outwards, their powder-stained faces grim as they dragged their long sword-bayonets out to fit to the muzzles of their Baker rifles.

"Twenty-seventh!" The order was being bawled lustily along the regiment's front. "Twenty-seventh! Both ranks, give 'em volley!"

Gladly, Starling thought. Sneaking French scum! He levelled his musket and fired, his shot cracking out alongside dozens of others.

Oh hell. Mayden saw the cavalry charge full into the backs of the fleeing infantry with sabres flashing murderously and he swore colourfully. Those bastards!

He also heard the hurried notes of the bugle and moved automatically, joining the other Riflemen in forming the rally square. Safety. They had it, by virtue of this formation, but those poor beggars over yon didn't.

"Rifles! In your own time. Pick your targets carefully - make your shots count!"

It wouldn't be easy, of course, but Vickery expected the highest standards of his men.

Vickery drew a lungful of air, and bellowed at the Light Company's officer. "BLACKWOOD! CAVALRY!"

He heard the bugle, then Vickery's bellow. Cavalry. Really? He hadn't noticed.

"Warmer welcoming party than we thought, eh, Sergeant?" Blackwood asked casually, slashing hastily at a dragoon bearing down on him. It would be a good idea to get out of here, perhaps.

Burr grinned fiercely. "Kind of 'em, aye. Givin' us targets!"

Indeed. Blackwood ducked away from a keen edged sabre and turned to run. He was no use here!

Make their shots count, indeed. Burke aimed for one of the cavalry officers and fired. He lost sight of his target in the ensuing smoke, and just prayed he had hit something. His muscles knew the drill - load, fire, repeat - and a fresh surge of adrenaline was keeping him from noticing just how tired he was getting. Hopefully the square would do some good, but he could see the chaos of the retreat, and the advancement of the French, and had a sinking feeling in his belly. If they made it out of this, he'd call himself fair amazed, so he would.

He saw a dragoon bearing down on one of the officers, and again brought his gun up. He hoped that they did nothing unexpected that would put the officer in his line of fire instead, and pulled the trigger.