31st May; Clash of Arms

There wasn't time to reload. A greenjacket came striding toward him, sabre in hand. Well. Jérémie jerked his musket up to block the slash, ignoring the jarring shock as the blade bit into the wooden stock. He tugged the musket away and scrambled up to his feet.

Now, better able to face his adversary, he drove forward with his fixed bayonet.

Now the duel between the two officers had started. Kyle was thrown a bit off balance when his opponent knocked it away. Kyle quickly recovered however in time to parry the bayonet driving towards him with his rifle. Kyle then twisted around quickly sending his blade to slash the back of the man.

Officers, Jérémie thought derisively. He stepped backward and let the slash breeze harmlessly by him. If he'd had time to reload, this little fight would be over by now.

He swept the musket butt up and slammed it forward, aiming not for the greenjacket's head, but his torso, which was harder to miss.

Kyle quickly threw himself sideways to avoid the quick attack from the butt of the soldiers weapon. Kyle quickly countered with a quick yet lethal slash towards the man's shoulder. As he did he thrusted the bayonet of his rifle up towards the mans gut just under the man's arms. He was trying to move quickly as he well possiblily could. Things were starting to turn back with the French now at the lines. Kyle could hear a British officer yell hold the ranks. Kyle paid no mind to it however. He was to busy fighting this one Frenchmen off.

The Frogs were close to forcing their way through the square. Mayden buried his sword-bayonet into one man, only to be knocked sprawling by another. He lost his grip on his rifle, but was able in his wild flailing to get upright again to lay hands on a French musket.

He checked the priming, grinned, and fired from the hip. His shot hit a Frog swinging his musket at that Rifles captain. It was only a glancing blow but enough to put the Frog off his balance. Mayden cheered and heaved the spent musket aside.

"Get back, sir!"

His shoulder burned like wildfire. Under his jacket, blood soaked his shirt and wormed down his chest in long warm trickles. Even thinking of it made the pain spike.

"Lights!" Captain Blackwood cried, a ramrod gripped in his fingers. "Reload! Swiftly!"

Burr steadfastly ignored the agony in his shoulder and rammed a ball and powder down his musket barrel. They couldn't pull off the same trick again but he suspected his captain had another trick up his sleeve.

He wasn't disappointed. Blackwood lifted his musket and called, "Rifles in that rank, break! Lights, advance!"

Now this, Burr thought, was more like it. What was left of the Light Company stepped smartly forward, taking over from the scrambling Riflemen. They formed only one side of the square, but it was enough. Who better than they for sending ordered volleys?

"Cavalry!" Somebody hollered. Burr didn't look, but another Rifleman, on the left-facing side of the square, filled in the details.

"They've put them redcoats there into rally square!" The man sounded disbelieving, though Burr's ears caught the regular crash of musketry from the left. Colonel Trevor might've been forced to put the regiment into square, but he wasn't letting up with the volleys. Good man!

Captain Blackwood sounded heartened too. "Lights! Present! Fire!"

It was time to go. Jérémie was no reckless hero. This was a fight he wouldn't win and he knew it. He spat at the greenjacket officer and ducked away, joining several of his comrades in falling back several yards to form their own line.

The British weren't the only ones who could give steady volleys, after all.

Kyle had not yet noticed all which was going on around him. He was too busy trying to fight off the French soldier. This Frenchmen was actually a really good fighter however, and was able to push through the lines, and was doing an amazing job of fighting Kyle with a bayonet, and rifle. So far the duel was going quite well. That was until he was bumped in the back. Kyle stumbled a bit, and messed up his attack. Kyle was quickly saved however by one of the rifle's behind him. Kyle quickly did what the riflemen said and quickly ran to the man's side, holding both sword, and rifle in hand. "Nice job lad." Kyle said thanking the rifle. Kyle then saw the French soldier turn and spit at him, before joining his friends in falling back to form a line.

They were holding. Barely. Blackwood bit back a curse as a French ball nicked his ear. The ramrod rattled faintly when he shoved it back into its tubes and a second later he fired at a yelling Frenchman.

"You, sir," Blackwood said, glancing quickly at the other captain. "Would do well not to leave the square to pursue petty duels. Perhaps you might devote your energies to defending it instead!"

Dragging his sword-bayonet free of the dead Frog wasn't easy but Mayden managed finally to wrench the weapon loose. Now he could go on fighting like a Rifleman was supposed to.

"Where the bleedin' hell's our cavalry?" Cooper snarled, dropping to one knee so he could tip some water from his canteen down the fouled barrel of his rifle. "Off somewhere havin' a picnic?"

Kyle quickly sheathed his blade, and brought up his rifle, and took aim. He let out another round, and watched as the French kept coming. Kyle didn't like this. He could tell they were going to break their square if they kept pushing forward. Yet at the same time their numbers kept falling as they were shot down. Kyle barely heard Blackwood ball him out. He only heard the part of how he should hold it. "Won't happen again!" Kyle reasured Blackwood as he kept his eyes forward with the rifle out.

Kyle looked down to see Mayden get his sword-bayonet free from one of the dead frenchmen, and form back into line. When he asked where their cavalry was Kyle shook his head. He too wanted to know where the hell they were. So far it was just the Rifle's taking the blunt of the enemy. When Mayden commented bring up the question if they were out having a picnic, Kyle mearly smiled, and shook his head. "I'm not sure myself Riflemen, but for now worry about lowering their numbers!" Kyle told Mayden as he patted him on the shoulder.

Another man fell choking as a French shot struck home. Burr gritted his teeth and forced the ramrod down the musket barrel. The strength in his left arm was beginning to wane, which annoyed him. Couldn't the chill and numbness wait until after they weren't in danger of being overrun?

From the side of the square facing the equally-embattled Coldstream came a shout. "Them redcoats is movin'!"

Captain Blackwood's voice rose over the din of musketry next. "Hold fast, lads! They'll not break us today!"

This was something Burr could not ignore. He paused for an instant and looked away to the left. Unbelievably, the regiment was in motion, closing the gap in the line that had opened when the Rifles were forced into square. Colonel Trevor had to be out of his mind - only Burr realised the regiment was shifting its own square, becoming more of a long rectangle.

"Good lads," he observed in his customary low voice, before lifting his musket to his shoulder again.

There was steel in Blackwood's tone, more obvious now than before. "Light Company! Fire!"

His horse snuffled and stamped a hoof impatiently. The noise of battle rolled over the motionless ranks of cavalry in a steady wave, but they were held back uselessly in reserve. From their vantage point, they could see the left side of the infantry line crumble, unexpectedly faced by a combined assault of French infantry and cavalry.

Billy Stubbins shifted in his saddle and tried to contain his own impatience. Why were they still sitting here? He hated the orders that had kept them behind the line, where they could do little more than watch the infantry get butchered. To him, it didn't make sense. Why hold back a regiment of horse when the enemy had fielded one of their own?

Then it was almost as if his thoughts were being read. Their trumpeter had suddenly blared a few notes on his instrument. Captain Gaines called out, "Column of threes! Advance at the trot!"

The blare of a trumpet, and the sound of more horses caught Burke's attention, distracting him momentarily. He stopped firing, and looked round, only to feel a grin forcing itself onto his face.

"Here comes our cavalry!" he cried, letting out a whoop of joy.

Finally. It was about time. What use was having a cavalry, when it was left to stand as a spectator? They were as useful as the campfollowers during a fight. Herrero threw his head up in annoyance. His tail flicked and struck a horse standing beside it, which provoked the animal to kick out. Though rather than kick at Herrero it just kicked at thin air, behind it.

And then the order was given and horses rode in three. Herrero surprisingly did not miss a beat, and must have been as eager to go into the fray as his rider. Moving at a trot, Willoughby mumbled a delighted: "An' finally they let us.."The rest lost in the thump of the hooves, which kicked up dirt as well as bits of grass, advancing on the French.

The hand on his shoulder and the cheerful words both struck Mayden as flat and unreassuring. Officers were supposed to know things. Like where the damned cavalry was and why they were only now coming to help.

He set to work reloading his rifle, determined that those witless hussars would not upstage the 95th. That, at least, was something he knew.

And why the hell was it only now that the cavalry were coming to their rescue? It was more than time for them to show up.

"It's not over yet," he said to his men, although being more stoic than the redcoats, their cheer was rather more muted than the 95th's.

Kyle felt bad right now. He was new to actually leading a company to battle, and this was something he wasn't to used to. As he noticed the young riflemen's facial experession he couldn't help but shake his head. He didn't know anything and he hadn't been told anything either, just to form into a square and defend against the on coming cavalry. Kyle shook his head. He knew his men didn't want him as their commanding officer. After all so far he was more so a mess up of an officer than a real officer. For now though the battle field was no such place for such thoughts so he quickly pushed them away for now.

Kyle then rose up and brought his rifle up to his shoulder. "Alright lads! Looks like our cavalry has come in at last! Lets not let them show us up! Let show them how real men fight!" Kyle said trying to raise something at least. Then he looked down and saw the riflemen he had talked to only a few minutes ago bring his rifle up and fire down at the French.

Real men, indeed. Burke rolled his eyes, even as he loaded his rifle yet again. The barrel was well fouled with powder, and felt hot enough to melt. He hoped it would continue to fire well.

There might have been regular rivalry between them and the cavalry many days - blighters often took all the credit for a battle - but at the moment their arrival seemed the biggest relief he'd ever seen. If they could drive back the French, he'd thank them himself.

Pulling his rifle back up, he took aim and fired into the line of French.

Real men! Sharpe choked. He'd been a soldier since he was sixteen years old, and he'd killed even before that. This melee was going to get very confused shortly, and he wondered if the other Rifles officer even knew how to hold his own in what would become an extremely messy fight.

"Don't waste His Majesty's lead," he growled at one Rifleman - Cooper, he though it was - who'd fired high. Despite his words, the bullet wasn't wasted; the man fell back, shot in the head.

"Steady, boys," he warned. Hopefully their own cavalry could drive the French horsemen off, but then they would very likely have infantry to deal with. And when that happened, only steadiness and speed would see them through.

The Frogs saw the 15th advance and reacted to it almost immediately. So much the better, Stubbins thought.

"Troop will draw swords," Captain Gaines called. "Steady my lads. Draw, swords!"

The weight of his sabre was reassuring. Stubbins grinned fiercely. It was about bloody time! Some of the scattered French infantry fired at the approaching troopers. The nerve...

Their bugler was blowing mightly on his instrument. Charge. Finally!

Their cavalry was finally joining the fray. It was about bloody time!

"Mind your targets!" Blackwood called, the ramrod rattling as he shoved it once more back into its tubes. His company, what was left of it, had finished reloading. Around them, the Riflemen were keeping up their own fire, not adhering to any sort of firing orders. They were better at such things than the Guards.

The cheering British cavalry smashed against the French troop, sabres bared and swinging. It was a heartening sight. He found it in him, somehow, to smirk as he lifted his musket up to the Poise. Suddenly their situation didn't look quite so bleak.

"Lights! Present. Fire!"

Willoughby's sword, a new one he was able to obtain from the 15th Hussars own,was drawn in a quick arch, and held then steady in his hand. He was glad for the fact it was neither broken at the end - as his original one was -, nor curve at a point that it was not meant to be.

A French musket ball whizzed past, stray and lost on its target. Herrero did not so much as flinch or jerk his head at the sound. It was solely his ears that twitched, annoyed.

Kenley gave a cheerful whoop, having drawn his own sword, ready for the melee. His horse, as flighty as the lad's character, flicked its tail to swat away at the dirt, which had been sent into the air as the pace of the troop increased. They were close enough for it, though the ground was not a favourable one to them.

And then. The first line smashed into the opposing French. The second came to join the fight as swiftly, and then there appeared to be a sort of controlled, organised chaos, quickly deteriorating. A stabbing of blades, a slash and a cut, with pellisses doing their justified work of protecting, if slightly, the shoulders and sides that they covered.

Kenley ducked a blade and spurred his horse forward, his blade striking against that of another French trooper. To his side came the enemy's companion, but before he could strike at the lad, another of the British side came to deflect and engage the man. The two cavalries were pushing against each other, horse and man. There were also shouts and neighs of horses. Herrero had just kicked out with his hind legs when he had ended up, turned half way in the wrong direction. He stomped shakily, nearly loosing his footing as a horse's body was pressed at his shoulder.

Forbes raised his hand, straight so that his elbow was safe, but his wrist and hand could still deal a blow, and then saw it was one of his own. "Willow'by boy, no time for it." Whatever the it was.

Forbes was already pushing forward again. He had released the reins of his horse, grabbed for the coat of the enemy's trooper and pulled it back, while slicing at the man. With a curse he wound a slash come across his clothed shoulder. The thick fabric deflected some of the blow, yet it could not stop the wound from being sliced open.

There was barely room to strike with a sword, but a cat would have been even more hard pressed to be swung. Williamson shouted from somewhere to their right, ahead of them. His words though were lost in the loudness of the event.

A wild grin came onto Mayden's face, clearing away the grimace that had been there only a moment before. Maybe that officer knew his business after all.

Their own cavalry was here, at last. Mayden let out a cheer as he settled his aim on a Frog in the line that had formed several yards away. Now it was a fight!

The British were finally sending their own cavalry forward. It was too late. The dragoons were quick to form to meet this new threat and Jérémie spared a moment to think they would be able to handle the late-arriving British horsemen. That left these troublesome greenjackets to Jérémie's regiment to deal with.

"Forward again!" Sous-lieutenant Leclerc bellowed. Somehow, he was still alive. "Don't spare them!"

The short line broke and hastened forward again, bayonet-tipped muskets held before them as they moved. This time they'd break that damned square. Such formations were good only against cavalry, and that was no longer a factor.