26th of May, late afternoon - Arriving back to camp

To say that Hunter was angry with himself was like saying that water is a little wet. Not only he managed to lose a prisoner through falling asleep, he managed to get himself almost lost in the damned woods trying to make his way back to the army.

He had to do a fair amount of catching up but, thankfully, his horse rested while he was lying out cold, huge bump on his head compliments of the young french liuetenant, and he covered the distance in relatively short time. Still, it was late afternoon by the time he got close to the column and the injuries, lack of sleep and exhaustion were starting to take their tall.

He kept jerking himself awake in the saddle. "Perfect. Not only I look a right scarecrow, I'm also about to fall out of the saddle. Stunning example of an aide-de-camp."

A small patrol of horsemen had ridden alongside the column for the greater part of the day. Often they had diverted their paths from those that the regiments of foot took. At times the reason was merely, that the land was in places better suited for their horses not to slip. Another reason was also merely to chase after a 'faux Frenchman.

Willoughby had followed along with his peers, Herrero behaving rather well for the most part. Knowing that they would soon stop, their horses no longer needed to be saved for the long march and could let off some of the steam of the prolonged and tedious walk. With a sharp press to the sides it was Kenley who started off first. Cornett Burlingame unsurprisingly had been seen leaning to the lad, and must have well instigated the whole ordeal.

But perhaps the lad had known better than he appeared to, ordering the men to such an act, when the ground had been prickled with trees. The column had stopped.

While others had begun to make camp, they were safe with the knowledge that other troopers of their regiment would do the same for them. The small group disperssed and soon Willoughby found himself on his own. He heard the shouts, and those too became quieter urging him to follow the men in that direction if only Herrero would have wanted to obey. The animal though chose a different path, chose to go slow, and now even stop. He bucked and backed. Neighed his head and broke of into a gallop but not where the Hussar had wanted him.

Forced to duck first, Willoughby had to wait for the chance to reign the beast in. And did so at the next opportune moment, cursing the animal colourfuly.

Up till he heard there a snap of a twig, and his hand had gone for the holster where his carbine, and then chose instead to clasp hold of his sword. He saw a glimpse of a horse not far off, and he was certain it had been none of their own.

Hunter tried to collect his wits now that he was definitely or was soon to be in the presence of other soldiers. He wasn't wearing his uniform and it was doubtful that a lot of people new him by face. He squinted in the direction of the sound.

He would have known that horse anywhere! Finally, his luck was coming back to him.

"Willoughby!" He called, his voice sounding weaker than he expected.

Willoughby? It stunned the cavalryman enough not to charge or sound alarm at the appearance of this shaggy looking man, who luckily did not appear to resemble any smart dress of a French own cavalry. Why would the enemy be calling his name anyhow?

With some caution on his part, he spurred the horse, and this time Herrero obliged, towards the stranger. His hand remained at the hilt of his sword for the while, till he caught glimpse of a face under the layer of dirt. "Hunter, sir!" His hand released the sword and moved to the reigns.

He had not slowed his horse, but this time it was to meet with the man sooner, for his state was terrible indeed. "..sir!" This was the man whose location had been unknown but for a short time. "You look as if you have taken a whole army onto yourself and lost." He spoke, but rather than wit offered to help, else Hunter might slide of his horse in earnest.

"Not a whole army, but lose I did." Hunter managed a wry smile "God, am I glad to see you, Willoughby. I hate to admit it, but no one would have believed that I am an officer of this army if tried to ride into the camp. I am afraid you are going to have to escort me." Hunter gripped the bridles with enough force to make his knuckled whiten. "Just hold on until your tent and then you can pass the maps on to Wellesley, - thank God, I still have them, - and rest." He thought.

"I will be honoured to." Willoughby gave a sharp nod, gazing reprovingly at the state of Hunter's clothes. Not even a uniform, as he had said, to recognise him by. He decided it was not his business to ask as to why he was out of it in the first place. Though he was curious of what battle he had lost, to appear so tired, yet fortunate not to bleed all over.

He turned his horse about so that they now rode side by side. "I can take the reins of your horse, so that you may better rest, sir. Although we are not far." He offered, being fine with either decision. He would alert the others of his departure from the game, later.

"Thank you for the offer, Willoughby, but let me keep what dignity I have left," Hunter smiled to soften his rebuke. "Has anything", Hunter paused looking for the right words, "of note happened in the past day or two?"

"Nothing that should trouble you, sir." Willoughby answered after sparing some thought to the past day's events. There was nothing that he remembered as such. Perhaps on the ride back he could recollect a more forward event that might interest the captain. He took to riding a head's length further back to Hunter, thus giving him some way as an officer.

"The army had just begun setting up camp when we .. had gone." He smiled, a hint of mischief in that tone, well concealed though by the calmness of his voice. "Ah.." It had hit him, and he was surprised he had forgotten of it earlier. " There has been something. " He glanced at Hunter wondering whether the man was sooner to doze to sleep than listen, but said it never the less: "We've have had a small... encountering with the Portuguese, and took from them a French prisoner. A woman in fact." He looked disapproving. "... we have had them under guard, till ordered to let them go."

"Indeed? Do you know how she came to be captured by them?" Hunter asked Willoughby, though the answer did not interest him much. He longed to lie down and sleep.

"No, sir. But I suppose in the usual manner sir. By being left behind while the French were fleeing." He shrugged. "She had a child wish her and was terribly afraid for it. The Portuguese had injured it so..." He gazed ahead, ducking a low branch which came across his path. He could not exactly veer to the left and he chose not to slow or stop his horse just to avoid it.

"..There was another thing.. though I've heard it more as a rumour. Did not have the... poor fortune of seeing it." The bustle of a military camp was becoming louder, easily suggesting them nearing their destination. "The riflemen of the 60th, the red collars, were said to have found gutted French men. Not alike the sort the Portuguese leave behind." He looked at Hunter. "..killed.. but not tortured...though I am certain that if they did find them, ... well..." He shrugged again. "There was word of a survivor too.."

Now this was definitely more interesting, though Hunter tried not to show it. After all, may it were some other Frenchmen that were found. It's not like there was a lack of them in the area.
"Well, I cannot say I am surprised to hear that. Were there many of them?"

"Hmm.. " The rumours had started somewhere. Of course the number of men found could be anything between 8 up to 12 and more, depending of whom you were listening to. "I've heard 8...and I've heard more." He said. "Nine, too.. if you count the man that survived. "

"I see. Men lagging behind their regiment I suppose." Hunter pretended to muse on the subject. He caught the curious glances of soldiers as they went deeper into camp and wished to be back in his uniform.

"Probably so, sir." Willoughby dismissed any idea that they could have been anyone else. If the French prisoner had said anything at all, it was not translated into the language that the men would understand or be able to report to others. They would not have known their origin, even if that prisoner had said the truth. But if he had little reason to, his identity would remain as solely one of the French soldiers lagging behind.

He lead his found 'prize' past and amongst some of the camp fires, leaning them directly - or as directly he was able - towards the tent set to be Wellington's, unless more fortunate to have had his subordinates find himself a house to sleep in.

"The French are still on the run." He spoke, as a final means of a report.

(Not sure, but i suppose it would be a tent rather than a building!)

Although Hunter had arrived in camp his living quarters had not been yet put up. First reason had easily been that nobody knew of his arrival yet, though this would be soon to change. While some of the younger men of their troop had entered and thus also continued the chase unawares that one of its players had gone to play a guide and servant to one of the ADC's, there were still those who had been setting up their camp, had settled their horses, gave them feed and water and were preparing to boil tea.

Henry Eliot was one of those men. When he noticed the spotted horse, and with him the familiar rider in company of a terribly shaggy civilian, he turned to Thorne Hadfield, an old hand, and muttered about his discovery. Hadfield turned from where he stood, arms full of collected twigs and wood and spoke to Eliot in turn.

With a curt nod, the reserved, willowy companion approached Willoughby. "A prisoner?" He asked, surprised perhaps that one such would be found when the French were up ahead, fleeing.

Willoughby gazed at Eliot with a small shake of his head. "Hardly. One of our own." He grinned. "Lost and found." He added in a quieter tone.