1 June; Rifles on Retreat

Defeat was a miserable thing. Mayden kicked unhappily at a loose stone. He still couldn't believe they'd been driven off the field by the French. Those damned scheming bastards.

He was supposed to be paying attention to the terrain around him, since he was posted as flank scout, but his concentration was distracted. Remembering how the cavalry had charged, forcing the Rifles to form rally square, only to be nearly overrun by French infantry. Misery.

In the distance, he heard a trumpet but thought nothing of it.

Kyle looked exhasted after that long and brutal battle. Kyle's face was filthy, covered in gunpowder, mud, and blood. His uniform was also covered in blood and mud. He looked like a mess. He had a small wound on his left shoulder where he had been stabbed by a bayonent. Nothing to bad for Kyle. He'd been through worse, and he could still move his arms, and all he had to do was make sure to keep it bandaged up, which was what he was doing. Although he knew he'd have to change it later due to how the blood earlier had started to seep through. Kyle just shook it off for now. He had to worry about other things, like what they were going to do once they finally made it to safety.

Right now Kyle was to busy to think about the defeat they had faced yesterday. To him he thought it better not to worry about such things for now. He'd rather worry about the present and future than the past. Although he'd think on the mistakes he had made during that battle. As Kyle walked along the road, he stopped for a bit and looked around. He had lost a good number of his troops. near 40 men weren't going back home, and another 10 had been wounded or captured. Kyle felt as if he had let down his company. Kyle shook his head in shame, and continued walking on. As he did he rested his right hand on the hilt of his saber, and walked with his head held high.

Vickery paused at the sound of the trumpet. The Rifles had been even more vigilant after the past few days, with their various clashes with the French. This sounded entirely more threatening, somehow.

"Rifles, halt!" The small column of Riflemen came to a halt. He pulled his Day Book out and scribbled a rough message, before calling Meier to him and telling him to deliver it to the colonel of the nearest regiment.

Once the Rifleman had taken off, running, Vickery turned back to the job at hand. He took a look at where they were positioned in the road. "About... face! Left wheel into line... march!"

The manoeuvre would place them in a line across the road, hopefully ready to receive the French. "In your own time... Prime and load!"

The bugle call was loud and clear and hopefully Sharpe, out on flank patrol with his men, would hear it and respond.

The ringing notes of the bugle, away to his right, brought him sharply to his senses. Had the Riflemen on the road seen something? Mayden curled his hand around the lock of his rifle and looked around at the surrounding hills with renewed intent. It was unlikely any warning would be given unless there was danger.

But where was it?

Burke felt his senses, already tuned to patrol, sharpen at the sound of the trumpet. He stood up straighter, hands tightening on his rifle, and scanned the surrounding terrain to see where the threat would be coming from. Wariness and battle excitement were already beginning to thrum through him as he looked and waited for their orders.

It might have been recently going badly, sure, but they were not done fighting yet. Damn the French and their cavalry.

Kyle heard the trumpet and knew the French would be coming up behind them soon. So he turned to his men who were marching behind him. "Rifles Right wheel into line! March!" Kyle ordered. Before he gave the order he looked to see where they were in the road and they were on the opposit side of the 5/60 Rifle's. "Prime and load in your own time Rifles!" Kyle told his men, as he marched on. Kyle knew since the Rifle's were behind guarding the rear it was up to them to hold off the advancing French forces.

Well out of sight of the road, on the opposite side of a steep hill, a troop of cavalry picked its way steadily over the uneven ground. They were on the hunt, knowing there were rich pickings to be had ahead of them. The British baggage train would be virtually unprotected, with the rearguard trailing behind it a mile distant.

Another troop was advancing directly up the road, trotting almost carelessly along in a column of threes. They were no more than a distraction. It was their task to engage the rearguard and keep them busy, until the first troop came to join them.

The air was split with another trumpet call. The troop on the road would spur up to a careful canter soon. With luck they'd ride cleanly over the rearguard.

"Fix swords!" Vickery called, the bugle sending the order clearly down to the far end of the Company. If he could hear a trumpet rather than drums, that meant the pursuing, threatening French were cavalry, not infantry.

Up and down the line, the Rifles drew the long sword-bayonets and fixed them to the muzzles of their rifles. Someone muttered "For what we are about to receive..." Which made him grin, a nervous reaction. He drew his own sword and took a breath. The waiting was the worst part of an engagement.

Oh damn. The bugle's notes echoed clearly on the air. Trouble on the road. Mayden dragged out his sword-bayonet and jammed it into place before lowering his rifle to the trail so he could run back toward the rest of the company.

He had no idea still what was happening but it was clearly something bad. And it was no easy trek over this damn unfriendly terrain, either.

The second blast on the trumpet spurred Burke to also hurry back towards the company. Even without the direct order, he knew that the patrol would be called in - no need to be out watching for an enemy that had just found them.

"There they is, sir," Sergeant Talbot called in his hoarse voice. He had good eyes. Within a minute, the approaching French cavalry trotted purposefully into view, riding in a column squarely in the middle of the road.

Cotton tightened his grip on his rifle. Whatever happened, the baggage was behind them - and the Riflemen were all that stood between the civilian camp followers and the French pursuing them. He absentmindedly raised a hand to feel the bump of Maggie's locket that was hanging around his neck, tucked beneath his shirt.

He had to be here, to do his duty here, so that she would be safe, but all he wanted to do was run back down the road, find Maggie and hold her close, to reassure her that he loved her, that everything was going to be all right.

And there were the cavalry, trotting deliberately along the road. He hefted the solid weight of his rifle and prayed that they could stop the French here, that Maggie would be safe, even if it cost him his life to make sure of it.

Here they came, the buggers. They were bold enough about it too. The Rifles would have to show them they were wrong about that. Mayden gripped his rifle and ran faster. He had to rejoin his company before combat was opened.

As he watched, however, the French troop slowed to a walk and shifted their formation, moving from column to line. There were enough of the bastards, weren't there? Big fellows too. But their forming line meant more targets for the Rifles. Didn't it?

He cursed as he raced up the last slight grade, nearly falling headlong behind the greenjacketed line when his foot caught on a shallow rut.

This was going to be messy. He hoped that his roughly-scrawled note had made it to the right officer and that they would get back-up soon.

"Rifles! In your own time, fire and load!"

This was no time to spend aiming - there was no chance that any of them would be able to miss the tightly-packed French.

They had to stop the Frogs getting to the civilians, they had to.

Perkins moved in time with the fellow riflemen. His rifle had been loaded, primed and ready. It was time. They had been too used to winning in some sort ever since... some time ago. The cavalry would try to hack them down. If they managed to stop them first, it would be alright. But...that many targets...

Well. They'd do their most, wouldn't they.

No time for finesse and careful aiming. Just act as though the rifle was a musket and load and fire as quickly as possible - although loading took longer because of the rifling which was becoming more fouled with every shot fired.

Cotton spat again, the powder salty in his mouth, as he returned the ramrod. He had lost count of how many rounds he'd fired but it wasn't enough - wasn't going to be enough, dammit!!

Fire and load in their own time. The order given to the 60th seemed to be one that held for the 95th as well. Good enough! Mayden let out a breath and tucked the butt of his rifle into his shoulder. These Frogs had no idea what they were in for!

He fired, his shot cracking out alongside several others. Almost immediately he dropped the rifle butt to the dirt so he could reload. But when he glanced up, he saw that the Frog cavalry line had spurred up to a canter. They were coming on fast. Too fast for the Rifles to manage more than a few shots a man.

Damnable bastards!

Seeing the cavalry speed their charge, Burke cursed. He fired his rifle on the oncoming line, and reached quickly for another shot, hoping to make the most of the little time they had. The entire situation was starting to feel entirely too familiar. One thing was certain, he was well and truly sick of French cavalry.

A gravelly voice boomed out a command. The trumpet blared an instant later and men in the cavalry line put their spurs back. The distance remaining was not great at all. It would take only a few seconds for it to be covered at the gallop.

Sergeant Talbot watched the charge impassively. Bold bastards, weren't they? He glanced at his officer. What were the odds he'd give the necessary order in time? Did he even know enough? Better not to tempt fate.

"Close up," Talbot called gruffly. "Shoulder to shoulder, Ninety-Fifth! Meet 'em with steel."

This was going to be a messy fight. Sharpe had no idea what the outcome was going to be, but he knew one thing - even without his three rules, the greenjackets were going to fight like the Devil himself.

They had to.

He pulled a cartridge from his pouch, loading his rifle with all the speed of sixteen years' experience.

The Rifles were formed up right across the road, their flanks protected by the steep hills, ensuring that if they held their nerve, they were nearly as safe as id they were in square. "Steady... Wait for it..."

Something wasn't right, though. His gut instinct was that something wasn't right.

The newer Rifleman to the group, though certainly not the least experienced man, had certainly not been paying attention as the numerous sounds of bugles and shouts had echoed across the fields. His eyes had been case on the road, rifle slung lazily in hold as he had marched, and his mind was either possessed with the thoughts of York, or the repeating process of reloading a rifle as opposed to musket fire. Thinking of York, of course, was hardly a warming thought to him, but it wasn't warmth he needed in the Spanish sun, but water which came in glorious abundance in the English weather. The other thoughts, pertaining to reloading and firing, was more engaging to his brain, and distracting as such until the calls came out for the wheel across the road.

Suddenly that rifle was in his hands again, and for a moment he had no idea what it was he was expected to do. The bugle reached his ears, and the French cavalry would not be far behind its damning tone. Dropping the butt of the rifle to the ground on the order of priming, his new weapon tapped firmly against the ground as his fingers fiddled around for a cartridge from his ammo sack. Picking one out, he performed the basic procedure which had repeated in his mind countless times on their way towards the security of the rest of the British force. Bite, pour, spit, tap, aim. That had been what he was shown from the other members of the 95th, and was entirely different to the usual method of ramming the bullet down with a ramrod.

He was quickly ready now, though, and his rifle presented the dangerous end to the cavalry as they made their appearance on centre stage, fanning out intimidatingly across the road ready to mow down the retreating infantry. He fired, with smoke and black powder exploding from the barrel, and the Frenchman who had been his target fell to the ground beneath the hooves of the remaining cavalry. It would have been encouraging if it had been a noticeable dent, but the empty space was easily filled by another of the oncoming force, and he was already reloading for his next shot by this point, the comfortable sounds of friendly rifles echoing around his ears.

More shots, more powder, less spit and the ever approaching horses. Each shot seeming to bring them closer, though he certainly knew that stopping the firing wouldn't make the problem go away. Fixing his pointy end, though, was a welcome change as the cavalry began their increase in speed, preparing to smash the lines. Sharpe's orders for them to hold were felt across the line and his was raised, ready to either parry the first downward strike from the mounted Frogs, or knock one off his horse and onto his arse.

God but there was no stopping those bastards! Mayden levelled his rifle again after hastily reloading and fired almost immediately, scarcely without aiming. With the range closing fast, it was hard to miss. The horsemen were seemingly fearless. It didn't seem to matter to them that they were losing comrades, or that they were riding fast down on a formed line of infantry.

Steady. Steady. He worked the ramrod down the barrel then out again, managing somehow not to skin his knuckles raw on the fixed sword. Steady. That was the real trick. Hold his place and not flinch. The ramrod clattered down its tubes. No time to fire again, though. Mayden dropped to one knee, planting his rifle butt firmly against the ground, the long sword-bayonet angled outward. Steady. Wait for it.

Vickery paced up and down behind his own men, his sword drawn. The front rank were kneeling now, as though they were one face of a square. The two sides were provided by the steep hills on either side of the road, and of course there was no need for a fourth side.

They couldn't do platoon volleys, not with only enough men for three platoons, but they could do a rolling ripple: Each pair of men firing as soon as the pari to their left had fired. And that would give them continuous fire - hopefully.

But the first volley had to be a massed volley, to get as many horses down as they could. And they couldn't leave it too late to fire it, or the dying horses would break their line.

"Wait for it... Wait.... FIRE!"

Burke held his fire as he planted his rifle steadily against the ground. He could feel the pounding of the horses hooves vibrating up through his whole body, and every muscle tensed in anticipation. The line of cavalry drew nearer and nearer. One of the horses was bearing directly down on where he was crouched.

With a shout, Burke thrust his bayonet up into the beast's throat, firing the shot in his rifle as he did so. He threw himself back and away from the creature's flailing hooves as it reared back and fell, trying to close his ears to the terrible noise it made. The smell of singed fur and blood clawed at his nose.

The rider was trapped under his fallen mount, but there were plenty more coming.

Cotton fired, almost blindly, but the horses were a big target and coming fast, so it didn't matter. He pulled another cartridge from his pouch. They had to stop the horses here - they had to.

The only thing he could think - when he was conscious of thinking at all - was that every shot he fired was in Maggie's defence, because it meant that there was one less horse or rider left to threaten the baggage. And to get to her, they would have to get through him first.