6 June, morning - Bump on the head

In the moment that the Portuguese man twisted around to zero in on their officer, Rousseau jumped forward and tackled the man to the floor. Morel swung his musket at the struggling man, and aimed at his head. A thump was heard and the body under Rousseau slackened and remained motionless even as the other man got off of him.

Morel nudged the side of the Portuguese man, jabbed him under the ribs, but the man made not so much as a gasp. "...He's out."

"And breathing." He whispered after he checked that.

"Good!"

Bastien took up the weapon, checked it, then crounched down to cover their retreat.

"Good work! Now get him back to the others."

"Sir." Morel hefted the man onto his shoulders, Rousseau, took both muskets and the old fowling peace. He did not mean to use it, he just did not want to leave it behind where somebody could make use of it. Once he could safely dispose of it, in the marsh, he would do so.

Brunet couldn't very well do anything against a direct order, but he dragged his feet for as long as he could. suddenly he stilled, then brought his musket to bear, but didn't yet pull the trigger.

"Corporal!" he hissed.

Perhaps it was pure wishful thinking, but he thought he had seen something coming towards them without shooting. And even if it turned out to be false, it would give them a few more seconds, and if the lieutenant was still alive, he could come back, and stop this, and get them out of here ...

St Laurent swung round savagely. "What?" Then he looked where Brunet was indicating, saw the movement in the brush, saw the weather worn flashes of blue, the hints of all too familiar outlines. St Laurent swore. "Hold your fire!" he shouted, careless of who heard him now, "We got some of our lads comin' through. You lot, I want suppressing fire across the area to their right. Brunet, same for your lads across the left."

He brought his own musket up and fired. Those bastards; he'd never been so damn glad to see them.

Morel laboured under the Portuguese that they've caught themselves. Their pick had not been light to begin with, but having to navigate the slippery, slurpy, muck which dared call itself ground, just made it all the harder.

Rousseau noticed, with some relief, that their fellow French were still present and had noticed them. "Over there, sir."

This for once was an instruction Brunet was very happy to obey. His musket barked out loud, cutting into the reeds close to where he thought he had seen a brown shape.

His fingers flew over the musket as he reloaded.

---

Bastien kept a few steps behind his men. Not so much that he would have lost contact or not realized when they were attacked from the side, but enough to give him room to engage and bind any enemy, if necessary.

"Go on then. Make sure they recognize you and don't see that sack of rice over your shoulder first!"

Once more Francois brought up his rapidly loaded musket and fired into the shadows, they were ordered to provide covering fire so it seemed some of their men were linking up with the rest of them. As he then began the reloading process, he watched the newcomers. It was that officer! Finally! And also someone was being carried over a man's shoulder? And whoever it was he was not wearing a French uniform.

He was so busy watching the goings on, he accidentally dropped the musket ball into the water instead of down the barrel. Muttering to himself he reached in for another ball, determined to do it right this time.

"Friend." Morel called out when they were close enough. He lowered his load briefly, so that only their uniforms could be seen. Then he brought the big unconscious sack of human over his shoulder again and with a few shifts continued up towards the small plateu on which the remaining French were.

Rousseau walked ahead of him now, one musket in arm, the other slung over his shoulder. He grinned noticing the young lad that they've met with a nasty bump on his head, he saw some other familiar faces , still alive, their owners still kicking. "We've got our officer." He announced.

Cursing as his clumsy, left-handed attempt to ram the wadding down left his bayonet tip bloody, St Laurent pulled the musket into his shoulder and squeezed the trigger.

Nothing happened.

Hell, not a misfire. Not now. He began to lower the weapon, but caught sight of the third figure emerging from the reeds behind the other two men and checked. The lieutenant was alive? He was the reason Morel and Rousseau had fallen behind?

Without warning, the musket in his hands bucked, knocking him back as it drove into his chest. Doubling over, he clutched for the weapon, only just managing to recover it before it hit the ground. A hang fire; he should have damn well known better!

Francois heard the announcement and was tempted to ask them, "Did he try to desert?" but held off on that once he saw the actual officer appear. Granted he was still fairly new to the army but he had never seen an officer behave like this one. Weren't they supposed to stay with their units and command them or at times steady them when things were going badly?

There was a dead or unconscious Portuguese with them also? He wondered what was worth such an effort? His thoughts were interrupted by a loud shot close by...a hang fire. He couldn't help but flash a bit of a smile at St.Laurent and in truth it could happen to anyone.

As the musket's report rang out, Bastien suddenly flinched. There was a silver reflection as something slowly spiralled to the ground, and the lieutenant called out softly:

"Oi! Friend! Careful there!"

He quickly scrambled up behind Rousseau and Morel.

"How are we faring?"

St Laurent felt the blood drain from his face at the called warning. He hadn't turned the musket towards the lieutenant, surely? Had he? The officer seemed unharmed, but Christ, there was no excuse for that kind of carelessness.

"One wounded," he reported, his face flushing darkly, though little was visible beneath the blood and grime, "The Portuguese are moving up on our flanks. From what I could see, our clearest way out of here looks to be to the west, but they'll have that closed off if we don't move quickly."

Bastien quickly looked around, then nodded to the nearest soldiers. "Tie our guest up properly and make sure he can't yell. Lively now."

Then adressed St Laurent again:

"All ready to go. Good. Show me where you think!"

He darted up to the highest point where he got a good view of the landscape around them. When he had reached it, he looked around, squinting his eyes against the low morning sun. More quietly, so that the men wouldn't hear, he continued:

"Keep the men close together ... the Portuguese go for stranglers and loners. Wounded and prisoner, and one man for each of them, in the middle. They might try there luck one last time before we get out of here."

Following the officer, St Laurent pointed in the direction which had seemed to offer the most likely escape from the swamp, listening to the lieutenant's instructions without comment.

"Aye, sir," he replied when the other man had finished speaking. Part of him wanted to object to the presence of the prisoner, but he was not about to delay them further by arguing. Ducking low, he turned and half walked, half slipped down the rise to where the others waited.

"We're moving out," he called, barking out the placements in a staccato undertone, "Morel, get that prisoner up. I want you and Rousseau in the center. Same goes for Laramie and Balincourt. You, what's your name? Allard? You're with them as well. Brunet, you'll be in the van with your half of the lads. Rest of you are with me, bringing up the rear."

Bastien had called over the two men that had already served as trackers before. From his gestures it became clear that he was outlining the path he intended to take out of this swamp. It was rather what St Laurent had proposed.

Then he send them to take point and went one last time through the ranks. He exchanged a few words with Balincourt and the prisoner's guards, then came to St Laurent's side. His eyes flew for a moment to the man's arm, and he seemed about to say something, but obviously thought better of it. Instead, he asked:

"All ready? I'll be up front. Sing out if the dogs nip at your heels."

Morel and Rousseau had their prisoner tucked between them. The man was still unconscious but now he was tied well enough with what the French had with them, that he could not dream of escaping. He had also been gagged, as ordered.

They watched the two men, the Prayon and St. Laurent with mild curiosity then abruptly turned to look in the direction that they were to start off. "..Why're we taking him along?" Morel whispered to his friend who shrugged. "Information maybe."

At last they were getting out of there! Francois was more than ready to follow anyone's orders or go any direction if they could just get out of this damned swamp and away from the Portuguese devils.

He then moved to keep up with everyone else. His musket was loaded but he was going to save the shot for a proper target not these shadows and noises.

The terrain steadily deteriorated as they descended from the rise. Sinking through a veneer of swamp weed, St Laurent slogged along, the water swirling about his knees. The shots coming from the Portuguese had grown fewer, but now they ceased altogether. He looked back and thought for a moment he saw several figures skylined against the top of the rise. Then they were gone.

The corporal suppressed a shudder. The relative silence was far more unnerving than their firing had been. "Stay sharp," he said softly, but loud enough to be heard, "They'll be comin' at us again before long."

Bastien was up front with his two trackers, Greville and Hugo. There was of course not much they could actually track right now, since the purpose was rather to get out of the swamp as fast as possible. But they were both steady and experienced and used to taking point. And it did help that they also were quite good at recognizing swamp holes and similar obstacles.

Bastien left finding the way to them. Instead he kept his eyes on their surroundings. It was obvious that he expected the Portuguese to be there. Every so often, his eyes glanced over his own men, checking whether all were still present and in reasonable shape.

With the light now better, their progress wasn't quite as slow as before, but still unpassable stretches, roots in the marsh water, reeds, and sometimes even animals, especially of the crittery and bloodsucking kind, made their retreat difficult, time-consuming and exhausting.

There was no warning, only the full throated roar of a volley and the air around them filled with screams and howling battle cries. The Portuguese were everywhere.



[ooc] Figuring the Portuguese are making a final gamble to try to get their mate back. Am happy to change if folks want something different. [/ooc]

[From here]

Amidst the general tumult, there were new French cries coming from the direction of their camp.

The sloshing seemed to have no end to it all and Francois was tired, even given his youth. But he understood the necessity of setting a hard pace, they needed to escape. Only they didn't quite make it when the Portuguese launched a new and even more fierce assault from all directions.

A ragged volley from their tormentors ripped into the Frenchmen and a soldier next to Francois just dropped like a sack of grain, hit right above the ear, killed instantly. Francois swallowed but did not fire back wildly even though his musket was loaded. No, he expected they'd possibly charge now and he would get his best chance to actually gun one down as the Portuguese closed in.

"Think he'll want him alive." Rousseau cursed. They had dropped their load, and though both he and Morel remained relatively unharmed, they were all to aware that they were not safe. The Portuguese appeared out of the marshes just like that.

There was a hesitant pause as Morel looked up. "Did you hear...." Had there been French shouted further away from their little group? It did not sound Portuguese, but.... could it have been?

When the first shots rang out, Bastien immediately doubled back. It didn't take him long to realize that this was an all-out final assault, and he began giving orders. The soldiers were dispatched so that no angle the Portugues might attack from was undefended, and their attack was answered with a disciplined continuous fire, making coming close much more difficult. He encouraged, steadied, gave directions, and didn't seem to worry in the least about the bullets flying towards them.

When one of the soldiers yelped in pain as a bullet lodged itself in his arm, the lieutenant quickly stepped in and brought up his own weapon. The old fowling piece he had picked up from one of his victims belched and spit out a bullet, but whether it hit anyone was a matter of chance.

Bastien muttered a string of quite vitriolic curses. Then suddenly he tilted his head, listened for a second, and suddenly cried:

"Vive L'Empereur! Vive L'Empereur!"

Relief was close, and they needed to know where friends and enemies were. And of course there was also the small fact that the battle cry had conquered most of Europe and the Portuguese had nothing adequate to answer it with.