6 June, morning - Bump on the head

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.

Foucheaux was operating purely by instinct and adrenalin now, which was all for the best since he was no great thinker. He and Kerjean were only two men, but the enemy might be fooled into thinking it was a larger group of reinforcements. And so it was the time to make as much noise as possible.

"Aaaaaah!" he yelled, charging wildly through brambles and water with no particular goal in sight. He was simply running, crashing about, being large and loud. He could not see the enemy yet, neither escaped British prisoners nor Portuguese guerrillas, but this was no time to save on powder and shot. He fired into the air and immediately began to reload. Noise would surely help things. It had to!

"Foucheaux! Keep behind me," Paol called, pausing to fix his bayonet before plunging forward again. However this went, there was no sense in them both getting shot for Portuguese.

He flinched as a ball grazed his elbow and the brush around them seemed to shudder as another volley ripped through it. Then, quite suddenly, he was on the outer edge of the fight. He could see the French and among them some of his mates, but between him and them, the partisans were in chaos, some retreating, others charging. Directly ahead of him, a band had just clashed with the front rank. Not daring to fire his weapon, Paol quickly reversed it and charged, swinging. The first went down instantly. The glancing blow did little damage to his mate, but it was enough to panic a few of them who knew only that there were suddenly French behind them. Two took bayonets in the back as they turned and another, maybe more managed to flee farther into the marsh.

With an inarticulate yell, St Laurent drove his bayonet at the man before him, only to have it knocked aside and the partisan's weapon turned on him. The butt of the man's ancient piece struck his jaw and he staggered back, managing somehow to drag his own weapon after his enemy's and thrust blindly at his chest. The bayonet lodged between the man's ribs and the corporal had to fight to keep from behind pulled along as the partisan lurched backwards.

The thundering of musket fire from the rank behind buffeted St Laurent, its volley finishing the man -- and several others -- more efficiently than the corporal's bayonet thrust.

He had no chance to reload before a blue clad form, then another burst into the open not far away. St Laurent could not believe what he was seeing. "Hold your fire!" he bellowed, bringing up his musket to block the wild swing of a blade. "Let them through!"

The noise was nervewracking, the sharp reports of muskets not only from within the French ranks but all around them, the harsh yells and then screams of both anger and pain, Francois tried to focus on his front but it wasn't easy. And then they came, a wild bunch of Portuguese devils rushed right for them. His corporal, Laurent, engaged the first one to make it. Francois and some others managed to get off a ragged volley, dropping the lead ones at least. The boy hesitated to move forward then and use his bayonet fixed rifle, even though he knew he should help his comrade.

There was more shouting and some of the Portuguese turned to see someone behind them. More Frenchmen! Not many but it did panic an already crumbling attack, the Portuguese now decided to try and flee. Encouraged, Francois gave what he hoped would be a fierce sounding warcry and, leveling his musket, charged. He caught up to a fool of a Portuguese who had not decided to flee in time and thrust his bayonet full into the man's back right between the shoulders. With a loud moan the victim pitched forward as Francois followed him down continuing to shove the bayonet in to the very hilt. Putting his shoe onto the back of the dying man's shoulder, the boy then pulled the bayonet out with a twist and yank, like they had been taught back in France. Only this was no simple drill, Francois had just killed a man. Mon dieu, he felt sick.

"Hold!" The corporal shouted as though sheer force of will could keep the others from following Seviere's example. "Seviere! Dammit--" Without thinking, he rushed forward, grabbing for the boy's collar to pull him back.

He didn't get any real time to regret his enemy's death as suddenly he was yanked back with his corporal's loud voice behind his ear, "Seviere! Damnit!"

Had he done something wrong? Francois turned, "Sorry, corporal."

Even though the man might be furious with him, he preferred to look at Laurent's face than glance at his bloody bayonet or even worse, glance back down at the corpse he'd created.

"Never break formation." He had seen false retreats succeed where cavalry charges failed. It was not a lesson anyone should have to learn the hard way. There was, however, one less enemy to worry about. And cleanly dispatched, especially given that this was, as far as the corporal was aware, the first real action the boy had seen. Perhaps he would outlast the month after all -- assuming they ever made it out of this damned swamp.

Now Foucheaux fired, and he hit his man. The enemy (Portuguese irregulars, it seemed) were fleeing though, and he was less interested in giving chase than with joining his friends. "Saint Laurent!" he called, spotting the corporal with that same boy they had rescued earlier.

Foucheaux. Foucheaux? St Laurent stared at him in consternation. If his mind was playing a trick, it was a cruel one. But it couldn't be. Kerjean was there as well, he'd just seen him take out several of the Portuguese. "You son of a bitch!" he cried, his voice hoarse from shouting. He could have punched Foucheaux for this. Or hugged him. Or both. "We thought you was dead!"

Now that made no sense at all. Why should he be dead? But that hardly mattered now. "What are we doing?" he shouted while reloading. Had they been ambushed? Or was there some particular objective in fighting with these Portuguese?