6 June, morning - Bump on the head

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?

What were they doing? "What the hell does it look like?" he shouted back, managing not to skewer his hand on his bayonet this time as he rammed the wadding down his musket barrel.

"Never break formation," was Laurents gruff order and Francois nodded wide-eyed.

"Yes, I won't," he finally found his voice then remembered his musket was unloaded.

Without delay he began the loading process which had been drilled into them all, step by step until they could do it without thinking. Meanwhile he listened to the veteran's back and forth, not venturing to comment though.

After he had used his one shot, Bastien had been reduced to hold off enemies who came to close with his sword. He made short work of the first Portuguese he encountered, a young man who had never been taught how to defend himself against melee weapons. The next, however, had obviously had some tryining, and in addition had a partner who had stayed close, and Bastien had gotten into a dirty little fray that he had only been able to end after another soldier had used his bayonet on one of the opponends.

At the edge of his vision he had noticed the two French soldiers who had suddenly appeared, but he hadn't had the chance to react back then. Now however, he came over, cleaning his sword with a very nice (and now totally ruined) handkerchief with the omnious initials 'JB'. He nodded at the corporal.

"Everyone still in fighting shape? Who are you two gentlemen?" Suddenly one of his slightly mad grins split his face. "You came just in time!"

Foucheaux gaped at the officer who was grinning like a loon. Reasonable enough that the man should not remember a simple soldat that he had only briefly seen, what, an hour ago? But to call him a gentleman? The man must have been cracked on the head.

"Just Soldat Foucheaux, sir, of the 86e. Are we gettin' outta here?" It looked like the Portuguese were fleeing for the moment. But it would not take them long to realize that there had been no real reinforcements.

Paol regarded the lieutenant warily. "Soldat Kerjean, sir. Also of the 86e."

Bastien nodded.

"Yes, we are - the moment the sergeant tells me all are up and ready again - or at least patched up enough to take them along. We don't want to give the impression that we are fleeing and our morals are down. They would read it as an invitation."

He looked wistfully in the direction the two men had come from.

"There's no chance that the rest of the company is following you or that there is a perfectly good path there, is there? Not that having you two with us isn't brilliant in its own right, of course."

He cracked another smile, but his eyes were wary, and when they fell on a man swaying slightly, the gash on his head just being roughly bandaged by one of his comrades to stop the blood from getting into his eyes, he bit his lip.

Paol shook his head. "No, sir. Sorry, sir." He thought for a moment, then added, "Though it ain't far to drier ground that way, sir."

St Laurent dropped to his knees beside Balincourt. Laramie, an ugly gash just above one eye -- from the lock of a musket, the corporal guessed -- was doing his best to jury rig a splint for the boy's leg. "How is he?"

The look Laramie gave him suggested just what he thought of this question. "We can't move him. Not like we been doin'."

"No," St Laurent agreed. "Navarre?" An answering grunt sounded from just behind him. He half turned, but faltered at the sight of the other man. The southerner looked like hell.

Navarre must have guessed his thoughts, because his mouth twisted in the barest smirk. "Like lookin' in a mirror."

The harsh exhalation might almost have been a laugh. "Hell no, you're shorter'n I am."

Navarre snorted. "You need a stretcher?"

"Aye," St Laurent nodded, "Get Davout and--" He broke off sharply, but too late. Navarre's expression darkened and St Laurent felt his own face grow hot. "See if you can find some goddamn branches," he finished angrily. "And stay close! You," he gestured to one of the light infantry men, "Go with him."

How could things have gone so wrong in the space of a single morning? The prisoners -- were La Salle and Devereux even alive? -- the ambush, Davout, Balincourt... If he had only let the officer take the damned bleusaille, if he hadn't volunteered for the pursuit, Christ, if he had just not ****ed things up in the first place with the prisoners, none of it would have happened.

A muffled curse from Laramie recalled his attention and he turned to see the other man clutching gingerly at his side.

"You're hit?"

"No." Laramie grimaced, "Yes. Bayonet across the ribs is all."

"Let me see."

Reluctantly Laramie pulled up his coat and shirt to reveal the gash across his chest. It was as he had described.

"Yeah, yeah, I'll see to it," he grumbled before St Laurent could say anything and, after some hesitation, the corporal pushed to his feet and began to make his way among the others. A handful were hurting, but mercifully none were seriously wounded.

Navarre and the other man returned shortly with saplings and branches, and with the aid of several great coats, two stretchers were quickly fashioned, one for Balincourt and the other to carry the body of one killed in the initial exchange of fire. They were no ambulances volantes, but they would do.

Once all appeared to be in order, St Laurent approached the lieutenant. "Ready to move out, sir."

Morel rolled his eyes. " He wasn't calling either of you gentlemen couse he thought you were up some ranks..." Rousseau hefted the weight of their load a bit to the side. He shifted a bit.

"Ain't calling someone a bastard, couse he's really born one." Morel added as an afterthought, and then turned to glance behind them and off to the side. Easy, slow, safe retreat without panic would get them far.

They were ready too, and their load remained unconscious. For now. Rousseau gave him a jab under the ribs, just to make sure of it. The Portuguese man was not faking it, since the movement waso nly that of a body..not intend on moving at all.

Bastien nodded.

"Alright, Corporal, get the men moving. Kerjean, Foucheaux, help Greville and Hugo to find us a way out of here."

From somewhere inside his coat he fished out a silver hip-flask, pulled out the cork and offered it to Balincourt.

"Here, take a good swig. It will be a bumpy ride, and we can't have you screaming." He grinned. "I'll make you throw up the booze again, though, if you should turn out one of those drunks who insist on singing sentimental ditties!"

The barest flush tinged Balincourt's cheeks, but drained almost immediately. He was not yet so dazed with pain that the implication of weakness was lost on him. He wouldn't scream. No, he wouldn't. He wouldn't.

"He won't scream, sir," he heard Laramie's clipped assertion. No, he wouldn't. He wouldn't cry. He wouldn't scream.

With what little strength he had, he struggled to push himself up on one elbow and take the proffered flask. The liquid burned going down, making him cough, but it was a comforting sort of warmth in his belly. He forced a smile as he returned it to the officer -- he didn't trust his voice -- and collapsed back onto the stretcher.

From nearby he could hear the corporal's voice calling orders. Balincourt stiffened as he was raised off the ground, but the splint and the stretcher kept the movement from jarring his leg very much. The pain was still intense, but nothing could compare with the constant jarring, twisting and bending his knee had undergone during their initial flight.

They were moving now.

"We'll have you back at camp real soon." Balincourt felt a hand on his arm and as his eyes focused he recognized the corporal. "Sawbones'll fix you good as new." Then he was gone. Or maybe it was just that his eyes were shut. Balincourt was past caring. He kept his eyes closed and tried to think of home. Summers, when it was hot like this. Though never quite this hot. No place was as hot as Portugal. Or Spain. Though from what the older soldiers said of St Domingue...

Foucheaux looked with concern at young Balincourt, and he glanced over his friends to quickly take in their injuries, but there was no time to chat. He jerked his head to Kerjean. "C'mon. Let's find our way outta here."

Francois saw the pain Balincourt was in and then glanced over to the body of their killed comrade, he felt relief he had so far been lucky enough to be unscathed. Now if his luck could only hold until they were away from this evil place and it's damned Portuguese.

He was definitely ready to move on out, as he tightly gripped his now reloaded musket.

Reluctantly Paol fell in step with Foucheaux. He wanted to stay with his mates and help. Though he supposed finding a way out of there was the best thing he could do for them now. Still, he was rubbish at this sort of thing. He knew the general direction they had come, but he hadn't been watching where he was going. Nothing looked familiar. However, here at least his height served him well and he could see over the reeds and brush in places which made navigation easier.

Before long the ground beneath them began to grow firmer and Paol crossed himself silently. They were nearly there.

The ground was rising, and hopefully that meant they were nearly at the high spot where he had first heard shots. Foucheaux spoke quietly, giving the aforementioned Greville and Hugo a cautious look. "This way, innit?" he asked Kerjean. "Where you fell, right?" He had not paid much attention to Kerjean's plight at the time, but he was noticing and remembering nettles now.