6 June, morning - Bump on the head

Francois frowned as Laurent criticized not only his idea but had to go and point out his inexperience. Well, he might be green but he could run and hide a whole lot better than Laurent, he would wager. And he was faster too, of that he was certain.

The officer sided with the veteran though and once he made his pronouncements, the young soldat knew further argument would not be appreciated so he merely nodded.

"Yes sir."

Still if there were more than one of the so-called lunatics, then how did they know they were still not being watched? Well, he wasn't in charge. The officer was. He left it at that.

Two hundred yards seemed much farther in the forest than it did on open ground and by the time they reached the point of splitting from the column, St Laurent had had ample time to consider his most recent decisions. The struggle to keep fully alert was enough to forestall neither the nagging doubt nor the creeping sense of self disgust which lingered even after he had thrust away the former. Still, there was no backing out now.

Bastien was the first to slip unobtrusively from the column. Keeping low to the ground he carefully worked his way back again. Quick glances to the men behind him and now spreading out to the side made sure that his orders were followed and everything went as quiet as possible.

Stealthily he moved towards the point where the figure had dropped from the tree; the darkness and undergrowth that had concealed their attacker now worked to their advantage, yet if the enemy had thought far enough to have placed a sentry even when the British had obviously gone back to camp, it would be as hard to spot him as he would be able to spot them.

The nonchalant stance had vanished from Bastien's behaviour now. He was concentrated, always listening, his eyes searching the shadows. It was hard to believe that this was still the same man that usually either set the camp by its ears or got dressed down for it, but it was suddenly much clearer why this man still held an officer's commission.

Navarre began to drift farther afield without needing to be told. He was no tracker, but he was the only one of the corporal's handful of men who was worth a damn in the woods. St Laurent looked around next for the boy. "Seviere," he called in a hoarse whisper, tugging one of his crossbelts over his head. His bayonet hung from it and he held it out.

Francois kept walking but he was chomping at the bit to change course and get on back to the pursuit of the Portuguese, not that he had any idea of just how many there were. Still, the officer did not know either. Just then he saw first the officer then Navarre break away, followed by Laurent turning and offering him his bayonet. Well, he still did not have a musket so the bayonet was better than nothing he guessed and eagerly reached for it.

"Merci," he nodded as he whispered.

Bastien pushed cautiously on through the trees, keeping some paces ahead of the first couple of soldiers. The terrain wit its many trees and bushes was hardly in their favour, but that would have been a bit too much to expect in an ambush.

He had reached the point now where the running figure had disappeared and bend down to find the tracks in the faint light of the earliest hours of morning, then peered in the direction they appeared to be going, studying the landscape once more. Motioning the two best trackers of his own men to close up to him, he then continued to advance, having taken over the musket of one of the men.

(OOC: What kind of landscape had you in mind, outis?)

The ground began to slope downward, gradually at first, then more steeply until St Laurent could catch the rank smell of mud and stagnant water. A swamp - just brilliant, he though, twitching as one of the biting insects which had begun to swarm round them found it's way under his collar. Somewhere ahead of them there was a splash, then another, clumsy sounds such as a human might make.

Lieutenant Prayon, with one of the trackers a few paces ahead of the men, very silently, but nonetheless with a vehemence, cursed. Of course a swamp with its very uncertain footing would hinder the French more than the local Portuguese, but there was also a measure of personal animosity in his face that was not completely explained by this fact. It seemed to be more related to the insects that seemed to love him very well. As slapping them was out of the question, he had to try to shrug them off as best as he could without either making noise or dropping something. His companion, an old soldier called Barque, seemed much less troubled. He kept his eyes to the ground, trying to follow the fleeing man's footprints in the dim light, while Prayon kept his eyes on the surroundings. Any movement in the reeds might indicate an ambush.

Cautiously the pair proceeded into the muddy plain. The view was broken by high reeds and bushes, the surface by pools and mudholes. "Hope the 86th knows how to find their way here, Sir. It will be hell if we have to move quickly otherwise." The old man whispered, carefully navigating around a particularly swampy bit the Portuguese seemed to have jumped over.

Prayon only grunted in respons, dislodging a flee from one cheek with his shoulder, but he turned his head for a moment to see how the other men fared.

It was impossible to move silently, more so here even than in the forest, but none of the men needed to be told to try as each slippery, sucking step took them deeper into the swamp, the occasional splash or rustle of brush from up ahead, a testament to their quarry, drawing them on. Quarry -- the term had begun to feel overly optimistic, for despite their respective positions, St Laurent could not shake the sense that it was somehow the other way round.

The corporal found his gaze straying more and more down the line to his left; his men had begun to draw somewhat closer, whether from nerves or the caprice of the swamp, he couldn't tell. In the clearer patches he could catch glimpses of Davout slogging along. Of Navarre there was no sign; not in itself unusual for the southerner, but it made St Laurent uneasy nonetheless.

A large splash, resounding like cannon fire in the straining stillness, came from close by. St Laurent's musket leapt to his shoulder as he rounded on it, only to be jerked down and away from its target: Balincourt, dragging a sodden Laramie up onto solid ground. The poor bastard had mistaken his footing and plunged near up to his neck in the foul water. At any other time, it would have been funny, but no one was laughing now. St Laurent turned away, anger and relief churning in his stomach.

Patches of reeds clustered thicker around them, dragging at their arms and legs like thin, damp fingers. For what felt like minutes, St Laurent could see nothing of the others. Sometimes he wasn't even certain he could hear them over the sounds of his own progress. When they finally broke onto clearer ground, he cast his gaze up and down the line: Seviere, Rousseau, Balincourt and Laramie... But of Davout there was no sign.

Perhaps he had fallen behind, backtracked to find a passable way forward, perhaps some tuft of reeds or brush was simply obscuring him. St Laurent told himself that it was nothing more than this, even as he began to move in an awkward diagonal down the line toward where the other soldier should have been.

The splash behind him had made Prayon turn around, but when he saw his comrades pulling out one unharmed soldier, he immediately turned forward again. He made his way to a spot where the footprints vanished in a very large, shallow pool of water; it took two minutes to establish that it was impossible to find the tracks in the muddy water, and that the man they were following had not slipped out again after a few steps. They would have to go around and search for them again.

Bastien sighed and turned around to the men again - just as St Laurent was moving away from his position. The lieutenant frowned, then gave the man a questioning look while coming cautiously towards him.

"Merde," mumbled Francois as he caught sight of the upcoming terrain, a damned swamp. Like his uniform wasn't dirty enough already, now they had to slosh around in that muck? But they needed to keep up their pursuit and see if they could get these Portuguese.

Least he didn't have a musket to keep dry, he thought, as he slowly navigated in the stagnant water with constant clumps of reeds. Little bugs buzzed about his head though he worried more about leaches. He'd heard bad things about those creatures.

There was a splash but it was only one of their own men who had fallen in a hole or tripped maybe. Fortunately he was quickly rescued. Francois just silently thanked God it had not been him and kept moving.

Rousseau kept his eyes trained on the left bank.. or what he could reason was firmer ground, that surrounded the swamp. He watched for any stirring of the foilage that could not be blamed on one of their men. He took each step carefully, looking for the interlocking of the straw like swamp grass as that formed some support. The muddy water had soaked his gaiters by now, an unpleasant squishy feeling in his shoes.

He ignored it. The splash had had him jerk. He took his next step carefully and then glanced at Morel. "Think they left." He whispered quietly, halting in mid step again. Morel nodded. He glared at the mud that chose to suck his foot in up to his ankle and now refused to let it go without a fight. He steadied himself when with a gurgling slurp his foot came free.

Rousseau caught hold of a bit of broken grass and rolled it between his fingers. He gazed at the sodden grounds to his left, seeking out more. There was an abandoned nest close to his left foot. It must have been atleast over a year old since it had been emptied of life.

"Shht." Morel hissed to a quiet Merde that came from one side.

St Laurent pressed forward, casting about for any sign of Davout or Navarre. They might have been anywhere; one part of the swamp looked much like the next as far as the corporal was concerned, and with the rearing swaths of reeds and uncertain paths, it was an easy thing to lose one's bearings.

And then he saw it, at patch of dull, faded blue through the brush up ahead. It was low to the ground and did not move as he drew closer. The color was unmistakeable.

Fighting against the strangled urgency swelling in his chest, he forced himself to move cautiously until he was standing only yards from the prone form. It was Davout, face-down in a shallow, discolored pool. The corporal was not cautious, then; he was not sensible; he was not even afraid. He was simply running; slipping, stumbling and falling to his knees beside his friend. He wrenched Davout over.

A wet, ugly gash grinned back at him from beneath the other soldier's chin, swamp water dribbling from one corner. St Laurent was perfectly still, but only for a moment. Then came the soft squelching of the lieutenant's step and, bracing his shoulders with a small jerk, the corporal got to his feet.

“If I were them, sir, I would have our retreat cut off by now,” he said in a flat undertone.

"Yes, most likely."

The officer looked down at the dead man, his eyes sad. Otherwise his face didn't betray any emotions and his voice was calm.

"Have the men draw closer together so that everybody can keep an eye on the men beside him, and have the most steady and experienced men in the outer wings. We make for that small rising there. It should be a bit of solid ground in that swamp, and we can hold it until the light is better. I'll go with two men to reconnoitre. If anything happens, we charge that spot and hold it. Don't let anyone try to run back through that swamp. They would kill us off one by one."

He squatted down to check Davout's injuries and weapons, then stood up again.

"We can bury him there."

"We'll be target practice up there, sir!" St Laurent protested, "If we can pull together into a charge now, even in this terrain, we might have a chance of catching them off guard or at least forcing their hand. And if we can push through to the other side...." He trailed off; he hadn't thought beyond simply getting out of the swamp and, in truth, he did not believe they would get even that far.

Francois grimaced at the sight of their dead comrade. The Portuguese were here then and had drawn first blood, literally. And now the lieutenant wanted to split the group by taking two men and scouting? The Portuguese could simply pick that trio off then. He was rapidly losing faith in this officer but he did not have the spunk to speak up and protest,unlike Laurent.

Rousseau drew closer. Now that the had their first loss it was clear that a.) it just got serious and b.) It could not have been the riflemen. Surely the British would not stoop to something as horrific as that? Well, that was debatable but it was more the type of thing he imagined the Portuguese or the Spanish do. They would have also been more adapt to move soundlessly through the swamp.

He and Morel stood close each covering one portion of the swamp with their gaze. "There?" Morel spoke, pointing at the stirring in the swamp grass. Both trained their muskets in the direction. Nothing came out, nothing moved any more.

"I would bet my shako that in front of us is a large swamp-hole somewhere. They wouldn't have herded us in this direction if the way ahead was clear."

The lieutenant was already moving again, alert like a cat now. He didn't seem to mind St Laurent's uttering his protest, even seemed to be glad that he had somebody point out possible flaws to him.

"They are essentially untrained, and unlikely to be willing to fight once we formed a real square. And they usually are shooting with everything they can lay their hands on. Our muskets can beat their blunderbusses and fowling pieces, so if we keep our eyes open, they won't get close enough to shoot at us at all."

He motioned the men to draw together even closer.

"No, corporal. The greatest danger is that they pick us off one by one, and if we charge, then some will be slower and dead. And ... My ploy didn't work. They are still observing us. There's not a chance to surprise them."

Further protest rose in his throat, but the corporal choked it back. He could not refute the lieutenant's objection, but neither could he countenance the idea of serving his men up to the rebels in tight formation on open ground, but that was no longer his call to make. He had never felt so helpless.

There was, however, nothing for it. "Rousseau," he rounded on the small group which had gathered there, his voice low and harsh, "Pass the word: we're to keep close together and make for the high ground. Seviere," he dropped to one knee beside Davout, "Help me lift him." Even without his kit--not surprisingly, whatever bastard had done for him had also made off with his musket, cartridge box and bayonet--Davout was not the lightest of burdens, but a second pair of hands made the dead weight manageable.

Bastien was tense as a wire now. His eyes darted to all sides as he sneaked up to the small rising, pistol in hand. He was usually graceful as a cat, and it was a bit odd that he now seemed stiff and rather clumsy as he went up there some distance ahead of the soldiers.

Rousseau had relayed the order to the next man in line, and this did so, to the one nearest , until all knew of the plan. it had taken them long enough that it appeared, their officer had strayed a fair deal further without them in close formation at his side.

Rousseau was about to say something of the nature of this act, when he saw a stirring in the tall grass to the left of their officer. "Sir!" He called in warning. "Watch..."

Bastien's shoulders tensed, but he didn't react. Not properly anyhow and much too slow. He turned and stood up instead of taking cover and shooting. He stepped back to the hill instead of towards his men. Just as if ...

Rousseau stared silently as their officer straightened instead of lowered himself and then.. when earlier it was not certain if there was a duck that had made away through the plant life, it was now quite clear that there, or rather a bit off from the spot, a man had stood and he fired at Bastien, whom he saw as the closer target.

Rousseau cursed and leveled his own musket at the target which had uncovered itself, and already a second man (or more, Rousseau could not tell) rose up to fire just as the first and make certain the officer would not stand again. Rousseau however had fired first, and after him.. several others, perhaps all of them, he did not know, nor looked, had their muskets part with a lethal ball.

Francois still had no musket with which to defend himself but unfortunately he could not appropriate Davout's weapon as the Portuguese murderers had stolen it along with the poor Frenchman's life. The corporal snapped an order to help with the man's body and Francois nodded in compliance, he might as well, he could not shoot back.

Grunting at the effort he assisted in half dragging half lifting the sodden corpse. Then a warning and more shots rang out until the fire seemed to be general. Were the Portuguese going to make their move now?

Fortunately it turned out that Prayon was not quite as unprepared or silly as he had appeared, although he certainly seemed to have a suicidal streak. When the shots finally rang out, he dived for cover quick enough, and without having to think of the direction.

It was impossible to say whether he was hit or not, but he hadn't yelled or anything, nor dropped down instantly dead, so it was reasonable to suppose that he was still alive. If one looked quite carefully, one could even see the reeds move where the officer was sneaking away.