13th June: Locusts and honey

"Freddie, rifle. The Frogs are thinkin' to storm our men!" Well, one was on the ground, but now appeared to still be alive, just badly wounded in the arm or thereabouts. The other one was torn between taking off with his precious horse or to face some of the foot soldiers in a desperate attempts to give Stubbins time to get back into his saddle.

At the very least, his own carbine was loaded. His horse remained motionless as the weapon was fired, but then kicked out, its ears flat against its head and a nervous neighing loud and clear. The animal turned its hind quarters facing the enemy.

"We'll both fire." He had luckily decided to do most of the loading procedure himself, on the rifle he'd fired earlier. Just finishing, his teeth gritted, he yanked the ramrod out and returned it back into its place. "Ready?" Joined fire might do some to scare the men, though he feared it might do too little.

"Steady out yer breathin'.. exhale when yer fire. Anythin' that'll help yer have a steady hand." The lad said, after having taken his aim.

Freddie gave a jerked nod, then twisted around to crouch on one knee again. If Pye said that another shooter was needed now, he had to trust him that this was indeed the case. The meadow was no more in focus than before, and he needed a moment to orient himself, sorting the various blue shapes of the skirmish into friend and foe. But then he spotted someone with a long straight shape in hands that was surely a musket with bayonet.

Taking aim, closing one eye, relaxing, exhauling, pulling the trigger. The movements were so familiar. He thought that the figure twitched, but whether this had been because he actually had been hit or because he had been shocked by a bullet nearby, Freddie didn't know.

Pye fired a moment or so after the other lad. He looked across from the French group. He wanted to see if their scuffle had attracted any attention from the enemy side and whether they would need to expect reinforcements that might just turn this battle to be ended in favour of the Frogs rather than them.

"Reload." He whispered, and began with his own rifle.. or wait, that was Friedrich's. He looked at the lad. "Switch." Then he mentally counted how many more shots they could afford to do before they ran out of gunpowder and ball.

Without commend Freddie rammed the bullet home, then handed the rifle over to Pye and took his own back. When he saw Pye look at his powder horn, he whispered:

"Last cartridge; take from my bullets when you need."

Another thought struck him:

"Let's switch positions. We can get into their back."

It was a more dangerous position, of course, because they would lose both the advantage of height and the natural redoubt they enjoyed here, but to Freddie a little additional risk was far better than having the French slaughter an injured man.

"Right wheel into line!"

The command was barked at a slightly-breathless group of redcoats, who moved to obey with a briskness born of long hours of drill. They had only just arrived on the scene, having been raised to alarm by the outbreak of firing.

Captain Alder glared toward the handful of Frenchmen who were, to his eye, about to snuff out that staggering hussar. Not today, damn it! "Fix. Bayonets!" He drew his sword. "Shoulder. Arms. Company will advance, at the quick step. March!"

Those poor Frogs would have a choice to make right damn soon, McIntyre thought.

Pye nodded, and moved up. He knew that their change of position will loose them their present station, but it had benefits that they could not ignore. That, and the wounded Hussar was close to being killed, and the other hussar did not fare much better.

He made the error of not checking what was going on, one last time, before descending. When he found a good spot again, the path winding, he noticed the familiar red, of their army. He noticed more. The coats were not only of the redcoats but of the 33rd.

He grinned proudly. "Our boys are here!" He exclaimed, shifting his rifle in his arms and lifting it up to take aim and fire, to give the approaching group just that small amount of time that they needed to cross the distance.

With his strong arm hanging uselessly at his side and the wild-eyed Frogs charging down at him, Stubbins was left with only two options. Grab for his carbine and try to fire with his off-hand or make a dash for his horse and try to haul himself up into the saddle. Neither would be easy.

Then, suddenly, there was salvation coming over the breast of that hill. Stubbins had never been more relieved to see a company of infantry as he was in that instant. The Frogs might yet kill him, but damn it they'd get what was coming to them for it! He took advantage of the distraction provided by the redcoats and ran for his horse.

Without any leader or even proper experience to guide them, the French infantrists quickly dissolved from a more or less coherent unit to a small crowd of individuals, every one with his own goal.

The foremost, already close to Stubbins, single-mindedly kept to his aim, either not noticing or not caring about the British reinforcement. Trying to close the distance before Stubbins could get to his horse, he threw himself forward, bayonet first.

The men further back had better instincts. Two of them already had been wounded by the bullets from above, one had a deep sabre cut in his shoulder. Confronted now by another group of redcoats, grim-faced and obviously meaning business, they turned about and ran with all possible speed to the nearest cluster of bushes.

"There. They're runnin'!" Pye exclaimed with a grin. The redcoats were close now, the French were backing off. There was one that aimed for the horse, but would soon be overpowered, what Pye thought.

He turned to his friend and in a quiter tone spoke. "Lets go now. 'fore we are seen." They were not supposed to be so far out and saying that they went out to get honey would not earn them any points. The battle had been decided. The French were fleeing! There was no reason for them to still stick behind. No?

The Frenchmen, or most of them, anyway, had begun to scatter. Obviously they were only brave enough to face down a couple hussars, one of whom being dismounted. Captain Alder rested his sword against his shoulder. The wounded hussar was just enough out of the direct line of fire to make it possible for a volley.

"Company. Halt! Front rank. Make ready!" The captain watched the blue-coated Frogs for an instant. "Present. Fire!"

The volley was unlikely to do much, except give the Frogs reason to keep running. Not, McIntyre thought, that they'd shown much inclination to do anything else.

"Front rank. Shoulder. Arms! Company. At the quick-step, march!"

They were going forward again, toward that one remaining Frog, who was determined to finish off the wounded hussar.

One Frenchman stumbled as the volley was fired, but the man next to him gripped his arm and drew him on. They were now really running for their lives. Packs, loot, even their weapons were thrown away to get just a bit of additional speed.

Only the madman at Stubbins' heels seemed not in the least afraid. Cursing in the nearly unintelligible dialect of the Gascogne, he turned his musket and took a heavy swing at Stubbins.

-

There was one other who wasn't afraid of the British. This was mostly due to the fact that he was quite sure that until now none of them knew that he was even there.

Returning through the bushes from some rather private business, he had heard the sharp reports of rifles mix with the duller musket-fire of his men and made a small detour. It had taken some time to spot those green uniforms in the under storey, but now he saw them quite clearly. They had started to move in his direction even. Only two, and very young, it appeared.

Well, they wouldn't get much older. Laying down flat in a particularly dense thicket, musket and sabre ready, he followed them with his eyes. If they wanted to keep their cover, they would have to pass him by less than ten feet away. If he kept motionless, maybe they would not spot him until it was too late.
One shot in the back, the blade for the other; if everything went right, they wouldn't even know what had hit them.

Pye was first and lead the way. He saw that Freddie had one shot left, and would follow him once he had fired. If they were lucky they would get away without notice. The loss of gunpowder was still something that needed an explanation. But that was for later.

He was so lost in thought when something caused him to pause. It was nothing exact. Nothing he could point his finger at. But he obeyed it.

Must have been nothing as all was quiet on their front, and musket shots were only heard from down below. He was about to continue, and did step a few paces closer to the thick vegetation. His fellow rifleman was still at a distance.

And then, just as he was to cross the distance, straight past the man in hiding, he tripped.

This was going to hurt, Stubbins thought. There was no way he could drag himself up into the saddle before that Frog finished his swing. Nothing for it but to take the blow. If he'd thought to grab his carbine before running toward his horse...

Wait. He still had his sabre. If he could draw it with his left hand, anyway. He dodged away from the Frenchman and tried to drag the sabre out of its scabbard. Damn it! This wasn't any sort of awkward. There!

"C'mon then!" He might not be able to do much with the blade, but it was a better defence than nothing.

Freddie had just fired his last shot and turned when he saw his friend suddenly go down. Had he been hit? As there was no clear target in sight, the young German quickly shouldered his rifle, took his sword bayonet in one hand and and his knife in the other, and half sprinted, half slipped down the hill.

The momentum of his unconnecting swing had carried the Gasconian onward, but now, maybe three steps away from the hussar, he turned.
Snarling, he came closer again, still wielding his musket like a club.

Gripped on its end, it was just a bit longer than a sabre, and as soon as the French deemed it to be close enough to connect, he raised it high for an almighty blow.

-

That wasn't like it was supposed to be! Why had this little twerp to stumble? If he shot now, the other would still be too far off and get away. But if he didn't do anything, the other would be here soon, and he was already alarmed and had a bayonet. Two riflemen at the same time could indeed be a problem, even for an experienced soldier.

Chosing the only promising option he could see, the sous-lieutenant aimed at the approaching rifleman and pulled the trigger. Even before his ears stopped ringing, he had taken hold of his sabre and jumped up, his firm intention to finish off the tripped one.

The oncoming line of infantry were still just a bit too far away for Stubbins' liking. Why didn't the bastards charge, like they loved to do?

He brandished his sabre and realised suddenly that he had a perfect opportunity to eliminate the danger. The Frog had swept his musket up for a great downward swing, which left him completely vulnerable. This would be interesting, Stubbins thought, and swung his arm upward. He hoped the sabre would carve enough of a line across the Frog's chest to convince the mad bugger to run for it, like his mates.

The impact of the sabre made the French stagger backwards, fighting not to overbalance. His eyes went wide as red started to spread from his right shoulder, where the sabre had left a deep wound before it had been deflected by the crossbelt.

For a second, he stood there, musket still raised, shock in his face. Then his eyes focused menacingly on Stubbins again.

OOC: Go musketeer and finish him off ;-)

A shot rang out which made Pye twist around. He had been close to the ground, so that action was not all that hard to do. He saw the man coming through the smoke, his single shot had caused. His first thought was, that he had either missed or Freddie had been aimed at, and if it was the latter he still hoped the man had missed!

He cursed and raised his rifle in defense, showing it forward against the officer. The damn bastard! If he had hurt his friend, he would pay for it. With that in mind the lad had turned to attack and to disarm the enemy, ignoring what bush might have also been in the way.

So that little rabbit showed some teeth? It wouldn't help him. And the rifle was of little use if the enemy was already practically upon you.

Dodging to one side, the sous-lieutenant tried to tackle Pye around the waist and turn the fight into a brawl, where his greater weight and strength would guarantee his superiority.

Pye landed on his back, and just as soon attempted to draw his knee up, so that with the Frenchman following suit, it might come in contact with a part of his body, possibly more sensitive than the rest.

He tried to raise his rifle enough that the wood would strike against the attacker's forehead, though the momentum was hardly worth a mention. It was just not enough room to swing the weapon. He released the rifle, and jabbed his uninjured fingers at the Frog's face. He knew it was fighting dirty, but the man was large and if he did not crush the air out of him with his weight, his punches would certainly cause damage.

Ouch! That little weasel had obviously learned to fight in a gutter as well. A move at the last moment had spared the sous-lieutenant's eyes, but the knee had connected, and now it hurt .

Deciding that the time had come to show that whippersnapper just what he had gotten himself into, he rammed down his elbow to where Pye's stomach must be and, with all the power a barely suppressed scream gave his jaw, snapped at Pye, not caring whether he bit a hand or a nose.

Oh for - Stubbins recovered from his swing and brought the sabre up again. A solid thrust through the middle would take care of this bastard, but he wasn't sure he could get past that musket. Which, if said musket was loaded, left him at a disadvantage.

Then he thought that if he was about to die anyway, he might as well do what he could for damage. The hussar steadied himself and lunged forward, putting all his weight behind the strike.

Pye was caught of guard, thinking an officer would have had less sense, and would fight as an officer rather as a man from the ranks. He paid for his mistake, grunting in pain as the elbow found its target in his belly. Perhaps somewhat more ready for the next attack he managed to his arm up, so that the sleeve came in the way of the snapping mouth.

He was glad for the thicker fabric of his coat, as this managed to make the unpleasant clenching of teeth quite harmless. He thanked his luck again. Having the Frog latched onto the arm that had its injured fingers, his other was still quite free. He yanked at the officer's hair, then shifted his hand to his nose. That'll teach him to bite!

A curved cavalry sabre wasn't perhaps the best weapon to stab a man, but driven with by the whole weight of a man, fabric and skin could offer but little resistance. The hussar's blade grazed over bones, but his thrust was only stopped when the guard of the weapon closed with the man's chest.

The musket swung down in a wide half circle, but the force behind it was only that of gravity. The mad eyes looking at Stubbins went wide, frightened, then broke. With a wheezing cough, the man doubled over.

-

The sous-lieutenant had survived too many brawls to get disconcerted that easily. Using the leverage his teeth gave him, he twisted the arm around, hiding his face behind Pye's own sleeve.

Then suddenly he went all soft and heavy, his head falling forward towards Pye's face.

Freddie dropped the piece of wood he had used to club the man from behind, then grabbed the man's collar and hauled him off his friend, fervently praying that he hadn't been to late.