22nd June - Engaging the Locals

"Mon Capitaine, we have reports of where the Cazadores are hiding. They seem to outnumber us and have fortified their position quite well," the sergeant reported with some displeasure. He seemed disappointed like their days of tracking would be gone to waste. Henri showed no such disappointment. He really only heard the fact that they had been found. He smiled devilishly, how he loved his job. After a brief pause he said, "Have no fear Sergeant, I shall take care of numbers easily. A colonel of the infantry owes me a favor..." He laughed at a joke he thought of to himself. He took out a quill and a piece of parchment. After scribbling a few words on it he looked over to the sergeant and said, "Take these to the colonel. Our problems will be fixed presently. Also, fetch me Lieutenant Ferron. That's a good man."

With his orders doen he looked back down to his map where the location of the Portuguese Cazadores was marked. They had fortified a village in a rather mountainous region. His task would now be to find the best route for the attack. He poured over the map and found that one of the approaches was fairly wooded and not too steep. They could use the cover of the woods to protect their approach. With a handful of skirmishers, he could cover his advance and then charge the town. Horses would unfortounately not be a part of this operation, but alas, that was the nature of his work. Occasionally he had to get down and dirty like an infantryman.

A few minutes later the Sergeant and the Lieutenant arrived in d'Avout's tent. From the sergeant he received a letter with the promise of a company of light infantry. To the lieutenant he said, "ready the men, we leave immediately."

With that the forces committed to this operation began to assembled in a field outside of camp. The dragoons formed their ranks, they would ride to the general vicinity. Henri would not have his fine dragoons marching like infantry, even if they occasionally had to fight like infantry.

[OOC: Sorry, was away for Easter and totally missed this ...]

Before the men had fully assembled, two other riders came cantering towards d'Avout. One wore a very neat, but now somewhat dusty uniform of a colonel of the light infantry, the other, much smaller figure keeping awkwardly at his side one of a sous-lieutenant of the same.

The boy - the sous was hardly more - was an unknown quantity, but when he came closer, the older man turned out to be Colonel Beuret, formerly of the general's staff and now commanding the 17ème Infanterie Légère. He looked slightly irritated - something he tented to do quite regularly since he had taken over the 17th - but greeted the captain civilly enough.

"Good day, Capitaine! All ready for the hunt, then?"

Only after exchanging several words with his sergeant and assuring himself that his half company of men was fully assembled did Lt Jarreau approach the other officers. His mouth was set in a thin line and it took a supreme effort not to scowl outright as he presented himself before the colonel. He was the only one not mounted -- even the young sous-lieutenant towered over him -- and he was obliged to crane his neck to avoid addressing himself to the colonel's horse. "Lt Jarreau of the 86e, reporting as ordered, sir." He resented being called to play lackey for the 17th, who doubtless disliked having to do the same for the cavalry. A brilliant start to any venture. Jarreau felt like hitting something.

The young Capitaine looked quite pleased with himself at the gathered assembly. He tipped his head to the colonel and the sous that approached him. "Bonjour!", he greeted them warmly. "Oui Colonel, it will be a magnificent day for the hunt. It would seem your soldiers will have something more to do today than get fat off rations!", Henri joked with the Colonel. He was itching for a fight, however he could not hide his distaste for infantry. He preferred to work alone, however the strength of the Cazadores, coupled with Henri's desire to minimize his own casualties and ensure that none of the cazadores escape, he required some additional help.

When the next lieutenant approached he smiled to him as well, "Ah some real infantry! You and your men are most welcome."

Henri smiled at all present. He loved the life of a soldier and on a day like today, he couldn't be happier.

"Not many of mine, unfortunately!", the Colonel replied, nodding a greeting to Jarreau.

"The vacancies Oporto has caused are still not properly filled, and one larger patrol is still out, too. But I have organized for you to have some men of the 86th, under Lieutenant Jarreau's command, and if you should meet the patrol, you're welcome to them, too. Lieutenant Prayon should be commanding them, if he hasn't managed to get himself killed."

He handed over the necessary paperwork. When he continued, he spoke in a low, private voice:

"I would also deem it a favour if you would take Sous-Lieutenant DeChagney along. He has not yet been lucky enough to experience a combined operation like this and would surely greatly profit if he could observe and learn."

Withdrawing a few short steps to allow the two senior officers to speak privately, Jarreau fidgeted with the pommel of his sword, a frown creasing his brow. He nodded to the younger officer. "Sous-Lieutenant," he said, keeping his voice relatively low.

"L-l-l-lieutenant!"

DeChagney nervously saluted. He seemed a bit lost, unable to decide whether he was supposed to get off his horse or not.

"Sous-Lieutanant DeChagney. At your service, Sir."

Jarreau's brows arched ever so slightly. He did not smile, but amusement blunted the usual sharpness of his expression. "Lieutenant Jarreau," he responded, forgoing formality entirely, "But you already knew that."

"Uh, yes, Sir. S-s-sorry, Sir."

DeChagney slightly blushed. He took a few deep breaths, trying to calm down and get a grip on his stammer, then asked respectfully:

"W-would you mind telling me what I should do now? I h-haven't done anything like this before. Should the men b-be paraded for the Captain?"

A parade? Jarreau grimaced. "Hell, I hope not. Just sit tight; if they want somethin', they'll say."

"Yes, of c-c-course. S-sorry, Sir."

DeChagney blushed slightly. His horse impatiently danced a few steps to the side and the boy fought to get it under control again, then decided that it was probably not only more appropriate, but also safer to get out of the saddle. He scrambled down, his horse taking the opportunity to dance some more, then fell into a kind of parade rest.

"Y-yes, Sir", he repeated, not quite sure what else to say.

"If you say 'sorry, sir' one more time..." Jarreau muttered. He had meant it mildly enough, but his gruff manner lent the statement a certain harshness and he grimaced internally; he was truly awful at this sort of thing.

Casper looked into his canteen. There were only a few sips left. Damn this country and this weather.
Why had it to be his company that marched on while the rest of the battalion had made camp? All Duuring had seen was that some cavalry man in a green coat had ridden to his battalion commander and, being in the second company, near to the flag, the young corporal had overheard a bit of the discussion. It had, offcourse, all been in French, a language he barely understood, but it had seemed the cavarly-men wanted the voltigeur company, to which the chef had replied something negative, for they had already been chosen to forage some village to the east. Eventually, he rode away and the men had presumed he went to another battalion. But alas, just minutes later the company had marched out of the camp, her soldiers and officers cursing the green coated cavarly men.

Silly decision, Duuring thought, as he saw the marching going uneven and the ranks opening a bit. The men had already marched 12 miles today, which was far underneath the regularly twenty. Lazied by garrison duty, the Dutch troops had to get into shape again, so General Chassé had decided to cut back on the marching. God knows, how long they will be marching extra today. And to what purpose? Nobody knew. Maybe the two company officers knew. There were suppose to be 3, or preferably 4 officers, but sous-lieutenant Rijkestank had been down to fever for a week now, and the other spot had never been filled. There were a good 120 men and officers in the company, all of them sweating like hell. None of the officers rode a horse, probably too stingy to buy one, and so the marching took its toll to everyone.

Duuring took another sip, closed the canteen and shaked it. There was still a tiny bit in, and he would save it until they returned to camp. Which would mean a few hours without water. The company took a turn and there were sudden shouts in the front files. Duuring marched almost in the bank of the long column, so it took a while to see what the commotion was about, but as he too made the turn he saw the village on the hill, and the french troops in the valley. Were they suppose to forage this town? He frowned and tried to make out what troops there were in the valley, but he only recognized blue coats. Suddenly, the captain ordered a halt, after which the four company sergeants reformed the files.
He would not let those French laugh at his company, and he would march it as it were on parade. That was a hard goal, for men were dirty and tired, but they had their pride, pride for their white coats, and so the company marched, in almost perfect order, under the sound of the two drummer boys, to the French. God, but what were they suppose to do?

When he noticed the approaching column, Colonel Beuret excused himself to Captain d'Avout and turned his horse to meet the newcomers, trusting that the Captain, who was probably the cause for these men's appearance, would follow suit.

On closer inspection, the troops turned out to be Dutch, and a batallion company. While the colonel was willing enough to tolerate both facts under normal circumstances, he wasn't exactly sure whether this would be a good outfit for a fast-paced, mobile hunt. Still, when his horse reached the first soldiers, he reined in and asked in a loud voice:

"Good morning! Who is in command?"

[Sorry, edited - as long as you are not voltigeurs, it doesn't change his statement anyway. ]

OCC: We are not a grenadier company, I specially noted we are nr. 2 company. I didn't want us to be elite! ;-)

A Frenchmen, dressed smartly and drained with gold braid, rode onto the company, shouted something in French in which the captain replied also in French, but with an heavy accent. Duuring understood this quite well and listened, still standing to attention.

"I am! Kapitein Van Der Slooten, second company. We were ordered here to support a raid, or an small-scaled attack on any sort."

He then walked closer to the French officer and said, less loud: "I know we are maybe not the troops you want here, but don't think we are very keen on being here either. Let us fight, and let us go back to camp."

The soldiers in the company started to loosen up a bit. They all wanted to go back. An older private next to Duuring said, in Dutch and with loud voice: "Come on, these Chease-eaters will only use us to take bullets while they will take the food! And the drinks! And the...". Duuring stopped him there by ramming his musket stock into his belly.
"You will damn well shut your mouth private, or I'll let the sergeant write you down on charges."
As corporal, Duuring wasn't really sure he was suppose to do this, but he got a accepting glare from the lieutenant, so he decided he done the right thing.

"Uh, yes, s ..." DeChagney caught himself just in time. He bit his lip and nodded repeatedly instead. Seeing the newcomers, he pointed them out to Jarreau and asked: "W-what are those, s-sir? I don't r-r-reckognize the uniforms. Aren't w-we all wearing blue again?"

[OOC: Sorry, totally missed that post. ]

Beuret's mouth twisted in a cool smile. Allowing his own speech to slip a bit more into his own native Alsacian dialect, he answered calmly.

"I intend to do just that, M. Kapitein Van Der Slooten. Will you report your state, please?"

When the soldier spoke up, however, he directed one of his icier glances at him. He hadn't quite understood the words, but he knew the inflection well enough. The corporal had reacted quickly enough, but was his authority enough to quell those insults? And more, would the underlying sentiments hinder a combined operation to a dangerous degree?

"Our state sir? I have only 1 other officer, the Lieutenant, and about 120 muskets. Can't say we are veterans, but we all have been in some fights."

The troops saw the capitain replying, who akwardy felt all those eyes staring into his back. They watched him taking off his bicorn, and sweep the sweat from his forehead. The soldiers, still standing under attention, were also sweating, but they couldn't sweep anything.
The captain looked at them, suddenly realized something and shouted: "Corporal Duuring! To me, if you please"

The corporal was struck with dumbness for the second, but his sergeant gave him a quick push and he marched, as smartly as he could, to the two officers, where he saluted with his musket. The captain had chosen the young corporal for he knew Duuring as a smart lad who would do precisly what he wanted.

"corporal! At ease! Very well. Corporal, show me your canteen."

Without looking at the officer, he unstrapped his canteen and handed it over to the captain, who showed it to the French officer, with the words "empty. All of them". Which was not entirely true, but Duuring thought this was probably not the best moment to say that.

He had only called the corporal to show the French Colonel the empty canteens, but he turned back on the young dutchmen, and asked in French:
"Corporal, are the men eager to fight?"
"No sir". Duuring thought it best to be honest now
"But can we fight?"
"Like the devil, sir"
"Good. Return to the ranks Corporal."

As he did that, the captain turned back and said: "that's about it, sir".
He wasn't quite sure why he had asked those things to the corporal, while he damn well could have told him himself Neither did Duuring. He took his place back in the ranks and waited for their next order.

The captain looked to the village and swept some more sweat away. He decided he had asked the corporal so he won't get blamed for the company's spirit. That seemed fair enough reason.
He looked to the Colonel. "Orders, Sir?"

The colonel frowned. Unhappy, tired and thirsty, officers missing and the men not speaking the language - it wasn't a mixture he would recommend for a young officer to take on a potentially difficult mission. Perhaps he should come along after all - only as spectator, of course.

He quickly calculated the time, then advised:
"There's a small river that way, just behind that line of bushes. You might want to use the time until we set out to replendish your water. Be ready to leave when the captain orders it, though. He's in command of this mission."

The captain saluted and walked back to the company.
He spoke, in Dutch and with clear voice:
"We can replendish our water behind those bushes. Stay close however, we will move out soon. Company! Faaaaaaaall...Out!"
These last three words were in French, as all orders were. The men replied with an hasty Vive le roi, en quickly ran to the small river.

Duuring trew of his pack and shako off and shoved his head into the water. My goodness, what a relief! He drank until he thought he would burst, after which he filled his canteen. Not so dried out anymore, the soldiers started to make fun again. The soldiers jokes, the regular stories. Duuring walked a bit out of the woods and inspected the French troops from afar. He saw Dragoons and Light infantry men. He did not know what regiment, but they would learn soon enough.

"Third dragoons. The others are mostly from the 86th of the line, but a few are from us - 17th Light."

The slightly amused voice came from some feet behind Duuring. The colonel had halted his horse and was studying the Corporal - or rather, he had done that for several seconds already, guessing the other man's thoughts.

"Have you ever fought the Cazadores before, Corporal?"

The colonel spoke slow and clearly, yet not in a patronizing way. He simply believed in as clear as possible communications at all times.

A sudden voice made Duuring jump up and turn back. The French colonel was looking slightly amused, and by the time he had translated the French, he had already said another sentence.

He saluted quickly, focused and realized what the light infantry colonel had said. He replied, picking his words slowly, because of his not-so-good French, but also because he was aware of speaking to the highest ranked man he had ever spoken to.

"Non, Mesjeu Colonel. We never fought the Portuguese before, only the Spanish and the partisans. Some of us fought the Prussians, in '06. From what I've heard..."
He stopped there for a second, not quite sure the colonel would be interested in soldiers rumors, then decided to take the gamble.
"We heard the Portuguese are tough fighters, like the British. But I have..ehm" He tried to find the words," also never fought the British".

The Colonel's mouth twisted.

"The British are bulldogs, but they are owned by gentlemen; the Portuguese are pariah dogs - what they can pull down, they tear apart."

He shrugged, then seemed to think hard for a minute.

"You have been in Hamburg then, haven't you? With the VIII. Corps? Or have you been with Marshal Marmont in Triest?"

Not sure if he was to be happy or unhappy to fight the Portueguse instead of the Brits, he tried to remember the events of 1807.

"I was trained in Hamburg, where our division was in reserve. Was almost like home. The houses, the people, the language and the weather. Better then this country".

He used his hand to protect his eyes from the sun, as he looked up the the mounted colonel.

"Where have you fought mesjeu?"

The Colonel shrugged one shoulder. Between his time in Southern Germany as a subaltern in the Revolutionary Army of the Rhine and in the Army of the West, his time as ADC to General Thuring de Rhyss and then to Marshal Masséna, he had been in many battles of all sizes. He had lost three horses in Portugal alone, and seen nearly all the major battles. At 37, he was a full colonel of the imperial army, honourably mentioned and decorated, a member of the Legion d'honneur, and had all the scars to prove it.

But he didn't like to brag - especially to a foreign soldier. So he answered literally: "In '06? Jena, and a few of the skirmishes surrounding it. Nice landscape there, too. They even got wine, there, and decent wood, which Portugal certainly can't claim."

[OOC: Although there are some indications, I'm not 100% sure he really was at Jena - my research hasn't brought up anything definitive for that time. If anybody has any information, please PM me!]