22nd June; Once More Unto the Breach

It was taking longer than they had anticipated to rejoin the column -- Rechenauld's injuries and uncompromising terrain had slowed them. It was hardest, perhaps, on Bielieux; none of the line infantrymen were accustomed to this sort of marching, but the older soldiers had the stolid endurance born of years on campaign which held steady long after Bielieux's youthful energy had exhausted itself. They had seen worse, as Gauvin was fond of telling him.

Not that Bielieux would admit to it. He kept on marching, without complaint, and, as the days drew on, without hardly speaking at all. At first he envied Rechenauld on his stretcher. Until he had to help carry him and saw the lines of pain etched in the other man's face, and he did not envy him any more. Still, the march was taking its toll. Yesterday had been the worst; Kerjean had all but had to carry him the last few hours before they halted.

This morning, however, was a bit better. He was tired, but alert and the going seemed not quite as rough as it had been. Gauvin had just cracked a joke which made no sense, and Bielieux was about to point this out when the boom of a cannon stopped him cold. Some of the others halted as well and in the waiting silence another piece gave tongue, and then another, their ponderous echoes rolling over the high hills.

"What the hell?" someone demanded.

Francois was tired and the musket he now carried, he had gotten one from one of the wounded, seemed to have mysteriously gained weight as they marched on and on. Still at least he was armed properly if the damned Ports attacked them again. Nevermind that as a shot he was rather pathetic, not much could be expected of muskets anyway. As one of his training sergeants had declared at the depot back in France, "That's why we give you lot bayonets!"

He'd taken his turn too at helping carry the stretcher, it wasn't so much the burden of hefting the poor injured about that bothered him as much as the look of misery on the poor man. After all this he certainly hoped his comrade would not end up dying on them.

Then he heard it as much as any of the others. Cannonfire....there was no mistaking cannons. Well, that could hardly mean Ports? Must be their army.....or the English? If the English, merde!

Bastien cursed quietly, but comprehensively. Then he straightened up.

"Gentlemen, the chances are more then good that one of the sides fighting there is ours. So I'm sure you'll agree that we better hurry to get to see a bit of the action as well and not be ridicult for being too slow."

He looked around and considered for a moment.

"Serjeant, straight on towards the thunder. I'll make a small detour over that hill there to see which side we are going to come up with first. Everyone, keep your eyes peeled and your arms ready."

"Oh aye, straight towards the thunder," Foucheaux muttered, adjusting his grip on the stretcher. "That's us, ain't it, Rechenauld? Always ready to rush into danger, or slowly walk."

He could not tell if the man was listening or even conscious, but that did not stop Foucheaux from grumbling to him every time it was his turn to carry the makeshift litter. He had decided that his grumblings would be heartening for the poor fellow whom he considered his particular responsibility.

"Artillery," Gauvin muttered, "This'll be fun."

"You think any of our lot are down there?" asked Bielieux, anxiety and youthful curiosity animating him once again.

"Well, I don't think they're shooting at pigeons."

"No, I meant--"

"You meant, do I think 2nd Company's mixed up in this? Well, lessee... I'd be willin' to lay money that those pieces ain't friendly, so that's sounding like an attack on some sorta fixed position. That sound like a shit job to you, Paulot?"

Despite himself, Paol smiled, recognizing the well worn, familiar argument.

"Thought so," continued Gauvin, as if the other man had spoken, "Now, what's that tell you?"

Bielieux looked slightly mystefied, "That 2nd Company wo--will?-- be down there?"

"Good lad."

They were moving forward more quickly now, altering course to avoid getting skylines as they came over a rise. Below them, in the saddle of two peaks a walled village was tucked away. A faint, powder grey cloud hung over the land not far outside the walls and through it they could see forms, some blue, some white coated, others without any uniform to speak of, and they could see the guns.

Foucheaux spoke to the officer. "Sir, what'll we do about him?" he asked, nodding his head to the man in the stretcher.

Bastien's mouth twisted unhappily as he closed his spyglass.

"I had hoped to see a camp of our side or something - at least an artillery train, but there is none. So the best we can do, I think, is to have two people carry him straight to the bandsmen. At least I think we have a good chance, coming from this side, to roll up this flank of the enemy."

He looked around, clearly trying to decide whom he should spare for the wounded.

Foucheaux did not bother answering, but his weary eyes spoke eloquently enough. He nodded at the 17e fellow to lay the stretcher on the ground. If they were pausing for a moment, they might as well give their aching arms and blistered hands a rest, however short. He knelt gently, gently with poor Rechenauld, and he closed his eyes just for a moment, wishing he could join him there on the ground before he finally straightened up again. If he were to sit down now, he might never get up.

Paol dropped back a bit, to where Foucheaux waited with the stretcher. On the ground Rechenauld lay without moving, his eyes closed. Foucheaux looked ready to drop. "You goin' to be alright?" Paol asked in an undertone, touching him lightly on the shoulder.

"Five minutes stop to check your weapons and prepare yourself for battle!"

Prayon decreed, looking around, then climbing a convenient tree to take a closer look at the fighting again. If his movements were slightly tired, he did not allow it to show as long as the men could see him.

His serjeant came over with a muttered 'Show-off!' and knelt down next to the stretcher, checking Rechenauld. "You two up for fighting?", he asked. "Think the Lieutenant would rather prefer to send the kid back."

Francois heard the officer, five minutes and it would commence. The veterans began checking their ammunition and muskets, bayonets were drawn out of their scabbards and fixed upon the weapons. Others took the time to gulp down some precious water out of their canteens or maybe even chew a little scrap from food squirreled away in their backpacks. No doubt many were thinking of families and whether they might not see them anymore. Most were somber but resigned, a very few joking and cocky to hide their nerves.

He was as ready as he'd ever be and stood waiting for the next orders.

"Me?" Foucheaux asked, rousing himself and stretching his arms. "Never been better." He wondered if five minutes would give him time to fall asleep. Probably one minute would have been enough to fall asleep, but not enough time to stay so. Was it worth it? No, it would only make him more tired.

"You're not gonna leave Bielieux up here alone?" he asked the sergeant. "Or do you mean Sevière?"

"Na, they are going straight to the back of the main force, the lieutenant has decreed. Both of them, if he can manage. So who wants to stay here, better volunteers."

The old soldier carefully checked his musket, then his bayonet and a long knife in his boot. Glancing at the back of his officer, who was holding himself much straighter than usual and intently gazing down into the flat valley, he softly continued:

"He has a soft spot for children, he has, so if he can without being too obvious, he'll try to keep them safe."

Foucheaux nodded. That was as it should be, keeping the younger lads safe. But he was not going to volunteer to stay behind this time, not when there was real soldiering to be done. "Make a couple'a them oldsters stay. They'll keep this'un company if he wakes up."

Fernet nodded and moved on, speaking to several soldiers, especially those who looked to be still suffering from wounds or similar. Prayon jumped down from his perch and rubbed his hands together.

"Alright, everybody up on their feet again! Volunteers for transporting the wounded? Two, no more!"

He looked around, his gaze for a long moment on the two youngsters.

Francois listened and looked over at the poor wounded comrade, he sincerely hoped it would turn out well for him. However, the rest of his comrades were going to be risking their lives in this assault and he did not want to shirk that risk. He had his pride. He was a soldier too.

As soon as he noticed the officer looking at him the young conscript shook his head in the negative ever so slightly and joined the rest of the men readying for the attack. He was not about to volunteer to stay behind.

Bielieux was oblivious to the officer's intent, but Gauvin was not. He gave the youngster a light shove forward. "Nico here's a fair hand with a stretcher, sir."

"What? No!" Bielieux spluttered in protest, his face crimson, "I want to stay!"

Praying raised an inquisive eyebrow.

"Well, nobody is staying here. And we need somebody trustworthy and steady on his feet to carry the stretcher. Or do you want to leave him laying around like a forgotten shawl until the excitement is over?"

"No, but--" Bielieux trailed off helplessly. That wasn't fair. But since when were officers fair? Or anything else for that matter?

"Bastard!" he spat under his breath at Gauvin and took his place beside the stretcher.

While the sergeant put the men into order again, Prayon nodded to Gauvin, then told Bielieux soothingly:

"If he should wake up, it's better he has somebody around he knows. Don't fret. I doubt that this war will end before you have had a chance to proof your meddle again."

Turning and straightening up, he called:

"Alright, gentlemen! Down there are a troupe of our own fighting the Ports, and they are having a hard time winning through right now. The Ports have two or three artillery pieces, our side has none, so it falls to us to convince them to lend them to us. They don't know we are here, and we will come up in their back, so that should be pretty easy. In return, I want you to do it quickly and effectively. Our aim is to capture the two on our side of the slope before they can spike them, and before they can shoot any more holes into the ranks."

He quickly lined out the plan of attack, using the 17eme to spread out on both sides and give flanking cover fire to the rest, who would attack the usual way and seize the guns.

When he was finished, he drew his own weapons and asked:

"Any last questions?"

Saint-Hilaire stood by, silently. He had not spoken much for the past few days, neither complained, nor allowed himself to lag behind. Perhaps it had been too early after all. He should have remained in the camp, until he had been sufficiently healed. But, even so, one played with cards they were dealt with and Saint-Hilaire thought there was no use in wishing for something different.

His thoughts were still with the officer that the Portuguese must have taken. he wished, hoped that it was not so, that the man had been captured by the British or somehow managed to escape. Of course, he knew that there was little chance of that. And had he, how would he have survived if not rejoining the regiment?

Even now he was going down there. He intended to take part in the attack which would hopefully defeat the Portuguese. Hopefully kill plenty of them, all of them...

"..Lieutenant Prayon.." He began. "If we are unable to secure the artillery pieces...are we to disable them?"

"Yes ... spike them."

Bastien pointed to one position.

"That one is giving them most trouble. If we can put it out of commission even for a short time, I think they could break through. If I were to lead a distraction attack on the gun crews, could you see to it that the pieces themselves are secured?"

His eyes travelled over his friend and it was clear that the soft question was not about Etienne's general ability, but more about his current physical state.

"I will, sir." Saint-Hilaire answered firmly. He would trust the 17th to do the job, of course. He gazed at the artillery pieces again, studying the best way to come around and behind them, while distracted, and to either take the cannons from the attackers and keep them or spike them. He studied the ground that lead towards them too and already formed a plan. He would manage. Lives depended on them disabling those weapons. Should they lay claim on them, they would be a valuable asset to the French army as well.

Bastien seemed to be able to read thoughts, for he smiled apologetically:

"I will need the skirmishers to give you cover ... and they really can be used for better things in this battle than guarding cannon. Besides, I trust them more to get out of any attack alive. We'll clear your way as much as we can. Get in with the 86th, straight to the guns, leave the fighting as far as you can to us - defending their skin in a column should be more within their training."

He turned and motioned Fernet to get the men ready to go and fight, then held out a hand to Etienne:

"Good luck. You charmed her often enough. Don't let her dump you this time!"

"...Allow me to take Chastain. The rest are yours." He glanced at the 86th. "...And I will take them.."He nodded curtly. He would have the 86th follow. Their only objective, to get to the cannon, to capture them and then defend them. "...Good luck to you too, I hope you have bedded her times enough for her to love you." He smiled and bowed.