22nd June; Once More Unto the Breach

Francois formed up with the rest of the soldats of the 86th, they were going in in column, the standard French tactic for an assault. It made for a better target but also allowed more speed and officers could keep a better rein on the men. Skirmishers, the 17th's specialty, would provide covering fire of a sort as they spread out and peppered the defenders.
The trick was not to stop, they needed to overrun the cannon before the big guns got off too many shots.

A few of the men were nodding to each other or wishing those about them God's blessing or just plain good luck. Everyone knew people were going to die but it was normal enough to just think it wouldn't happen to you. Francois forced a wane smile for the man next to him.

"We'll show those Ports," he said with false bravado.

With fixed bayonets, the men awaited the officers' commands to go forward.

"Have I told you to fix bayonets?.." Saint-Hilaire spoke, his gaze on the 86th. "...we only need drummers and fifers now to announce our arrival, for the flashes of steel will have done that for the eyes." He was displeased and not against showing it. "Left face." He said loudly, waiting for the motion to be done.

He glanced at Bastien. "Sir, may Chastain fall in?"

"Certainly. Chastein, you heard."

The lieutenant waved the soldier aside, then quickly sorted the remaining 17ths into two groups, one under his, one under Fernet's command.

The best skirmishers were gathering around Prayon, only about a third of the light infantry.

"Give us five minutes to get into position. We have to get around them and more to the front. Fernet will be on your other side and nearer. Then move in. Fernet will keep your back covered. And I'm afraid we will do our best to imitate a whole regiment attacking from the front."

With a last nod, he turned. His orders to his own group were quiet, and soon they set off in loose formation, disappearing into the bushes. The terrain was not too bad for getting ahead quickly while maintaining cover, but the sergeant, now standing next to Etienne, was still occassionally clenching his jaws when a musket shot rang out close enough to have hit Prayon's group.

Paol kept his own gaze rooted to the ground, but beside him he could sense a change, a sort of gathering in Gauvin and quickly dug his elbow into the other man's side. "Save it for the Portuguese," he said under his breath.

There was a soft snort and then, "You're no fun."

"Neither is a firing squad," he hissed back.

For some reason this thought amused Gauvin and Paol could hear the grin in his voice even as he grumbled, "Fine. Have it your way."

He snuck a glance at Foucheaux and Sevière, then drew himself up, bracing for the order to advance.

"Yes, sir." Saint-Hilaire nodded to Bastien. The plan was understood and those few minutes will be given, before they started towards the cannons. "Unfix bayonets." He said to the ones who had not had them unfixed already. " Load your guns, but keep them at halfcock. " He waited for a few moments and then: "Right face." That would bring them back into the column, a more sensible way to attack. They'd come behind the gun crews from behind, spread out into a line, fire, fix bayonets and then finish the job off. This was explained curtly, because there would be as little yelling wanted at the beginning. After a moment he turned to Chastain. "Follow his example."

Along with some of the others, Francois hurriedly unfixed the bayonet then slid it back into it's sheath. Next he went thru the now familiar loading drill until his musket was as ordered, set on half-cock. He couldn't help but be a little proud of himself for having loaded faster than the veteran next to him.

Now came the order to right face, once more he joined the others in swift obedience. As what they were about to do was hurriedly explained, he listened with rapidly beating heart. This wasn't his first fight but so far it was always the same, he wondered if it always would be too. He was nervous...make that scared, and his mouth was dry. But he was a soldier and he'd do his duty, he hoped.

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When one from the 86th fell, Saint-Hilaire felt like rolling his eyes. If he had felt ill before, he should have volunteered to go with the fellows that would face no fighting or hardly as much exertion unless really unfortunate.

Still, the faint he could have accepted as a sort of 'it happens' event.That the other man, without being told to, just jumped out, had gone about dragging his friend, without much care of his fellow soldiers, or the other group that had gone ahead of them, completely disregarded authority, and thought that it was all perfectly alright, struck a nerve though.

Were the 86th truly this undisciplined? He took a few deep breaths, easing the want to shout the ears off the culprit and his sick friend. It would only alert the enemy. This would not go over lightly once they were done. Their superiors would hear of it.

"Soldat Paol, fall in..." He gave the command for others to begin the march. His back ached, but he ignored that and the sting of his fingers, where the nails had been. The fallen would be picked up by the stretcher crew. Good. One soldier less. Not so good.

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Saint-Hilaire was glad that Paol saw at least some sense. Did he believe that they were on a camping trip? His order had not been a request or an offer, but an order to be followed! How slack were the officers of the 86th? He really did wonder.

But he was no use mulling over undisciplined men at the moment. Not unless they proved to be the same when they arrived at the cannons. To these they had to pick pace now. He glanced in the direction he had seen Bastien leave and hoped that the 86th carelessness had not endangered the 17th, or the other officer. Well, punishments would be considered, chosen and dealt out to the survivors.

They were getting closer to the back of the cannon crews. His focus shifted to that entirely. The invisible border had been crossed. The distance was just right for the first fire. He nodded as he saw Chastain begin to lead his part of the column to spread out, shift into a line on the left. The line was at a slight angle. It would hit the cannon crew, but it would not directly endanger anything ahead of them. He smiled faintly, his own side spreading out accordingly and then kneel. The order was passed on near silently and mirrored that of soldat Chastain's side. So far, so good.

Francois advanced in step with the men to either side of him, no one was laughing or talking anymore but intently following their officer. Normally that young man seemed a fairly easy going sort but he now was strict, tense. Francois couldn't really blame him, they were going into battle and discipline was vital to success, the officers were responsible for discipline.

At a certain point, they stopped, the column then began to do as they were often drilled, spread out into line. Francois simply followed the lead, keeping his proper distance in formation then line. He was one of those who were to kneel in preparation for that crucial first volley. Now it was just wait for the order.

Following the others' example, Paol knelt on the stony ground. Beside him he heard Gauvin jokingly mutter an Ave. One hand strayed to his bayonet, assuring himself that it sat loose in the sheath as he scanned the ground ahead of them, selecting his target.