Horseless horseman hampered

Calderón grinned. "I will be happy to see you returned to your army." Anything more was excessive and might lead to confusion and awkwardness. He didn't intend to stay so near to the army after turning over the hussar to the first regiment he encountered. "We are glad to have the British returned." The "we", of course, meant the Portuguese people, though Calderón himself was in no way Portuguese. It was a fact few men knew, which was how he preferred it.

"Come," he added, getting up. "We will go, again."

He smiled and shook his head. Simple men wished for few things., Was this was one of them? Perhaps he was merely humble to a fault and wished not to ask. On which he could not press him to do. But he could not rest with it, feeling that he could have quite probably owed his life to the man. ".. very well then.."He got to his feet, trying to ignore the pain that the leg in protest, was giving. He limped the small distance that was between him and the 'Portuguese' and carefully he moved as he did previously. It wasn't the most... dignified, but it served it's purpose well.

"I'll owe my debt to you..on my honour as a gentleman." He hesitated as a private, trooper. "And were it an opportunity to return the favour.. then I so shall." A gentle smile of a man who was bred higher than his station was made.

He clasped his hand to the sabre again to keep it from flaying about. His legs moved so, that they were easy to hook onto, and kept out of the way. No need to trip on those or because of those.

This time it was easier to get the hussar settled onto his back. Calderón tucked his elbows behind the lad's knees again and waited a moment for his passenger to get his sabre suitably controlled. Then he was off, at a brisk walk at first before stretching his legs out into a steady trot. It would not be long at all now.

The mention of debt and honour made him passingly uneasy, though. Were he to be spotted around the column and recognised - especially by this fellow - it would be tricky indeed to avoid further recognition by someone he did not want to recognise him. Perhaps he would have to range well ahead of the column, moreso than he'd wanted.


OOC - Anybody else with an Army character can slide in here, if they wish. Somebody has to spot our two odd travellers!

OOC - Hehe, aye! It wouldn't do to have poor sentries in trouble for not spotting a lone rider.. er men... as peculiar as the transport subject may be. . *clears throat* What I mean is : Anyone armywise n' able welcome! *covers face now*


Ignorant of Jose's plight the Hussar's thoughts were no longer at present. His eyes still scanned and remembered, the familiar paths calming him greatly. Analyzing the past events that lead him to be stranded on foot, he recalled the turns he took, the daze in which he has walked the first day and little tid bits of faces of the men that rode against them. He stirred himself from the imagery that presented itself before his eyes. They might soon be spotted, and it wouldn't do to be caught daydreaming like some ignorant schoolboy. He breathed in sharply, the man's shoulder digging uncomfortably into his person.

Suddenly a cup of tea, however basic sounded like a gift sent from heaven. Returning to duty - his heart was elated. Finally.

The remaining distance passed in much the same fashion as the last miles; steadily, if not quite so quickly as Calderón might have liked. Still, progress was progress and he knew by the increasingly familiar landmarks all around that he was coming quite close to the road.

"Not long," he grunted, altering his course just slightly, to run a little more parallel to the road. He didn't care to cut the road only to find himself well behind the army.


OOC - For storyline purposes, I think this thread is taking place some time during the third day. The actual time can be adjusted to fit though, if need be.

Cotton was scanning the terrain when a flash of movement caught his eye. He looked again. A man... no, two men, one being carried piggyback. They were coming this way, too.

Well, he was scouting ahead, and he'd just found something interesting. He had a quick word with his partner, sending him back down to find Vickery, before walking forward to intercept them.

Their progress was consideratly well done. The young hussar smiled when the words of ~Not long~ reached him.

It was sweet music to the ears, which had the youth clutch at his sabre more strongly. It hadn't fit in it's scabbard, the shape of either bent enough to refuse. But he couldn't have left it behind, when it was his only weapon still in tact. The carbine, as innacurate the weapon was, had been lost.

It was when he lifted his gaze that he spotted something moving in their direction. He gave the 'Portuguese' a small nudge.

Looked like a hussar was cadging a lift from a local. For some reason, he was carrying his sabre, instead of having it sheathed. As Cotton got closer he could see that the uniform was torn and stained, as though he'd spent a few nights out in bivouac.

He hefted his rifle, carrying it easily, non-threateningly but ready to use if needed.

"Hulloa!" he called.

At last. Calderón saw something vaguely human-shaped ahead. They'd found the army, it seemed. The hussar on his back gave him a light nudge that he responded to with a grunt. Another few minutes would see the pair of them close enough to the green-jacketed scout... green-jacketed? Damn. Calderón bit down on his tongue to keep from growling a dark curse. Why, of all possible things, did it have to be a green-jacket to spot them first?

He slowed back to a brisk walk as he drew nearer to the soldier, defiantly ignoring the ache in his feet. It unnerved him somewhat to see the man lift his rifle up a bit, though the gesture couldn't be hostile. "I have found one of your horse-men," he said to the green-jacket as he plodded to a halt.

He waited to be released from the man's back, so that he too could greet the man in more dignified manner. Not that there was anything dignified of being found and carried like a lost child to its parents. Scratching that thought from his mind he could all but crane his neck to see the face of the uniformed man.

Ah. And now what was Cotton supposed to do?

"What was he doing out here?" Cotton said curiously. "The Army's that way." He gestured over his shoulder with his thumb.

"Here, mate, you look fair done in," he said to the lad, and turned to the other man, the local. "And you don't look so fresh, neither. Must've come a fair way." He unslung his canteen and held it out.

Calderón knelt down to let the hussar slide off his back, hopefully for the last time. The boy might not be heavy, but any weight seemed to increase when carried for awhile. He shrugged at the green-jacket's question. "I have not come far with him," he said. "He may tell you his tale himself." And he shook his head at the offer of the canteen.

"You sure you don't want any? It's only water, like."

He turned to the other man. "What were you doin' out here?" he asked curiously, wondering how anyone could get so in advance of the main body of the army. He hadn't seen any signs that cavalry had passed this way recently, though, judging by the state of the lad's clothing, it hadn't been any more recently than four or five days ago.

When the youth was back on his feet he did not reach for support to aid his leg. Straightening out, his face was a mask void of emotions concerning it. He stood right up, without the earlier lean to the side. This did bring pressure to the injury, and had him stiffen his lip. But no more than that was revealed on his face, nor in his voice when he spoke:

"I've had a small run in with our 'friends'."The last word was spoken with a tone that clearly stated he had hardly meant the good kind. He wondered if it were not obvious that he would not be carried half way through Portugal on human back if he had been sound and well on his horse. With his troop.

"Felt like taking a walk." He added pleasantly. "And then company." He nodded towards Jose. His leg was a damn right pain by now, still he bore it with the stubborness of those particularly grey hooved creatures. He did not make a move to accept the water, but had said nothing yet to decline it.

Again he shook his head. "I am not in a great thirst." The same might not be said of the hussar, even though he had a hip-flask of water with him. Calderón's interest was, however, perked by the mention of "our friends". That could only mean one thing. There were French cavalry patrols about - and here he was idling away time like there was an abundance of it.

He glanced at the hussar and bit his lip. Now that he'd gotten the boy back to his army, he was suddenly reluctant to leave him. A natural sense of responsibility, perhaps? "How far from here were those 'friends'?" Calderón asked.

There was a slight flicker on the lad's face as he stood up, and Cotton glanced down to see if he were injured anywhere. Not that anything was immediately apparent, under the dirt and worn uniform trousers.

"French? How far, and how long ago?" he asked, before pressing the canteen on the lad. "You've had a long old time of it, but you wait here and the column'll catch us up soon enough."

Before he was to answer a canteen was pressed into his hands and he clutched it into his free hand, before it could drop in the haste. He glanced from the man he has spent the long few hours with to the rifleman who's curious nature was quite unlike the soldiers he was used to seeing.

Was he to speak of this before a civilian, for the Portguese certainly did not belong to an army, and if his story was to be believed, was neither fleeing from one. With a moment spared he lifted the canteen to his lips. Some time was gained to make a decision, time that had him realise how thirsty he had been. Before he had cut his rations, fearing that he might not find the army nor river worth drinking from. But now he was assured, fully at that, that water was here as would be drink in general. So he drank.

When he lowered the canteen, he held it to the rifleman, wiping at his lips with the back of his other hand." If you've got a map (any as accurate as it was) I can show it to you. " Mind, he had been chasing after the scouts and some ground was gained that went further from where he had met them. He gave a vague estimate of time and distance, which proved that he should have walked quite slow, concerning the distance covered. The civilian heard it, but.. he may have been privvy to that information, considering it was his homeland that was invaded and thanks to him, that he was here.

"No, 'fraid I don't have a map," Cotton said, grinning to himself at the very thought he could have.

He looked at the Portuguese man. "Was he far from here when you found him?" he asked, hoping the man's English was good enough to understand and answer the question.

"About three miles by his reckoning." He answered before he realised the question was meant for his companion. He looked apologetic and shrugged.

Three miles... not so very far. And it would have been another mile or so for him to have got there from wherever the French were.

"What regiment are you, and where's the rest of 'em?" he asked, trying to think. He should probably take the lad down to his captain, or even Colonel Edrimgton.

Calderón was content to let the young hussar answer the questions being put to them by the green-jacket. The less he said now, the better. He settled down into a relatively comfortable position on the ground and let his feet enjoy a brief rest. It wouldn't be long before he was back up and moving again.

"15th Hussars, .."He was praying inwardly that they would have someplace to sit, the pain was certainly not getting any better.

"We were up ahead - before you, behind the first - scouting about the time we crossed paths with the French. Judgin' by their number they were meant to have a peek at our walkabouts." He shrugged. They were as surprised by the sight of each other as were the French. It didn't hinder them to take action though.

" Don't know where mine are now.. but I reckon back where they be needed." Or in a tavern, he mused, if them blokes could find one.

Could they now sit, or move. Well preferably not walk, but if it had to happen, then so be it. He was tempted to chew the inside of his cheek to distract himself, but chose not to.

Cotton re-corked his canteen and slung it back over his head.

"I think you should sit down," he said. "You don't have to report to me like I'm an officer, you know." He glanced at the hills again, still cradling his rifle. Who knew what might happen, and he still had to be able to warn the column, didn't he?

He smiled. In his stubornness to have his injury not show he has forgotten that he did act towards the man, what was his name? - well the rifleman much like he'd have answered questions to a superior. "Habit." He excused himself with a light shrug. He sat and felt such relief that it showed on his face. He bit his lip and adjusted his leg carefully, sporting a grin.

"Had you had any trouble so far?"He motioned lightly towards the wilderness. He eyed the rifle with slight curiosity, admiring the cut of the weapon. Not like those carbines. Short in the range that they could cover and it took even a great shot to realise that... 'twas the gun's fault that accuracy was somewhat poor. But atleast they were light...

"No, though there was rumour last night that our scouts had found some dead French cavalry. Though apparently it wasn't many, really." He grinned and held out a hand. "Sorry. I'm Gabriel Cotton, 5th Battalion 60th Rifles. Nice to meet you."

(OOC - So, hello from him and goodbye from me. I'm at work this afternoon.)