Afternoon, Sixth Day

He watched intently for the tell-tale rustle of grass ahead that would indicate his quarry's position. The pursuit had been slow and plodding, but Newbury was confident that he had the rabbit cornered. All that remained was to take the killing shot and his company would have stew for dinner when they made camp.

The Rifleman glanced over his shoulder at the hussar who'd come along on the hunt. It amused him, again, to see the boy armed only with a simple sling. Precisely what Willoughby intended to do with that sling, Newbury didn't know. But it was the only weapon the hussar had.

Newbury lifted a hand to beckon Willoughby closer. They could both take a shot at the rabbit when the small creature showed itself. Good thing he was flank scout this afternoon, or else dinner that evening would be bland indeed.

The afternoon's halt was called, and Wellesley trotted Hercules forward to find the 62nd. He dismounted as he reached the back files - now seated by the roadside, eating or taking a drink from their canteens - and searched with his eyes for the colonel.

For someone who'd just been limping when walking, he was a rather fair deal more graceful when crouched and cutting the distance on his feet and in part on hand. He came to a slow silent stop to the side of the rifleman. How they came to an agreement to go on the hunt was still beyond him, but now that he was here, he was barely containing a grin.
He nodded to indicate that he were ready, when his armed fellow was too. With a delicate movement of his hand, he reached into his pouch and from it brought a small sharp edged stone. He fingered the sling and slowly adjusted it, pulling it taut, gazing in the direction of the rabbit.

Edrington turned and looked back along the resting column as the Lieutenant told him that the General had just turned up. "I did not go back and ask him what he wanted, my lord. I - thought it was probably you, and quicker to fetch you." "Thank you, Mr Farringdon. I will go and speak to him."

The bay turned and trotted back, avoiding the resting men with practiced steps. Edrington dismounted as he reached the General. "Good Day, Sir," he said, and saluted.

"Good day, colonel," Wellesley acknowledged the salute with a nod. He had seen the lieutenant catch sight of him, and he had obviously thought to fetch Edrinton. "I was hoping that you might take a turn with me a little way along the road - I find that after several hours in the saddle I have need to stretch my legs."

Willoughby was ready. Good. Newbury slowly pulled back the hammer of his rifle and lifted the weapon up to his shoulder. It didn't matter to him who got the first shot off, as long as the rabbit was killed. And there was the creature itself, cautiously edging out of its bolt-hole. The breeze had to hold just for another moment...

"On three," he muttered, just loud enough for the hussar to hear. "One... two... three." The final number was uttered as a sharp hiss. Newbury's finger tightened around the trigger even as the word passed into verbalisation.

"Of course, sir." He gave the bay's reins to a young ensign, and asked: "North or South?"

On three or rather almost before the last T was spoken, the stone was sent flying in the slightest curve. No sound was made, contrary to the rifle, which echoed it's shot and rose a good deal of smoke against the faces of the two men. He leaned to the side, waving a hand to clear out the air from the grey. The rabbit lay struck where it earlier stood.

Not even a twitch to show it were alive before, while crimson coloured where the bullet pierced it's furr and flesh. The stone lay a little from the rabbit too and on closer inspection one could see that it had struck against the animal's neck. Willoughby grinned in triumpth at their trophy. Trying to find the little bugger, would it have been missed, would take a lot more effort and a great deal more time.

"North, I think." Wellesley handed Hercules' reins to a sergeant who had been standing nearby, extracting an apple from his saddlebag and handing that over nearby. "Give him that and he shouldn't cause you any trouble."

They set off at a strolling pace, but after a few paces Wellesley deviated a little from roadside; still in sight of the column, but giving enough distance for them not to be overheard.

"We did not manage to finish our discussion of last night," the general said after a while.

"Ha!" Newbury couldn't quite stifle his pleasure at having killed the rabbit. Not the best shot ever, but a hit was a hit when it came down to it.

He rose and joined Willoughby in contemplation of the rabbit before stooping to pick up the pebble from the hussar's sling. "Looks like we both got it," he said with a grin.

"Ah, I've just skimmed it." Smiles humbly, though looks pleased at where the stone landed. By a touch to the neck it was clear what damage it did. " A nice plump one, we've got here!" He lifted the rabbit up by the ears and held it to the rifleman.

"An excellent shot there. But I'm sure it was like a mere walk in the park for you, aye?" He spoke, and grinned for he knew riflemen could be no worse. After all, they were trained for accuracy as opposite to some others.
He looked ahead as if spying for another treat that might satisfy the men, and their numbers. A refreshing as the afternoon was, it had him feeling new and light.

Grinning, Newbury accepted the prize and replied "You might say that. A second later and the bugger would've bolted clean away!"

He lifted the rabbit to inspect it more closely. His shot had passed clean through the rabbit's middle, which wasn't necessarily the best spot for a lead ball to go. But any fragments could be cut out easily enough, when the rabbit was carved up for the stew pot.

"Lookin' for another one?" Newbury asked, observing Willoughby's gazing around.

"Yes. It would never hurt if we had ourselves a proper feast." And then up higher on the hill he had spotted a small patch of furr, its movement betraying its whereabouts.

"Think we can get that one too?" He asked and had again not worried about the surgeon's words. Keep all weight of the leg allright. He was! Half of the time, wouldn't hurt no more if it were them climbing up a heal to fetch their prize either.

[Same place, since otherwise we'd tussel over HQ or 62nd...]

And we continue here

OOC - Multi-people threads are tricky. Sadly. Separating the various involved parties can be tricky too, though, as events that affect everybody may be overlooked/missed. And, I'm trundling off to bed now. Work tonight and it's quarter to seven AM already. Blah!

IC -

Newbury passed the dead rabbit back to Willoughby and began the process of reloading his rifle. If there were other rabbits around, he wanted to try downing as may as he could. The more meat available for stew, the better.

"I'll sure try to get him," he said, wishing it didn't take so long to get his rifle loaded again.

(ooc - true that. could suggest having bold bold letters as compared to normal, but that might be harder to read, and it wouldn't solve the problem completely! Ah well!)

Seeing as the rabbit was out of his range he sat himself on the ground, observing the rifleman working his rifle wild mild curiosity. From mild curiousity he turned to watch Newbury's every move, admiring the look the weapon had compared to some that he had had the pleasure of seeing. It took longer to prepare it and load it, but it faired as an accurate weapon at a much greater distance than a musket would ever dream of.

He glanced at the direction of the hill to see if the rabbit was still there.

What Timothy though was a rabbit was in fact the very top of Private Bouchart's bearskin. The grenadiers, having safely delivered their captive sailors and hussars back to camp a couple of days ago, had been sent south to see if there were any more of the enemy on the way, and now they had paused just behind the crest of a hill for a rest. They had been led probably further south than they should have gone; but Capitaine Duprey had a rare hangover that morning, and would not hear any objections from either of his two lieutenants or ensigns.

"We will go another mile south and then we turn back," he growled, his eyes red-rimmed as he glared at Lieutenant Guilbert. "Not before! Who's running this bloody company, anyway?"

Silently Guilbert thought that between them Sergeant Fabier and Javert did a very good job of it, but now was certainly not a time to say so.

The rifle was nearly prepared for a shot, and the rabbit was still there unmoving. Judging by the distance, the rabbit would have been of a considerable size and as round if not rounder than their previous catch. Two of such, and they would have the riflemen lying down with bellies full enough to purr. He grinned at the thought, waiting patiently for the other man to take the shot. If the rabbit would have been wounded and would make a run for it, they would need to be fast to get it. Keeping it in sight was essential. Though at present the hill would hide him well, running just the right direction, that is.

He stood. There, steady now.

The sling that he'd earlier used was now tucked away behind the rim of his breeches, with the pouch tied closed so that no stones would spill. The slightly less bent sabre rested at his side. As much as it were a nuisance to carry when it's use was smaller than it's weight, he had still convinced himself to take it. Bent or not bent, they were not home, and the territory could be as hostile as it were friendly.
The 'rabbit' was still in sight, and then the shot would ring. If only he knew that the peculiar shaped creature, was not a rabbit.

There were picquets away to the South, yet they had missed the man in green and horseless hussar hunting their dinner. They had reported dust rising to the south and Lieutenant Thiénot had gone to look with his telescope.

Javert sat with Fabier, Bouchart, Brouillard, Houllier and Corporal Roussel. None of the men were particularly bothered about the march, nor the scouting party. What they minded was that it was still some way back to their encampment and the rest of the regiment - and though they did not doubt they could hold off a band of irregulars, they were not that keen on being found far from home in the dark; where your enemies could see you, but your could not always see them.

The man didn't shoot just yet though. (I misread earlier, so fixing it a little now) With a rifle loaded and ready they had to make way towards the 'rabbit' slow and careful not to draw its attention. It was much harder work from where they were. If the black furred spot hadn't been so calm in it's place they might've gone for another rabbit. But it looked as if the animal had its back turned to them. The wind was blowing against their faces, so that none of their scent could travel to it to alert it.

Clutching the dead rabbit by the ears in his right hand, he held his left on the sabre, pressed to his side so that it made not a single sound.

Small distance was crossed and the rabbit was still there. A bit more and they were climbing the hill and the rabbit had moved. but only ever so slightly. (the hat moved of course). Changing their course a bit to the right, they continued. They had to come to the side of the animal and on higher ground. The first was important so that they could see easier where it ran of to, no matter the side of the hill. And the second , so that taking aim at it, would have been easier.

He felt the strain at his ankle but chose not to use the sabre as a stick to aid him. No sound was to be made, and so far they were fairly good in that. Not even a pebble was yet dislodged beneath their feet. The grass was wet and tall up above their ankles. But it wasn't as slippery as they could have feared. Just around the corner now, where the 'rabbit' could not see them and for a few moments, so couldn't they it. And then they came around the with a rifle and a sling in hand.

There it was. Newbury had his rifle at his shoulder in case the rabbit spooked and tried to bolt. He'd get this one too, sure.

"Ready..." he muttered as he and Willoughby came round the hill. His finger curled around the trigger, then he froze. Oh bugger. It was no rabbit they'd been stalking.

"Run for it, lad," Newbury hissed, knowing full well the chance of Willoughby getting very far on his bad leg was small indeed.

The plump bunny turned out to be six not so plump, dangerous looking Frogs. And unlike their green, slimy skinned relatives, these were armed, and not hopping away in fear.

Two, one and a half armed men with a loaded rifle and a sling that was hardly suitable as a serious weapon, against six lads whose present readyness of arms was still unknown. The odds smiled onto the French.


"..Shoot 'im!" The youth hissed back, and threw the rabbit at the men, more to distract them than with any good purpose.
The rabbit itself was a fair sacrifice if they were able to alert their troops and come out of it victorious. He was turning, and hissed as his leg nearly gave way under the abruptness of his move.

Javert started as a dead rabbit seemed to drop from the sky and land with a thump on the turf in front of him. The six grenadiers all looked at it in astonishment.

"Where the bloody hell did that come from?"

But Roussel was already on his feet and peering over the top of the ridge.

"Hey!" he shouted at the sight of the two soldiers. "Goddamns! Two of the bastards!"

Both dressed in different uniforms - one very much like a cavalryman and looking to get away. But the cavalryman stumbled. It seemed his ankle was wounded.

Newbury's rifle was already cocked, ready to fire at what he'd previously believed to be a rabbit. But he didn't fire. The odds were too great against him. Even if he were to shoot one there were still five others left to come after him, and he wouldn't have time to reload.

"Move!" Newbury barked, backpedaling unsteadily down the slight hill. He was fully prepared to run but he couldn't leave Willoughby behind. So he did the next best thing; his non-firing hand flicked out and shoved the hussar forward, most likely sending the poor lad tumbling headlong. Then he knelt and levelled his rifle at the crest of the hill. With luck, he could draw the Frogs into firing their own muskets. That ought to be enough to raise some alarm back at the columnn.

He bit down a cry of pain. The rifleman may have thought it smart to shove him ahead, and have him tumble out of danger, but he'd showed him ahead just as all his weight had already been on his injured ankle. So instead of a stumble, and slide run, he collapsed on the leg, overcome by good lord Gravity. His hands were pushed forward to protect his head from striking the ground head on. He rolled over and was inwardly cursing the lad, as he went for the next turn.

He twisted around trying to slow himself, digging his heels and fingers into the loose rabble and grass. The momentum that he'd gathered, didn't allow him to grasp at the floor for long, and he was twisted around again. If the French weren't to kill him, that man certainly was doing a great job about it!

As if by pure luck, more than his skill, he had managed to slow himself down enough that the next tail of grass actually held him down. He struggled to stand looking up at Newbury and then turned to run.