Afternoon, Sixth Day

The grip was stronger than if Lalande had been a healthy , strong man and yet it was just that thought that shocked him when he felt the lad reach for him, gurgling up blood. His eyes went wide, and he felt the twist at his gut. It was one thing to slice at the enemy and see them not in their final gasps, but as puppets, as bodies of straw and completely another to have the man up so close, so personal and know him.

What did he wish to say? Why to him? words of loathing, words calling for help? He felt the grip relax, and the body slump against him.

He was breathing harsh and fast as the vision of Lalande's face continued to shudder and gasp in his mind, choking, gurgling and trying to speak with blood pouring out. He was the enemy, yet it was the familiarity with which the man clutched and reached to him, that made him feel as if he could've been any other man, a friend, Newbury there, one of his fellow Hussars, some he knew from the riflemen. "Oh....."He was speechless even when he had just wanted to say oh god..

But he couldn't have died! That man run away with a wicked look on his face just a moment ago, a look of promise for more of his kind of mischief. Willoughby held the man, that was still warm, as if alive and he shook him lightly. Once, as if to stirr him awake. He looked at him, and breathed in sharply. He shook him again, and hissed. Surely he was pretending to be dead. The damned Frenchman. So he shook him again, harshly this time, jerkily, which sent some of the blood staining his own uniform. "..Wake up, you bloody Frog!"

Young Bézayrie crouched down next to the body. He heard the English words without knowing what they meant, but he understood the hussar's meaning. His face was pale as he looked down at his fellow grenadier and back up at the prisoner. He shook his head and murmured something to the Englishman, gently removing the man's hands from Lalande's body. Shaking him would do no good now.

The hussar, probably made stupid by his would and the shock of Lalande gripping on to him as he dies, was shaking the dead man, trying to wake him. Feeling a stab of pity, Javert told hold of the hussar's arms and prized them gently but firmly from Lalande.

"Easy, lad," he rumbled. "Nothing you can do; he's gone. Dead."

He gave a distasteful look at the pale Lalande. The blood was still runing red from the wound in his chest. Little Bézayrie's eyes were fixed on it, the poor lad looking as pale as the fast-cooling corpse.

"No loss, really."

He gave the body a nudge with the toe of his boot, sending it rolling a little further down the hill.

The boy spoke too softly to be understood. The Hussar finally aknowledged him and he felt foolish and yet still shaken. He had stared at the dying man's eyes and it was hardly as glorious as victory should have been. He did not wish to speak in French, though he knew the boy only knew that, and he himself was known to only know English. And then he heard Javert and he looked at the man and found himself standing slowly. He looked at the body that rolled away and then fixed his eyes on the Frenchman. He would have glared, if the young Frenchman had been his friend, he would have done so for sure. Yet he just blinked at Javert blankly and then shifted his weight from his leg. And as he glared, it was because the man was his enemy.

"Your men are dying,.. You will have been outnumbered by our forces. I suggest that you offer yourself to them..and we shall spare the lives of your men and take you as prisoner, Alive." He spoke harshly, not knowing how many were trully fighting. Knowing for sure that there was some, but hardly the number that was there.

Bézayrie looked up at Javert in surprise, but said nothing to contradict his corporal. He stood and looked down at the hussar who was speaking his incomprehensible English charabia, but his eyes strayed back to Lalande's body.

Well, the horseman did speak French them. Javert frowned at him.

"We don't surrender - not to anybody. Should our captain think it best to pull back we will. And we shall be sure not to take you with us."

He gave another harsh glare at Lalande's body.

"And he was all for killing you, by the way. He was a mean bastard who shirked when he could and would pick your pockets if he had half chance. But I'd have none of that - so don't go feeling sorry for him."

He gave the hussar a humourless smile.

"I'll give you one piece of advice, lad, before we part; and that's never to feel sorry for an enemy. Never, until the battle's won either way - because you can always guarantee the other bastard won't feel sorry for you."

(ah, didn't know it was said in French but then, ok XD.. lets say he slipped up)

He felt his cheeks warm and turn red and knew it was because he was taught a lesson by the enemy and he felt like a child that was scolded by a parent and saw what a foolish thing he did. He managed a glare at Javert and then simply he shrugged. He had already done a mistake by making his knowledge of the language known. So he replied:".. If you do not intend to take us with you, why then do you hold us prisoner?" His eyes narrowed at the man: "Is it not foolish to do so?" He did not adress the man with a title as he neither new a proper one, nor he felt obliged to.

"Why come through all the effort of bringing us up here." He smiled, but it wasn't a pleasant one, though bearing much a trait for a Hussar. "Is it you, who needs advice..?"

Javert's grin broadened - a ghastly sight as the bright teeth showed between the large sidewhiskers and the flat nose.

"No, laddie; it's because we caught you out. When we go your grasshopper friends are going to find you both with your hands behind your backs and the braces and buttons cut off your trousers."

He took out the sling he had taken off the hussar and waved it in front of his face.

"And I'll show this to my comrades back home, and they'll see how the English arm their horsemen - with bent sabres and a child's toy."

Bézayrie was still crouching behind the hill, and Javert turned to bark at the boy to get over the other side and do some damage.

Still staring at the body, Bézayrie had time to shiver and cross himself before he was ordered up the hill. He jumped at the shout, but one of the other grenadiers, Foucheaux, grabbed him gently by the elbow. "Come on, lad! We'll see them bleed for it!"

Carty saw two Frenchmen coming up the hill, approaching the crest where he lay hidden - he aimed and fired.

Bézayrie felt the blood explode across him. His own? And he was falling, falling with Foucheaux, both of them tumbling down the ridge. His hands were flung out but he could not stop himself, and something cracked against his head. He seemed to be falling endlessly. Foucheaux! Why was everything so quiet and dark?

He took a limping step backwards and he looked ready to jump at the man for what he suggested. " I have had a run in with your men, and have not been with my troop! I was to be armed once I Rejoined them! Your own men did a poor job in their attack! We chased them, right off.. " He snapped.

"I have no doubt that for Frogs... it is hardly more than a mere sling I need any how." His voice was as sharp as if it was a freshly done blade. A bent sabre was still sharp, a child's toy had done a good bout of damage on that little rabbit and had been much more silent about it.

Carty's saw two bodies fall, but was already reloading. When he had fired his next shot, he realised that the smaller body, which had rolled some way towards him, was still breathing.

"Foucheaux," he whispered. "Help me."

Iosa Críost, he was still alive, and talking too. Well, he wouldn't be getting up for the moment, and Carty was not going to stop to help an injured Frenchman while the Frenchman's friends were shooting his friends. He began to reload.

Javert just shook his head sadly.

"Bouchart, grab me some rope. And bring the grasshopper too."

He felt his ankle protest as he took another step back and had to shift his weight accordingly. Let them try yes, but he would not merely stand there and wait for the men to conclude their little tie up. "You will do no such thing."

Bézayrie recognized the sound of reloading somewhere close by. Was it Foucheaux? Why did he not come to help him? He forced his eyes painfully open and found himself staring at something dark and indistinguishable, too close to focus his eyes on. Grass, possibly. A rock. His head felt strange. Was he upside-down? Why did his body refuse to cooperate?

He tried to call out for help, but his words only came out in a whisper.

Javert raised one thick eyebrow.

"Won't we?"

He grabbed hold of the hussar's collar with an iron grip, making it impossible for him to move, whilst Bouchart came forward and bound Willoughby's hands behind his back.

Hands forced back and behind him, he thrust his knee forward. Javert stood close so that his grip on his collar would have been strong. A prime opportunity, though less a honourable act, though neither could've been what waited for him. He kneed the man, with a strike at his groin, and then he yanked sharply at his arms.

Harris watched as the small group of Frenchmen on the far side of the ridge bound the young Hussar, although he put up a spirited resistance. He raised his rifle, but there were too many, and under threat they might decide to cut their losses - and their captives' throats.

The main attack was from the rest of the company, now coming over the ridge. Harris began to run down aslant the ridge to rejoin the rest of the 95th, who with the group from the 60th were taking their toll on the French. He saw Carty, and just in front of him a Frenchman trying to pick himself up. Harris clouted him across the head with the butt of the rifle as he slid into position next to Carty. "That one's not dead," he said. "We may have something to exchange once this is over."

"Take him back?" asked Carty, peering out of the bushes. "They have our rifleman and Timothy Willoughby!"

"And we have him. And more, back in Lisbon." Harris smiled. "Cover me."

He moved the few feet up the slope and pulled the Frenchman down to lie next to them. Young - not quite as young as Carty, but still too young for the heavy moustaches favoured by the French. The blood on him did not seem to be his, except where Harris had hit him. Harris removed the boy's cross belt and bound his hands together. If they advanced, he might have to be left behind - you couldn't charge the enemy with a prisoner in tow - but he might be picked up by their reinforcements.

Carty nodded, shooting at one Frenchman who appeared on the crest threateningly. It was all very simple for him - he was a soldier, and they were the enemy, who would kill his friends if they could. He methodically moved through the reloading.

The pain shot through Javert's groin and he groaned; yet it took a lot more to fell such a man of his build, and he clung on tight to the hussar's collar whilst Roussel and Bouchart finished tying him up - legs and hands, seating him on the floor.

"Getting careless are we, Valentin?" Fabier asked lightly.

Javert swore and sank to his knees, bent double.