Afternoon, Sixth Day

He allowed himself a smirk. Valentin. That was the man's name.

He was amused at the irony. The 'lover boy' might not be considering anything of the like atleast for the time he was in pain. A fair trade.
He tested the ropes but they held firmly. Less comfortable where they bound his ankles tight together. What did they think he would do? Try to run?

When he opened his eyes again, Bézayrie could still hear the sounds of battle, but the firing sounded terribly distant like he was hearing it from the bottom of a well. And such a pain he felt in his head! Why could he not move? What had happened? With his face pressed against the leaves and rocks on the ground, he could not see anything. He felt a sudden rising panic that he had been left for dead, perhaps even buried. Maybe he was dead - but no, he would not be in so much pain if he were dead. Why could he not move his arms? How could Foucheaux have left him for dead?

"Aaahh!" he cried out in terror. "Help me!"

"Cut his bloody braces..." Javert snarled from the ground. "Cut his bloody balls off!"

Fabier tutted and shook his head.

"You should not have done that," he said to Willoughby. "Javert will not be half so kind should you meet us again."

Willoughby's smirk was wiped from his face and he , more subconsciously than meaning, pulled his legs closer to himself, shifting a knee against the other as far as the ropes allowed it. Spoken with anger and little meaning or not, the last words Javert spoke had made him flinch.

He bit his tongue and glared at Fabier, willing him silently, not to come closer.

Harris lowered the rifle and glanced down at the Frenchman. "Shut up," he said in French. "You are a prisoner." He leveled the rifle again and fired.

There was a voice speaking nearby. He was not abandoned after all! A French voice but... not a French accent. And the horrible explosion of rifle fire that seemed to rattle his skull. A prisoner? Was the man speaking to him? It was too painful to lift his head and look around to see who was speaking. One of those English in the green coats? But Michel Foucheaux would not have let him be taken prisoner. Michel Foucheaux would have protected him. Where was he? Was he a prisoner too?

"Help me, Foucheaux!" the young man gasped.

Fabier shook his head again, taking out his meat knife and testing its point.

"Really not a smart move," he said chidingly, like a schoolmaster admonishing a pupil. "Y'see, many of the company are likely t be sympathic to poor Javert here - so perhaps you ought to steer clear of us from now on, eh? Hold his legs, Bouchart. It wouldn't do for you to make any sudden moves, lad, or you might else end up loosing a lot more than you bargained for."

What was happening? Newbury was still dazed from the blow he'd taken, and the voices and rifle fire seemingly all around were making it hard to concentrate.

Rough hands grabbed him and he gave a half-hearted pull away. "Wha...?"

"I fight the French... Hardly a way to steer from them.."He answered and felt his legs be drawn away from him forcefully. He twisted for a moment ro two, before he was forced down and into stillness. He eyed the knife wearily. Fabier was only going for his braces, right?

He felt his breathing quicken, the trace of doubt gnawing at his mind. So soon he had to steady himself, his eyes following the knife's every move, even when it was still a good deal away from him.

" You... you might want.. to rethink .." He began, and he spoke in French to the man this time.

The young hussar had gone pale, and Fabier gave him an obscenely cheerful smile.

"Cut his too," Fabier said, gesturing to the already bound rifleman. "And mind what you're doing with that point, Roussel."

And with that the sergeant very methodically and neatly went about cutting off the buttons of the hussar's trousers, leaving them in a neat little pile about three feet away from him.

"Don't worry, you can get your whore to sew 'em back on later," Fabier said cheerfully. He then raised the Hussar's dolman and slit his braces.

"though you'll have to get a new pair of those."

John Vickery wrote:"Yes, sir."

It irked rather, being senior Rifles officer on an occasion like this. He wanted to get up there and see the situation for himself, but he couldn't risk leaving the column completely unguarded. Even the Light Companies of the redcoats, although they could skirmish, were no match for the French voltigeurs or tirailleurs, and would need the superior accuracy and range of the rifles.

The good thing was that Sharpe and his men, added to the men of the 60th sent up to investigate seemed to be holding the situation, which probably meant that forces were evenly matched. What he really needed was information sent back. He would be prepared to send the rest of Vickery's company forward - perhaps supported by his light company, if that would clear the way. He could not allow the stalemate to continue for much longer. "Captain Vickery, I want you to prepare your men to go in support of Sharpe. We must clear the road ahead of us, and not be held by what might be an inferior force."

"Yes, sir."

Well, there was the promise of action... that would probably fizzle out by the time the rest of the 60th got within sight of whatever was going on. But even the promise was better than nothing.

"Will you be accompanying us, then, sir?"

He felt such a rush of relief that he found himself smiling with delight, before it downed on him that his breeches were still sent into a rather humiliating disarray. He glared at Javert and then at Fabier and Roussel and found himself wishing he were not bound and that he had his sabre in hand. Would slit a right proper smile across their necks and faces. Might have it a fine slash across the eyes, as the cavalry was often seen doing.

Glad that he was seated he turned to observe as Newbury would soon be given the same treatment. " I'll have you for that.."He spoke and he shifted in place and he frowned. He must've felt glad he was to be released to freedom in mere minutes now, instead of having to tag along with the French as a prisoner. And perhaps, he did too, a little.

Harris paused in reloading - the boy's cries threatened to attract the wrong sort of attention. "You are a prisoner. Do you understand? So be quiet. Or I will assume you do not want to be a prisoner."

"As an observer, Captain. I am happy to accompany you forward."

Bézayrie bit back a sob. He could not nod his head - even to attempt to do so would be excruciating - but he understood. With sickening despair, he understood.

"Father God help me," he whispered, closing his eyes against the pain and nausea.

Harris had already put the boy from his mind. He would have to be taken back to the column. He looked relatively unharmed, but Harris had another Frenchman lined up. He fired, and glanced at Carty. In this situation there was nothing child-like about him, except his fierce concentration on the task in hand. It did not matter that that task was killing Frenchmen: he would do it until told to stop.

Somebody was tugging at his trousers - had he been sick on himself? Newbury cursed under his breath, realising he was entirely unable to move.

"We gone yet?"

"All right, sir. Just keep the Rifles in between you and the French and we'll see you all right."

He turned to his men. "Rifles! Quick - march!"

"Just our buttons...." Willoughby was short with words, looking over at Newbury. He didn't have himself move, as that might as well have the breeches go and move the wrong way.

Quick march, of course. Rifleman's pace, which was one reason why the Rifle companies found themselves pulling ahead of the rest of the column. Edrington adjusted his pace to that of Vickery. Rifles and muskets still spoke, easily recognizable, as they closed the distance. The skirmish was not taking place on the road itself, but on the flanks of a tree-covered ridge which ran down to the road from the higher hills to the east.

"Not too fast for you, is it, sir?" Vickery asked, suddenly conscious of the fact that Edrington would not be used to the Rifles' quick march, would be more used to the 75 paces per minute of the ordinary time the redcoats used.

"I've marched at this pace before," Edrington said shortly. It would take a while to get used to it again, but he would keep up, not ask Vickery to slow the Company down to accommodate him.

Looking out from behind the bushes to take aim again, Perkins saw the Frenchmen disappear from the crest of the hill. He looked across to the other riflemen nearby. "Mister Sharpe! Are they retreating?"

"I have no idea, lad. They could have an army the other side of that ridge and we wouldn't know until it was too late."

There was only one way to find out and Sharpe was close enough to the top of the ridge that he could drop to his belly and wriggle forward, to see without being seen.