Afternoon, Sixth Day

The sound of rifles firing next to his head had stopped. Perhaps everyone was dead now. Bézayrie opened his eyes again - how long had they been closed? Had he been asleep? And he tried to turn his head to look at the man who had spoken before. The movement caused a sudden wave of black nausea to overwhelm him, and the act of being sick caused more of the same. Oh holy mother father God, help him. Jésus-Marie.

The Frenchmen were retreating over the crest of the ridge, and now there was nothing to aim at. Lieutenant Sharpe was taking a look now - visible from this side, though not from the other. Harris turned to look at the fish they had caught - it hardly seemed worth effort, a boy who had vomited over himself, and who lay with closed eyes and a pallid sweating face.

Maybe he was dying. Maybe this was death. And with none of his own people by, not a friend, not a priest. He tried to whisper a prayer, the familiar words coming automatically, but he found his mind drifting. "Maman. I'm so sorry." How cold it was now.

Carty glanced about at the French boy, utterly uninterested as he mechanically and swiftly loaded his rifle. He looked down the barrel. "Can't see more, Harris!"

Harris had his eyes on Sharpe, waiting for the signal to follow him up and over the ridge in pursuit of a fleeing enemy - or to prepare to withstand another attack. "Wait for the lieutenant, Carty. Don't relax yet."

Newbury opened his eyes. To his shock, it seemed that the Frogs were withdrawing, but in a relatively ordered fashion.

"The lads're runnin' 'em off!" He burst out, delighted. Then he grimaced. Had any of his fellow Riflemen been hit?

Well, there wasn't an army waiting for them, at least. And the French seemed to be making preparations to withdraw, which was a good thing. But were they taking the two missing men with them?

It didn't look like it, from what little he could see. He wriggled backwards a little.

"Keep going, but careful. There's our lads down there an' all," he said, reloading his own rifle. "They won't like it if they hit by their own side."

Harris was waiting for Sharpe's signal and began to move immediately. He stopped, though and slid back down to pat the sick Frenchman on the shoulder. "Stay here," he said, "we'll get you to a doctor when we've finished chasing your friends away." There was nothing else to do, at least until their own men were recovered and the French chased back to wherever they were holed up. And clearing them from there might take more than Sharpe's men and a fraction of the 60th. While that was being arranged there would be time to take care of their prisoner.

Perkins grinned as he scrambled up the hill. Crawling up the last few feet on his belly, he was able to peer over the top to see the French already retreating. But there were the hussar and rifleman still on the ground, still alive. Perkins took aim and fired at one of the retreating grenadiers but succeeded only in knocking his bearskin off.

Lying in the leaves with his eyes screwed shut, head throbbing, stomach churning and hands immobilized, Bézayrie had neither the strength nor the inclination to move. He barely registered the man's words, though he did hear mention of a doctor. Chasing his friends away? Telling him to stay here? That made no sense. The man was leaving him here to die, alone now. The pain in his head! What was wrong with him? He remembered falling... and a sense of urgency.

With Hagman covering his progress, Perkins skidded down the steep slope towards the two abandoned prisoners. He flinched as a bullet whistled past his shoulder, but the French were fast pulling out of range to strike their targets. His boyish grin faded quickly as he saw the blood on the hussar's shirt.

"Willoughby! Newbury! Are you hurt?" he gasped as he slid down towards them, followed by Hagman.

So the French had gone, leaving their prisoners behind. He heard a voice yelling from the direction of the rifles. A moment later he came, face to face with the lad by then ame of Perkins. One of the few he had known name and face together, even if it had been rather muddier last he had seen it.

He managed a smile and a curt shake of his head:" Not a scratch." Hesitantly looking towards Newbury:" He's been struck though. Best see to him."

(dont know about our state of sitting vs. standing, so gave no mention on that)

"Newbury?" Perkins asked, turning to the rifleman and cutting the ropes with his bayonet. "Where are you hurt?" In a moment he had already turned back to the hussar, cutting him free with barely a glance at the state of his clothing. "Can you walk?"


[ooc - must go to work - bye]

"Perkins!" Drat the lad... he'd gone tearing headlong down the hill with no thought for whether there were any French still hanging around.

It seemed the two missing lads were safe, though. Young Perkins had his sword-bayonet out and was cutting at the ropes binding the Rifleman of the 60th. There were no shots fired at him, which was something, at least.

Harris saw Perkins run down towards the prisoners, but he stopped at the top of the ridge to fire and reload. A spent musket ball struck the roots of a tree and bounced off onto his foot, quite harmlessly. He glanced towards Sharpe - would they be ordered to stop, or to pursue the French until they were out of reach of the column? There was little point in leaving a tidy force where it could strike at the Division.

First thing that he did, was grasp ahold of his clothing and snatch the buttons that had been left further from him. He held a hand to his front, and gripped at the fabric to keep it in place, angered at the French for playing this out against them. He too has been sure quick to keep it all in place again.

"Yes, I can." He worried about the state of his ankle, which had gotten a fair beating, when tumbling and running down the slope. ".. I belive.. so." He added more timid. His sword was lost, and that gift of the children too. He cursed under his breath and looked up towards Perkins. "You've come right.. on time."

He jerked his head in the direction of the cry. Another rifleman, a scruffly looking lieutenant.

"Just my head," Newbury replied, still a little dazed. "They cut off me buttons."

That, more than being captured, brought an indignant flush to his cheeks.

He felt strangely fortunate again. It was the second time he had had a brush with the French and had gotten away with even less than the last. Not a cut, nor a bruise but one that he got when tumbling downwards. Only his ankle ached, and the one had not been gotten as an injury delievered by the French but by the weight of his horse and the fall.

He looked to Newbury, the poor lad suffering a good blow to his person earlier, though he worried more about his buttons. As, to be honest, did Willoughby as well. Two times and he'd walked away near scotfree. He wiped at the blood that dried on his dolman and pelisse, and which spread across his breeches where the dying youth sprayed it. It didn't do much. Too dry now.

"Your buttons?" Perkins cried, wondering with a moment's alarm what sort of Hampshire euphemism the word was meant to be. Then he noticed the disorderly state of both men's uniforms. "Oh, your buttons. Well never mind that now. Let's get you safe." Precisely how they were supposed to do that, Perkins did not know, but he grinned over his shoulder and waved at Sharpe.


[off to work again!]

Sharpe came down the slope towards themm

"All right, Perkins, give your young Hussar friend a hand. Looks as though he's done his ankle in." It might be best if the lad were to take his friend down to the road and wait for the surgeon to come past, but Sharpe wasn't entirely sure whether the lads could make it that far without some help. "Get Harris to help, if you need it."

"Sir." He saluted the lieutenant even if they were still relatively unsafe and the French were not yet fully chased from the premesis. He rubbed his wrists and adjusted his hold back on his breeches, as he began to try and stand. Scruffy indeed. The man looked as if he were coming from the ranks, and the fact that he was a mere lieutenant would have confirmed he was not a man who'd buyed his way up. He lowered his gaze quickly, for he had found himself considering that, while he was still looking at the man. Ranks or not, he was an officer and staring was offensive.

Harris grimaced. "I've managed to collect a prisoner, sir. Back there. I thought we might need him for a quick exchange, but we've already got our lads back. The Frenchman's just a boy." He wrinkled his nose in distaste. "He's thrown up all over himself and is too scared to be of much use."

[OOC - dinner time. Sorry. Back at the usual time 8.30 to 9]

A mention of a boy, French lad, peaked the Hussar's interest. Must've been the one that had tried to calm him when he made a fool of himself about the Enemy's death. "..Take me to him, Harris." He spoke in more of an ordering tone than he'd meant to. More subtly he added:" If the lieutenant permits, sir?"

"If you think you can manage it," Sharpe said, and turned the 60th lad. "You all right, lad?"

Newbury grimaced as he surveyed the state of his uniform. "I'm all right, sir. But me trousers ain't."