Afternoon, Sixth Day

He nodded to the lieutenant and glanced to poor Newbury. Bloody French for cutting of the braces and the buttons. Wasn't right! Wasn't right at all. Though it was good fair harmless. He straightened somewhat, easing his weight from his injured leg, holding onto his clothes with his left hand. "..Good thing you've come. .. Fine shooting." He spoke towards Harris.

By the time Waldegrave had reached the General the skirmish was pretty much over. Sir Arthur looked up with a frown as he saw the red-coated figure charging towards him on a horse, and recognised Waldegrave as he reined in next to him.

Waldegrave reined Acorn in and slid from his back, saluting the General: "I have a message from Colonel Edrington," he said. "His lordship presents his compliments. The rifles have encountered a French force just ahead of the column. They are not certain of how many there are. It is being investigated, and he will send another message..." He looked at the General. "I'm to go back, in case I'm needed - to bring it."

Wellesley did not attempt to conceal the surprise on his face. French sighted? This far south?

"I will save you the return ride," the General said. "Picton, Hogan, Sanders - with me, if you please. If you would be so good as to conduct us to Colonel Edrington, Waldegrave, I would much appreciate it."

"He was going back to Captain Vickery, Sir." Waldegrave remounted and turned Acorn's head back towards the head of the column. He kept his mouth shut as the Generals and those named went to mount. It was quite something, to be in ths company.

"Then we shall visit Captain Vickery also," Wellesley said briskly, nudging his heels back and starting Hercules forward into a trot. "We shall see if they know any more detailed information by now."

Sharpe dearly wanted keep in pursuit of the French, but couldn't risk getting too far ahead of the column - or his support, in the shape of Vickery's Company.

"We'll hold this ground," he decided. "Keep an eye out in case any of them sneak back and try to reclaim their prisoners." A though occurred to him - Harris had said something about picking up a prisoner of their own. He wondered if the lad was in any fit state to talk, and if they could send any useful information back to Vickery.

Slightly irked by the man he waited less patient for Harris and more patiently with Perkins, to take him back down the slope, where also the bound boy was left.

Harris trotted down the hillside to where he had left the prisoner, and placed a hand on his arm to pull him to his feet.

Carty had followed Harris, but now slung his rifle-strap over his shoulder and helped hold the boy up, who was taller than him by half a head.

Willoughby rolled his eyes, and hid not an annoyance with Harris. Seeing as he was not coming along, he placed himself down on the floor, resting his leg rather than straining it and waiting till he was able to head down below.

It seemed that the lads from the 95th knew what they were about. Newbury frowned at his buttonless trousers.

"Any lad seen me rifle?" Might as well find that, before attempting to do anything about his missing buttons and braces.

Bézayrie gasped as they lifted him. He had seemed to be drifting in a dark calm at last, something like sleep, but now the explosion in his head was worse than ever, the sunlight so painful, his hands cold and numb. And there were English soldiers all around him. He remembered Corporal Javert's words about the enemy having no pity, and he remembered stories of men mutilated and left to die, picked at by vultures. He blinked at the men staring at him.

And of course they'd forgotten about the 60th lad. Sharpe crossed to him. "I haven't seen your rifle, lad, but my lads'll keep a lookout for it. D'you need a hand, walkin', or will you be all right?"

"Take it easy, soldier." Harris spoke in French, and hoped that the prisoner was not going to throw up again. "We'll take you to the officer. If you answer his questions, all will be well. You understand?"

The boy visibly shrank at being addressed, but he listened to Harris's words and nodded tentatively. This was not the way he had ever imagined capture. He had not pictured himself completely alone. When he had thought of it at all, he had assumed the others would be there with him - Foucheaux, Des Voeux, Louens.

Newbury sighed. He'd catch hell if he went back to camp without his rifle.

"I'm all right sir," he said, carefully getting to his feet. It wasn't easy since he had to mind both his trousers and his throbbing head.

"Right then. You need a hand, shout and someone'll come runnin'." He hadn't seen the lad's rifle. The French could have taken it with them, of course, but the lad still had his cartridge box, and French ammunition would not fit the bore of a Baker rifle.

Timothy observed Newbury as he stood, and listened to the bits of conversation shared between the riflemen. He then looked on ahead and frowned. Lost a rifle, he bloody damn atleast had one. Feeling envy gnaw at his mind like a mutt starving for meat, he turns jerkily to look at the wood behind them. The French went there, perhaps the French did not take Newbury's rifle as they did other things. But that was for the lad to remember.

Slowly getting up, with a hand on his breeches, he went and he limped to the dead body of the Frenchman that Javert nudged away. He knelt beside the man but knew that he would find no weapon on him, and that it wasn't the reason he went there. The true reason being, giving an earshot of distance to the riflemen so that they could converse as they pleased without a Hussar hearing in.

Edrington reached the ridge almost out of breath, but at least he had kept up with Vickery and his men. Sharpe's men were alert to their arrival but had their main attention focused on the far side of the ridge, where Sharpe was talking to a rather sick looking man from Vickery's company. There were a couple of dead Frenchmen, but no British. There was even a French prisoner, supported by the young lad Carty, although the Frenchman was much taller than the rifleman. The older man Harris was with him.

He saw that the lad's eyes were still open and staring and so he leaned closer and gently he lowered the lids so that it looked as if the Frenchman was sleeping. Rather than to remember the wide eyes that stared at him with the mouth choking, he allowed himself to imprint upon this face. Much more peaceful than the one he had while still living.

He was tempted to see through the other dead Frenchmen's pockets, this one being exempt from the raid, but though that the officers might well not like to see that. And he was no thief. He was not born one, not raised one and could he really become one?

Probably not. Instead he sat at the body's side and wondered when and if he would be able to come down the slope again. And with it too, he felt bitter.

"You'd best stay here, sir, while my lads go forward and see what's been happening." It wasn't that Vickery thought Edrington couldn't be trusted; he just didn't want to risk the Colonel in case the French were closer than appearance led them to assume. And there was Sharpe with Rifleman Newbury... and closer to the new arrivals, it seemed they had a French prisoner.

"Right, Brady, take the lads forward and make sure the French really are gone. I need to speak with Newbury, and the Colonel would probably like to have a word with the Frechman Sharpe's men appear to be holding."

The Lieutenant saluted and pulled out his whistle. The Company split into the skirmish chain of pairs working with each other, each man covering his mate as he moved, although there was no firing - no need for it just yet, with the French still out of sight.

Edrington nodded, and watched as the Rifles sorted themselves out. It was interesting to see it from so close, and he stood for a moment, conspicuous in his red coat, watching them as the Riflemen merged into the trees. Then he turned to where Harris and Carty guarded the tall young Frenchman. "Sit him down," he said and then asked: "Do you speak English?" Harris looked at him and said: "I speak French, sir. If you want me to."

Edrington grinned: "Then ask him if he speaks English."

"Parlez vous Anglais?"

He shook his head, looking up at the resplendent officer and back to the French-speaking rifleman. His breath was coming in short shallow pants when he remembered to breathe at all, but he attempted to control his outward emotions. Let the English see a brave grenadier, brave like Des Voeux, God help him.

Harris passed on the next question, about the grenadier's name and regiment, then at the Colonel's suggestion asked, in as casual a tone as possible: "Where are you based at the moment?"