Afternoon, Sixth Day

"I am Jean-Louis Bézayrie, soldat, 15th regiment of the line." He looked uneasily at the officer again. Could one dare to refuse such an officer? Bodies left out for the vultures, enemies without pity... "I do not want to answer that question." He tried to make it sound defiant, fierce rather than politely apologetic, but his downcast eyes spoiled the effect. Perhaps he should have growled and shouted, like Roussel.

Harris relayed the answer, and Edrington studied the youngster. The boy was scared of them - and frightening him further was not going to help. He smiled, he hoped reassuringly, and asked Harris to explain that, as Bézayrie was now a prisoner, he would be treated well, and if possible an exchange would be quickly arranged - if they could contact his own officer, rather than go through official channels, which would take years... Harris translated this, adding a concerned look of his own.

Bézayrie listened in silence, trying to look stoical and nodding in the right places. At least they had not exploded in anger.

"So if you tell us where we can find your officer, we can start. Have you taken any other prisoners?" Harris translated for the officer, but he did not think it would work. It would probably be better if he just sat down and chatted - prisoners could give away all sorts of information in a quiet civil conversation that they would vehemently refuse to give in an interrogation.

The young man realized that he was shrinking further and further back as if expecting a blow. If and when the men chose to strike him, it would be useless to try to avoid it. "Umm..." He did not know what the proper answer would be. Obviously the opposite of whatever answer they wanted, but what was that? If Foucheaux or Des Voeux had been here, how would they have answered? "I don't know, sir." A stupid answer. Perhaps he could appear cooperative and tell them something they probably knew already. "We did find a hussar, and a rifleman, like you," he said, speaking directly to the translator. They had probably been recovered by now. Javert had said they would be left behind.

He watched as the riflemen went ahead and were to see whether there was any more French that may cause mayhem and danger. With a heavy limp he left the carcass and returned to the ridge and looked down the slope with a frown deepening. He saw Harris and with him Lord Edrington, the young Frenchman and Carty. A misunderstanding a day ago with Harris didn't sit well, and less had today's act too. He was asked to help him down and to the Frenchman, yet the lad rather passed.

He sat again and found himself to do that too often in such a short time. It would be long till anybody thought to see to a Hussar. They had their own to worry about, understandingly. The ones that had been injured while the engagement took place, Newbury, who sported a nasty bruise on himself. He found himself sighing. Foreign, estranged. The army was a family of men of different ranks, of privates that lived and ate together, that were friends above all, of officers that lead those privates and had their relation of rank with them and sometimes of camp followers that came with the body.

He found himself fitting in neither and he knew he might've been giving some an injustice with that, but as he observed and the longer he did, the more he felt the solitude that came when one was not of the same. So close to death they had gotten today and he learned mere tidbits from the French, of some that escaped finally from the Portuguese. He missed home, missed his Hussars and their jibs and laughter, missed his friends from home and most of all, missed the feeling that he belonged. Touching his ankle he frowned at it. It was no use. It didn't matter. Surprised he found despair and did not know how it had reached him.

Newbury found that if he held his trousers up with one hand, he could walk largely without embarrassment. There was still no sign of his rifle though.

"Yes sir," he said to the 95th's lieutenant, remembering after he'd spoken that the man's name was Sharpe. Or something like it. Then, after offering a salute, Newbury picked his way cautiously down the hill. He'd have to come back and search for his missing rifle after he'd found a more reliable uniform.

The small group of Staff officers rode up to the 62nd to be informed that Colonel Edrington had gone forward with Captain Vickery and the 60th in order to engage the enemy. There was the odd crack of Rifle fire to be heard now and again, but hardly the sounds of a major engagement.

Frowning, Wellesley spurred forward and away towards the hill in order to find out what was going on.

Newbury was coming down, and there was a man of high rank possibly, spurring his horse towards the hill. As an observation point, the top of the hill served it's fine purpose. He could see the comings and goings of men, though he regretted that the winds didn't cary the sound across too.

With a small sigh, he decided not to wait no longer, and do as Newbury did, in attempting to climb down himself. A hand at his breeches to keep them from falling, he used his other to steady himself as he attempted the descend. Glimpses and glances were spared below, towards Sir Arthur and to the young Frenchman that Harris had caught. He grit his teeth coming across another, much steeper surface and sliding a little further on his breeches.

Atleast that made them ride up, instead of down. Steadying himself he continued, with equal pace, and glances spared to the rest. Now there seemed to be quite a collection of officers present below and he could even spy Waldegrave amongst them. Late, the lads. The action was over.

There were riflemen still crawling about the hillside, but there was no sign of any French - save a couple of blue-clad corpses and wounded on the grass and one prisoner, currently being interrogated by Edrington and Vickery. He could not see Sharpe at present, and suspected he may be rummaging around the woodland with his men.

He walked Hercules over to Edrington, who was dismounted.

"How many were they?" he asked the colonel.

"Captain Vickery and Mr Sharpe are pursuing them now. They counted about thirty or so, but there may be more - which is what they are checking. I hoped that this lad might tell me where they are based, and their total numbers, but he has not been forthcoming."

If the French did return in force they would have a good haul of senior officers, but no doubt Vickery would pull back to protect them.

[I am out now for a couple of hours. Sorry.]

The French were definitely leaving them, which could only be a good thing. Sergeant Fischer, on hearing whistles other than his own had brought his small group of men back to the main body of the Company - all apart from one. Mirbach had darted forward, and was coming back up the hill, his rifle at the trail, but another one slung over his shoulder. He was wearing a look of triumph on his face.

Vickery received Fischer's report, looked pleased at recovering Newbury's rifle, and turned to his bugler. "Close order, please."

Joe Cavender grinned and raised his bugle, summoning the Rifles back into close order from their spread out skirmish chain. Vickery would keep them here until he could be absolutely sure the French had indeed left them, and weren't going to return in greater numbers.

Vickery himself, however, had more pressing business with his forward scout, who had slipped back down the hill to where Colonel Edrington and one of Sharpe's men were talking to a young French grenadier, obviously a prisoner. They had been joined by another redcoat, and Vickery frowned. What was Sir Arthur Wellesley doing this far forward?

"Sir," he said, saluting. "My lord. The French are in retreat, but I am keeping my men ready in case they manage to find themselves some reinforcements."

"Colonel Edrington said there were about thirty of them," the General said, fixing his gaze on Vickery. "Is that the final figure given by your scouts?"

About one company's worth of infantry - which was odd, because although it was not too many for a scouting or foraging party, it was the wrong kind of troops. And, if the few French uniforms still visible were anything to go by, they had been grenadiers.

"Yes, sir. Which is why I am concerned they may simply be falling back to allow reinforcements - or even proper skirmishers - to come up, sir."

They'd been Grenadiers. The detachments under Sergeant Fischer had all been talking about, between each other in their pairs. Why Grenadiers - why any French - were this far south, Vickery couldn't conceive, but why Grenadiers had been in advance he did not have a clue.

"They were Grenadiers, sir, all my men agree on that. That was probably why they fell back so soon, despite outnumbering my men. They are not trained to skirmish, after all, sir."

He'd reached the level on which the officers stood immersed in conversation. Closer now it wasn't hard to hear what they were saying. Grenadiers, plenty and they were wondering why they were here. The French soldier caught was there, a little further away (I think, yes?) and was under guard.

He paused, for breath and in part, willing to hear too.

"Quite," the General said shortly, as Vickery seemed to be of the opinion that he needed to be reminded what grenadiers exactly were. "Which means the rest of their regiment cannot be far away, as I doubt they would be this far without support."

Which worried him. Had it just been a troop of cavalry he would not have bothered him too much, but infantry... He was certain he would have heard of any advance south by Soult, and his cold blue eyes looked at the young Frenchman with something of a look of frustration. Had they stumbled across an advance party, or was it something else entirely?

"Tell me the exact cirumstances of the engagement, Vickery."

"Well, sir, our advance scouts came across a group of Grenadiers and were on their way back to warn us. It appears they had got too far ahead, however-" And he was going to have words with them about that! "-and the French caught them up. I heard shots exchanged, both Rifle fire and musketry, and sent a Sergeant ahead with ten men to find out what was going on. On receiving a report that our advance scouts had been captured and my men were engaged in a skirmish, I sent Lieutenant Sharpe and his men ahead as reinforcements, reported the circumstances to Colonel Edrington and brought the rest of my company up, as you see, sir."

And it wasn't that he had no concern for his own man being taken prisoner that he'd let Sharpe go ahead, but that he was resolutely determined that the 60th and 95th could work together, and the only way for that to happen was to allow the 95th part of the action.

A scout wandering too far. It was easily done, and seemed to have this time been to their advantage.

"Where did he discover them?"

And that blasted hussar was hanging around as well, limping worse than ever and with blood drying on his pelisse. What on earth was he doing here?

Vickery pointed back across the small valley - fold in the ground, really. "Somewhere over there, sir. Sergeant Fischer and his men skirmished across here and then Lieutenant Sharpe joined him and they pushed the French up this ridge and over the other side, where they abandoned our scouts."

And just what was Willoughby doing scouting with Newbury in the first place, anyway?

The bugle had called them back into close order. Newbury stumbled over to rejoin his company, growing more embarrassed as he got closer for he still did not have his rifle.

Or maybe he did. Sergeant Fischer came toward him with a Baker in his hands, a very small grin on his face. Newbury couldn't stop himself smirking as he thanked the sergeant and took the weapon back. All was right with the world again. Almost.

"Did you lose any men? And which were your scouts? I should like to speak with them."

In short of the prisoner not not imparting anything.

He found himself starting on with his walk. Well atleast in thought, for he was still standing there and observing the men, the officers in conversation.

There was that unpleasant sensation that told him he was better not to hang about for too much longer. He knew most of what happened anyways and it was what they were discussing. Just then he remembered the rabbit and turned to look back up the slope. He hoped one of the riflemen had found and descreetly removed it.

He turned towards his company and raised his voice. "Newbury!"

"I don't believe we have lost anyone, sir, though I have yet to receive a butcher's bill. The fighting was still going on as I arrived."

Newbury cringed when he heard his name called out. That was Captain Vickery's voice. A couple of his mates offered sympathetic mumbles as he hurried as quickly away as he could.

"Sent for, sir," Newbury said, fumbling to keep a grip both on his rifle and his trousers, and to somehow manage a salute. In the end he settled for squeezing his legs together long enough to salute, then he slung his rifle. His face burned hot with embarrassment when he realised it was General Wellesley there next to Captain Vickery. And here Newbury was in a dishevelled uniform and looking no more competent than a raw recruit.

Oh hell.


OOC - I'll be back in a couple hours, hopefully. Errands to run. >_>

The General frowned at Newbury's awkard gait and salute.

"Are you wounded, rifleman?"