Afternoon, Sixth Day

Within moments they were all up and over the crest of the hill. Bouchard and Brouillard took a crack at the green man, but Javert bellowed at them to hold their fire.

"Save it! After the bastards!"

One was wounded, and only one had a gun. They would be able to take then easily enough, and Javert led the way down the hill at a run.

OOC - I'm assuming Bouchard and Brouillard both fired? If not, I'll edit this hopefully after getting to work. Got to bail now, see y'all later!

IC -

Here they came. Newbury cringed as two Frog muskets fired down at him, but he managed to hold his aim steady enough. He jerked his finger against the trigger. That was it for him now. The Rifleman sprang up and turned tail. There was no point in hanging about here anymore, and Willoughby was well on his way back toward the rest of the column.

He felt himself slipping again. His ankle was refusing to take much of his weight, which had twice sent him to his knees with a hiss, and a near tumble. Behind him he could hear Newbury running, and further up ahead the feet of the French scrambling. His sabre flayed against his side, and he grasped at it , keeping it more steady.

Damn the distance, it felt as if the camp was drawing further away now. While the French behind them, were making up with the speed, in leaps and bounds. Again his ankle gave, and he felt himself fall onto his bum as his leg slipped from under him. The boot showed its beating, but held on. He glanced upwards, from where he had fallen, and saw Newbury, and behind him the French soldiers.

" Run, faster Newbury!" He called to the rifleman and shoved himself up. Damn far, damn too far it felt. Already he caught himself inhaling sharply for more air. They've a moment been climbing up the hill and were right after running down it. No wonder one would feel tired. And the French, they were bloody fast too.

Vickery heard shots from somewhere up ahead. The first was a rifle shot - the crisp, clear, sharp sound of a Baker being fired. It was followed a few minutes later by the duller sound that meant muskets, and then another shot with the sharper, more menacing sound that meant the rifle was fired off again. That was where Joe Newbury had been scouting, accompanied by Private Willoughby, who had left his borrowed horse with the column to go scouting.

He quickly detailed half a dozen men, under Sergeant Fischer, to take a look, with orders to see what was going on and send back for reinforcements if needed.

Run faster? Newbury almost laughed. He was keeping his stride down so he wouldn't outrun the injured hussar. But the Frogs were gaining on them.

"Come on!" Newbury grabbed the back of Willoughby's coat and dragged him along behind, determined short of actually carrying the hussar to get the fellow out of there.

Good evening! X.X)


They were going ahead, yet hardly fast enough. He grit his teeth and felt himself slip again. The new men were too close. Willoughby pulled his sabre free yet felt a certain tug at the back of his uniform, coming from good ol Newbury. A look over his shoulder and he knew that they've had the men catch up with them. He thrust his sabre at the closest of them, his aim going for the man's leg. It was done more to deter the man from continuing. If only one or two such thrusts would have let them run the rest of the while free.

They found a monastry in the afternoon. Sgt. Grey was not sure it was the monastry their captain spoke of, but it was a monastry. And, to their great astonishment, it was full to overflowing with refugees. While the men watered their horses, Cornet Westley and Sergeant Grey went to talk to the prior.

Using a mixture of english, portugese, french and sign language didn’t work. Something about french and a village but what? Finally the cornet tried his latin on the prior and success! Painstakingly writing down most of the words they managed to communicate.

The prior told then that a whole regiment of french infantry had made camp in the refugees village. The mayor, who was the skinny man who had been shouting and gesticulating at them all the while, had taken the women and children and run for the hills and the questionable safety of the monastry, while the men went hiding their livestock in the other direction.
‘I’ll be damned,’ thought Grey, ‘sometimes it is usefull to have an educated litte gentleman about.’
He suggested to go and have a look at that village themselves, with the mayor leading them, but the cornet insisted on reporting the news to the 2nd Division as soon as possible.
The sergeant perked up at this. That would mean getting back into the saddle.

Presently the troop mounted and stet out in the direction they expected todays camp to be.

Bouchart skipped sideways as the hussar lunged at him with his sword. Being fastest of the six he had caught up with the retreating men quicker, but it also meant that the others were further behind and unable to give him support.

Javert swore and put on a burst of speed, doing his level best to keep up to catch the two English and his comrade.

The Hussar stumbled and grit his teeth. He lunged at Bouchart again, feeling stones give under his feet, but not enough to have him slipping. Turning now was less an option. Exposing his back to the enemy so close,.. well he was torn to run, or to have the French tumble across the ground first, before the others would catch up.

He looked over his shoulder. How far were they? Without a moment more to spare, he turned and stabbed the sabre at the direction of the man's belly, and he breathed heavily, for they've run and climbed up that hill in too short a time.

The man in green was making good his escape, but the hussar was struggling - whatever was wrong with his leg seemingly stopping any possibility of escape - yet he was fighting bravely; stabbing his sword yet again at the young grenadier, but once more Bouchart evaded the lunge. Javert caught up with him, raising his musket threateningly at the stumbling, panting and pale hussar.

"Give it up, lad," he growled in French. "Give it up now, before you do something stupid."

He clutched at his sabre and steadied himself. His eyes darted from Bouchart that he had earlier attacked and in ways defended from, to the weapon now pointing its muzzle at him. He hesitated a moment and looked at the Frenchman and he understood what he had just said.

So close, a musket was hard to miss and he was sure that it was as loaded as those of the men still coming down after Javert. He cursed inwardly, yet uttered no word. Another lunge would have cost him his life. With a glare offered to Javert, he slowly lowered the sabre.

The hussar lowered his sword, and Javert felt a wash of relief. He had not wanted to hurt a wounded man, and thankfully he had just been spared such an action.

"Take his sword," he growled at Bouchart. "And you -" to the others who had caught up. "Get after the one in green."

He breathed in sharply and then turned his blade so that the handle was facing the men. He held it out slowly towards Bouchart, the slightly bent weapon resting cold in his hand. He dared spare a glance in the direction of Newbury. Would he make it and warn the rest?

His eyes back on Bouchart he willed himself to stand straight, his chest still rising and falling in sharp intervals. Adrenaline was still present and the reality hasn't yet set in. He stood and looked as if he expected that the French would lift their hands, and give themselves over to them.

It was a group of ten men who went running to see what the musket fire was all about. Vickery thought about sending his bugler with them, but there was no way the young lad would be able to keep up with the older men.

There was one problem with being in command - you couldn't go haring off yourself to have a look at something and leave the rest of your men to fend for themselves.

The party went off easily enough, despite the hilly terrain, intent on finding what was going on. The advance scouts had managed to get quite a way ahead of the column, and eventually they had to drop back to three steps running, three steps walking. One man thought he saw movement, and grasped at Sergeant Fischer's sleeve, pointing. "That looks like one of ours," he said.

Edrington reached the front of the column to find Captain Vickery standing looking up the road in front of them. "Is something wrong, Captain?" he asked, as he dismounted.

"My lord?" He turned as he heard a horse come up behind him, and saluted as he saw Colonel Edrington.

"I heard musket fire up ahead, sir, and a rifle shot. I've sent some men to have a look and report back, sir." He shrugged. "The Rifles may see action sooner than we thought. Cotton's going to spit feathers if we do."

Edrington raised an eyebrow. "How far ahead, do you think? And did the musket fire suggest an enemy in force?" A small body could be dealt with by Vickery's and Sharpe's men, and the French were surely not in force this far south.

"Sporadic, sir, a mile, couple of miles away. Something like that. I only heard a few musket shots, but that doesn't necessarily mean it was a small group. I'll know better once I've had a report, of course, sir."

Hopefully, he and Lieutenant Sharpe would be able to deal with it by themselves, and begin to show their worth to the ordinary redcoat soldiers.

Edrington looked back down the road. The General had been going to order that the column restart its march, which would take it towards the firing. They should be warned of possible enemy activity, even though it was unlikely to be something that the Rifles could not deal with. "I'll inform the General," he said. "Is young Willoughby up with you?"

"He's up ahead, sir. Went to see how Newbury was doing, I believe."

He hoped to hell the lad hadn't got caught up in whatever was going on, and found himself tapping his leg, impatient for news.

"You'll tell the General? Thanks, sir." He didn't want to have the column getting in his way, after all, even if the vast majority of it consisted of soldiers, they were the wrong sort of soldiers to be skirmishing in the hills. "We'll deal with it just as quickly as we can, sir. Don't want any hold-ups, after all, do we?"

Edrington mounted again. "I'll inform my light company of the possibility. Call on them if you need more support. But I expect you and Sharpe can deal with it on your own." And would prefer to do so, no doubt. As effective as the proposed training day, in its own way. "I'll return once the General knows."

The General, he thought, was not going to be pleased if this delayed the march, but the French had no consideration.

Vickery saluted again. "Thank you, my lord. I hope you will not think ill of me if I say I hope it does not come to having to borrow your Light Company."

Borrowing the 62nd's Light Company would mean having to deal with a Captain who was not necessarily so welcoming of Riflemen as his colonel. And Vickery could hardly be expected to give orders or directions to a fellow Captain, regardless of whether the man thought the same way he did, or not.

Damn. Willoughby had stumbled and Newbury's grip on the hussar's jacket had been lost. The Rifleman sprinted another dozen paces before stopping and turning back. He wasn't going to leave the boy to suffer capture by himself. There was, he thought, just barely enough time to drag out his sword-bayonet and fix it to his rifle's muzzle.

Without a word Newbury went forward to meet the pursuing French. Maybe he could slip past the longer barrels of the muskets and knock at least one of the big Frogs down, before they got the better of him.

Sergeant Fischer followed Heinz's pointing finger and nodded. "Good work," he said, and frowned as the distant Rifleman turned back. Stupid English idiot he thought to himself and turned back to the party of men with him. He spoke rapidly in his native German. "Bergmann, wait here. You will have to tell the Captain what is happening up here if we cannot deal with it ourselves. We will go and see what is going on."

He fixed his sword bayonet, ignoring the disappointed look on Bergmann's face, and looked at the other men. Six hundred English yards was all there was between them and however many French soldiers.

Edrington nodded and rode back, pausing to warn the Captain of the Light Company of the apparent presence of an unknown number of the enemy in the woods in front. He then carried on towards General Wellesley and the Staff.