Afternoon, Sixth Day

"Gerroff!" Newbury snarled, taking particular exception to the Frog's tightened grip. He twisted sharply in an attempt to break free from the grenadier's hold.

The Riflemen behind them were keeping up their fire and, he hoped, more help was soon to be arriving.

"We chase the Frogs off, Carty, lad. And make them give us back our men. Just shoot the French, all right?"

The rifle fire hadn't slackened, which was a good sign, and as they came over the hill Sharpe could see the 60th lads spread out, skirmishing forwards, obviously determined that the French should not get away with their prize.

"Skirmish order! Support the 60th lads!" he called, kneeling to fire his own rifle at the French.

Carty nodded and sprinted ahead to the very front of the 95th. He loaded his rifle in smooth, well-practiced movements, kneeling behind a bush for cover, and looked along the barrel.

He saw a man in Rifles green, one of their own, held by a Frenchman. He waited for the rifleman to move away, even by a little bit, and when he did, he aimed for the Frenchman's head and fired.

In the struggle, they had paused from their running. The man on the other side of Newbury raised a powerful fist and struck a heavy blow to the rifleman's face, sending his shako tumbling down the hill. Then the man gripping his arm fell, his blood spattering all those around him. The grenadier who had struck Newbury hesitated only a second before grabbing the rifleman's arm and continuing his ascent of the hill.

Edrington started to say something and stopped. He would not ask what Willoughby was doing so far ahead of the column. "Your men are ready to go forward if needed to support Sharpe," he said, "and the Light Company are there if we need them." There could be no surprise attack now, not after the first exchange of fire had alerted them to the presence of the enemy. The rifle patrols had served their purpose as early warning, but he did not want to lose any of them as prisoners. Nor as casualties in an attempt to prevent their capture.

In this situation, one thing had always been made very clear to Carty - do not wait to see if your shot was accurate, because even if you had not missed you were wasting valuable seconds, and rifles were already slower than muskets. Carty was already sprinting ahead again, dropping, reloading, aiming, and firing at another Frenchman.

"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 blow to his face was both hard and well-aimed. Newbury squeezed his eyes shut and offered no further resistance as he was dragged up the hill and over the crest. Blimey but those blackguards were strong.


OOC - Back in a bit, dashing off to the store for some juice. Mhm apple juice...

"Newbury!" He hissed and he twisted as he saw the man punched. With a small oomph he landed against the shoulder again and parted his lips, breathing in sharply. To both, silence was ordered and then Newbury was urged forward, while the Hussar remained much a burden carried and a spectator to what had gone behind them up untill now.

Trees cast their shadows upon them, and ground went uneven at times, from the fallen branches, leafs and roots. Still it was nothing that would cause too much discomfort.


ooc - Read that apple juice without the Ooc first... XD and imagined an add of it.

Javert swore, hefting the hussar on his shoulder again. They were nearly at the crest of the hill again now, others coming forward in line, led by the captain and Lieutenant Guilbert, to cover their retreat. but they were wasting time! The rifleman had been slowing them down, but had been smacked into obedience Roussel - but they were still in range of the rifle bullets whistling about them.

"Move!" Fabier, herding them from the rear growled. He was dragging the groaning Brouillard across the ground like he were a sack of beet. "Move, move! You sons of bitches, get your arses moving!"

At which point Javert reached the top of the hill and scrambled down the other side - hussar and all - safe back from the rifle bullets. He lowered his charge to the ground, then bent over, panting slightly to get his breath back. Bloody hell, that had been fun...!

Safe back on the ground the Hussar shifted a little from where he was set down and watched the panting Frenchman with little sympathy. They were out of rifle's range and with Newbury coming in next he wondered if there were too many French men after all.

Grunting he slowly pulled his leg up and made an attempt to stand. He looked to the ridge , and spotting the slightest of opportunity he pushed himself forward to run, aching ankle in tow.

(have to go now, so if you need, move me as you please!)

Javert saw the move and simply tripped the hussar so he sprawled on the ground again.

"Take my advice; just don't," he growled at the hussar, not even bothering to attempt the English - especially as Chenard was fast coming up to accost him.

"Corporal, what is this? What have you there?"

"Prisoners, sir," Javert straightened and purposely stared over the boy's head. "One English grasshopper and hussar, caught spying on us, sir!"

Chenard frowned at Willoughby.

"So where's his horse?"

Javert lowered his gaze to glare at the short ensign.

"He didn't have one, sir. He'd got on two legs to do the spying bit. Sir."

[OOC: And it's bathtime for me. Back soon.]

One of their rifles, and a hussar... that hussar! From beside the campfire! Carty was lying on his front, inching forward in the grass and the bushes in the hope that he might be able to catch sight of their captured men.

Harris had run diagonally up the slope hoping to reach it before the Frenchmen. Hidden from them by the trees, he arrived at much the same time, and hissed as the small group were reinforced by many others, led by a Captain and Lieutenant. Already they had crested the hill while the original patrol and their prisoners took refuge behind the ridge, and were returning the fire of the British Riflemen.

Harris lay still, his rifle pointing at a gap in the trees, just on the north side of the ridge. As one of the grenadiers appeared, he fired, and, still lying down, began methodically to reload.

Dernis went flying backwards, a trail of droplets of blood arching in the air from his forehead as he fell to land behind the ridge, a startled look on his face. It had been a neat kill, and most likely the man had felt nothing. That would not be the same for most, Javert reflected as Chenard very nearly vomitted over his own boots. They needed to get out of here - and fast.

Because if that cloud of dust rising from the road had been what Javert suspected it might have been, then they could very swiftly find themselves outnumbered...

"We should kill the prisoners," hissed Lalande. "They're only slowing us down."

[Hey! We're greandiers! Not pirates!]

"Shut it!" Javert growled at the sallow, lanky Lalande. "Do that and the bastards will have the whole column after us! Remember those cavalry who were down near Obidos? They hurt a priest; thirty went, and only five came back! Do you want the Portuguese to bury your bones - whilst they're cutting them out of you alive?"

Lalande shivered at the memory. "Then let's give 'em a tumble down the hill to their friends. We don't need them, corp. Do we?"

They didn't, but Javert frowned at Lalande all the same. He did not like Lalande, and the suggestion of murding legitimate Prisoners of War, especially one of them wounded, made him like him even less.

"We'll leave 'em when the captain orders retreat," he said gruffly. "And they're not to be harmed. In the meantime, get your arse over the top of that hill and add some lead to the others!"

He sat up slowly and decided to take the Frenchman's advice even if he had spoken it in his own language. With a glare at Lalande he glanced over his shoulder towards where the riflemen were. Luckily the man who was called Javert (though he doesn't know the name yet) decided that they were not to be killed and relief rolled like a stone of his chest.

He allowed himself a look of curiosity to the French, though he looked as blank at them about what they spoke, as if he did not quite understand a word. He wished he knew more of the retreat that they spoke of. The priest slain and what it had meant for them Frenchmen. He dusted his pelisse that he'd worn buttoned partially, over his dolman, and plucked a few straws of grass from the braiding. It wasn't as white as before, and specks of mud and green were marring it again. He heard the shots over ahead, rifle's pitch and the musket's caugh.

"..Are you going to release us?" He asked , hearing the sounds, and though he'd understood that once they would retreat their freedom would be given, he doubted it was true. He studied the unpleasant Frenchman, who had suggested their death earlier, and smiled coldly to him.

Lalande grinned wickedly at the hussar before charging back to the top of the hill. He himself spoke not a word of English, but the little fool seemed to have hope in his voice.

So, that Frenchman didn't think so. Perhaps he believed that they would not be the ones to retreat, a bold opinion of any man, or did he expect them to be taken with, if only possible. Or killed?

He spared a glare at Lalande, before the man turned and hoped that it were not the last choice, or the first. The second could still mean that they escape in time, for he did not intend to spend the rest of the war in some Prison for the prisoners of war. "Hope a bullet finds you." He muttered under his breath, and it was meant for Lalande's own fate.

And so it was, for a few moments later with a crack and a cry, the wretched little grenadier came rolling back down the hill clutching at a bloody wound in his chest, gasping up Willoughby and coughing blood.

Willoughby looked up startled when A Frog quite literally 'dropped from the sky' and rolled back down before his feet and knees. He squinted at the sight of blood, though more at the amount of it that blossomed on the youth's chest. More was sprayed from the lad's mouth so that the Hussar lifted his hand to wipe some from his cheek, where it had landed.

"Dying..?" It wasn't a question given to the Frenchman even if it sounded so. He began to get up to bring himself from the suffering Frenchman. He was the enemy and thus not to be helped, no? He looked from the man over his shoulder to the other French soldiers as if expecting one to jump and ease the lad's terrible suffering.

Lalande grasped desperately, blindly at the hussar's pelisse, looking up unseeing to Willoughby's face. He was trying to speak, but no words would come out, only blood. Then, with a gurgling sigh, his body relaxed and his fingers released their grip.