Pombal

Wellesley had just established the situation in the village when he heard the commotion and the frantic rustling below him. He started - nearly unabalancing himself and taking a fall - but he recovered, folding up the telescope and stowing it back into his sash.

"Who is that?" He snarled down into the leaves, his hand resting automatically on his sword hilt. He could perceive a dark shape moving upwards towards him. "Who is it?"

Oh, finally he takes notice! George eyes were busy searching out the branch that nearly collapsed under him, when he made the same journey. He breathed out a sigh of relief when he saw it just above Wellesley's head. Then hearing the man's words and feeling deflated and in pain slumped against the trunk.
'Hunter, sir' he said wearily, 'Just don't go further up, please, sir'.

Never meedle in an officer's business, a thought that repeated itself in his mind as he rode ahead to the other men and he saluted sharply before his hand reached for the reigns of of the captain's horse. Bella was distracted well enough by the sight of Sir Arthur's horse, that she did not attempt to take a bite at the other mare.

"...Sirs." He sounded almost apologetic.

"Hunter? What in God's Name are you doing up here? Go back down at once, or you shall take a fall!"

Wellesley found it hard to believe that the youth had been so daft as to follow him up a tree. Surely Brandon and the others would not have let him anywhere near the trunk...?

'Sir, please, listen to me. The branch right above you is dead, I nearly did take a fall when I stepped on it. I was up here earlier, I was coming to report but you were somewhat busy and, oh, never mind, just be careful, sir'. Hunter balanced carefully on the branch, and lifting his palms blew on them to alleviate the burning at least for a few moments. He saw Willoughby take charge of his horse below.

'Willoughby! Thank you so much, just please tether her somewhere nearby, if it's not too much trouble'.

Cooper looked back around the corner at Perkins. "Come on," he whispered. "It's just the--"

Perkins didn't hear the rest of the sentence because he was sent sprawling by a blow to the back of his head, knocking his crumpled shako onto the ground. He rolled quickly over onto his back and held up his rifle to defend himself with the bayonet, expecting to see a French soldier ready to do him in. But it was only a startled little old Portuguese man holding a wooden board. Perkins felt a momentary relief before the man pulled back to swing again.

"No, no!" he gasped, holding up his rifle to defend himself from the blow.

"..Yes sir." Leading the mare to the closest tree that was not the one upon which the two officers were, he had the horse tied to it's truck, thick enough that it would not break if Firebird pulled to test it's strength, yet thin enough that she was easily tethered to it. He made the kind of knot that was usual with horses, which if danger to the animal arose, could be yanked free rather quickly.

Once he was free of his charge, he looked uncertain at the officers, debating whether to salute and depart as quick as he was able, and so follow the path in the direction of the village, or to remain and await further instructions.

It was a single storied cottage - not much more than a hut. Once past the dead Frenchman it was easy to see the layout - a single room, with a loft over one end. It could have been a barn, except that it held a bed, a table, even a wooden dresser - empty now of anything. Pottery crunched under foot. On the opposite side, another door swung on its hinges. Harris moved carefully across towards the open door.

George saw Willoughby below, hesitating between leaving and staying. Just like me, thought Hunter. His leg was not enjoying the strain he'd put on it by running around and climbing the tree after Wellesley as if he was his child, needing constant supervision. He slumped against the tree again and looked at his palms: some of the scratches were deepened by the mad scramble up and were now bleeding a little. Great. He needed to divert his mind.

Willoughby was obviously riding to the village, on orders or not, George didn't care. He called down.
'Willoughby, you were on the way to the village, man? Well, go on then. I hope I'll live to thank you for dealing with my horse properly'. He chuckled and turned his gaze heavenwards towards Wellesley. He's made his decision; he was going to stay, unless of course Sir Arthur kicked him out, the tree or the army, that didn't matter much now. He wrapped his plams around the next branch and leaving small blood smears kept going up. He just hoped the man would not kick him in the teeth when the opportunity presented itself.

The Hussar flushed a faint tint of red on the cheeks, when it felt as if the captain read his wishes which were not yet in fullest his intentions. He'd been interested yes. He had wished to follow where the rest of their army had gone. He did in a way remain behind at best.

With a slight salute to the tree (and the man in it) he responded with a short: "Yes sir." Which could have at best meant, that he'd understood Hunter's words as an order - which would suit him best.

He turned then, glancing at Firebird, who was firmly secured in place and spurred Bella to follow the path that the regiments had earlier taken. Out of the way, as he was ordered. And he would be sure to keep it that way.

Perkins ducked, but the old man seemed to view his defensive move with the rifle as a threatening gesture.

"Stop, stop! Ow!" he yelped as the board hit his shoulder. The man looked frail, but he could certainly swing a board. "I'm English! Help, Cooper!"

Harris heard the cries from outside, beyond the open door. Was that Perkins? He ran across the room, and with only the briefest pause to check that there was no ambush, came out into a street that led into the square. Perkins was being beaten about the head and back by an old man, in a dusty coat, swinging a heavy board at the youngster. Cooper was leaning against the wall, holding his jaw and swearing at Perkins and the man.

Harris started talking in Portuguese - "Calm yourself, sir, he is English, not French. The French are dead, or fled, or our prisoners." The man seemed beyond hearing his words, just as he had ignored Perkins' shouts. Perhaps he was deaf?

There was Harris. Harris would manage to stop him. Perkins attempted to sit up, but the man swung the board against his shins. "Ahh! Stop it! English!" His shout had caught the attention of the people inside the house, two more Portuguese men who ran out to investigate.

The arrival of two more men meant that Harris could not thump the stupid old man to make him stop attacking Perkins. On the other hand, they might be able to restrain him. "We are English Riflemen," he said again, in Portuguese. "Friends, allies, on your damned side!"

The men stared at him then at the old man, and one of them ran in, catching at his arm and shouting "Papa, stop. They are not French! Stop."

Harris grabbed Perkins and pulled him away. "Are you all right, lad?"

"Ben!" Carty followed Harris as a trot. "You all right, Ben?" He shot a suspicious look at the old man, whose sons seemed to be explaining soemthing to them by way of pointing, gestures and words in their language.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," Perkins grumbled, rubbing his head and looking around for his shako. "Stupid old man. Where'd Cooper go?"

Far from obeying his orders, Hunter was in fact climbing further up to trre towards him.

"I told you to go bacvk down!" he snapped. Hunter was in fact now, by his presence, blocking his route back down to the ground. "And don't you dare come any higher - this branch won't take both our weight!"

The boy looked up at him with a baleful expression from a muddy and bloddied face (Lord knew what he'd done to achieve that state!), but the General just returned him a chilling glare.

"You said you had something to report?" he asked sharply, hoping that would induce the youth to go back down again.

"Atze! Atze, come up here, you have to see this. Bring your telescope!" Rittmeister v. Lossow called urgently to his Leutnant. He was lying belly down on the crest of a hill north of Pombal, pointing his telescope at the fracas below.

"Seems like the 2nd Division found our disruptive french friends. And we found the 2nd Division. Looks like they have things well in hand."

The Leutnant scrambled up the hill and threw himself down next to v. Lossow. He drew his telescope and unfolded it. "What am I looking for?"

"See the clump of trees on the other side of the valley? One of them is bearing early fruit! Like a nice, ripe plum. Looking like a damson in distress. Oh, and a brown one! That one must be overripe!" Lossow could not contain his laughter.

"That's general Wellesley."

"The very one."

"That's Sir Arthur. Sitting in a tree."

"Huhum."

"That's general Sir Arthur Wellesley, sitting in a tree, being pursued by something muddy. Die spinnen, die Engländer." Leutnant Stahl-Hardts voice was incredulous. "What are they doing there?"

"Damned if I know." v. Lossow turned his telescope on the fighting. "Oh, well done. Now I see what those Heavy Dragoons are for: they exell at herding cattle. Look how they round up the remnants of that square? That's at least 200, maybe 250 Frenchies there."

George gritted his teeth and with great effort resisted the urge to hit his head against the tree trunk. 'I do believe my report is useless in the circumstances, sir'. He settled on the branches just below Wellesley. 'Now, sir, are you coming down?' Wellesley looked like he knew what he was about, but, hell, if his job was to fawn over the General, he bloody will, and if in this case it meant climbing down just below him in case the man decided to take a fall, so be it. He pulled out his dirty neckerchief and ripping it in two parts, bound his palms. Then he tightened his sash to prevent his pistols falling out, just in case, although he would not mind seeing one fall on Brandon for having tried to catch him.

Red-coats were entering the streets, pushing Frenchmen back toward the small groups of irregulars. Calderón paused and watched the red-coats' advance for a moment, then the whizz of musket balls nearby demanded his attention again.

He finished reloading his musket and hurried away from the advancing red-coats. There were other pockets of French soldiers deeper in the village that need herding toward the British.

[I'M WEARING BLUE!!! I'M A GENERAL - I DOEZ MUFTI!!!]

"I was coming down anyway," Wellesley growled severely. "I may seem an old codger compared to a mere scrap like yourself, Hunter, but I can still climb a tree without needing a damned nursemaid! Now get down immediately; you're blocking my descent!"

His men did not need his orders now. They knew their job and how to do it and any orders would only distract them.

He was as capable of any of them at this sort of down-and-dirty brawl, and knew how to use his sword to good effect. Elegant it wasn't but a Heavy Cavalry sabre was never designed for elegance, but for what Sharpe did with it; hacking and cutting, using its weight.

A man came at him from a side-street, bayonet levelled and he stepped to one side, kicked at the man's groin and thrust with his sword, stepping over the body to face down the man behind him.

George ran a palm over his face in exasperation. Could not the man see, he scared George with his antics? Whatever his age, accidents happened: just look at what happened with Willoghby and himself.
For a moment, George considered simply jumping off the tree, just to 'please' the General with his speed and obedience. Then he descended one level, and looked up waiting for the General to do the same.

This was ridiculous! Sir Arthur needed to get down to pass on the message that there were partisans in the village still; but Hunter was choosing now to be idiotically concerned.

"God damn your eyes!" Wellesley swore, having lost patience with the ADC and started descending rapidly - circumnativating Hunter dangling from the lowest level of branches and very swiftly dropping to the ground, leaves and twigs in his hair and one his coat.

"Bring Hercules," he said to Bullen, who was happy to give up the burden of the horse. "There are Irregulars within the village it seems; damned if I know how they managed to keep hold of their weapons, but there you go. It seems the 15eme could be well and truly done for."

He hadn't yet left and perhaps he was good not to have. The spectacle before him left the young Hussar to blink uncertainly if he did see what he thought he saw. He shrugged his shoulders lightly and shook his head.

He knew sir Wellesley was to be busy, and had all the officers he would need, to standing to the side he was there more for, if perchance, he would need more than his men and a part of him wished that he would find an order to give too.

Still he was to the side and out of the way of both men, horses and the rest of the officers, while Bella looked more interested to glance at Hercules than anything else.