Pombal

Oh, damn my eyes, is it?! Hunter's own descent was possibly even quicker then Wellesley's. He followed him down, and just like the General dropped off the lowest branch. He did so forgetting about his heavily bruised leg, and when he hit the ground, the leg folded under him and he nearly fell. He hissed in frustration, rubbing the leg, and then saluting to the officers present, walked off to where Firebird was tethered.

Running impetuously around a corner, Perkins found himself face to face with another man's bayonet. He jumped back with his first instinct, but it was Mister Sharpe. "Sir," he said breathlessly, "there are Portuguese all over the village now. They're killing the French."

"Perkins!" The lad probably didn't realise how close he was to getting skewered.

"If any French just look like they want to get out, let 'em go," he said. There were enough soldiers in here now, and it seemed liable to turn into a massacre, which wasn't the plan, so far as Sharpe knew.

It was at that moment that Javert decided to break cover.

The six grenardiers ahd been forced back to this small, near deserted corner of the village looking for escape away from the threatening swords of the cavalrymen. The Portuguese and redcoats had forced them this far... but these were greenjackets. Skirmishers; perhaps they would not stand up to the big grenadiers? It was that or be captured. They broke and ran.

Javert led the way, kicking the frail wooden door down and screaming his lungs out like all the Furies, his musket butt swinging violently at a tall rifleman nearby.

"Go! Go!" he cried, feeling the gun connect with the man's body. "Go, now! Don't let the bastards stop you!"

George mounted and came back to the staff group that seemed excited and some even grinned cheerfully at Wellesley. George stopped the Firebird in Wellesley's line of vision. He wanted to get away and for that he needed an order. He touched his head gingerly but the blood has finally stopped. He then retied the makeshift bandages on his palms that came loose while he was scramling back down the tree.

Sharpe groaned and folded up round the musket butt.

"Bastard!" he croaked, trying to get his breath back. He'd been hit there before, but rarely so hard - or so completely unexpectedly - and by a man about his height and strength.

"Bloody Frog bastard..." and collapsed to the roughly-cobbled street.

Wellesley's look of optimism turned into a scowl as Hunter very pointedly stopped in front of him. What was it that the boy wanted? Whatever it was, he did not have time for it now - he needed to get a message down to the 62nd and 27th.

Hercules strained against the General's hold, very nearly pulling him over, and he saw that the stallion was once more eyeing up that mare... the mare belonging to the lone hussar. What was his name again?

"Willoughby!" he called, mounting up and urging Hercules forward towards the hussar and his horse; a command which the stallion happily obeyed.

He'd got their officer, and the others seemed to be still too stunned by the act to try and stop them.

"And you can bugger your General Wellesley!" he growled in his best English for good measure. "Compliments of Corporal Javert!"

Then he turned and ran, following the others as they went at full pelt for the western edge of the village.

"Yes, sir?" Bella was just as eager to cross the distance between them and had been round sooner than her rider could ever have made her, without the proper motivation. He saluted sharply and halted the mare by the tensing of her reigns and by the way he had leaned back in her saddle.

George could not believe it! The man pointedly ignored him and seemed about to make use of the lone hussar instead of any aides. He tried to keep a check on his temper but it proved impossible, he leapt off his horse, ordering her to stay, and walked off quickly despite the limp. He had to hit something! He never been made to feel like such an idiot! He walked past the staff, who stared disdainfully at his dirtied uniform. He circled the tree and leaned back on it, hiding himself from the staff. Then in a swift motion he whirled round and hit the tree with his fist. Pain shot up his arm and that took away some anger.

Bugger General Wellesley...?

"Bugger... you!" he said as loudly as he could, drawing a pained breath between each word.

Bloody bloody bastard.

He wanted to lie still and let the pain stop and he wanted to get up and run after the blasted Grenadier who had him down here without so much as a by-your-leave. Bastard.

"Mister Sharpe!" Perkins rushed to his side to help him up, watching the French in dismay. Well, Sharpe had told him to let them run, but it would have been satisfying to shoot that corporal in the head. "You all right, sir?"

"Colonel Edrington made you his messanger, am I not correct?" The General reigned Hercules in next to the mare, though he was having some trouble keeping them apart, as the stallion was rubbing heads with the much smaller mare. "I want you to ride to the remainder of the 62nd and tell them to advance into the village to give their support to the Lights."

He turned his head to look for Hunter... who seemed to be stalking off somewhere.

"Hunter!"

"I been... I've been better." He pulled in another ragged breath. "Stop bloody fussing, dammit!"

Javert... he was going to remember that name...

Hunter heard the General's voice and was really glad he'd vented some frustration on the tree trunk, otherwise he would have snapped at the man. Schooling his features, - although because of the blood and mud he doubted anyone could make them out, - into as neutral mask as he could manage at the moment, he stepped away from the tree and ran towards Wellesley rather lopsidedly.

"Yes sir," Perkins replied, checking the impulse to dust Mister Sharpe's coat off or offer him his canteen. He contented himself with picking up his fallen shako. "What now? Do we keep searching all the houses?"

"Yes, sir! Right away sir!" Willoughby barely held a smile off his face, and had to reign in his mare before the general would find a word against the horse's behavour. He saluted again. Bella refused to obey when he first had her turn, and she earned herself a light smack on her rump, which didn't phase her much though. Another and with a rather unhappy whine she turned as she was made, and broke first into a trot, then canter, heading swiftly down the path where the 62nd had marched.

"I would be glad if you stopped wandering off, Hunter," Wellesley said, then frowned with concern at the young man's uneven gait. Hew had not ased why Hunter had been covered in mud and blood earlier - though he had assumned it had something to do with the capture of the villa. "Are you wounded?"

Hercules gave a full-throated whinny of protest as the mare was turned and galloped away.

"If there's still Frogs in any of these houses, that's their bloody look-out," Sharpe said, pulling himself to his knees and bracing himself to stand up. "There's three.... Regiments, out there... and two lots of cavalry. Leave 'em be. If they'll be left."

He needed a drink, dammit, and pulled at his canteen strap, tugging the heavy oak water-bottle round enough to uncork it and rinse the taste of powder and dust from his mouth.

'My apologies, sir, it will not happen again', keeping his mind on being polite and subordinate Hunter only heard the reprimand and not the question that followed. He glanced after retreating Willoughby remembering his earlier amusement at the thought of Wellesley's wrath: it didn't seem quite so funny now.

"Your leg, man," Wellesley said, louder this time. "Are you hurt?"

Hunter nearly choked from surprise: Wellesley's concern was not what he expected. Mentally he took stock of his 'injuries': scrapes on the hands, cut on the forehead and the bruised to hell leg. His anger that has been reigned in by the 'attack' on the tree and then had its wind taken out of its sails by surpise left, and he remembered the 'mud' episode. Unbidden, one corner of his mouth quirked up a little as he answered. 'Just battered, sir'.

He was clearly walking on it, so it could not be that bad.

"Then should it not impede your ability to ride, I would ask you to tell the remainder of the 27th to advance on the village to give support to the light troops. At once, if you please."

While before the mare was eager to ride where the battle was closer, and had stood impatient when she was made to observe, it was now that she looked most annoyed that she was leaving the officers behind, or perhaps it was not the safety nor the officers, but the company of the general's horse that she had been most interested.

Willoughby rode with ease, and found that his leg was feeling better than a day before, though not fully healed. Inwardly he thanked the surgeon for such grave concern and good work that he'd done on that ankle and then trained his mind on the sea of coats. Upon spotting the right face of Lord Edrington he spurred his horse towards him.

"Sir. General sends his regards.." He came to salute, ready to deliever his orders.

George felt like doing something absolutely crazy. He considered dropping on his knees and thanking heaven for giving him something to do in a very dramatic fashion. He turned and whistled. Firebird, who was close by as it is, cantered up obeying the summons. He mounted, about to take leave of the General. Then he remembered the other staff drawing their weapons at him and grinned mischievously. 'If they recognise me, sir'. He saluted and nudged Firebird.