Pombal

"That's very good of him," Edrington responded, turning to look at the Hussar. The 62nd had lined up on the edge of the village. Their presence alone, and that of the 27th beyond them, had been sufficient to persuade the French not to leave by this route, even singly. Rifle and musket shot from inside the village showed that the Rifles and Light companies were making their mark. But Edrington was beginning to chafe at the lack of further orders, to advance his battalion into the village.

"Presumably he has also sent orders."

"Yes sir." He nodded curtly and then straight to the reason he was there: "His orders are for the 62nd to advance into the village to give their support to the Lights sir." He recited what Sir Arthur had told him near word by word.

Edrington smiled, and looked along the line of the battalion, with the ensigns behind them. And to the other side, towards the 27th. "Do you have orders for them, too?" he asked, but then he saw the other rider, heading at a gallop for the 27th's colonel. "Thank you, Willoughby."

He raised his voice to give the long awaited command. "62nd. By companies, advance to support the Light companies."

"Sir." With a slight nod and a salute he turned his horse around. He stole a glance towards the men and for a short moment observed with mere interest and fascination at the order in which the men advanced. Seeing this any man could feel intimidated, if they were standing in the line of fire.

Having relayed the orders to the rest of the 27th, George realised that Winwood was not with them. 'Damn, he must have really gone to 'aid' the companies that were clearing out the villa'. A sudden premonition seized him. He shouted to Firebird to go, urging her not only with his feet but with his voice as well. Hearing the double command, Firebird neighed and broke into the hardest gallop she could.

George reached the villa in no time, and seeing the first private questioned him about Winwood. The private hesistated a little then pointed inside. 'We tried to stop him, sir, but he insisted on going in ahead of us...'. By the look on the man's face, George knew that his premonition was correct. He dismounted and walked in. Winwood was dead, a new bullet hole in his chest. George knelt by him: he might not have liked Henry that much, but he was the only man he knew in this army, the only he could turn to if need be. He thought of Helen and her father and guilt washed over him, practically making him vomit. Jesus, why did he not keep his mouth shut? Why did he not take Henry back to the surgeon? It was his fault that Henry was dead and he knew he'd never be able to look Helen in the eyes again after this.

George swore softly, then untied the dead man's neckerchief and took off the locket that his sister had given years ago. He would keep it for her. He left the villa and got back on the horse, stone-faced, clutching the locket with white fingers. As they rode back to report Winwood's death, George slipped the locket into the saddlebag.

[OOC: God, Hunter is becoming quite a woobie ]

They were well into the village now, searching houses and exchanging fire with retreating French soldiers. Grogan had lost his shako, it having been shot off his head somewhere between the wall behind them and the street he was presently on. He paused by the shelter of a house corner just long enough to hurriedly reload, then he dashed across the street toward an uncleared building.

"C'mon lads! Lights, to me!" Grogan cried, waving at a handful of other 27th men just appearing from a house nearby.

Edrington entered Pombal with the grenadier company of the 62nd. The Light Companies and the Rifles were pushing the French towards them, but the French organisation had broken down, and the battalion was met by fugitives rather than any concerted attempt to stop them. Some they killed, some they drove back into the town, and some threw down their muskets, their hands held out. It was not the British infantry that they were fleeing, apparently, but the ordenança, who had entered the village and were supporting the British attack with their usual ferocity.

These houses too needed to be searched, and they were, before the companies regrouped and moved on.

Sgt. Grey cheerfully slapped a frenchmans rump with the flat of his blade to make him join the growing crowd of prisoners. He reined in Bunny and surveyed the scene.

There were a few large, grey, unmoving lumps in the fields outside of town. And a few smaller red ones. Strangely he didn't remember the french firing at all, but they must have. There were rather more blue lumps, mostly where they had crashed into the rally square.

By now, most of the 1st squadron was dismounted and disarming prisoners, guarded by still mounted men with levelled carbines. More men were wandering among the carelessly stewn bodies, searching for survivors and loot.

A trooper leading a limping and bloodstained horse approached him, and he swore. On to the unpleasant tasks of the day.

Something had the French on the run. There didn't seem to be much fight left in them now, and the firing seemed to be growing sporadic. It seemed the French just wanted to get out of the village, which Vickery had no problem with. They would only run into the arms of the Scots Greys anyway. He just hoped the cavalry had the sense to take them prisoner, rather than cut them down as they ran.

Fernao might have not seen a proper military action before, but having hung on the outskirts of the action he sensed that British victory was all but assured. Cheerfulness spurred him to ride closer to the column.

He only was only able to recognise a distant horseman as Hunter because of the Firebird. Fernao urged Maçã on, wishing she was not quite so sedate, and yet Firebird, who even when walking look quicked and energetic, was trotting wearily. Fernao would even say that she looked subdued: only as he got closer, he realised that the horse was simply echoing the mood of her rider, who didn't even register Fernao's approach, his progress both single-minded and mindless.

Fernao wheeled Maçã around bringing her side by side with Firebird, and yet only when Fernao got so close he was able to poke Hunter on the arm, did the man respond.

'Hey, what happened to you?', Hunter was covered in mud, and it seemed like there was also blood under it. the man's palms were bandaged haphazardly and there was a cut on his forehead. Fernao winced. Hunter turned his head to give Fernao a blank stare, then he blinked and answered.

'Oh, nothing, I am having a particularly splendid first day as an aide-de-camp', the man gave a bitter laugh, then frowned a little. 'You should find another place to be now, I need to make report to Wellesley and then find the Colonel of the 27th'. The words seemed to shake Hunter up a bit and he urged Firebird into a canter, and yet it looked like the spark was gone from both the horse and the rider. Fernao fell back: he would speak to Hunter later. After all, he'd procured lunch for them.

It hurt. That was the foremost thought on Newbury's mind, as he fumbled to reload his rifle. He had taken a bayonet thrust across his ribs while clearing a house and it hurt. The Frenchman who'd landed the lucky blow was dead, of course, but that didn't make the pain any less.

"After 'em, boys!" Newbury called, his voice cracking just a little. He stopped in the middle of the street and fired at one of the fleeing blue-coats. At least the French were retreating. That had to count for something.

Behind the lines of the 62nd the Hussar followed with his own horse. He had remained behind yet close, if Lord Edrington might have needed a message sent back to the General. Since the town was bound to fall soon this was a greater possibility than the other way around.

From his higher station he could observe the French and their own, and he did keep slightly back, hoping that his colours might not be mistaken for any of the wrong side. Not by the British, but obviously by the Portuguese. He glanced over his shoulder then looked straight ahead, the French blade resting in his hand, while the taken musket was still away on his saddle.

George cantered up to the General. A thought came to him that if Wellesley himself was to inform Henry's father of his son's death it might soften the blow just a little, even if Henry's earlier conduct became known. He reached for the locket, but then remembered himself: he had no right to be troubling the General with things like that. Letting the locket slide back down into the saddlebag, he straightened up.
'The 27th has received your orders, sir, and has entered Pombal. Also, I must report that Major Winwood of the 27th has been killed in action at the villa'.

Wellesley gave a single, solemn nod in acknowledgement of both pieces of information - one not so welcome as the other.

"A shame," he said flatly. "Quick, was it?"

'I hope it was, sir'. George did not want to phrase it like that, but the word just slipped out: he'd caused the man's death, he hoped he did not cause him suffering as well.

Fernao saw more English troops entering Pombal: the fighting seemed to be lessening, and though wise beyond his age, Fernao was still a boy with curiousity of one. He rode close to the edge of the town, he could see dead and dying men in the street that he entered: here the fighting was over and the world will soon be struggling to return to normal. There was a farmer's cart in the middle of the street, the horse that drew it lay on the ground twitching in agony. Fernao dismounted finding a loaded musket on one of the corpses shot the animal.

The smoke cleared and in the ensuing pocket of silence he heard a noise, a sound so surprising and quiet he could not believe his ears. He bent over the horse and listened. There it was again! Fernao lifted the dead animal's long mane and lifted the noise-maker. It was a cat, well, a kitten really, rather small and almost painfully skinny. It seemed to be scared out of its wits. Wrapping the animal into his scarf, Fernao mounted Maçã and rode back, the battle and his curiousity forgotten. While they rode the kitten did nothing but shiver, but once Fernao stopped the horse, not too far from where he observed Hunter, the General and the rest of their group, and tried take a closer look at the kitten it sunk its tiny claws into his hand. Fernao yelped and bit his lip, supressing the urge to shake the kitten off his hand. He was not sure what to do: he did not want to hurt the tiny creature.

He noticed Hunter looking in his direction and tried to indicate discreetly that he should ride over to him. Hunter said something to the General and complied.
'Take this off me!' hissed Fernao at Hunter. The man snorted.
'You want to fight French and yet, you cannot deal with a cat'. Despite his mocking words, Hunter was already gently prising the kitten away from his 'catch'. It turned out that the animal was so small, it could fit on Hunter's palm. Amazingly enough, almost as soon as it was in Hunter's hands it started purring and investigating Hunter with interest. Rather soon it ended up curled inside Hunter's collar at the back of his neck, the man's longish hair almost hiding it from the view.
'So, you get a pet and I am supposed to take care of it?'
'Well, you can't exactly throw it away now, it likes you'.
'He likes me'. Hunter sighed looking extremely put upon. 'Better make him like you too. I refuse to ride around with a cat in my hair'.
Fernao smirked at the image of Hunter galloping, the cat sitting on the top of his head.
'I doubt anyone will notice: they'll probably think it's a chunk of mud'. Hunter scowled.
'Go away and find some milk for the beast, before I change my mind. The women that follow the army might help you.' Hunter turned Firebird back to the staff group.
'But how will I get milk?! I don't even speak English?', shouted Fernao to Hunter's retreating back.

[OOC: because every story needs a cat]

Somehow, Calderón had ended up back near the edges of the village. He must've taken an opposite turn two streets back. Ah well. There were a scattering of red-coats here, including one on a horse. The scout stopped just before turning back the way he'd come. There was also a boy with the red-coat, also on a horse. A dark-skinned boy who was speaking Portuguese, no less.

Calderón frowned. That was odd! "You there," he called out in Portuguese. "Are you come to fight?"

George came back to the Staff group, making one more another apology for having to abandon the General in favour of his servant. Thoughts of Winwood's death still intruded his mind, intermingling with the consideration of what he was going to do with two newly acquired dependants, both of them too young to be abandoned now that he has taken them in.

As if sensing his thoughts, the kitten stirred, ruffling his hair and bumping its head playfully against the back of his neck, letting out a contented sound.

Fernao did not yet begin his quest for milk. He was rather audibly swearing in Portuguese at Hunter and the cat, forgetting the fact that he was the one to pick up the animal. Then he heard the man speaking to him. Damn, he hoped that the old red coat Hunter gave to him would be a protection from irregulars, and Fernao knew the man must be one when he laid eyes on him.
'No, I am a servant', he answered, hoping neither his voice nor features betrayed any fear.

[OOC: can Hunter come and 'save' him? *has an image of Hunter shoving the kitten at the General with the words 'Hold that a sec'. ]

Servant? Calderón quirked an eyebrow. That was an odd arrangement, though not entirely impossible.

"Where do you come from?" The scout asked. He had just barely recognised the red-coat officer as having been present when he'd given his report to that colonel. So the boy was a servant to that officer? That could be useful just as easily as it could be dangerous.

Fernao narrowed his eyes at the man. He wished Hunter was not so quick to abandon him, but he was not going to call for him.
'What's that to you?'

Snooty lad, wasn't he? Calderón frowned. "I asked you a question," he said firmly. He was not in the mood to play games.

Fernao's hand went to the dagger that Hunter gave him.
'And why do you think I'm obliged to answer it?'

Calderón settled his musket to charge waist-high. "If you don't, I'll consider you the enemy. I'm sure you know how we handle our enemies."

He wouldn't shoot the boy, of course, but he would pull him off his horse by his ears.

Fernao swallowed nervously: he knew too well how they treated there enemies.

Hunter had been watching Fernao since the time the thought about dependants came to him. He saw him speaking to a civillian and at first did not pay any heed to that: after all the boy was Portuguese. Yet, even from the distance he saw Fernao's hand go to where the dagger was. There was no time for asking permission: he plucked the kitten from inside his collar and transferred him inside his jacket. He could feel the tiny heartbeat against his own. Apologizing to the General he kicked his heels against the horse's flanks.
Firebird galloped.

Fernao heard the beat of horse hoofs and without turning around, knew in his heart that it must be Firebird. That meant Hunter was approaching. The knowledge gave him courage.
'I know how you treat your enemies', snarled Fernao.