Pombal

The British had wasted little time moving in on the village. Calderón had left the column soon after delivering his report and he was now crouched under a window, just inside a house, a stolen musket at his feet. There was sporadic firing near the edges of the village and French soldiers were dashing through the streets to reinforce their picquets as best they could.

Calderón grinned to himself. They thought the most pressing danger was outside the village. He glanced to his right; an older villager was kneeling beside him, a curved sabre in hand. They were waiting only for the signal to stir from their hiding place. It would not come from Calderón himself, but from a look-out perched precariously in a loft window across the street.

A high, piercing whistle cut over the sounds of musket and rifle fire. That was it. The irregulars that had filtered into the village during the night left their places of concealment. Calderón ducked quickly through the now-open door that the older villager had gone ploughing through, musket in hand. The French were shortly to find themselves fighting two battles.

"At 'em, lads!" Grogan cried, dragging out his bayonet even as he ran forward. He had fired only twice at the French defending the wall, but twice was enough when there was open ground to cross. "Fix bayonets! At 'em!"

Cotton ran forward and fired again. They'd be there soon enough.

He could hear firing and shouting going on from round the other side - where the redcoats and Mister Sharpe's lot were, but refused to be distracted by it.

The 27th Lights had fixed bayonets and were now running to close up the distance between them and the wall. The Rifles were still giving sporadic fire, but would be forced to stop soon in order not to hit the advancing redcoats. The 62nd's attack circumnavigating the wall had now met resistance, yet they had not yet closed enough to go into the charge.

To his right he heard the fierce fighting that was going on at the villa. If he knew anything of the Inniskillings, the house would be clear of French within the half-hour.

The bloody redcoats were getting in the way.

"Close up! Forget firing - GET 'EM!" Sharpe bellowed, slinging his rifle and pulling out his sword. If the 27th were going in, he was going to be right there with them.

Newbury found himself laughing as he dropped down to fire again. This was almost too easy, considering. The Frenchman he'd aimed at went down and Newbury grabbed a new cartridge to start reloading. With luck they'd be ordered forward in a general charge, and then the real fun would start.

Carty shot another Frenchman, checked to see that Harris was doing all right, and heard Sharpe's words. He fixed his sword onto the end of his rifle.

He wrapped the reins around the saddle pommel and telling Firebird to keep still started reloading his pistols. Whatever happened now could not take away from the exciment and satisfaction of a fight that concluded into his favour. The advance on Pombal continued.

George's lips twisted into a smile that hurt the skin: Frenchman's blood was dry and constricted the movement. He was remembering the moments between life and death, the moments of their fall that saved both their lives. Flicking Firebird's ear, he said: 'He taught me well, didn't he? I certainly taught you well'. Finishing with the pistols, he took out his sabre and finding a clean part of the blade, used it as mirror. Even with the reflection dim and distorted he saw that his face was a mask of caked blood. It reminded him of the American Indians, whose pictures he saw in a book as a boy. He snorted with amusement as an image of himself with a feather in his hair came to mind. He put the sabre away and taking off his neckerchief used it's clean part to wipe at the blood. It did not help the dried one, and the fresh one was only smeared further.

"1st squad will take ground to the left!" Captain Pooles voice cut through the din of rifle and musket fire.

"Threes left wheel! trot! MARCH!"

With parade ground precision the 1st squad separated and started to trot left. Grey swore again. They would not charge, jet, but circle round the village.

Wait for it... wait for it... they needed to be closer to the village... closer.

The French were firing determinedly up at them but the Rifles were closing the gap, pushing them back slowly but surely...

They must be close enough now. A hundred yards...

"Fix... swords!"

"CHARGE!"

[It's the Frenchman!!!]

Javert's company waited. They looked on to the skirmishers defending the wall; although it seemed as if they were doing a decent job of it they had suffered from the green jacket's rifle fire. Javert had not fought against British infantry before, and what he saw impressed him. The green and red coats worked well together; the Rifles giving long range fire, covering the redcoats and giving them the advantage to close in and charge with the bayonets. He pitied the men behind the wall.

Why, he wondered, did the Emperor not think to give rifles to his skirmishers? Had the 15eme them today they would not loose even the wall.

The wall was just a few yards ahead of them. Grogan whooped and put on a little more speed. He was running past his limit now, outpacing his men by two steps... then three.

"Over it, boys!" The corporal cried and flung himself over the obstacle.


OOC - I assume the wall is low enough to be clambered over without excessive difficulty?

Finally! Newbury fumbled with his sword-bayonet for a moment until he managed to drag the blade out of its scabbard. He fixed it to the muzzle of his rifle with a click, then he was off forward again, stretching his legs out impossibly wide. After the previous day's skirmish and the mess that caused it, he was determined to make a good showing of himself.

[OOC: Have to disappear now - really, really don't want to - but I have left Sir Arthur in the capable hands of Sharpie. But you all know the plan anyway; flush out the French infantry, cavalry circle round, let about fifty or more French escape. Goodnight to you all!]

Itching to join the general mayhem, the youth no less remained
behind. He heard the thunder of hooves and knew that the cavalry was already heading towards the town as well.



He glanced in the direction of the villa, which the redcoats had passed. There were only dead Frenchmen there now.

Glancing over to the officers whose eyes were mostly on the melee below, he
sent the light footed mare into a trot and then canter. Dust rose behind him,
with bits of dirt sent flying, and at one point even a stone was made airborne. All dead, and the villa rather fair secured, he had no need to fear the enemy.

He slipped from the back of his horse once he had crossed the same path that Hunter had earlier taken. The French were lying where they fell, blood staining their uniforms dark crimson and copper. Already there were a few flies flying about their found prize. He leant beside the body of one and rolled him over. With a small smile he took hold of the musket. Under a closer inspection it was discarted for the second one found.

He jerked a nod to himself and then sought for the gunpowder, which French was of far lesser quality than the British, but atleast there could be some. Bella leaned her head through the door frame as if to remind her rider not to idle around.

Taking possession of another blade and a holder for it he made to return to his mare. Stay behind, and he was still doing that!

(Curses the net connection)

Even from where the surgeon's wagon was stationed Winwood could hear the sounds of fighting. He had slept well and the hangover was gone. The pain in his left shoulder was still there but it was bearable. Ignoring the protests of Doctor Sinclair, he managed to get his uniform jacket on and leave the wagon. Finding his servant was easy, and thankfully the man had Winwood's horse with him. Once on the horse and riding through the column towards thew sound of fighting, he realise that he did not know the army's position and the whereabouts of his commanding officer. Well, no matter, he'd find Hunter, after all the man was a damn ADC, he sould know.

The Frenchmen in the streets were confused, harassed as they were by the fire from the British outside the village and the fire from the irregulars inside it. Calderón paused and rested his musket on an overturned cart, and shot an officer who was trying to rally some sort of counter-attack.

There were French soldiers concentrated near the villa and irregulars were fighting their way in that direction. Having been quietly hoping for a fight since leaving Lisbon, Calderón joined them. With any luck they could catch the French between them and the British.

They were reaching the other side of the village now, all order lost over the uneven ground, no thought left for formation and discipline. There was a stream of French leaving the village in disorganisation, and without hesitation Captain Poole shouted

"Charge!"

and the bugle released the Greys into a reckless gallop, clods of earth thrown up by the hooves, the horses with bared teeth and flying manes, the men standing in their stirrups, sabres aloft and shouting like devils, bearing down on the astonished French.

[OOC and the cavalry is off to bed... have to get up in 4 1/2 hours ]

Cotton heard Vickery's shouted orders, backed up by Cavender's bugle and pulled his 23-inch sword-bayonet from its sheath, fixing it to the bar of his rifle's muzzle. All around him Riflemen were doing the same before they began running furiously towards the French.

The shots of riflemen mingled with those of musket fire and there were screams and shouts of men who fought for their lives. He slipped from the room, which had earlier muffled much of the sound and securing the stolen weapon into a leather casing, he slung himself onto the golden mare's back. Patting her neck only twice with his hand he leaned further back and pressed his legs against her sides, a signal that had the mare walk from the yard back onto the path upon some men were still being seen marching.

It was hard to see what went on in town. There was a lot of smoke, and there were the roofs of houses that hid the view from a far standing observer, he could see glimpses of red and of green and the specks of French uniform also. There were some men he could not agree on their origin, but they were too far and there was very little of them he could see. Perhaps some of the villagers that remained behind, he couldn't know.

The officers were still standing, as practiced tacticians, awaiting to see if their efforts had reaped success, perhaps still planning and deciding what order might be given if things were to turn against them.

He shifted in his saddle. Blood and gore was not close enough to be seen in detail, and a mist of smoke brought much of the action to be a more private affair.

Hunter watched the fighting and listened to the screams and shouts, something nagging at the back of his mind. He studied the tableau in front of him, turning his attention from one detail to another. Only when the smoke of the shooting cleared and the British charged did he understand what was bothering him. As far as he knew the British were still to get inside the town, and yet there seemed to be smoke coming from within the town itself. At first he thought that someone had started a fire, but as most of the shooting on British side ceased, he heard an irregular crackle of shots that was too faint to come from anywhere but the town itself. He knew that there were troops circling Pombal but they were not supposed to enter the town. Although the staff group along with the General occupied a high rise vantage point that afforded a good view of the engagement, it was not enough to see into the city itself. For a moment he thought that maybe his mind was playing tricks on him, but hell, even if it was, he was going to allay his concerns. He rummaged in the saddlebag for a telescope then looked around. He saw what he needed on the other side of the column and a little closer to the line of the engagement. He glanced at Wellesley, the man didn't seem to have noticed his return, it was likely he won't notice his absence; in any case he had Sanders and Brandon. He walked Firebird behind the the staff group and trotted away, spurring Firebird into gallop once they were some distance away.

Once they reached their destination. George positioned Firebird very carefully. 'Right, do not move!'. He freed his legs of the stirrups and slowly stood up on the horse's back. She twitched. 'Don't move!' Then grabbing the branch he swung himself up into the tree and climbed for the top.

As he expected even from the dizzying height it was hard to make out much, but he could see through the telescope that there was definitely shot smoke in the streets. He found the town square, a part of it was not obscured by the buildings and he saw several Frenchmen fighting. Only their opponents were not wearing red coats, in fact they looked like civillians. George scrambled down the tree, scraping his palms painfully on one of the branches. Once back in the saddle, he returned to the staff group.


[OOC: right, I hope this was not too unlikely. I tried to take into the account the relative heights of the buildings and a high tree that say stood on a higher ground, and well, I think a part of a big clear space like a town square could be visible.]

Winwood managed to catch Hunter, as the man was returning to the Staff group.
'What the hell are you doing here?' growled Hunter at him, stopping his horse.
'Came to see the fighting', Hunter had definitely seen some of it judging by the blood on his face. 'You look a right fright. How did you manage to get that leaf into your hair? Don't tell me, up to your tricks again, were you?'. Hunter ran a hand through his hair fishing the leaf out.
'So I climbed a tree'. Winwood chuckled.
'I'm surprised Wellesley let you'.
'Didn't give him much of choice. I'm surprised you are here anyway, the General is not pleased with your antics at the picquets.' Winwood felt a flush coming on.
'This is exactly why I am here'.
'Hoping to die well? Don't. Think of Helen and your father'. Hunter paused. 'The last I saw, the 27th were over at that villa clearing out some French'. Hunter rode off before Winwood could tell him there was another leaf stuck to the gold braiding on his shoulder.

Rifleman Cotton wrote:Cotton heard Vickery's shouted orders, backed up by Cavender's bugle and pulled his 23-inch sword-bayonet from its sheath, fixing it to the bar of his rifle's muzzle. All around him Riflemen were doing the same before they began running furiously towards the French.

Waldegrave heard the bugle but did not understand its message, as he ran towards what he knew to be Vickery's last position. Acorn was dead, shot from cover as he rode her up the hill from Pombal. He was lucky to have fallen clear, uninjured. He thought he had killed the man who did it, one of those Frenchmen running from the village as best they could, but he had run on without stopping to check. There were more Frenchmen below, and the 60th were charging them with their bayonets fixed. He could see Vickery, in the lead, and even Cotton. Recovered in time to do his duty, he thought. If he'd got the full sentence he might not be here. He ran down the slope after them, his hand on his sword hilt, angling across to where Vickery had already reached the fleeing enemy.

The French seemed to be trying to get away from something - or someone - the other side of them. Vickery could hear musket-fire from the other side of the village, where the redcoats were trying to get in.

And there was a redcoat behind him. He swung his sabre at a bewildered Frenchman, wondering what the hell the redcoat - an officer, he saw - was doing here.

This was no time for a discussion of tactics - the Colonel would understand that. Waldegrave drew his sword as he reached where the Rifles met the French, mentally saluted, supplemented by a vague movement of the sword, never taking his eyes from the nearest Frenchman...

"Scots Greys are chasing them," he gasped. "D'you need assistance..." The Frenchman had moved forward poking at him with the bayonet. He struck out with the sword, which did not have the length, and stepped back and sideways, mindful that this was not the level surface of the parade ground or the school.