Pombal

Steadily following alongside the column the chabraque was back on his horse, as was he. Bella's hide had been rubbed hastily to have the worst of dirt and blood removed from her furr. The rest needed to wait. He rode up along the line, glancing at the lands that they were passing and at the tired faces of men, marred with mudd and with blood. Still they presented themselves as a formidable force of bodies of which many a general would be proud.

He thought back on Edrington's words. The man had been right and he had been lucky, though now he was only, tired and in wish of a good fine bed and heated water. Neither of which he expected at the end of the march, so a small spot where he could sleep sounded just as attractive.

(To Bullen)
"Captain v. Lossow, 1st KGL Hussars, at your service. Send from Coimbra to find the 2nd Division or a stray french regiment. You beat us to the Fench, I believe." he nodded to a passing group of prisoners.

"So we did," Bullen said, a smile coming to his lips. "And now you have found us, is there any information to be passed on? Any messages from the First and Third Divisions, or was Murray just wondering where we had got to?"

Now Lossow grinned openly. "The latter, I believe. And there had been reports of a rouge french regiment in these hills, I vas supposed to varn you. In other news, the KGL, line regiments, 1st Hussars and horse artillery, have arrived at Coimbra and met the 15th Hussars there. Our portugese allies are just north of Coimbra, as vell. Oh, and the bridge over the Rio Mondego has been blown up, but the engineers and the navy managed to rig a ponton bridge. "

"Excellent!" Bullen said. "We shall not have to get our feet wet. Any further news on the French disposition? I assume the blockade is still in place?"

"Ah, that I have no news of. But I have to return to Coimbra right away. Shall I deliver some messages requesting full reports? I vill give vord of your imminent arrival, of course. Vould it be appropriate to arrange a late dinner of mutton, do you think?" v. Lossow looked at Bullen questioningly.

(ooc questioningly?)

Bullen shot a quick glance to the General who was talking with Picton several yards away, quite out of earshot.

"Such is army gossip," he murmured. "It would probably be appreciated, though I would not go to any trouble of a formal dinner - he'll want to get on with proceedings as soon as he arrives, and any grand gestures will be lost on any of us I fear."

[OOC: questioningly.]

v. Lossow glanced at the senior officers as well, then moved closer to Bullen to tell him: "It is too late to avoid the grand gestures, I fear. There have been preparations for fireworks to celebrate Sir Arthurs arrival. The Portugese are in a fery festive mood..."

"Oh lor!"

Bullen shut his eyes and shook his head.

"And we haven't even got to Oporto yet! I suppose I'll have to warn him... Fireworks? Really?" He looked askance at von Lossow.

"I'm afraid so. Contrary to the Spanish, the Portugese are delighted to have us here, fighting for them. They look foreward to recieveing the hero of Rolica and Vimeiro. And our commanders vere reluctant to dampen their spirits... politics..."
He sighed and gave an apologetic shrug.

(OOC and I sigh and give an apologetic shrug, as well. Need to sleep Good Night)

Having no orders, George was free to talk with Fernao. At first the boy questioned him on the army and the day's action but when George mentioned his fight with the French officers at the villa the conversation turned more personal.
'Did you kill many people?' asked Fernao.
'I don't count'.
There was a pause.
'And when was the first time?'
'I was fifteen'
'Wait, you told me you entered army at 21, yes? So...', Fernao did not continue. George shrugged.
'English army, I served before that', George's tone became a little icy: he did not exactly hide his past, but neither was he willing to talk openly about it, even in Spanish that not all officers understood. Fernao glared at him briefly for not being a little more forthcoming but didn't push the subject.

[OOC: Goodnight, Lossow! I'll be off soon too...]

"Ah well," Bullen sighed. "I suppose they must bang their fireworks off, if it makes them happier... I'll warn him - and if you may carry the message back to the other Divisions that all commanding officers will be requested to present themselves with their books at a half past six tomorrow morning. Where has Headquarters been established?"

They spent a few moments in silence but the boy was obviously bored. He poked George in the arm.
'So who was it?'
George turned his attention away from trying to understand whether he was simply sweating or did the kitten relieve itself on his neck.
'Huh?'
'Who was the first person you killed?'
George felt like growling, but it was rather painfully obvious that the boy would not let the subject go.
'One of the enemy: they are called bashi-bazouks. I fell off my horse in a fight and he wanted to finish me off. I cut his foot off and then I cut his throat. I got this', George indicated the guardless sabre at his side, 'from our commander'.

Maria Teresa Gonçalves Ramalho, aged 3 years and 2 months, fought against her mother's restraining grip all the way down from the monastery to the village of Pombal. She had been as much trouble on the way up, and only the Abbot had been able to soothe her, telling her that of course Jesus would look after Nônô, that all young creatures were under his special care, as she was... His voice had been kind and gentle and understanding, and she had finally stopped the hysterical screaming and fallen into a sleep only slightly troubled by dreams. When she woke up, she had felt better, but over the course of the days she had remembered. Her grandmother was being 'looked after by Jesus' they had said, and her parents had put on black, and cried, and buried her in the graveyard beyond the village. She could understand if Jesus wanted to take Nônô - he was so pretty, and gentle, and would play for hours with a knot of wool, or even with the end of her plait. The French though - the French ate strange things, everyone knew that, and someone said that included cats... She had tried to stay behind to find Nônô - searching the house, calling his name, but everyone else was trying to leave the village, and gathering clothes and food and the small valuable things they could carry with them. Mama had started to shout, and slapped her - her, Teresinha! - and dragged her away, as the first French troops were already in the square in front of the church.

The door to their house had been broken, there was blood on the threshold, and inside... Mama was crying again, and Teresinha tried to comfort her. Pots - broken pots, and she knew how Mama had been upset over just one plate that Nônô had knocked off the table... She looked round, and tried wishing him back, but he did not come.

It was Tio Bastião who said he thought he had seen a little cat, just like Nônô, being fed by one of the Redcoated officers - a very dirty officer, and a young Portuguese boy. That had stopped her - she had been in his yard at the time, calling for Nônô, and had asked: "A boy? Which boy?" Not one of the village boys, Tio Bastião had said, they would have known it was Teresinha's little cat, and would not have ridden away with him. They had stolen him, was Teresinha's thought, and they would not treat him properly. They would take him into battles, where he would be scared, and would scratch, and they would be angry and throw him down and stamp on him... He was her Nônô, and they had no right to take him. Tio Bastião agreed: they were as bad as the French, when it came down to it.

(to Bullen)
"In the monastery of Santa Cruz. You can't miss it, it's the only building vith a bit of open space in front."
He drove his horse farther away from Bullen's and came to attention.
"I shall be off to notify HQ of the 2nd divisions imminent arrival and deliver your messages. Sir!" v.Lossow snapped off an impeccable salute and elegantly turned his gelding about. He set off along the colum to collect his stray troopers and then to ride ahead to Coimbra.


(OOC er, Bullen is a major, right? And v. Lossow will deliver his messages (to the dismay of the summoned officers) and notify HQ of recent developments (unless Javert and co. develop suicidal tendencies and attack the Hussars))

Bella neighed and her rider stirred. He yawned and blinked a moment. The horse had dutifully followed the column, while he dozed. He yawned with a hand to his mouth and stretched his muscles. He rubbed his hand across his eyes and wondered whether he was seeing things or were there some horses up ahead, with men of course atop them.

He shook his head slowly, and yawned again. A horse was good for one of the many things.. and sleeping without falling flat on his face, was one of them.

The battle was over and the British were marching away. Calderón left his musket leaning against a cart and picked his way carefully out of the village, pointedly going in the opposite direction. His bare feet carried him away from the village swiftly. The presence of a French regiment so close to the column had aroused his curiosity and he intended to find out if there were other bands of French roaming around the countryside as well.

"Nicely done, lads," Grogan said to his men as they got back onto the march. It had been a good, if short, fight, in his estimation. The Lights had performed quite well. Afterward they'd looted a bit, he would admit, but weren't they entitled to even a little share of the spoils they'd won? It wasn't as if the French soldiers could complain.

Grogan adjusted his grip on his musket and managed not to grimace. A Frenchman had thumped him in the ribs with a musket butt before the corporal had cut him down. There was also a nasty bruise on his cheek up to his ear where a hefty chunk of brick had struck him instead of its intended target. Bloody Portuguese couldn't aim to save themselves.

But it had been a good fight all the same. He and his Lights had thrown themselves into it after getting over that wall. Grogan grinned and thought of the flask he had taken off a dead Frenchman. The lads would have some relief for their various knocks once the column made camp for the night.

"Bloody nice of the army, makin' us walk wi' 'em," Higgins grumbled as he trudged along after the sawbones' wagon. He was dirty and unshaven, and felt horribly slovenly in his stained uniform. The French had kept him and the other prisoners cooped up in a small room in some house, until a wild-eyed red-coated soldier had forced the door and found them.

And he'd never gotten his bayonet back! Damned French. Higgins scratched irritably at the stubble on his chin and wished he was back on Terpsichore.

"You told him to what?"

"I told him to go bugger his general."

Roussel let out a low whistle.

"'M surprised that they didn't skewer you on the spot!"

"Probably too stunned to do anything at the time," said Fabier, taking advantage of the brief pause to remove his bearskin and wipe the sweat from his brow. He was getting too old for this...

"Or they just don't like him," Javert grunted.

"Not what I've heard," said Bouchart, thumbing back the flint of his musket. The screw had worked loose, and he fished in his pocket for the key.

"I've heard he's an aristocratic arsehole," Roussel muttered.

"That's as maybe," said Fabier sharply, thinking it was time he restored some order amongst the six of them. "But like it or not he gave us a good kicking, and we need to get moving."

Heading back to Oporto was their only option. How well six of them would survive the journey; but they were grenadiers, they were veterans, and they had to make it back. It was either that or perish at the hands of the Portuguese - who unlike the British would make sure that death came as slowly and painfully for them as possible.

Brouillard scratched behind his ear.

"Hope they got the Eagle away," he said, a touch of worry in his voice.

"The colonel took it," Fabier said. "He sent it out with the first ones to leave. They'll have made it."

"They didn't," Javert said darkly.

Five pairs of eyes turned on him.

"They didn't?"

"No." The first of the 15eme's men had been cut down by the cavalry.

"Bastards!" Fabier spat, his temper finally breaking, trembling with all the fury of his being. "Bastards! They'd dare touch it...! One of the Emperor's Eagles!"

The thought stung all of them; the shame, hurt and indignity of the 15eme's Eagle to be the first captured - and in such a paltry engagement.

"We have to go back for it," Bouchart whispered.

"No," Brouillard said firmly.

"But we have to! It's ours! It's our duty to get it back!"

"They didn't get it."

Silence fell amongst the six again as Javert removed his pack and opened the flap. Inside, bundled in the corporal's spare shirt, a golden wingtip was just visible.

"We've got to get back," Fabier said, his voice firmer than before. "We have to now."

The others murmured in agreement as the enormity of their task sunk in. Failure was not an option now; it never was. They would expend every effort; keep going with their last dying breath because now everything they ever lived for, had ever thought for or stood for lay in the bottom of Javert's pack. To lose it was to lose everythingt; and they had already lost more than enough that day.

Waldegrave had not fully realized just how difficult it was to walk to the front of the marching column. Unless you broke into an undignified run, it took ages. But he had to go back to his proper place, and to walk. As a lieutenant, he was not entitled to a mount - Acorn had been his own, brought to Portugal with the regiment. He had gone back to the body when the fighting was finally over, as the regiments mustered again, and retrieved his saddle. He had been only just in time: already the scavengers were out, humans as well as the carrion eaters. He had stowed the saddle and other gear in one of the regimental wagons, turning aside the driver's questions. He might be able to find another horse, though they were as expensive here as at home, especially a well-trained, well-mannered one. Like Acorn.

Eventually he passed the front of the 27th, and consciously moderated his pace, to look less rushed, and smoothed out the expression on his face.

He took a turn to walk his horse downwards along the column again. Having the mare grow further at home with the sounds of men marching and the sights of such a river of red passing by. With a light walk, also to keep himself awake, he glanced here and there, enjoying the view some as well as growing most accustomed to his 'new' horse.

It was when he spotted a lieutenant on foot that it drew his attention. As was right for an officer, he wasn't running though he probably if he could, he would've done anything to get faster up to the front.