Pombal

"We'll be fine. Only danger is if they break and run this way." He wanted to have his men in the village by then where the danger of getting separated from the main body wouldn't be as great, though the risk of getting killed would probably be higher.

It was welcome news that the Scots Greys were around, though. They would hopefully be able to direct any stray Riflemen back to the main body of the column.

Cotton and Roper were in front of him, using their swords to good effect, despite the weapons being less handy than the shorter bayonets the French had on their longer muskets. Some Riflemen were using the sword-bayonets as swords, which their relative length and design allowed for.

Waldegrave parried again, stepped sideways, and forward, slashing at the man's arms and then his chest. Bone scraped along the sword blade, but the bayonet was no longer threatening him. "Scots Greys chase them - they go anywhere they can." He drew a deep breath. "The Colonel was not sure how many had left this way. But he says you should not pursue any that have already gone. Too much risk of getting your Company separated."

"If they come out here in sufficiently large numbers, we run that risk anyway." Step aside from the bayonet, slash across the man's ribs... a curved sabre was all very well on the parade ground but it was a damn liability out here.

Could they get into the shelter offered by the houses before that happened? Vickery didn't know; and there was no point having Cavender sound the 'rally' while they were still fighting.

He should have reloaded the pistol, he thought. But Acorn had been lying on the other one, and he had fired the one he had at the Frenchman...

"Tha's why his Lordship thought you might need assistance - he couldn't see - sent me to find out." A Frenchman ran passed and he slashed out, from surprise more than anything else: the man reeled off and he did not pursue him. One of the other Riflemen dealt with him.

"We'll be all right, if we can get into the village. Less chance of getting swept away by the tide there." If tide there was going to be... and more and more of his riflemen were fighting their way up to the collection houses that was really too small to be called a village.

Waldegrave weighed it up - he could go back up the hill and round, though without Acorn... Or stay with the riflemen. "I'll come with you, Sir. Quicker to go straight through the place rather than round it."

"I doubt there is going be a way 'straight through'. It's not Bath, you know, all laid out with nice straight lines. Anywhere there isn't a house it's a path."

And there were more Frenchmen trying to get out. Vickery stepped out of the path of one, letting him go.

"Like the hill." There was a shot from somewhere between them and the village and he twitched, not looking round. "Where there isn't a twisted tree or a damned prickly bush, that's the track. Unless the goats decided to give up on that one, or go straight down into a gully." He stepped back, as Vickery did, watching the riflemen.

"Sounds about right."

Another Frenchman came running out, only to fold up on the ground as someone swung a rifle butt at his stomach.

He wanted most of his company here, if at all possible, before directing them into the maze of narrow streets and jumbled-together houses.

"It's going to be gutter fighting in there, Lieutenant, and it won't be pretty," he warned, seeing more of his men coming up.

Waldegrave tried to smile. "I... I don't suppose it will be," he said. It would be demeaning to say that in that case he'd stay here until they'd finished, and it wasn't what he wanted. "I'll try not to get in the way - I know you're more experienced than I am," he said with becoming modesty, before ruining any good impression by adding: "at gutter-level fighting."

Vickery shook his head at that. "I just try not to get in the way. The men are the ones who have the experience. Unless you count fisticuffs, at school."

He turned to his men and raised his voice. "All right, lads. Split up and let's get in there!"

Waldegrave watched the riflemen deal with the remaining Frenchmen, allowing some to stagger past. Would they be strong enough to regroup, or would they straggle and fall into the hands of the Irregulars? By now, everyone in the column knew about the dead Hussars, although the rumour had different versions.

"Then if I may, Sir, I will stay out of their way with you." The riflemen were forming pairs, turning towards the village.

"All right, Lieutenant. Though this may turn out to be like the Minotaur's Labyrinth... only with French instead of a monster at the heart of it."

He was pleased to see the men waiting for him, and turned to the gap between a couple of the rough, stone-built cottages.

"Come on, then, lads! Let's get 'em!"

Waldegrave ran after Vickery - clearly one of the "Come ons", Vickery - jostled by the riflemen who followed swift-footed in his wake. Unlike Theseus, we don't have a clue, he thought breathlessly, and laughed. Another favourite story, that was. How strange that Vickery would evoke such a memory at this time!

But distraction was not good - a Frenchman in the mouth of a lane, with his bayonet, and Waldegrave almost ran onto it in his haste. He jabbed with the sword at the man's legs.

There were blue-coated Frenchmen everywhere, and more than one or two civilians, armed with the oddest things - one was wielding a pitchfork in the most threatening manner Vickery had ever seen - and turned towards him with a snarl. "Ingles!" he shouted and the man frowned and turned away, pursuing a terrified Frenchman down another tiny track that wound between two houses.

Waldegrave ducked back as the man toppled forward, felled by an old woman in black, swinging a heavy iron pot, and muttering. Toil and trouble, he thought, and heard Vickery assuring another man that he was English. One advantage of a red coat, he thought, was that you never had to introduce yourself.

He stepped over the twitching body, and followed two riflemen along a lane between two fences. Chickens clucked and there was a smell of pigs, and ... the country.

One Frenchman turned and gaped at him, and Vickery merely slashed across his chest with his sabre. If he'd been facing the other way, did that mean there were English already in the village? Or merely that he'd been looking at one of the inhabitants, armed with who knew what?

(OOC - got to run - see you later! Don't get me killed, please.)

[OOC: Thank you. I will not. Nor will I get myself killed or act over heroic]

There was a Frenchman, hiding in the pig's sty, his uniform filthy. The rifleman saw him, and the man stood, trying to flee, only to be felled by a blow to the head with the butt of the rifle. The man reversed it, and slashed at the Frenchman's throat. His partner had stopped, alert and on guard, while this went on, and gave a curious look towards the redcoat officer following them.

The French skirmishers - those that were not lying dead behind the field wall - had fallen back towards the village, pursued by Sharpe and his men, and, behind them the red coated soldiers of the 27th and 62nd mingling and shouting in rivalry. Bauer halted as Edrington scanned the scene, ensuring that no gaps were left, before trotting forward to come up with his own men.

Waldegrave had not returned. There might be a number of reasons for this, only one of which being that Vickery did not need support. It was the most likely reason, however. They would trap the fleeing French between the Scots Greys, and the rifles and light companies, while the others drove into the village.

George rejoined the Staff, keeping himself well at the back of the group. He touched a finger to the cut, the blood was still wet: the washing will have to wait. He leaned back, supporting himself by placing his hands on Firebird's croup. George was bored, watching others fight could entertain one only so far. His mind wandered; he sang softly in Russian:

Vyjdu noch'ju v pole s konjom,
Nochkoj tjomnoj tiho pojdjom.
My pojdem s konjom
Po polju vdvojom (x4)

Noch'ju v pole zvjozd blagodat',
V pole nikogo ne vidat'.
Tol'ko my s konjom
Po polju idjom. (x4)

Sjadu ja verhom na konja,
Ty vezi po polju menja.
Po beskrajnemu
Polju moemu. (x4)

Daj-ka ja razok posmotrju,
Gde rozhdaet pole zarju.
Aj, brusnichnyj cvet,
Alyj da rassvet,
Ali est' to mesto, ali ego net.(x2)

Poljushko mojo, rodniki,
Dal'nih dereven' ogon'ki.
Zolotaja rozh' da kudrjavyj ljon,
Ja vljubljon v tebja, Rossija, vljubljon (x2)

Budet dobrym god-hleborod,
Bylo vsjako, vsjako projdjot.
Poj, zlataja rozh', poj, kudrjavyj ljon,
Poj o tom, kak ja v Rossiju vljubljon.
Poj, zlataja rozh', poj, kudrjavyj ljon.

My idjom s konjom po polju vdvojom...

[OOC: translation is here http://littleapple.narod.ru/songtranslation.html ]

Grey was among the first to crash into the panicked mass. His sabre fell, rose bloodied, and fell again.
The Greys were literally hacking their way into the half-formed rally square of the french, the horses trampling on screaming men. The French dropped their weapons and ran for safety, ran up the hill where the horses couldn't follow.

Grey was very satisfied by the professional way his mare dealt with the french. She lined up his targets perfectly and didn't hesitate to snap huge yellow teeth at faces, arms or shoulders. And anything she trampled down stayed down. He grinned happily. His girl meant business.

The cavalry was in full persuit as far as it were able to go, with the horses still following. The Hussar felt a pang of envy as he saw the mass move across the grounds. Turning his horse around, with his back to the battle field he was starting his way up the path in the direction of the officers. Safe where they stood they had a very good view at the happenings below, without being amongst men.

He glanced back, the glimpses of green coats appearing and disappearing, and sighed. There would be another battle after this. And perhaps he would ride with the 15th, as now the other cavalry had done. Perhaps then he would be able to show he wasn't more trouble than he was worth. For now he would do but to observe and if any of the French by some odd miracle would reach them, atleast then he could act.

Hunter scanned the field lazily. His attention was attracted by lonely hussar riding away from the cavalry charge and the villa. Hunter remembered him as a man he saw in the Doctor's wagon. He sat upright again but did not bother picking up the reins as he directed Firebird to intercept the man.

Lost in his thoughts and expecting little danger from the direction he was going, the youth's eyes were downcast and payed less attention to where he was going than his horse.

Bella picked a careful trail among the stones, mud and grass, lifting his legs higher up when she needed. Her head was somewhat low to the ground and rose every so often when a particularly loud shot was heard echoing from the direction of the village. There was a moment in which she had stopped and even peered back, as far as the relaxed reigns would permit her. Her ears were flat against her head, and twitched sometimes and raised in the direction of sound. Her tail swished behind her, and though she looked tense, she looked more expectant that she were turned and ridden into the heart of battle, than fearful of that thought.

With a hefty pull she moved herself up somewhat further and briefly lifted her head, at the sight of another horse coming her way. Her rider however was still with his thoughts on what battles future might bring and what future might the 15th. Tomorrow, the man said. Tomorrow they'd meet again.

Hunter approached the hussar, and wheeling Firebird around let her walk alongside the hussar's golden mare.
'I see you are feeling better', said Hunter. Just like the hussar didn't notice his approach, neither did Hunter notice the tension between their horses.