OPORTO, 22nd May - The Seminary

The rifle was loaded and ready for the next shot. No haste in aiming was made, nor firing. It was better to have it done proper and controlled , than to fire too quickly and have the target missed, a ball wasted or worse. The ramrod slid back into it's rings.

He pulled the rifle closer, though it was perhaps too late to avoid a bruised shoulder. Ah well, things got better quickly, if that was all that would bother a man or a boy. He took aim. It seemed that the ladders were a most popular spot where the French would slow, but also where they were more reluctant to go.

They were closer now, and so he picked Sergeant. The one which had tried to whip a man into carrying the ladder. He halted his breath, so that there was as little to no tremor as possible, and pulled the trigger. Even that was pulled gently, for a jerk might yank his rifle either way and miss the target.

Carty finished reloading as he saw a sergeant go down, but the man got up again, clutching his bloodied neck; Carty fired and watched him fall, then watched again to make sure he didn't get up. When another Frenchman occupied the space the sergeant had been in, standing a little taller, he beamed at the 60th man.

"Keep your eyes on your bleeding' rifle, Carty!" Sharpe shouted behind him, and he bent his head and began reloading again.

He saw the sergeant get up after he'd shot him and then it was the boy from the 95th, he was certain of that, that felled him at last. He made a motion of his hand that clearly congratulated Carty and grinned.


"Keep your eyes on your bleeding' rifle, Carty!"

That was a man loud enough to wake the dead! He quickly turned away and began the long process of loading his rifle.

Newbury rammed another cartridge home and slammed the ramrod back into its place. Before too much longer, it would be impossible to force another cartridge down the barrel.

A whistle call pierced the air, the signal to charge. About bloody time! Newbury cheered and dragged out his sword-bayonet, glad to be released from stationary firing. Now they'd have some real action!

Cotton fired his last shot and fitted his sword-bayonet to his rifle. About time they started chasing these Frogs out of here. Down the hill and into the streets where the redcoats could deal with them.. He hadn't much liked the thought of getting stuck in the seminary - or whatever it was - while a sea of blue tried to take it.

"Let's go, lads!" Newbury called, amongst the leading men onto the streets. He paused only for a second to fire one final time, then he was moving forward again, eager for a fight.

Cotton was among the greenjackets that emptied onto the streets in a horde of men. Cold steel was the best way to demoralise the enemy, he thought, running out with his rifle levelled, wondering how soon the French would leave them to it.

In his rush to get around the corner of the building he'd just cleared, Newbury ran smack into an overturned cart. He hollered a curse as he was knocked back onto his rump and completely lost his grip on his rifle. But it was no wonder: his sword-bayonet had stuck fast into the cart's bed from the impact - entirely his fault, for he had been holding his rifle out like a lance.

"Bloody useless thing!" He cried, trying to prise the blade free.

"Watch where you're goin', Joe!" Cotton called, seeing what had happened. "Use your foot, you crazy Rifleman!"

Only Newbury would end up doing something like that, he was sure, though he couldn't help glancing around for the new Rifleman, to make sure he was all right as well.

The young Ensign - Curtis - who had been standing up on the door to watch the fall of his section's shot had fallen, clutching at the arm he had raised in triumph, and someone pulled him back as the order to leave the seminary was given. The riflemen were already pushing ahead, and he shouted, his voice high with irriation, to his own men to follow, if they did not want to be left behind. The French advance - even with the re-inforcements that had come from the town - had broken. Shooting within the city showed where the British had succeeded at last in crossing the river in force, although Waldegrave, running, sword in hand, in the middle of a red and gold tide towards the suburbs, did not know how this was.

Oh for - Newbury planted his foot against the cart bed and gave a mighty heave. He was too incensed at his own inattentiveness to even consider being embarrassed. His sword-bayonet came free and he very nearly landed back on his rump.

Now suitably un-encumbered, he started to dash around the cart and resume the charge. As he rounded the edge of the overturned vehicle, however, he noticed an out-flung arm, halfway under the driver's bench.

"The Devil?"

"C'mon, Joe, this ain't no time to dawdle around!" Cotton called, already a few yards past his friend and the tipped-over cart.

"I ain't dawdlin'..." Newbury spared a moment to look around, making sure there wasn't any immediate danger from French soldiers, then he dropped to one knee. The Portuguese man curled up under the driver's bench looked vaguely familiar. He wasn't dead - he could see movement in the man's chest - which was something. Where had he seen this fellow before? More importantly, why was he kneeling here trying to figure it out?

"Newbury! What're you playin' at?" Cotton asked, stepping to one side and coming back up to the cart. "The Frogs are gettin' away an' you'm supposed to be helpin' us chase them."

He knew that. Scowling to himself for being so easily distracted, Newbury got back to his feet.

"Aye. Right. Just thought I knew this poor sod from some place. Let's go, while there's still some fight left."

It sounded lame to his ears. Cotton was going to think he was cracked, he knew it.

"Knew him? We'm fightin' a battle, it's no time to... to be renewin' 'cquaintances!"

A bullet flattened itself on the wall near Cotton's head and he ducked involuntarily.

"Ah, crap. He does look famili'r. Though I dunno for why."

Cotton recognised him too? Maybe Newbury wasn't so cracked.

"Me either." Newbury fumbled to reload his rifle, succeeding in skinning his knuckles in the process. "If he's still here when we're done, we oughta get him to the sawbones."

"There'll be plenty enough of our own lads waitin' to see the sawbones, I don't s'pose one more can hurt." He took advantage of the brief lull to reload his own rifle. "Where's the Frogs headin' for?" he asked, trying to see where the tide of battle was heading.

"Thataway, looks like," Newbury said and pointed. "But them redcoats are comin' up quick too."

"Redcoats!" Cotton said scornfully. "You comin', or what you doin'? The others'll be halfway outta town, time you'm finished figurin' out where you think you know this fella from."

Of course he was coming. He shoved the ramrod back to its place and bared a fierce grin. "Just waitin' for you!"

Pye followed the rest of the men down towards the French. He held the bayonet sword in one hand, and his other hand clasped on the rifle so that it was not in his way, nor that it could trip him or anybody in close range. He'd lost sight of Cotton and Newbury and several of the familiar faces on the 'en masse' run ahead.

He nearly slipped, found his footing again, had to duck and was running , not yet out of breath. Frogs on the run.

"Good. Wouldn't want you to get left behind now, would we?" He grinned and aimed at a Frog who didn't seem to realise the best way out was to stick with the others and run.

"Not today!" Newbury waited until Cotton had fired before bounding forward, resolved to be more careful what he ran into.

Pye turned around avoiding a collision with the a pile of rubble and a damaged wall. The streets had turned into chaos. There wasn't space enough to fix his bayonet. Not really. Not yet.

He felt a hand push him out of the way and a shout, loud in German, follow, soon quieter with the distance greatening. His rifle had been clutched to his chest to protect it.

The door to his left opened. Some Frenchmen had taken a turn and realised that the house did not offer the protection earlier so believed. A musket was fired in time with the bayonet sword being shoved forward. A guttural cry of the injured man as he tipped forward, it's weight pushing the sword in deeper. Pye kept his grip on the weapon which tipped him dangerously forward. A piece of rubble came to stop his foot from regaining its balance, if only for a missed beat of a second.

Seeing the Frenchman dead another green coat had pushed ahead, his shoulder more by accident than will, thumping into the boy's own. With an oof, Pye came in contact with the floor.

He had to release the bayonet as another man came from the same door. A shorter bayonet with the musket attached to it, jabbed into the ground where he'd just been lying. He was about to get up, when a shot fired and the said Frenchman sagged to the floor.

Pye knelt by the larger Frenchman rolling him onto the side. He took a hold at his sword and began pulling. Blasted thing, had to wedge itself in!