OPORTO, 22nd May - The Seminary

"Best take as much as we can. Won't know if we might need them later." The youth agreed. He glanced up at Harper and soon found himself in need to quicken his pace if he wanted to keep up.

With someone of his sort, there would be fewer trips needed. "What's.. that?" He asked noticing a white cloth, ribbon of sorts, that wasn't marking and sort of rank that he knew of. Then quickly he added. "Sorry, sarg'nt.. will be quiet."

"Don't worry, lad. Means I'm one of the Rifles, Mr Sharpe's men." He couldn't help but let his pride show when he talked about the men. "What's your name boy?"

"Sharpe's men." He nodded. The 95th. The ones that also participated in the presentation and who had in their lines the young boy that got the flag with Cotton.

"Pye, sir. Rifleman Zachary Pye." His chest went out a little when his pride was shown too. "Sarg'nt." He added with a grin.

"Patrick Harper, pleased to meet you. Now grab some more of those logs and let's get a decent wall against the Frogs."

"Yes, sarg'nt... Harper." He paused and hefted up another log, resting it on his shoulder. It was balanced like a rifle, with the youth leaning more to the side due to its weight. "Pleased t' meet you too."

"you're servin' with Mr. Sharpe long?" He hesitated. Captain Vickery had given him a taste of this sort of talk, but it left him all nervous anew, whenever he tried or considered trying it.

Harper picked up two of the larger logs, following Pye back to the wall. "Not long, just seems like it." Harper stepped to the side to let a couple of soldiers pass them, balancing the logs as best he could. "You can't be out here long yourself."

He wasn't sure if that was a jest, so his chuckle was quieter but still there.

"No, sarg'nt. " He shook his head with a grin, taking a step to the side, but managing to keep his log nice and balanced on his shoulder, even with the nudge of it against the wall.

"Jus' a few days here with Vickery's Rifles...t' 60th." He shifted his hold a little to ease some of the pressure to his shoulder. "But been some in a Foot regiment before that." He continued once the men passed, more easily now.

Paget walked from the front gate of the Seminary, where Edrington was forming up his regiment, back to the landing stage, where he stood looking down stream, towards Oporto and the Serra Convent. There was something uncanny about the ease with which some six hundred men had been ferried across the river in what ought to have been the full view of the French. What he needed was information, and he would have to send one of his aides back on one of the barges, to find out what was known.

He called Captain Crosby over, and gave him instructions. The Captain moved down to be ready to board the next barge as the soldiers on it disembarked. One of the first off was a Captain, his arm in a sling.

Padstowe, having disembarked, started to jog up the hill, but very quickly slowed when his ribs protested very loudly at this sudden and active movement. He resorted to a brisk walk, ignoring the subsequent smarting in his chest, and made his way up to where Colonel Edrington stood. He saluted.

"Good day, sir. I bring a communication from Headquarters; the enemy is advancing on your position in column - infantry only at the moment - and you are to hold this position."

Edrington was almost relieved to get the news - he had expected to be attacked as soon as they started to cross the river. They could defend this position - the seminary had stout walls, and the garden wall gave them an excellent shooting position, now they had been able to prepare for the attack. Even as the Captain spoke, more soldiers were coming up from the river to man the walls, and bringing the ball and powder that they would need.

"A good day, indeed, Captain. They have taken their time, but I think we can hold on. And get more men across - though it is damned slow."

"Dashed slow, sir," Padstowe said. "Though fortunately we seem to have caught hem sleeping. We shall be able to give artillery cover, they are re-sighting some of the pieces now, to cover their approach up the road. So long as you hold them here Sir Arthur believes we shall get enough across in time to push them back."

Edrington nodded. "I think my men are up to it. But we'll be grateful for any help the artillery can give us." He gave a quick smile. "Not rockets, I hope. It's enough to face the French, without having those things zooming around."

That provoked a laugh from Padstowe.

"No rockets, thank the Lord! I don't think they're daft enough to send those things over here - Prinny's backing or no."

"Excuse me, Captain," Edrington said, and sent a runner off to ensure that the men lining the wall, and inside the Seminary and on the roof, were aware that the French were forming up and would be advancing.

Harris, lying on the roof of the Seminary heard the message relayed from the Colonel, but did not take his eyes away from the view to the west, and the movement he had thought he could see outside. "Tell Mr Sharpe we can see them now," he said over his shoulder. They were too far away for him to identify the officers, so he settled down to wait for them to come closer.

"Yis," said Carty, already running down.

Harris concentrated, watching the chaotic mass form up - two columns, in the French way - wider than they were deep. They would advance now, driven on by officers, with the least eager in the centre of the mass, unable to run... The column between them and the city would attack head on; the other had moved round to the slope beyond the Amarante road, and would attack from the north. There might even be guns out there, he thought, as the columns bgan to move.

It might have worked against raw troops, but - well, the 62nd were doing well, for a battalion which had only been in Portugal for a month. And the riflemen would stiffen them, if they needed it. He cradled the rifle, judging distance and wind speed, watching clouds and trees and grass.

Harper joined Harris, brushing the remnants of bark and grass from his jacket.

"Anything happening yet, Harris?"

Harris pointed towards the city. "Two columns - I can't count them, but they'll be coming against us soon .... " As they watched, the columns moved off purposefully, one column heading straight for them, the other swinging round as he had thought.

"They've made a good enough wall down there," Harper nodded in the direction of where he had been lugging the wood to. "Least they gave us the chance to prepare."

Harris glanced down and along. "I can't believe that they left us alone for so long. I almost feel sorry for the Frenchmen - having to face us." As the column advanced it was possible to see skirmishers in advance of the main body. "Our first targets approach," he said.

Padstowe edge up to a lower window facing the road a peered through over the tops of the riflemen's shakos. There they all were; two coloumns of French advancing slowly, orderly, and to the interminable drum beat.

A rattle, then a pause.

"Vive l'Empereur!"

"Not if I can help it," Padstowe muttered under his breath.

The French were approaching, orderly and with a purpose. There were the drummers that caused all the racket of the beat, and the men too that shouted when the beat stopped. He dusted some wood off of his coat, glancing over his shoulder at where the 95th were stationed, behind that other wall.

The big sergeant had returned to his post. He grinned looking at the wall that they've enforced.

"Ey. Enough daydreaming, Kind." Pye turned back towards the French. Brave, or overconfident. Why did they leave them to get so prepared anyway?

It was possible to see the individual officers now. One of them was striking at a soldier with the flat of his sword - at least, Harris assumed it was the flat. Not an officer he would like to serve under, but the French were used to being treated like that, and be damned to Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité. The sun, under the dark clouds, glittered on barrels and bayonets, and on the officers' swords. In front of the main mass, individual sparks - like those thrown off by the new rockets - showed where the French sharp-shooters were. But the Baker rifle would outshoot any of them - the French had nothing to match it, or the skill of the riflemen.

Harris just hoped the order to shoot would be given before that advantage was lost.

Zachary adjusted his footing and his hold on the rifle. He looked on at the men approaching, awaiting an order, shouted or spoken, to which they could fire. His role would not have been much but to learn by watching probably, repeat what others did and practice on the loading. He wasn't yet quick enough that he ought to do that for the others and knew to stand in a group of three if the action or order called for it.

Out there were the French or the nations fighting under a French flag, be it volunteering or made to. He checked his rifle, having loaded it a few moments ago to have it ready for the first shot. Their defenses should be good for a time.

He remembered one of the 33rd once wondering whether the French did or did not flog their soldiers. The man was a dissatisfied chap and the occasion had been right after a flogging. He'd hinted to it, that it could really not be so terrible on the other side - terrible talk if caught - and went so far as to claim that he'd heard the equality and many of the ideas were true and used in the army. But then rumours bore rumours and it really didn't matter. All that did was to do well for the 60th , all else be damned.

They didn't believe in the rifle, did they? Thought to use a musket against them though, and there was probably a foolhardy thing.