OPORTO, 22nd May - The Seminary

All along the parapet, muskets and rifles were checked and levelled at the approaching column. Harris turned his head as Mr Sharpe came up onto the roof.

“Aim at the officers!” Sharpe called to his riflemen. “Muskets, don’t fire! This order is for rifles only.”

He made the distinction because a musket, fired at this range, was a wasted shot, but his riflemen would be lethal. He waited a second, took a breath. “Fire!”

More troops came to the roof, men with fresh muskets and full cartridge boxes, and with them were the riflemen of the 60th whose officer must have realized he had been in the wrong place. He gave Sharpe a companionable nod, then ordered his men to the parapet.

[All but the first paragraph of this post is lifted directly from Sharpe's Havoc - with acknowledgements to Bernard Cornwell.]

Lt. Jaeger was out of breath as he reached the roof. As soon as he had realised that the accuracy of their rifles was wasted behind the wall amid the other redcoats, he had collected all rifles within shouting range and led them upstairs, onto the roof.
Sharpe's Chosen Men were already there and he nodded at the other officer and quickly posted the additional riflemen behind the parapet.

After the shuffle they were in their proper place, man after man dressed in green with a rifle of which the range and accuracy was greater than that of a musket.

The 60th looked briefly to the 95th and then to the enemy, ready to fire upon their officer's order. Though late in coming the order was similar. Officers first then those lower ranked then them and so on and so forth.

Pye spotted Harris, noticed the big Irishman close to him and grinned. He turned back quickly, taking aim. He steadied his breath which was somewhat quick from the ascend. Holding it then he felt the kick of the rifle, as the smoke rose about him and those close by, who's terribly loud fire had gone to do damage on the enemy's lines.

Carty sat cross-legged - his prefered shooting position - just peeping over the top of the parapet, his rifle ready; on Mister Sharpe's word, he fired, and then he grinned as several of the more decorated Frenchmen fell. He was certain he had got one in the front rank; the rest of the 95th tended to leave the easier targets for the more inexperienced shooters, dividing up the more difficult targets among themselves.

Jaeger stood behind the riflemen and watched the enemy column through the smoke. The column wavered as the men had to step over the first corpses, and shuddered under the fire.

“Fire low! Don’t waste His Majesty’s lead!”

It was becoming rather crowded up at the roof. The French were paying for it, as more of the men fell just for the others to close their lines. Pye peered over the wall. The drumming continued.

He heard the shouting from another man in green, if of a different shade. Load. Load now. He poured some of the powder into the pan, had it closed, had some more of the powder down the barrel, then the ball, which had to be forced along.

Once the rifle was ready he lifted it up, making sure that the ramrod was no longer in the barrel. It wouldn't do to have to fetch it from some Frenchman behind the enemy's lines.

Harris reloaded. The officer who had used his sword on the men would not do so again, he thought. This time, he took aim at one of the tirailleurs, who had managed to get close to the seminary, and had fired at the men lining the wall. The column itself was still too far for its muskets to be effective. The Frenchman was concentrating on reloading, and the shot took him almost by surprise, blood welling out beneath the dark shako.

"Aim low! Aim low! Take your time!"

The column would soon be in musket range, the first rank were already bringing their muskets up, paniked by the whistle of the rifle bullets around their ears and disordered by their lack of officers.

He saw one of the officers trying his best to set an example for his men. To advance forward so that they too would advance with passion and courage. He was one of the few whom had not yet suffered under the fire of the riflemen or had atleast been overlooked.

Pye aimed his rifle and fired in time with three other men of the 60th. The officer staggered and fell. He didn't fancy himself to have been the one shooting the man. Again he moved to reload though, slower than the others obviously.

Take time aiming, take as little time as possible reloading. He breathed in sharply, seeing faces already dotted with powder residue.

The Riflemen had all gone up to the roof, where they could use their longer range to deadly effect before the French column could fire back. The firing step along the seminary wall was now lined with the men of the 62nd, holding their fire until it would make an impression. But the column was already being disrupted by the fire from above - irregular, not like the volley fire from a line regiment, but effective all the same.

Jaeger saw the French muskets pointing up, feeling as if each and every one was aimed directly at him and fancied he could see each trigger being pulled.

The volley was ear-splitting, the smoke smothered the slope like sea fog and the musket balls rattled on the seminary walls and shattered its glass windows. The volley at least served to hide the French for a few yards, but then they reappeared through the smoke and more rifles fired and another officer went down. The men in the garden began firing, then the redcoats crammed into the seminary windows and arrayed with Sharpe’s men on the roof pulled their triggers. Muskets crashed, smoke thickened, the balls plucked at men in the column’s front ranks and put them down and the men advancing behind lost their cohesion as they tried not to step on their dead or wounded colleagues.

[Again, all but the first paragraph of this post is lifted directly from Sharpe's Havoc - with acknowledgements to Bernard Cornwell.]

The French volley had not been without cost. One of Edrington's men recoiled, stepping down into the garden with a shocked expression, and dropping his musket to clutch at his arm. Beyond him, Edrington saw the aides de camp clustered round General Paget move hastily, and there was a shout for assistance. A musket ball had struck the General's arm, shattering the bone. The aides were hurrying him into the shelter of the seminary, where a makeshift infirmary was being established.

The feeling of bullets passing over and by their heads, being deflected of the tiles and walls, was far from pleasant. The line had experience of that many a time and day.

He'd been reloading and stood lower just as the firing commenced. He heard some shouts and cries from below. A General had been struck, a few men fell with wounds in various places of their body as would have been expected, and more stood firm and unharmed.

The column was taking a terrible punishment, the redcoats were firing volley after volley now, and from the other riverside the guns had started to rake the French as well. Still the officers and sergeants were closing the gaps in the front ranks and forced the attack further uphill.

Jaeger paused behind one of the riflemen with a red collar, not one of his... perhaps the new transfer that joined in Coimbra? He shook his shoulder and pointed.

"There, the fat sergeant with the mustace! Put him down!"

"Sir. Yes, sir!" He'd thought the officer was speaking to someone else till he noticed an arm pointing right beside him. He recognised the cuff.

He lifted his rifle back up, loaded and ready, seeking out the pointed target. The sergeant was red faced and huffing a little from the effort of the climb. This seemed not to halt him from shouting again at his men, though. His whiskers were rather impressive and must've been groomed to remain so. For one of such weight he was fairly agile up the slope and urging his men fervently on.

He was a broad target, Pye thought as he took aim. The man had halted for some breath. Had wiped away some blood sprinkled on him from a man killed to his left. Pye steadied his breath, held it and then pulled the trigger.

A burst of smoke later the rifleman strained to see whether the man had been felled. He was holding his breath as he searched for the sergeant. Couldn't see him.

He glanced over his shoulder at the lieutenant. He recognised the face as being familiar, possibly the Lieutenant Jaeger he'd heard word of, and then he was back in the process of loading while keeping an eye on the French enough to see if the sergeant would resurface.

Edrington stood on the firing step, watching the French. They had brought guns to the riverbank to fire on the boats, still crossing the river, but a lucky shot from one of Lane's howitzers had exploded right over the first of these, dismounting the gun, killing or disabling the men and the horses with it. The British guns raked the ground between the Seminary and the town with shrapnell, to devastating effect, and that attack reeled back, retiring to the scattered houses that lay outside the town itself. Meanwhile the barges were continuing to cross - Edrington's 62nd were now all in the Seminary, and some of the 3/27th had joined them.

The other column, attacking from the front, shielded from the British guns by the Seminary itself, were finding the rifles and muskets firing from walls, windows, and the roof too much to face.

Jaeger patted the rifleman's shoulder after the shot. He didn't know wether the man had hit the target, the powdersmoke from the pan obscured the view, but it did not matter.

"Well done!"

The column was wavering, they were realising now that there was no gate at the top of the hill, that they were facing a solid wall. The front ranks had no place to go and just stopped and started to shoot.

Jaeger leaned on the parapet to get a better view and saw a redcoat tumble out of a window, clutching the hole that had been his jaw.

Pye found himself unable to stop grinning. The pat caught him of guard, but the words, even if he wasn't completely sure if he'd struck the target renewed his efforts and confidence.

He poured powder into the barrel, spat the ball in with the crunched up paper following suit, had it rammed down hard. Which took greater effort than with a musket. With the rifle on the ready and the ramrod back in its place - which was done automatically, drill having had done a splendid job on the men that had been doing it - he peered down at the men, feeling a bullet whiz past very close, yet harmlessly bouncing away at some angle, later.

"..Haven't got a way to go." The defenses they've built were holding well enough. He scanned the lines, looking for a good target.

One could've taken pity on the men that stood there, but then again, they were the enemy.

Courage, or discipline, or fear: Edrington had to admire the French, whatever it was that made them try to cross the open field in front of the Seminary, while under a hail of rifle and musket balls. Officers walked behind the men, or stood on the walls beside them, watching the French and steadying the volley fire, which was still the infantry's greatest weapon. Their pistols and swords were of little use at the moment.

Their own casualties were light in comparison - the walls and parapets protected them, although he had seen one man - one of his redcoats - fall from above. Until the French withdrew, no one could go out to help him. Other wounded were taken into the Seminary.

Harris pushed back the red hair that stuck to his forehead and tried to obstruct his vision. The dead and wounded lay like a barrier now, in front of the oncoming French, who were pushed back again by half a hundred muskets firing at one at their front rank. Harris aimed at one of the men in the rank behind, his mouth open to exhort his fellows En avant!, but the forward momentum had been lost, and even as Harris fired the rest of the front rank wavered and the column broke up, falling back across the Prado del Bispo. There were some more shots fired at them, and a ragged cheer from the men on the wall. But from this vantage point, Harris could see more troops coming out from Oporto. The next assault would be with fresh troops.

Pye leaned back a little, resting his chin against his knee and wiping away at his cheek. The rifles and the foot soldiers had done their job well. The men fled, but as it was clear fresh recruits would return to bear down on the wall unless a different approach was to be made. What kind, the lad did not even attempt to speculate.

He cheered with the rest and rested once his rifle was reloaded, preparing for another assault, if one would come.

Lt. Jaeger watched Rifleman Waidmann hammer his ramrod down the barrel with his mallet and realised that all the barrels would be fouled with powder residue and even harder to load than usual. While the men could piss down the barrels and swill out the dregs it was a bit more dignified to do it with hot water. Water! The men would be parched, too. He looked around himself to find a bugle boy, or someone who didn't look busy.

"You! What's your name? Run downstairs and fetch some water! Hurry!"

Zachary had been ready and not really busy but for the glances spared towards the field. Beside him, Koch had been equally free, or as free as one could be in the middle of battle - when the enemy was regrouping.

The younger one was first to his feet. He wasn't sure what to do with the rifle - to take it or leave - but decided that it was better that he could use both his hands to bring the heated water up to the men.

Koch shifted a little in his place , while a rifle was set beside him. If anybody was in need to fire, it was a greater loss if an experienced rifleman was jumping the stairs, instead of being at his place anyway.

"..Water." Pye disappeared with all the excitement of a young lad, and equally the speed of one.

By the sounds, he must've jumped several stairs, once or twice. It took a short while, and a much more carefully walking lad, that the water was brought. Beside him another of the younger riflemen balancing his own kettle of water to be distributed amongst the men.

Someone was distributing water. That was nice of them, Harris thought, and raised a hand. Powder smoke made the throat dry, and powder itself clogged the barrel of the rifle. Now, while the French re-formed, and the wounded who had made it off the Prado were helped to the rear, was the time. This new lot would be at them soon enough.

He looked round at the youngster in the almost new uniform of the 5/60th, holding out his cup. "Some for me, and some for the rifle, thank you," he smiled.

"Be right there." Pye had poured another man a cup full of water and had more of it for his rifle before he could make his way towards Harris. He balanced the kettle easily in one hand, stepping over a limb and some stones a few tiles that came loose or broke under the onslaught of musketry and then stopped by the red haired man.

He poured some of the water first into the cup, the steam rising from it, swirling in the cooler air and a faint breeze. "Here." He spoke when the mug was filled and waited to give more for the rifle, smiling back brightly.