Road to Vallongo, 22nd May, Clearing the Road

Riding along the rutted and muddy road to Vallongo, the small group of horsemen come across more and more signs of the retreating army, abandoned gear, dead french soldiers and the like.

The young officer would seem to grow antsy in his saddle, as if eager to get on with their duty. "keep your eyes peeled, we shattered the rear guard earlier but there are still pockets of French resistance in the area, first one to spot one such group, gets a guinea!"

Willoughby shifted in his saddle casting a quick glance to their left. He still rode by the lieutenant's side, if slightly behind. Williamson had cast him a grin earlier, and there was a hushed mutter that was silenced as quickly as the officer would have looked their way. The promise of a guinea had many pairs of eyes alert, picking away at the dead bodies to see if any one stirred. It wasn't exactly a resistance that the officer had suggested, but just as well.

There was some movement up at the front concealed still both by the distance and the trees that were in the way.

the young officer would not yet notice the movement up a head, instead he looked to the right spotting what at first he took to be horses in the distance, though as they drew closer her would frown and shake his head.

"nothing but bloody bodies and rocks"

The troopers were silent, not daring to give the officer any reason to single them out, though some nodded in agreement gazing ahead. "There!" One of the men had called. It looked rather promising. The movement though was erractic at the very least.

It wasn't untill they were closer that it was clear it was nothing but a horse, with a terrible, deep wound to its side, the animal trying in vain to lift himself to his feet, making a terrible noise once he had seen the new arrivals.

He look up and look from the trooper to where he pointed quickening their pace he move towards it, the seemingly heartless officer would then shake his head upon seeing the horribly wounded horse.

Without saying any thing, he slowly dismount, handing his reins to willoughby, reaching into his saddle bag he would retrieve an expensive looking pistol which he then proceed to load and prime. upon finishing, he would approach the horse, gently stroking head and nose, speaking softly and soothingly for a few moments calming the beast before he would press the barrel of the pistol to the horses forehead and pulling the trigger putting the poor creature out of its misery though leaving his finely tailored uniform spotted with horse blood.

Without saying a word, he then moved back to his stallion, returned the pistol to his saddle bag and remounted before saying in a low voice. "Carry on"

Willoughby held onto the reins in silence as he watched the poor animal struggle. Even when it was hopeless and the horse had no way that he would survive, he still fought for it, still attempted lifting himself to his feet, rolling in the mud, and gasping for breath.

The murmurs subsided as they watched the lieutenant approach the wounded animal. Some hadn't seen him take the weapon, but few were those that would have thought he would attempt foolishly to save the horse's life. It was a surprise though that an officer would've cared as much as to halt.

The horse relaxed, though it looked for a few moments that it would kick out against the man, bringing him in danger unknowingly. With it's legs resting against the ground then, he seemed only to observe. The eye of the animal flinched dully, as the beast felt something cold against it.

The horse's body stiffened as the loud bang caused a stir. Then it slackened and the animal was dead, no longer suffering the pain, inflicted by war.

Willoughby relaxed his hold on the reins once Lt. Cathcart had mounted it and released them upon the order. He hadn't moved right away, though the rest did, kicking their horses into a quicker step. The lad looked at the dead animal, and patted Hererro's neck.

he would remain silent riding stiffly as they moved on, heading in the direction of the tree's thinking perhaps a small wood would be the perfect place for french refugee's from the rear guard to seek shelter until darkness fell.

The troopers were weary of trees were the cavalry began to loose their advantage but with the enemy on the run, their minds were set more at ease. There was movement in the low bush and then somebody, or rather several of them were heard fireing. It wasn't the sort which one anticipated from a full line, a ragged few shots rather, that were of men thinking to run deeper into the forest if they could not strike down any of the Hussars. Most must've been wounded or desperate, or both.

Their horses were alert but as well trained as they were for battle, not one had reared or jumped at the first sound of musket fire. "Sir, over there!" This time it was men, not horses, and they were certainly French.

flinches slightly at the shots, he would grin finally having found the damned french looking towards whoever pointed out he would nod and grin.

"you trooper have earned your self a guinea, now, draw swords and lets flush some pheasants from the bushes!, Tally hoe! for the 15th!"

Drawing his saber he would draw his saber and lean break into a canter towards the trees, waiting to signal the gallop to the last moment

They were holding a vague formation for now, but most men had shared a look as they saw that they would right straight for the trees. There wasn't a way that they would hold a formation there, nor the advantage that their steeds had earlier. But there was not a man amongst them that would protest or defy an order. And one trooper was very pleased to earn himself a guinea with a meek observation.

Willoughby rode close to the officer, his sword drown, reflecting little light, as the weather was most dull and unpleasant that day. Some of the men had fled, and were soon followed by further more, who had fired their muskets towards the cavalry and began to retreat further into the wood. Herrero neighed and slowed, throwing his head sharply into the air in protest. Another insistent press of heels at his side and he advanced , again at the speed. They passed their first trees and the French seemed still to be running.

"Onward men we have them on the run!" He would spur his stallion on as she drive deeper into the wood, marking down a single Frenchmen with the intention of rideing past him so as a back swing would take him in the unprotected face or head.

The troopers had to break left and right as the trees came in the way and had to duck as low branches swooped from above. The Frenchman attacked by Cathcart had no luck, for he had neither run fast enough nor was he able to duck out of the way as a sharp blade caught him right across the face. He cried out in pain and fell to the side, while more horses thundered past him.

As they were just far enough though, the Frenchmen who fled turned, and few more appeared to their left and right, where they have waited, with a level head - although just barely - , for the cavalry to meet them.

Willoughby saw as seven of the Frenchmen lifted their weapons and ere ready to fire into the group of horses and men. There weren't a large group perhaps, but never the less dangerous.

He would cut back hard and coldly twisting his sword as he feels it bite into flesh and bone so as not to have it stick, before turning to look foraward frowning as he sees the new line of french.

"SPREAD OUT VEER TO THE FLANKS!" he would call out desperately, as he leaned forward on to his horse and spurred it viciously heading straight towards the french line hopping to cause it to focus on himself instead of the troopers following him, knowing if they do, the troopers heading for their flan will butcher them like pigs.

The French stood steady. Though some had glanced over their shoulders, the order had been to stand, to fire because theirs was the upper hand at the terrain that they chose and lured the Hussars into. Horses stumbled across rock and bumps of earth, loose ground as the lines separated. A few went to the left, a few to the right, forcing the riders to duck low hanging branches. One of the riders had been felled by it, his horse neighing and rearing. It was pure luck that, as it slipped and fell it did not land on its rider.

A salvo was heard, fired at the ones advancing from the front. Just as they fired already they were dispersing. Trees offered a good shelter for the men, who's feet and height enabled them to navigate more easily.

Willoughby hadn't been relieved from Cathcart's side as earlier he was ordered, so remained there even as he felt balls whiz by, one drilling a hole into his pelisse, another marking a line against his shoulder, skimming away fabric and skin. His arm faltered a moment in mid air. It was the one holding the sabre. He heared a horse to his left stumble then fall.

Then a Frenchman came into view. He slashed at him, but his sabre struck a tree instead, the soldier ducking behind it. He whirred his horse around and had to deflect a strike come from behind him, the same man now thrusting his bayonet at the horse's flank.

george too would some how survive the volley but not completely unscathed, his shako now sported no less then two holes, and a long rent was slashed in his right thigh where a ball had cut through both pants and flesh.

Looking around as the french seemed to vanish in the smoke he then pulled back hard as a french soldier stepped out from behind a tree, causing his stallion to rear and strike out with its fore legs, a hoof catching the unfortunate soldier in the chest and sending him sprawling. His head swiveling and looking for fresh targets he noted willoughby seemed to be in trouble and would attempt to charge towards the frenchman who was attempting to impale him with his bayonet.

Several of the Hussars fell, and two horses came down as their riders were ambushed by the French soldiers. They were indeed in their terrain and so the losses seemed greater than if they had gone to ride in open grounds. But, the French were still smaller in number. Had they been at their considerate strength the outcome might've been much graver.

Willoughby tried turning his horse, but he could barely deflect another strike, which had barely sliced at the horse's flank. The cut was not deep but it had Herrero kick back and then rear breaking a branch or two on his way.

He nearly threw the Hussar off, just as Cathcart approached. A Soldier came to strike at the officer's side, hoping to find a moment of glory in his death or injury.

Seeing the new threat at the last moment, Cathcart would throw him self back laying near flat against his horses back, the strike would just barely miss flesh as it was it would slice open the front of his jacket.

Releasing his sword too let it hang by the tassel wrapped around his wrist, he grabbed the barrel of the musket and as he sat up he twisted wrenching the musket from the mans extended arms.

Readying the bayonet tipped musket like a lance he would look around for Willoughby, before spotting him and spurring his horse once more in his direction, looking to spear the Frenchman who was threatening him with the musket.

The Frenchman saw that he was outnumbered and dove past Willoughby back into the trees. One that hadn't been as fortunate as to notice the danger had his strike parried with a blade and an arm sliced at, so that the sleeve was cut open and blood seeped out where the sabre had cut into. He too ducked and tried to run, upon the discovery of the second man attacking.

Willoughby turned to look to the lieutenant, and was surprised that the man had rode towards him. "They are retreating again, sir." He called, seeing an officer which was calling the men to him. He touched a hand to his arm where a ball has skimmed it earlier and then dropped it, awaiting the man's orders.

He looked around seeing how spread out his men were in these bloody trees, and with two down already he shook his head.

"These bloody trees are thwarting us, we will have to pull back out of these woods."

"Fall back! rally outside the woods, bring the wounded with us!"

He looked to Willoughby. "are you well?" He asked before throwing the French Musket he was holding to the ground.

The order was quickly heeded and the troop began to turn tail. Their pride was perhaps wounded, but if that was the only thing of their person, then they'd have been considered fortunate.

"Yes, sir." Willoughby answered pointing his sabre towards a Frenchman, whose uniform was a slight bit different than that of the other men. "Officer." The man was retreating along with his men, though several had been scattered when advancing towards the Hussars. This now, left an opening between the majority of them and the man.

He looked back to make sure the rest of the men were falling back before looking to where Willoughby was pointing and grinned.

"Lets make an attempt to capture him Willoughby."

He brought his sword back to his hand from where it hung by its tassel at his wrist, and spurred his horse towards the increasingly isolated officer.

"Sir, yes , sir! It made the lad grin. It was a gamble. First how soon the man might notice that two of the Hussars weren't retreating, and second, how fast could the other men return to defend him or do that at all. They would be safe once their horses were in the same line of fire as the officer and they would succeed if by then the one remaining soldier at the officer's side would have been dealt with.

He charged in with the man, his sword drawn. The carbine was left in its place, for it would be of little use. The first to notice the two was the burly, broad chested soldier that had just turned to see if all of the Hussars had gone. The man shouted a warning and the officer twisted around. He saw them advance and saw his own men too far. The large man took a stand to protect his 'commander' and to deflect the attack, and at him Willoughby charged.

Noting Willoughby choose to charge the large soldier he veered towards the officer and made ready to strike him with his sword...be it the flat side of it. His spurs dug into his horses flanks and drove the stallion into a gallop hoping to stun the man with a full charge.

The soldier was pushed back, avoiding Herrero's hooves and a sabre that slashed across at where his head had been just moments ago. He was pushed back again, as the horse advanced, its rider urging the animal on. The man lifted his musket to deflect the next blow, stumbling at the worse of it and tripping over a high standing branch. He fell to the floor and rolled to the side, as hooves splashed into the thick muddy buttle, just where he'd been.

The other soldiers were advancing towards them, but none had their weapon poised to fire.

The officer, his dark hair seen under the stain of mud, turned to run. He had seen Cathacart and though he knew he could not outrun him, he still tried. Throwing himself to the right (Willoughby and the other Frenchman were on the left) he rolled a little and pushed himself up again. There was a few trees, with branches low. He cursed in French. If he was unable to reach them he knew his sword would have to be offered to the young lieutenant. He was probably cursing the fact that the French were fleeing, that he had not his army at hand, but mere few who were useless at the time.

He would saw hard on his reins, turning his his horses heat to the right and and back , his horse sliding to a stop with a spray of leaves, twigs and dirt, the horse would rear as it pivots to the right, as it lands back down on its forelegs he would spur his horse forward in a quick walk he once more readied his sword to swing at the Frenchman before calling out in French to him.

"Monsieur, your men will not reach you in time, you can not win here please do the honorable thing and surrender your self to me and I will vouch for your safety, what use is it to die here in this god forsaken wood?"