With Horses, 25 May

Stubbins touched his heels back to his horse's flanks, wondering what in the hell was going on out there, beyond the picquets.

"Move aside, there!" He barked at a gaggle of redcoated infantry, who tumbled haphazardly out of the way as the dragoons cantered determinedly past them.

Behind Stubbins, the thunder of hooves, forced the infantry to move aside again, dirt thrown in their faces. Patches of grass and of mud flew as the 15th hussars advanced towards the source of the cry. Temperamental, the cavalry men bolted of after a cry of a girl, to save her, to fight, or maybe just because they could.

As they continued the cries became louder, suggesting that the horses were indeed coming closer to the source of the distress.

Now there were men's voices shouting as well.

The screaming was punctuated with angry shouting. Stubbins drew his sabre, then kicked his horse into a full gallop. Behind and around him, the rest of the troop were fanning out to make the most of their numbers, all with their blades in hand.

The horses were spurred on. An impressive charge, even with the terrain working against the cavalry, and making a horse here and there slip, they looked invincible. And then as one began a shout, others joined him. The enemy ought to have fled in fear, else the blades would make sure, that they would flee no more.

The woman's screaming had stopped, and when the horses came upon a group of men running, there was no woman to be seen.

"Ride 'em down!" Somebody yelled. Hooves tore great clumps of dirt from the ground as the dispersed troop gave chase to the fleeing men.

At least one of the figures had seen fit to hide, hoping to go unnoticed by the horsemen as they rode after the others.

Willoughby pulled at the reigns of his horse, while he leaned backward a bit. He had noticed a figure. Unlike the others, who broke off to flee from the scene, this poor soul did not. At first he thought it was one of them , and the Hussars would hopefully soon realise, that them were the Portuguese!

"You there, come out!" He called in English, pointing his sabre at the figure.

Another of the hussars reigned in and joined him. "Who is it? Some Frenchy? Them bastards. Cut him out!"

The fleeing men wore no uniforms, Stubbins realised suddenly, half a heartbeat before he was about to cut one down. "Irregulars!" He bellowed, managing to turn his sabre aside enough so the blow came from the flat of the blade instead of the cutting edge. "They're bloody irregulars!"

"Don't think it's a Frenchy. If the ones running were.. this could be our missing person." Or it could've also been another Frenchman too afraid to run. Herrero was nudged to move closer to the stranger. " I repeat, come out and surrender yourself.. and you shan't be harmed."

The men had one by one been realising the same thing that Stubbins did. These men were not French, they were not wearing any uniforms. They were fleeing from them because they were attacked, not because they thought they were the rosbifs. And the Hussars quite nearly hacked a few of those backs up before realising that too. "...Halt!" Forbes shouted and the men obeyed. "...Stubbins right. They ain't the Frogs!"

The figure hiding under the scrubby bushes backed further into the cover of their branches, though there was no outlet in that corner. The branches were brambles becoming hopelessly tangled, and the fugitive let out a high gasp as they tore at her flesh. She froze again and moved neither forward nor back, as if she was hoping the hussars might lose interest.

Nearby, the man struck by Stubbins fell with a cry, injured but not mortally so.

His mare was not interested in being reined in so abruptly and Stubbins had to pull back firmly to swing her head around and slow her back to a walk.

"What're they doin' here?" He asked, looking around uneasily.

"..Don't know, but they didn't seem like they were looking for the woman screaming." Forbes answered, recalling the men, so that they formed a closer formation, turning about. They listened carefully, but there were no more screams heard.

"Unless..."


+

Timothy slid of his horse and lowered his sabre. The gasp was not very manly, he decided as he approached the figure slowly." Easy... who are you?... We won't hurt you." He began in English. His Portuguese would've been terrible, though he was learning, but here he might've hoped the stranger's English was better.

"Don't suppose anybody speaks Portugee," Stubbins muttered, swinging down from the saddle to check on the man he had struck with his sabre.

There was no positive response from the others. He hadn't expected one.

"Nope. Never gotten further than, vinho, or ordering drink. "Forbes shrugged and looked at the fallen man. "Is he alive?" he pointed his sabre at the Portuguese. "He hoped he wasn't. Killing their allies wouldn't bode well with their superiors, no matter if it was on accident.

"Looka this," said Dudley, poking a cloth sack with his sabre. Knives and forks were spilling out of it. "They been pickin' up the stuff left behind by the Frogs. Good stuff too - looks like silver." He picked up a spoon and examined his reflection in its bowl.

But his moment of vanity was short-lived, for the woman had renewed her screams as Willoughby approached her. At close range, the sound was piercing.

Frowning, Stubbins helped the wounded irregular to his feet using the man's collar. "Somebody get that one to stop her banshee wailin'," he grumbled irritably.

Willoughby stopped in mid step and observed the girl. He lowered himself to one knee, to seem much less intimidating and held one hand towards her, ready to snatch it away should she attempt to bite it. First he attempted to address her in Portuguese. "Senhora." He said, badly accented. "...por favor." He wasn't even sure if he had said it the right or the Spanish way. He looked up from her towards Dudley. "The ware could well be French."

But something just did not make sense, and as he saw Forbes coming closer with the news, - which one could barely even hear over the screaming - the lad attempted to speak to her again. It was in French this time. Very quietly, at first.

"Oh just shut her up, Willowy. There's no sweet talkin' with a woman who's gone mad." Forbes muttered, also quite irritated with the sound. It hurt his ears and could well alert unwanted attention. If an officer came, he could even have supposed they were the ones wanting to wrong her.

The younger man frowned and shook her head. Again in French (even if written in English, heh) he spoke to her trying to sound tender: " Please, calm yourself down, ma'dam. We do not mean to hurt you.You are safe... safe now. "

Thorne rolled his eyes. "What's he all babbling about. Frenchy talk, ain't right that." He muttered, suggesting that a good smack on the head would silence anyone, even a wailing banshee, as Stubbin's had rightfully called her.

Most of the irregulars had been rounded up by the other troopers and were being herded back toward the spot where they'd first been spotted.

"Got an officer sent for," one of the younger troopers reported, leaning forward in his saddle to watch the spectacle of Willoughby nattering at the woman in French.

Stubbins tore a strip off the wounded irregular's shirt and used it to bind the gash across the man's shoulder as best he could. "Hope he speaks Portuguee," he muttered. "And Frog."

The woman had quieted at least, listening as Willoughby spoke to her in French. She did not answer, perhaps not choosing to commit herself to one language or another just yet, but she looked as if she were at least considering the possibility of his words. She made a movement to unpick herself from the thorns, only to find her arm snagged on another branch, and then yet another when she tried to release the first. In effect, she had trapped herself in her hiding place, pinned like a butterfly for the moment. Her diminished panic mounted again.

Forbes nudged one of the Portuguese who had begun to stray further from the group, back into it and looked at Stubbins: "If he don't, we've got the whole army to ask.." Not that any of the Hussars would be eager to share the fact they had made an error, with anyone. "....or perhaps not." He added with a scowl. "Oy, whatever you are, back in line." He shouted. The horsemen stood around the little group, keeping them under close watch.

Timothy saw that the woman not could free herself, without much injury to her arms, and much pain that would come from the struggle. So gently and soothingly he spoke to her, a whisper that was barely any louder than that, but all in hushed French.

"Easy, allow me to help you. " He said. "I will sake my sabre." He pointed to his side where the weapon was." And I will cut a part of it down." He said and pointed to her side, where the thorns clung to her dress. "Or... just hold still will you?" He said smiling kindly. "We won't hurt you. I swear on my honour. Madame. We won't." He had forgotten himself and acted as a gentleman rather than a soldier.

She gave no reply, but she sat frozen while he spoke and pointed to his sabre. She seemed at least to understand his speech, and though she could not be described as calm, she did not seem to be in such a panicked terror as before. She watched very attentively as he drew his sabre.

Willoughby made sure that his gestures were slow, so that she could see what he did and not be frightened by it. Atleast they were unless the action itself demanded some speed. Hacking at the side , to break some branches, for example, was done more quickly. And then he lay the sabre aside, and pried tenderly, a few thorns from her dress, and then from her arm.

"Do not move. It will be done soon." He whispered to her, and though he pricked himself on the unwelcoming plantlife, he ignored it for the moment and so the tiny trickle of blood, working at freeing one side of her, so that he could later, with as little damage as possible to her, free the other.