7th Day - starting out for Pombal

Edrington walked briskly back through the camp to the 62nd. "We move off in fifteen minutes," he said to Major Vereker, "and there will be action. We'd better talk about it on the march." He grinned. "Once we're on our way we will feel better about it."

Everywhere the mood of the camp changed from leisurely to active, forming companies, striking the final tents and hitching up any remaining wagons.

The surgeon's wagon had been prepared, all things not needed stored in places which wouldn't have them scatter once the wheels were to turn across ragged terrain. The papers have been stored away as well, with the book neatly placed and secured to it's compartment. Bella was bound to the back of the wagon, so that once it moved, she would be tagging along at the slow pace of their transportation.

In full 15 minutes the men would start with their pace and amongst them for once it would be Cotton again, and somewhere along there miss Maggie. And alas all the other men that were able. The formerly drunken and presently shot man was still asleep in his 'bed' , stretched flat over it and keeping quiet at best.

Williams stifled a yawn. A totally sleepless night, he'd had, after that mix-up at the picquet. And now it was back on picquet - this time keeping pace with the rest of the batallion as flank guard. Beyond them, he knew, there would be Riflemen, scouting and patrolling, looking for these Frenchmen that were supposed to be somewhere in front. Gordon, who'd shot the major, was on report, and would not be with them. Well, he'd have his chance to shoot at the right targets later, if they caught up with the Frogs, when the whole batallion would go in with the 62nd.

Williams watched as the Scots Greys - who would not be taking the lead today - rode past the 27th to take up position between them and the 33rd, who would be in reserve. Going the other way were the 6 guns of the Royal Artillery. Well, it had been long enough since the 27th had done any fighting, and it would be good to be back, and to be blooding the novices of the 62nd.

Stirring after an all-too-brief nap - he estimated he had managed a luxurious ten minutes - Grogan picked up his kit, having wisely kept it packed after the unpleasantness at the picquets. At least they'd be on the move again soon, with the strong possibility of seeing some action before the day was out. Grogan shrugged his arms into his pack straps and hefted up his musket.

"Stir yer stumps, boys, we gotta make a good showin' today."

Which, sadly, was only too true.

The wagon was slowly set into movement, swaying and bouncing across rock and slinking and sliding in the last remains of the muddy floors that was starting to dry and in places turn into a dusty sort. Where were they going? Those who needed to know, knew, and the rest just followed looking a lot like a huge red flock of sheep, with green disappearing ahead and a few other specks of colour when the uniform was different.

The day promised to be warmer and sunnier and hopefully the coats that had been set to be washed, would dry now, that the warm rays were cast against their fabric. Timothy had entertained himself with the book he was attempting to read for a while, ignoring the sway of the wagon for a while, before he closed it, admitting defeat to the sway and the rattle of wheels.

Grumbling about the rigours of authority, Rob had returned to his wagon as well, ready to check on his patients. Carefully he made his way around Bella, avoiding her possible teeth, not that he thought she'd be counting his care of her against him.

It was warm enough that he could feel it through the coat he'd shrugged on, which he happily looked forwards to shrugging off again as soon as he was inside. "There's little enough ter do, lad." he greeted willoughby, tossing his coat aside and going to check on the shoulder, "and I still ain't talked ter that dratted man."

he settled down to a long day of bouncing wagon wheels, thankful as always that he wasn't having to carry his kit on his own back.

"..Might wait till he feels his pain and comes to you sir. After all, you know how us patients are. Less willing to go into the wagon, and greatly hoping to be fastest out. Atleast those, that don't grow to like the ride itself." He spoke amused, lifting his head up from where he sat, his leg nicely propped on a rolled blanket, so that the thickness of the material kept it at ease even with the rattle and jump of the wagon.

"Your papers have mostly been arranged sir. You may see in your book. I hope they are as you have wished it."

(Gone to here, to keep it uncluttered! : dawn surgeon marching )

It had been a long night for Calderón. After following the captured cavalrymen and barge crew, he had loitered around the village they were taken to. A French regiment had taken up residence in the village, which in itself was worthy of immediate report.

Still, he had loitered around the village for a full day, taking a count of the French soldiers, before carefully slipping away to ghost over the countryside in search of the British column. The night had seen him moving swiftly over-land with the speed of urgent purpose. Now he was almost upon the column, at last.

Green-jacketed soldiers pacing steadily along were the first men Calderón encountered, though to his dismay he realised they wore the same facings as the men he'd first met during the flight from Óbidos. Of all the poor luck! Gritting his teeth against both annoyance and weariness, the scout slowed his stride and lifted a hand to hail the green-jackets. Bad feelings or not, the column needed to be made aware of the French presence in Pombal.

"Look, Harris. Is that man waving to us?" Perkins asked, peering at the figure in the distance.

"So I saying, 'Ben, fool, that not your bowl,' and Ben says, "Yis, yis, is my bowl,' and I says 'No, no, his bowl,' and you remembers Johnson, him that great huge tall big huge man-" Carty stopped chatting to the long-suffering Harris, and looked to where Perkins was pointing. "So he is, so," he said, unslinging his rifle, cautious after their encounter with the French.

Everyone was on patrol today, Harris thought. The company of grenadiers had been part of a larger body - a regiment, it was thought - that had taken over a village up ahead. Until they got close enough to strike, it was the job of the rifles to protect the column from surprise attacks. Hagman was even further forward than Harris and two youngsters, in the hope of finding out more about the men in the village. And the 60th would be guarding the flanks. But in a couple of hours it would be a real battle, if the French stood their ground.

Perkins pointed out the man who was making his way towards them and Harris held his hand out to stop Carty. "Let him approach us, just be ready. He's more likely to be on our side."

Carty frowned; the man had waved, but it might be a trick, a distraction... "You sure?"

Oh for all - Calderón swore softly when he recognised one of the three green-jackets. He'd put his knife to that poor boy's neck, before he had known the green-jackets were allies.

"Hello there!" Calderón called out, drawing his brisk trot down to a walk. It wouldn't hurt to be especially cautious around this lot. "I come with news, for an officer!"

Perkins drew in a breath in spite of himself. "Harris..." he whispered. "Is that... Is that...?"

"Is that? Who?" Carty frowned in confusion at Ben, then at the stranger, and then up at Harris. "Who is that?"

"Yes," said Harris, "it is - a peasant, probably from where we're heading," he added remembering that Carty had not been with them.

"Are you come from Pombal?" he asked.

[OOC: I have an incredibly sluggish computer/connection that is driving me mad. Please forgive me for slow response times]

Perkins had tried to put the man out of his mind, but seeing him now he suddenly wondered if that man, or his friends, had been directly responsible for the mutilated bodies they had found.

"Harris. Should I run and get Mister Sharpe?"

Calderón strove to keep his expression neutral. "I am," he replied and came to a full stop several yards from the three green-jackets. Sharpe. He recognised that name too. Damn it all!

"Where is there an officer?"

Harris nodded to the man he knew to be an Irregular. Friends with Padstowe and the little doctor. "We will fetch an officer," he said. "Perkins, find Mr Sharpe."

[Another OOC - to Calderon. Are you speaking in English, or is Harris speaking Portuguese?]

OOC - Ah. I'd clean forgotten about the language bit. Let's say he (Calderón) came up speaking English.

Perkins was only too happy to oblige, and off he ran.

"Are there any Frenchmen close at hand?" Harris asked. He supposed he should be prepared to trust this man, even if he had threatened young Perkins - it had been a mistake, after all.

Wasn't that the question of the hour. Calderón considered responses for a second, then said, now in Portuguese, "There are, in strong number. A full regiment."

Harris nodded. "Thank you," he replied in the same language. So it was true.

"You need to speak to someone senior to Lieutenant Sharpe," he said with a twisted smile. The column would be up with them soon, but they should be moving forward now, to keep the line unbroken. "How long until we reach their picquets?" he asked urgently. Pombal was surely an hour or more away.

Perkins arrived back, slightly out of breath. "I didn't see Mister Sharpe, but Cooper thought he'd gone to see Colonel Edrington." He stopped and looked at Calderón warily.