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This is the In-Character thread for Greenjackets: For King and Country. Please DO NOT post here unless you have signed up to be in this game. For more information, please head to the OOC thread here greenjackets-ooc-t9473.html

This game takes place during the Peninsular War, and specifically, this game begins in late September 1809 in Northern Spain. The Battle of Talavera was fought during the summer, and now the French are fighting back after the devastating loss of an Eagle, a standard comparable to the King's and Company colours the British fly as they march to battle.

Thank you.
Muser

A determined morning sun finally rose above the leafy branches of the highest trees and bathed the quiet, snow blanketed Spanish valley in pale yellow light. Over night, without warning, the snow had begun to fall. First as scattered and drifting flakes that melted once they hit the ground, but soon the snow had fallen heavier and heavier as the evening stretched on towards the morning. As the sunlight caught the freshly fallen snow, millions of tiny, silvery stars winked into existence, flourished and sparkled on the trees and on the ground. The air was crisp and every breeze was a bitter sting. September was shaping up to be colder month than usual, and this morning was proving to be no exception.

Footsteps crunching in the snow and the sound of small branches snapping under foot broke the relative peace of a nearby tree line as three men appeared.

“Hurry!” A dark haired man hoarsely whispered, emerging from the tree line, his two companions following closely behind him. The three men were Spanish peasants, and their clothes were damp and ragged. They had been running for the best part of three hours, starting just minutes before dawn had broken. Of their entire flight, this was to be the most dangerous part of their escape. Stretching in front of them was the flattest part of the valley, and it would take them a full two kilometers to reach the relative safety of the opposite tree line. Breathing heavily, the three peasants looked out across the expanse of valley in front of them and felt their hearts sink. One man inhaled deeply through his nose and frowned. A putrid smell wafted in the air, a smell the man could not properly identify. He frowned and thought of discussing the smell, but the graven looks on the faces of his companions discouraged any words. Exhausted and terrified, the three peasants broke cover and ran. The snow crunched loudly under their feet as they ran, heads down, eyes stinging from the bright light reflecting up at them.

“Where are the French? Are they behind us?” One man asked, his breathing laboured and his cheeks flushed crimson.

“I don’t know, I think maybe the trees slowed them down. Now shut your damn mouth and keep running! We’re almost there!” Another replied, sweat pouring from his forehead.

The sudden and thunderous crash of French cavalry emerging from the tree line behind them spurred the three peasants onwards, slim sabers flashing brightly in the morning sun. Blue uniformed horseman after blue uniformed horseman appeared from the tree line, teeth bared and hungry for the chase. Nearly crawling through the snowdrifts, the Spanish peasants struggled to escape their inevitable fates. But the French cavalry were much faster on their swift mounts, regardless of the deep snow, and quickly bore down on the peasants. Half of the horsemen spurred forward and to the sides, cutting off the peasants’ escape while the rest of the cavalry came in from behind, circling the men and surrounding them completely with green uniformed Chasseurs, horses and razor sharp French steel. One of the peasants made an attempt to push through the circle of horsemen, but a French soldier caught him by the collar and forced him back towards the other peasants. The commander of the French cavalry sheathed his sword and dismounted, tossing the reins of his horse to his second in command. The commander’s green uniform was made of the finest cloth and the gold epaulettes resplendent on his shoulders cost more money than most people could dream of. His boots were polished to a fine shine, and his small moustache was neatly trimmed. He had an air of arrogance as he strode towards the three peasants.

“Please!” The oldest peasant pleaded, “We don’t know anything! We can’t tell you anything!” The commander merely smirked as he halted in front of the man, who promptly sank to his knees. He reached for the Frenchman’s boots, begging for his life. His companions spat at him, incredulous at their friend’s actions. A look of mock horror flashed onto the Frenchman’s face as the peasant’s hands touched his finely polished boots. With surprising agility, he swung his foot back and kicked the man squarely in the jaw, sending the peasant flying backwards into the snow. The man whimpered and clutched his hands to his jaw as blood began to flow from his lips. The French commander seemed more worried about his boots than anything else, and he shook his head with disappointed as he saw scuff marks where the peasant’s grubby hands had touched him.

“Do you know how expensive these boots are? I had them specially made for me in Paris, by one of the finest boot makers in all of Europe!” He spoke in fluent French. The Spaniards simply stared back at him. They spoke no French at all. The commander continued speaking, more to himself and his company than the peasants. “They have no culture, the Spanish. They are practically beasts, don’t you agree?” The French cavalry laughed raucously in agreement.

“Please, sir, please.” Another of the peasants spoke, kneeling beside his wounded friend. “Let us go. We were just hunting for r-r-rabbits. To feed our families! Please, let us go!” The French commander leveled the peasant with a cold hard gaze, exhaling a long exasperated breath into the cold air.

“Hunting for rabbits? I think not.” The French commander took a few steps toward the peasant, tilting his head slightly. “What were you really doing? Running from your village in the early hours of the morning, just before a French patrol arrives? Sounds just a little suspicious to me, don’t you think?” The commander asked, enunciating those last three words agonizingly slowly. The Spaniard stared back defiantly at the Frenchman, a sudden wave of courage spiraling up his spine. He titled his head down, as if surrendering himself to the accusations, and then sprang forward, lunging at the French commander with a short and jagged dagger in his hand and a scream of pure anger pouring forth from his lips. The French commander stepped nimbly to the side and in a blur of motion his slim saber was in his hand, the bright steel already flashing through the air. In mere moments, the Spanish peasant was bleeding to death with his face down in the snow. The French commander stood above him, tiny droplets of blood falling from the tip of his saber. In one fluid motion he stabbed down with the razor sharp point, through the man’s neck, killing him instantly.

“No!” The uninjured peasant cried out, getting to his feet. The French commander turned around quickly, surprised, as if he had forgotten the other two peasants were still there.

“No?” He asked, reaching his free hand up to toy with his expertly trimmed moustache. “No, what? No, you were not fleeing from us? No, you were not trying to find the nearest company of British troops and tell them where we are and what we are doing?” He smiled warmly, cocking his head to the side. But the mirth on his lips was betrayed by the cold malice in his eyes. “France is your friend. Why would you run from us?” He asked quietly, walking slowly towards the peasant, the bloody tip of his saber absentmindedly trailing against the very top of the snow. “I know you understand me, Spaniard. I can see it in your eyes. There is no dull glaze in those eyes of yours.”

“You are oppressors. You are tyrants. You are FIL--” The Spaniard began to shout, but was silenced ever so suddenly by the Frenchman’s blade expertly puncturing his jugular vein. The peasant fell to his knees, bright red blood spurting violently from his neck. His hands fumbled vainly to stop the bleeding, but it was too late, the Spaniard was dead before his body hit the blood stained snow. The French commander knelt down, grabbed the man’s jacket and carefully wiped the blood from his sword on it. He stood up, tilting his head towards the sky to watch a hawk soar gracefully in the air and then drop quickly to the valley floor, emerging seconds later with a struggling field mouse in its beak. The French commander smiled his cold approval. With another swift yet purposeful motion, he re-sheathed his slim saber and moved to remount his horse. The last peasant stared wide-eyed up at the Frenchmen mounted all around him, blood tinged spittle still dripping from his gaping mouth. The French commander gave him one last pitying look before steering his horse the other way.

“Sir?” His second-in-command asked, indicating the last peasant with a slight nod of his head.

“Deal with it, Major.” The French commander replied. A sudden sharp yet muted crack sounded in the distance, causing the French commander to incline his head to his left, just in time to witness a puff of grey smoke waft through the tree line. The French commander pulled a very expensive spyglass from his saddlebag and, once fully extended, placed it to his eye and scanned the tree line. No movement. “Major, send a runner to the village and get a company of infantrymen. We have some rats with muskets who need putting down.” Silence. “Major?” The French commander turned towards his second-in-command, just in time to see the man slide from his saddle and land crumpled in the snow, a dark spherical hole in the middle of his forehead. The faintest twitch in the French commander’s jaw betrayed his displeasure, but he was no fool. Turning to another officer, he barked the new orders. “You. Captain. Send a runner. Now. We’ll see what we can do in the mean time.”


Seconds later.


Captain Ashwood of the 95th Regiment of Foot lay still with his eyes closed, powder from his rifle burning hot on the flesh of his right cheek and the sharp sulphur smell of musket smoke still heavy in his nostrils. For what seemed like ages, he held his breath, listening to the rhythmic but calm heartbeat in his ears.

“Beauty shot, sir.” A voice, accented with the soft tinges of Norfolk, whispered quietly beside him. “Right between the eyes, sir.”

“The fancy one?”

“They’re all fancy, sir. They’re French.” The voice replied, the hint of a smile dragging the sentence up at the end. Captain Ashwood snorted. “Were you meaning the fancy one, or the really fancy one who happened to be giving out orders just now?”

“Their colonel, Sgt. Robbins.”

“Oh, well, begging your pardon, sir. You’re a terrible shot then, with respect, sir. Now, if you had been aiming for the Major, it would be another story. Sir.”

“Bollocks.” Ashwood swore, shifting slightly.

“Sir?”

“Sgt. Robbins, we are here under orders to defeat Napoleon and the rest of the French, not to save the Spanish. They can save themselves. Come to Spain, kill the French, return to England. That’s it.” Ashwood replied, his tone flat and cold.

“Very good, sir. But look at this, sir.” Sgt Robbins handed Ashwood’s telescope back to him and gestured to the west. Ashwood swore. A company of British troops were marching straight down the middle of the valley, completely unaware of the waiting French cavalry. They were a fair distance away, and the rising sun was glaring in their eyes. Ashwood could just make out the gold lace on the uniforms of the mounted British officers, and the dour looks on the red coated infantrymen as they trudged through the deep snow.

“What in God’s name are they doing here?” Ashwood asked.

“No idea, sir. Making our job that much more difficult, I think, sir.”

“Leftenant! Rifles may fire at will. Priority targets! We need to distract those cavalry!” Ashwood shouted, twisting backwards. Out of nowhere, Lieutenant Wells appeared and nodded, disappearing back into the brush. A split second later, his voice shouted those same orders.

“Sir?”

“What Sergeant? We’ll deal with the cavalry. They probably think we’re partisans or some such.”

“I know, sir. But the French have sent a runner. Heading back to village, I think, to get reinforcements. I don’t think they see our boys yet.”

“And I’d like to keep it that way. RIFLES!” Captain Ashwood roared, “An extra ration of rum for the man who kills that RUNNER!” He pushed himself up, and commenced reloading his rifle. Already the sharp report of the rifles filled the air, as his troops began to take shots at the defenseless French Cavalry. “I hate Spain, Sgt. Robbins, I really do.”

“I know, sir. But God help us, we’re here now.”

Private William "Bill" Hawkins shivered slightly in the Spanish snow, as a thin cloud of stream rose around him from his breath. He could plainly see a bunch of mount frogs out in the open, their green uniforms plain against the snowy background. Bill supposed he should thank them for saving his life, without the war, he most likely would have taken a short drop with a quick stop on a gallows.

The night that he was supposed to have killed a man, Bill had been in the tavern, drinking and it was all fuzzy. That was, until he woke up in the jail ad was hauled in front of a judge. The old man, in his black robes and great big powdered wig had ponced him guilty with in seconds of the charges being laid before him. Then the choices had been dance a jig on hanging hill or dawn a uniform and take pay in the army. The choice had been an easy one for the Londoner and soon enough, Bill was dressed in a green uniform and on his way to Spain.

Listening to the shot taken down the line from him was nothing new and so was watching the one of the pompous frogs drop to the ground. It was almost something to laugh about, when they weren't charging across the field at you or shooting back. Bill heard Captain Ashwood roaring out orders down away from him and started taking aim at a horsemen, when the second part of the order tumbled into his ears. Extra rum for the man to take down the frog riding away from the rest of the carvery! That sounded like a god sent to the, now dry, drinker.

With the promise of booze to take the chill from his bones, Bill aimed the short barreled, Baker rifle at the back of the fleeing Frenchman. Knowing he was not the best shot in the company, a little extra time was to be taken in lining up the shot but he needed to be quick about it, the other lads would want an extra drink of rum as well. Gritting his teeth, he pulled the trigger. The flintlock slammed forward, the pan flashed and the muzzle of the gun roared with smoke and lead. Death flew through the air and into the the back of the man on the receiving end of the Baker Rifle.

The hot lead bullet smash it's way into the man's lungs, though cloth and bone. The Frenchman gasped in pain, as his numb fingers released the reins. As death claimed the man's soul, his body fell back, flopping in the saddle as the horse thundered on, back towards the village.

Paule Triveane jerked his head up at the distant crack of rifles. His eyes strained through the dark trying to pick up the minute flashes of the firing pans going off. A dark mass came thundering out of the woods to his right pounding towards his entrenched position. As it grew closer he saw it was a Chasseurs, dead, his horse wild eyed and frantic trying to find it's way home.

Paule didn't move from his somewhat warm position huddled under a blanket on the soggy earth. To his right the horse screamed at it ran into a trench and fell in thrashing. Paule's eyes however were trained on another position. It was still somewhat dark, but the the first faint rays of the dawn were reaching across the earth revealing a company of british regulars making their way up the valley, towards the French in-trenchments.

This stirred Paule from his position, his sodden blanket floated to the ground as he swiftly climbed out of the trench and moved to the rear to alert the officer in charge. He made his way silently not wanting to cause a ruckus and alert the marching British that their presence had been noticed. Weaving his way past the last few trenches and clambering past the gun emplacments he arrived at a small village of tents.

Dashing up to the largest tent he saluted to a guard posted outside the closed flaps. "Private Paule Triveane, I spotted a group of regulars coming up the valley and thought the Colonel should be warned." Paule then stood waiting to be allowed into the tent or told to go back to his position.

The man’s chest heaved, his breath coming in sharp desperate gasps. He’d fallen from his horse, and now sat heavily on the ground. A trickle of blood ran down from a deep gash at his temple, tracing a path of red through the dirt on his cheek.

“They came out of nowhere,” he kept saying, “They came out of nowhere.”

“What do you mean?” asked the lieutenant. “Who did?”

The man, eyes large and wild, looked up at the officer standing above him. “They were like ghosts. Wiped out the whole company.” His voice cracked. “Everyone but me.”

The lieutenant frowned at the man’s words. Without turning, he asked, “Where’s the Captain, Sergeant Bulotte?” knowing that the sergeant would be, as always, standing ready behind his right shoulder.

“No idea, sir,” replied Sergeant Bulotte immediately. He was a large man, whose face told of many summers of long campaigning. “Shall I fetch him sir?”

“No, I’ll go straight and find the colonel. He needs to hear this.” The lieutenant turned to find the eyes of the whole platoon upon him and the man on the ground. “Stand the men at ease, sergeant, until I get back.”

“Aye sir.” Bulotte saluted, then turned and bellowed, “Right lads, you heard the lieutenant. Take your ease, but don’t get too comfortable now!”

The men gratefully unshouldered muskets and dropped packs, moving off the road. As they did one soldier caught the lieutenant’s notice. He was tall and scarcely more than a boy, with blond hair visible under the edges of his black leather shako and a spread of freckles across his nose and cheeks.

“You there! Soldat!” the lieutenant called. The young soldier looked up and locked eyes with the officer for the moment, his cold blue eyes dull with weariness and yet at once full of challenge. He held his gaze a moment, then dropped his eyes in reluctant deference to rank.

“You’re a new man, Oui?” asked the lieutenant, arms folded.

“Oui sir.”

“Your name?”

“Gosselin, sir.”

“Give this man some water, Soldat Gosselin.” The lieutenant indicated the seated man.

“Oui sir. Water, sir.” Soldat Gosselin kept his eyes down.

***

“Damn thirsty bastard.”

Eugene Gosselin sat under the shade of leafy maple on the road’s fringe, watching the man who still sat slumped in the middle of the road, slumped over with his eyes closed. He held Eugene’s canteen between his legs, and Eugene knew from watching that it was empty or close to it.

“Drank all of it, he did.” Adrian said, staring angrily at the man. "C'est un vrai con."

He tried to summon the energy to muster up some real fury, but he was just too exhausted. The battalion had marched eighteen miles today, each step made leaden by the weight of his musket and pack, which were leaning against the trunk next to him. The pack was simple to figure out: he despised it. It rubbed and chafed everywhere, its leather straps leaving his shoulders red and raw.

The musket, on the other hand, was a mystery to him. Two months of training with it, of having drill sergeants roaring at him the importance of keeping it working and clean, of having it bouncing against his shoulder ever time he took a step, made him curse it every morning as he hoisted its surprising weight. And yet there was something about the weapon that he found entrancing. On many a long night of sentry duty he’d found himself running his fingers lightly down the cold metal of the barrel, tracing the sharp curves of the lock, marveling at the simple elegance of it all. He shivered slightly as he thought of the power within those lines and curves, the way it could end a life in a burst of noise, smoke and fire.

“Eh, no point in getting mad at the poor bugger,” said Pierre Hollande, who sat carefully packing his pipe to Eugene’s right. “He’s just a dragoon.”

“What company you reckon he’s from?” Eugene asked.

Pierre Hollande shook his head but Adar Vincennes, who sat across him, nodded. “Green short-tailed coat, with capucine facings and red piping. That there’s a 23rd Chasseurs-a-Cheval lad.”

A contemplative silence fell over the little group, and Eugene looked over the two. Most of the men in the 94th were from Haute-Rhin and Vosages and looked askance at a new recruit from western France. Eugene had found himself falling into the company of fellow outsiders Pierre and Adar, who hearkened from Sambre-et-Meuse and Paris respectively. The two men were each at least a decade older than the youth, but the misery of training and the tedium of camp life had made the three firm friends.

“Do you think he was lying?” asked Eugene, breaking the silence. “About being the only one of his company to get out?”

“Who knows?” Pierre Hollande shrugged. “Maybe his company got into a fight and he just took off.”

“Maybe.” Adar sounded skeptical. “He looks pretty shook up.”

"I'd be too if I'd almost gotten knocked by one of them partisans," Pierre said, "Did you hear what happened to those poor bastards down in Villatoba?"

Eugene and Adar already had, but that didn't stop them from listening as Pierre recounted the story in a low voice. When he was done, Adar shook his head in disbelief. "Those couilles don't play by the damn rules."

"And what would those rules be?" Pierre asked mockingly.

"Not fucking this!" Adar exclaimed, "I used to be parole courier back before I got levied. I know how you're supposed to fight a war, and by God this isn't it."

"Get on your feet!" The harsh bellow of Sergeant Bulotte cut through the autumn air. "The colonel's coming up!"

Eugene, Pierre, and Adar scrambled to their feet and ordered arms just the colonel appeared riding at a stately pace on a black horse down the column. Colonel Jean-Antoine-Francois Combelle was an older man, with streaks of gray in his moustache and sideburns and wrinkles around his steely blue eyes. The lieutenant followed behind on foot, and saluted smartly as the colonel dismounted in front of the slumped dragoon.

"This is the man, Colonel," the lieutenant said, indicating with an outstretched hand.

"Thank you, Lieutenant," Colonel Combelle replied, then said to the dragoon, "On your feet, trooper! Your name and regiment!"

The dragoon seemed to snap out of whatever nightmare he'd been reliving. Standing quickly to attention, he replied in a crisp voice, his eyes staring straight ahead, "Jacques Varin, mon Colonel! Second Company, 23rd Chasseurs-a-Cheval!"

Out of the corner of his eye Eugene could see Adar smiling smugly beside him. Colonel Combelle nodded, then said, "Tell me what happened, Trooper Varin."

"Mon Colonel, we were escorting four wagons worth of munitions and pioneer’s supplies when we got hit,” the man said, his eyes continuing to stare out, “Knocked out most of us in the first go. I was near the back, so I put back my spurs and got the hell out of there before whoever missed me the first time got a second chance.”

The colonel nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “Thank you Trooper Varin,” he said, then turned back toward the lieutenant. “I want you to take your men and loop south for half a mile, then come around and see if you can’t take these devils in the rear. The rest of the regiment will move in support. I need Captain Louran – where is Captain Louran?” The colonel disappeared back through the column.

“All right, you heard the colonel,” said the lieutenant, “Sergeant Bulotte, get the men organized and ready to go.”

“Oui, Lieutenant.” The sergeant saluted. “I want a skirmish line now!”

As the men of the company hurried to obey the order, Eugene felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Sergeant Bulotte. “You’re the new boy, oui?”

“Oui, sergeant.”

The craggy, weather-beaten face broke into a friendly smile. “You stick with me, soldat. Do what I do.”

“Oui, sergeant.”

***

It was a perfect place for an ambush. The road entered a thick wood just as the ground began to rise into a range of low hills, causing the track to meander through a ravine lined with trees and boulders. Eugene crept forward, the heavy musket held at the ready in front of him. The company had entered the treeline at a point half a mile away and had spent the past twenty minutes working their way slowly toward the ambush point. Eugene pushed his shako back on his head slightly, peering intently ahead. He couldn’t see anything or anyone out there -- no shadows darting amongst the trees, no glint of metal in the sun. But that didn’t mean the woods were empty, or that someone wasn’t watching the ragged line of blue-coated figures slowly approach. He imagined a figure watching him, a cold eye focused on his forehead from down a gun barrel, lining up a shot, a finger tightening on a trigger. Sudden terror overcame him for a moment, and he mashed a hand to his forehead in a desperate defense.

“Easy, boy.” The calm whisper from Sergeant Bulotte a few meters to his right brought Eugene back into focus, and he took another step forward.

There was a shout from somewhere in the trees up ahead, which disappeared in a cloud of powder smoke as the woods opened up with the crack of musketfire. A bullet hummed past Eugene’s head and he dove for the cover of a fallen log in front of him. He sat there a moment, his heart racing and his brow suddenly wet with perspiration, listening to the din of musketry and voices calling out in Spanish and French.

“Up! Get up!” The voice of Sergeant Bulotte. “Get up and move forward!”

Eugene took a deep breath, then rose and rolled over the fallen trunk. He lost his shako, and without bothering to pick it up made for the cover of another tree. This he repeated twice more, catching his breath only to duck his head and race for the next scrap of cover. He was all alone, the sounds of combat all around him, while a drum was beating the forward march somewhere. There was a man in a French uniform lying there, a look of profound surprise frozen on his face and a dark and bloody hole beneath his right eye.

Was the fight dying down? Eugene thought so but he couldn’t tell, and there was no one he could ask. The dead man certainly would be no help. Eugene cocked his head, trying to puzzle out who he had been. The face seemed familiar, but no name was coming. He was still thinking it over when he heard movement on the other side of the tree he was leaning against.

His thumb pulled back the hammer of his musket to full cock, and without a second thought he rose and stepped out from behind the tree. There was a man there, a man not in a French uniform but in a wide-brimmed hat and dun-colored smock. They stared at each other for a moment, frozen in surprise, before with a curse in Spanish the man swung the muzzle of his musket toward Eugene.

Without thinking, Eugene’s finger yanked back on the trigger. In almost ridiculous slowness the hammer came down, striking the frizzen in a shower of sparks. There was a puff as the priming ignited, then the musket kicked back as the main charge caught, and Eugene nearly lost his grip as the musket fired. The man was knocked backwards, doubled over and with his hands flying to his stomach as if he’d been punched. He stared at Eugene for a moment, then slumped to the ground.

The fight was over. The drumbeat Eugene had heard was the regiment moving up the road, and the partisans had fled before the overwhelming force of the column. Sergeant Bulotte stood beside him, and together they looked down at the wounded Spaniard. The man was still alive, and as his lifeblood trickled slowly through hands clasped to his stomach he stared silently at the two Frenchmen.

“Good work, soldat,” said Bulotte. “He won’t live with that gut wound.” He tapped the bayonet hanging in its sheath from Eugene’s side. “You ought to finish him.”

The young soldat didn’t move, and Bulotte looked at Eugene. “Is this your first?”

“Oui, sergeant.”

Bulotte nodded understandingly. “It’s always hard the first time. But you got to do it.”

Eugene paused for another long moment, then pulled out the bayonet and locked it onto the blackened muzzle of his firelock. The Spaniard took a long time to die, and Eugene stabbed down again and again, willing the man to give up and make it done with. Even at the last the Spaniad kept silent, not a groan nor a cry nor anything, only staring at Eugene with accusing eyes.

When it was over, Eugene turned and found that Pierre Hollande and Adar Vincennes had joined Sergeant Bulotte and were watching him silently. Bulotte took a step forward and tousled the young soldat’s hair. “Good work, boy. It’s done with.”

Adar shook his head, muttering, “Not by the damn rules, the couilles.”

So you say they were marching right up the valley?" Paule stood at parade rest in front of Colonel Trenton Rechoule. "Oui sir! Bold as peacocks sir a whole company maybe more come straight for us. I also saw a dead Chassuer riding out of the woods there was a lot of firing there sir," Paule finished his small speech anxious to hear what the Colonel had to say.

He focused his eyes on the roof of the tent unable to make eye contact with the Colonel. Trenton rose from the stool he had occupied while listening to the Soldat's report. Moving his lithe form to a large table occupying most of the room he began to intently study it. Paule watched him curiously noting as the Colonel moved wooden blocks about that occupied the table. A single candle cast a feeble light across the oaken surface revealing the names of companies inked elaborately into the blocks.

Paule grew excited he was watching battle plans unfold right before his eyes. Soon the Colonel seemed satisfied and turned to Paule. "Soldat I must thank you for your warning, you most likely have saved many lives this morning. Now return to your post and orders will be issued shortly." Paule felt his heart sink he had hoped a mountain of praise, a medal, even a bit of food or drink would have been nice. This curt thanks and dismissal through Paule off guard and sorely let him down.

"Oui sir," Paule said saluting quickly and turning on his heel. Throwing the tent flap open Paule strode outside pausing for a moment blinking like an owl to regain his night vision. Quickly the frigid winter air regained its control on Paule, having warmed up in the tent. Shivering he quickly plodded his way to his entrenchment and resumed his position under the blanket. "Pig officers....," he mumbled spitting fiercely, the projectile freezing before i touched the ground.

Looking into the distance he noted the position of the British Regulars before hunkering down. Soon they would be within firing range he hoped the Colonel moved before that happened. Behind him he heard the sound of runner moving through the forces and he felt somewhat better that action was being taken. Hopefully his Sergeant would give orders out soon.

Thomas lay on his back in the snow, taking careful aim at the French cavalry down in the valley. Hearing the order to fire, he immediately pulled the trigger, shooting down the officer he had been aiming at, relatively low ranking judging by the small amount of gold on his uniform. It was only then, as he started to reload, that he heard the order about the runner. He really would have liked an extra ration of rum, but he was too late. Anyways, if they had all shot at the runner, everyone would be trying to claim the kill, and the rest of the frogs would have had a better chance to escape with less bullets flying in their direction.

With his rifle reloaded Tom lay down on his back again, his prefered firing position. Already most of the officers were down and the remaining men, now leaderless, milled around in confusion. Several were trying to fight and charge towards the woods that the rifleman were hiding in, while even more tried to run back to where they came. Most just seemed to be trying to get out however they could. Smiling at what was fast becoming a turkey shoot, he fell into a rhythm. Aim, fire, reload. Aim, fire reload. Tom didn't even try to count how many time he repeated this pattern, he just kept on firing until all the frogs were down, making evey shot count.

Jack crouched down, carefully avoiding the ample amount of rocks, lest they give away his position. However his efforts were wasted when Private Walter knocked a loose stone and sent it rattling down the valley, echoing loudly, “You god damn bastard Walter! Do you want every frog in Spain to know where are!?”

“Sorry sir.” Was all that the Private Walter could offer, Jack shook his head and made a mental note to give him a beating after the ambush on the French convoy passing by.

“Cool it corporal, you’re not in charge yet.” Jack scoffed, Sergeant Sears was a right bastard, Jack was smarter, stronger and more skilled then him. Yet Sears had won the favor of the higher-ups so he was in command. Not for long Jack knew, with Sears’s ability in battle it wouldn’t take to long for him to get shot, stabbed or blown to oblivion in front of a cannon.

Jack heard the rumble as horse and man marched through the valley, and smiled. The French bastards didn’t stand a chance, Jack and his men had the element of surprise, had the higher ground, and most importantly, had rifles. He often wondered why the French didn’t use rifles, they shot less frequently, but every shot well aimed meant a Frenchmen dead. Jack didn’t mind of course, if they wanted to use less deadly weapons he wouldn’t stop them. “Stop daydreaming you lazy bastard and cock your damn rifle!” Sears voice cut through his train of voice, and he cocked his rifle, muttering “bogtrotter” under his breath.

“Fire!” Jack aimed at one of the wagon men and fired a clean shot hitting his chest and probably piercing a lung. He began the automatic process of reloading his weapon, tasting the vile powder; he spat the bullet into the gun, poured his powder, and brought his ramrod and started ramming the bullet down, the task a lot more difficult due to the grooves in the barrel that made the gun so accurate. He aimed for a soldier, who was trying to gather the loot and escape, he hit him in the stomach and felt a small pang of pity, horrible way to die, shot in the stomach, slow and painful, however he quickly suppressed it and continued to reload and shoot. Bite, spit, pour, cock, shoot.

The French quickly realized they couldn’t save the baggage train so they ran, obviously not considering the possibility of another ambush. “Up you bastards follow them!” Jack shouted, making sure sears blew the whistle that would signal that the frogs were feeling. Jack and the rest of the men arrived to see the Scottish unit charging into the French ranks broadswords drawn. Jack watched as the Scots cut the French apart, he wondered what it must be like for the enemy to fight the Scots, hell he guessed, hell.

“Bastards!” Jack shouted, as the Scott’s ran towards the baggage train, “They’ll get the loot first.”

"What the devil!" Captain Clayton clutched at his shako onto his graying head with one hand. He had been caught unawares by the resounding crack of a rifle that echoed through the air, stopping the British troops in their tracks. Horses pawed at the snow, men grabbed their muskets, the momentary disorder in the lines of red coats, gold regalia, and flashing silver dazzling in the morning light.

The captain tugged at his horse's reins and held up a white-gloved hand for order. Behind him, his lieutenant shouted, "Halt!" and called the skittish troops to attention. Cupping a palm over his eyes, Clayton squinted into the valley, bright white and blinding in the rising sun.

Another crack of a rifle resounded through the valley. Then another. Soon it became too chaotic to trace the trajectory of the rifle fire as puffs of gunsmoke emerged from all sides.

A ripple of panic made its way through the red-coated troops, as they realized that they were utterly exposed in the middle of their trek through the snowy valley without even the convenience of trees for cover. Already, the whites of the ensigns' eyes showed as their eyes darted toward the safety of the treeline from whence they emerged.

"Awaiting your orders, sir!" shouted Clayton's lieutenant, Lundy, sidling his horse flank to flank with Clayton's.

"Get the muskets ready," huffed the captain, who was having a hard time keeping his horse calm. The short stocky man slid from side to side in his saddle as the horse panicked. "Well, what are you waiting for, Lieutenant?" Spittle flew from under the captain's bearded mouth. "I gave you an order!"

"With all due respect, sir, I believe we've walked into an ambush." muttered Lieutenant Lundy. He was a tall, thin whippet of a man, traces of curly flyaway orange hair emerging despite it being fastidiously powdered and greased; his eyebrows were furrowed together and below them his pale green eyes were dark, shadowed under the brim of his shako. "Shall we turn back, Captain?" They were heading straight into the middle of the snowy valley, their uniforms too easy to pick out against the endless whiteness, hardly any trees or rocks for cover, they had practically been caught with their breeches around their ankles.

"No! We stay and fire, Lieutenant," roared the captain, managing to unsheathe his saber to lead the infantry.

A frown deepened the wrinkles around Lieutenant Lundy's mouth and pulled down the ends of his ginger mustache. "As you wish, sir." He expertly brought his horse before the troops. "Ready your muskets, men!"

As the clatter of loading muskets filled the air, Lieutenant Lundy shot a glance over his shoulder at the Captain, who stared down his proud beaked nose surveying the valley. Rifle fire in continued to resound along the valley's treeline, the smoke giving away the shooters' positions, but they were too far away and well-concealed to provide a decent target. With their muskets at this range, the troops would be firing at nothing. Lundy called the troops to ready.

The captain raised his sword and brought it down. "FIRE!"

Paule sat in his trench eyeing the advancing column of British uniforms. Suddenly their forward momentum was halted as two officers began to argue. Then an order was given and the soldiers removed their muskets and began loading. Paule cocked an eyebrow at this wondering what they were doing....were they going to charge?

Paule's questions were soon answered as the redcoats shouldered their arms and fired, the muskets belching flame and smoke. Instinctively Paule ducked even though the muskets were sorely inaccurate at such a distance, the balls peppering the ground a good couple of feet in front of him proved that. Craning his neck around he wondered when they were going to take action.

Paule jumped at the brass twelve pounders opened up, their bellowing voices ringing across the valley. Overhead cannonballs whistled screaming their message of destruction. The gun had always fascinated Paule and he sat in awe watching as they fired again and again raining death on the British company, the ground around them exploding into a cloud of earth and snow.

As the guns roared on Paule wondered how the British soldiers were faring under the onslaught, he almost felt sorry for them. He also wondered if he and the others would be ordered to charge of if the British would break ranks and flee. Surely they weren't dumb enough to attack his division’s fortified position....were they?

In a small dimly lit room, far away from the thunderous crash of cannon fire and the screams of dying men, a solitary man sits and sips from a glass of wine. With every sip, he pauses and savours the delicate flavour of the deep crimson wine, before swallowing the liquid and setting the glass back down upon the table. Spread out in front of him on the table were dozens of maps and papers, their edges frayed and curling with age. His fingers traced slowly over the elegantly detailed maps, his pointer finger slowly tracing the European coast like the curves of a satisfied lover, past the Netherlands and below Normandy, landing eventually on the north western coast of Spain. The finger pressed harder on the paper at that spot, before sliding away. The man exhaled slowly, and reached for his wine glass again. Another sip, another savour, and the glass returned to its resting place. The man sank backwards into his plush high backed chair, his eyelids so low that one would think he was asleep. But his eyes never left the time soaked map, never left the northern coast of Spain. Finally, after many long minutes, he pushed back his chair and rose from the table, leaving the room briskly. His day, like the day of the Greenjackets, had just begun.



Northern Spain, 1809


The sudden and startling boom of cannon fire across the valley caused Lieutenant Wells to pause in mid step. He grunted and nearly lost his footing, his boots sliding in the slush and mud of the tree floor. Grinding to a halt, he readjusted the sabre in his hand; sweat gradually making his grip on the sword’s hilt slippery. The trees were thick, and the huge lumps of snow resting on their branches did not make seeing through them easy. He could just barely make out the remnants of the ambushed cavalry, who were trying vainly to regroup under the oppressive fire of the near invisible Rifles and make a counter attack. A number of the horsemen were crouching behind their dead mounts, as bullet after bullet slammed into the dead flesh. Beyond the pinned French, huge wafts of grey smoke betrayed the position of the French batteries. The constant crackle of musket and rifle fire had become sporadic, rolling in waves of sound. Wells pressed his way through the trees and emerged, frowning, beside another Greenjacket.

“Bloody ‘ell, Thomas. On your back again?” Wells smirked and knelt beside him, taking a moment to watch the man fire his rifle before peering down into the valley properly. To the west he could clearly see the company of Redcoats and the shambles they had become. Wells cocked an eyebrow, perplexed beyond belief at their actions. He couldn’t help but wonder whose orders it was that had sent that company out here, at the exact time and place that Ashwood and his company had been sent. Wells removed his shako for a moment, running a hand over his dirty brown hair and exhaled slowly. “What a day, Private, what a day.” Patting Thomas on the shoulder, and replacing his shako back on his own head, Wells made his way back into the trees and along the skirmish line.

Wells was a quiet man, loyal and intelligent. The troops liked him because they knew they could trust him. He wanted to lead them properly, and above all, he did his best to make sure none of them died. He made his way through a particularly rough thicket of bushes and trees, picking his way through like the Greenjacket he had been born to be.

A hundred yards back in the other direction, Captain Ashwood was livid. He watched in horror and confusion as the redcoats formed ranks and fired a volley at absolutely nothing and then watched as a sudden explosion of cannon fire tore into their ranks. He groaned, but could not bear to let himself force his eyes away for a moment. Deep down inside, he wasn’t all that surprised that those Redcoats had marched in at that very moment. Being in the army as long as he had, Wells had seen his fair share of miscommunications; orders sent to the wrong troops, or executed poorly, whole companies sent miles and miles away from where they should be. Now it was his job to fix everything. How does one save an entire company of Redcoats while also fending off the French assault, both infantry man and cannon? Ashwood was about to find out.

“God damn it, Sergeant, god damn it all.” Robbins remained quiet, reloading his rifle quickly. His hands moved swiftly, knowing every single part of his rifle to the most intimate detail. He had become used to the taste of powder in his mouth, almost enjoyed the flavour now, and his cheek was permanently scarred from the spark of the powder in the pan exploding next to his cheek. “We need to clear the rest of those Frenchmen out of the valley floor, and make an attempt on that damned artillery. Give those Redcoats some time to pull their heads out of their arses.” Robbins nodded, silent as he aimed his rifle through the trees. A Frenchman was hiding behind a dead horse, and Robbins was waiting for him to pop up, to reveal himself.

“Aha! Bonjour!” Robbins exclaimed, pulling the trigger. With a crack, the rifle fired and Robbins’ vision was blurred by the puff of grey smoke. Robbins pulled himself back from the smoke and instantly began the process of reloading. Ashwood was looking the other way, the telescope practically glued to his eye. He swore and dropped his arm to his chest, searching for the small silver whistle that hung around his neck. He took a deep breath and blew three sharp blasts, signaling the Rifles to take action.

“Rifles!” He roared again, his booming voice carrying through the trees. “Fix swords! Kill those Frenchmen and take that valley! We need to buy our friends some time!”