Gunpowder and Steel: A Trail of Death

[Ragnarok]

Dawn came too early to the dispirited British army. Men groaned as Sergeants roughly kicked them away, sore from yesterday's long march and dreading the one to come. More disturbing then this was the men who made no sound when kicked. They lay there; eyes closed and faces already turning a sickly blue. The soldiers averted their eyes from the newly dead; it was a common sight by now. The cold claimed a few every night.
As the men awoke groggily and prepared themselves for another grueling day, the senior officers were already awake and gathered in General Moore's tent. Many nursed cups of coffee as they stared down gloomily at the map lay before them. They needed to cover another 100 miles, and on top of that outrace the oncoming French General Soult and his horde of vengeful Frenchmen. It was a thought that nobody relished, especially as they were being harried by the French dragoons. That was why they were gathered here, the rear guard had to be selected. Moore was bent over the table, looking blankly at the map as one of his aids whispered into his year. Moore was vaguely aware that the man was telling him how many horsemen were trailing them, and he had to try to force himself to refocus. It was hard, gloomy thoughts filled his head. He felt like they were on a road to hell, not Corunna, and the political implications of what he was doing weren't lost on him either. Moore was outnumbered hugely by fresh, well armed French, but in England newspapers would print "General Moore loses British Field Army." Members of parliament would call for his immediate dismissal and disgrace, calling him a coward for attempting to save his men. It just wasn't right, despite his many victories, his many accomplishments; Moore knew history would define him by how he handled this one impossible task. How he led his men during this trail of death.
Snapping out of his dark thoughts, Moore waved the pestering man away from him. He already knew how many men were chasing them after all; the numbers hadn't changed. He had heard the same report from the same boring man for more mornings then he cared to think about. Moore clasped his hands behind his back and stood up straight, immediately silencing the room. "Gentlemen" Moore began, with a slight nod to the assembled officers, "The rear guard today will be composed of the pickets, Colonel Rutherman will have command. That is all; we will leave within the hour." The officers, used to his brief and dismissive morning reports, left the tent quickly to spread the orders.
The pickets were a small piece of every battalion that formed together to make a mixed group, usually used to scout the armies advance, but alternatively used for many tasks such as this. The majors rode off to other meetings, this time with their junior officers. Each major was responsible for picking a company from their battalion. These unlucky companies would be sent to the rear to fend off the vicious horsemen following. It meant an even more exhausting day then those who simply had to march, but someone had to do it.
When Major Eddings reached the tent he found his lieutenants and captains already waiting for him. Captain Smithers held his aching head in his hands, and Eddings frowned disapprovingly. All of the officers greeted him politely expect for Smithers, but they also took care to avoid his eyes. They were like students afraid to be called on by the professor, hoping to avoid the dreaded rear guard. Eddings looked around the room speculatively and his eyes fell upon the pathetic form of Smitehrs, obviously experiencing rather painful hangover. A smile touched Eddings' mouth but didn't extend to his eyes. "Smithers" he said, unnecessarily loud, "Your company will be going to the pickets. Look for Colonel Rutherman, he's leading today." Smithers jumped at the loud sound, and stood up sharply, staring into Eddings' eyes with his own bloodshot, tired ones. "Yes sir. Thank you sir" the insufferable man said in a tone bordering on outright contempt. Eddings frowned and waved a hand dismissively. "That will be all gentlemen" Eddings concluded, "We march within the hour."
The officers left the tent, Smithers still sulking from this unwelcome duty and Lawford following timidly. Smithers was mad, but Lawford was petrified. This would be his first battle; the thought caused him to start sweating, even in the biting cold. Smithers didn't talk during their walk back, or bother giving orders when they returned to their company. Lawford gave the necessary commands and the men packed up and left for Colonel Rutherman to join the rear guard. They were in for a long day.

[Roran Hawkins]

Roran was busy collecting the old newspapers out of his boots when his officer arrived in his unit. The paper was an excellent isolator, and did a good job keeping out the cold. Just like all men he stood up and saluted as their officer passed. Roran then continued collecting his gear and packing them on his horse's back as usual. A small tent, a small kettle, a small bag with personal items. Even in this march through hell, routine was everywhere. Being a cavalrist he had it more comfortable than the footsoldiers however. He had a horse to carry his gear, and if he would be too tired, to ride on, and the thick warm coat that was standard equipment to wear underneath the thick cuirass was perfectly suited for colder weather, compared to the thin uniforms worn by the infantry. "All right! Our unit has been called to do the rear guard today lads! Let's get a move on it!" Roran sighed as he understood the message. At least his officer was a brave and capable man, who had proven himself time over time. When he had packed his gear, rushing into a higher speed, he girded his sabre and mounted his horse. He turned to his own few men, being a Corporal had yielded him the command over several men. "I almost want these dragoons to catch up with us! I feel like slaughtering some frogs!" He said cheerfully to his men. It would be a dangerous day, and everything that would help the morale was good.

[Archangel1]

William roused from his sleep with a groan. It had felt like mere moments since he closed his eyes, and as he drifted further from dreams of home and closer to the stark reality of a bitter winter he felt the cold settle on him. The threadbare blankets did little to keep the cold out and despite having his kilt tucked around his legs, and his stockings pulled up tight his legs were frozen. Rising wearily from the simple bed Billy attended to his gear. His basket-hilt was the first to be attended too. Every night cold formed frost around the blade and stuck it fast within the sheath. After a moment moments of wrestling with it the sword drew clear. William noted with considerable satisfaction that the blade was surviving the winter cruelty better than its owner. Despite the weapons considerable endurance the marks of use in deep cold was showing on the blade. Deep pits along the edge which weakened the weapon. Taking a whet stone from the bedside William quickly and carefully honed the blade, evening out the chips before sharpening the weapon on a rough strip of leather. Only after he was satisfied the weapon was battle ready he slammed it into the sheath, tending to his pistols. Much like the British army, the pistols were being worn by the winter cold. The flash pans had a tendancy to freeze solid and even with the pistols wrapped in cloth they were prone to problems. William emptied the weapons before carefully cleaning the flash pan, the hammer and the barrel, pouring fresh powder and shot down the barrel before inserting them into his officers sash. He could not bring himself to shave, and so lurched from the tents entrance to the gathering Highlanders.


Upon approaching the hastily built cooking fires one of the soldiers gathered there handed William a tin cup with thin, weak tea which he accepted with a nod. " God bless King Geroge fer Sennin' us oot here." The soldier grunted, the joke earning only a little laughter around the camp fire. "God bless King George." Billy replied bitterly, drinking from the tea. Despite being unsweetened, and weak William took immense pleasure from the warmth it provided. "I wonder what fine treats auld Moore will have for us today." Another soldier grunted. Right on cue, a Captain dressed in the red jacket and dark trousers of a Highland Officer strolled into the camp followed closely by an ensign. The Scots, frozen by winter winds and pricked with cold, stood to attention, offering sharp salutes. " Soldiers." He replied in a formal tone which showed only vaugest traces of a Perth accent, his thin hands behind his back and his hawkish nose red with bitter cold. " The pickets have been chosen for todays rear guard. Report to Colonel Rutherman, I shall meet you there. Mac Andrews!" Billy stamped his feet together. " Aye, sir?" The captain waved a hand in his direction. " See to the camp and lead the men to their duty, Dismissed." With that the Captain accepted a mug of coffee, wandering off to see to his own duties.

The camp was a flurry of activity as men swiftly packed up tents, leaving the dead wrapped up in their blankets by the road side. The ground frozen too solid to offer them the decency of a grave. Tents were packed up, muskets prepared, and before long the company of Highlanders marched to meet with the others chosen for the rear guard. Almost no conversation was to be found in the ranks of the forty second, each man drowned in his own thoughts of the battle to come, and loved ones left behind. The only break in this solem march was when the curiasser cavalry came abreast of the company, riding to meet with Colonel Ruthermen and the Rear guard. " Bloody mollies." William murmered, earning a few snickers from the rugged Highland infantry, even in the bleakest of winters the contempt infantry held for the glory seeking tin soldiers of the cavalry regiments could not be forgotten. Like a ripple a few other...degrading jokes were passed up the ranks.

As the Highlanders fell in with other companies William took a moment to scan who else had been picked. An element of the cavalry, along with a company led by Captain Smithers had shown up for duty. " Auld Greedy looks especially sour today." William murmered, using the regimental nick name for Captain Smithers which refered both to the apparent need for rank which had led the man to lead not one, but two Forlorn hopes, and also his unfortunate drinking habit which seemed to be the mans most reccuring trait. " Billy led the company of Highlanders to march alongside the 51st Yorkies, allowing his thoughts to wander to thoughts of home, to thoughts of his young wife, to the days before war. His imagination soon formed images of what the days after this bloody business was done.

[Rivvil]

Josph Chambers and Kelv Young were honest, loyal, British privates under the command of Robert Smithers in the 51st light infantry, young men who became friends shortly after joining the war. While they were decent men, they weren’t too clever, but that doesn’t mean they didn’t try doing the best they can for their Captain. Both had brown hair, matching eyes, and very plain features. Josph was average size of 5’6, always as thin as a stick, and often refereed himself as the brains out of the two. Kelv was a hefty man, standing much taller than most men at 6’3, and often did all the physical work.

When they woke up and headed away from the camp to relieve them selves, they didn’t expect what happened next.

“Do you think hell froze over?”

“That’s a stupid thought, Kelv”

“No its not! Would explain why its so cold.”

Josph glared over at the man, his breeches already lowered to relive himself, “Its cold because it is winter you nitwit, and why are you next to me? Move over! I don’t want to see your cock!”

Kelv looked around the area, seeming uncomfortable with the idea of being alone, “But what if the Frenchies are near?”

Having difficulty relaxing himself, Josph tried sliding his feet to the side, inching away from Kelv who apparently had no problem pissing with another man next to him. “Guess they get to see some English cock” He mumbled.

Something stumbling in the distance caught both pairs of eyes. Both men grabbed their guns to aim towards the figure moving through the bush.

“S-Stop right there!”

Maelle jerked her head up at the voice, completely surprised to hear one at all that wasn’t French. She would have cried out in joy until she spotted two men standing side by side, pointing their guns at her, and with their breeches down. Her jaw slackened.

“What is this? Do you think I want to see that first thing in the morning?” Was the only cry that came from her lips, it was a cry of disgust and utter horror.

“They be English cocks” The fat one replied, pitifully.

“She sounds French, Kelv.” The skinny one whispered to his friend before shouting back at her, “Stand still!”
“Listen to me” She snapped, “Let me go or else you’ll have some French-“

“Oh now she be threatening us! If you think we will jus’ let you spy on two bachelor English gentlemen, violating us with your evil French glace, Then you are wrong, lass!”

Maelle said nothing, even if she wanted to say something her mouth couldn’t make out any words. She felt like she was going to be sick. Did they honestly think she was sneaking over to spy on them? It was a sarcastic joke, right? No one laughed, both of them looked completely serious.

That is disgusting.

“What are we going to do, Josph?”

“Tie her up and gag her, she’ll be our prisoner. We may even get some extra grub!” Josph grinned, raising his chest up in what looked like pride, “Maybe even a medal!”

Kelv began to make his way towards Maelle, to her horror he still hadn’t pulled up his pants, “Non, non, non!” She yelled at him, pointing a finger at his direction, much like a mother would when disciplining a child, “You will not take another step towards me till your privets are out of view!”

_

“Captain!”

Josph saluted Smithers, a big grin over his lips as he called out to his captain loud enough to surely send the hangover man into a whence. Behind him, Kelv followed, with a very annoyed Maelle slumped over his shoulder. Standing before their Captain, the large man placed her down, however it proved fatal as she sent a foot against his fully clothed manhood. Hands bound painfully behind her back and mouth gagged; the woman still fought against the camp’s idiots.

She was pissed!

Before the men gagged her, she fought them, shouting at them she was indeed English and she was searching for someone important to her. Instead, the one called Josph told her there was no way she could trick them. It was when they forced the gag on her that she became especially violent; kicking, smacking, and occasionally elbowing the back of Kelv’s head.

The sight of Maelle was a strange one. Two years of camp wondering left the edges of what used to be her favorite ridding skirt, a piece that was specially tailored for her to also work in. It had once been a deep blue, now it looked more like a grey, but still looked like it was holding strong. Underneath, un-lady like wool pants that covered her legs. Old brown knee high ridding boots served well during these years, staying intact even though they left horrible sores after a day of traveling. However it wasn't these pieces of clothing that looked strange; rather it was the large and heavy duster trench coat that was many sizes too big and completely out of style for a very long time now. On top of it all, it was actually made for a man. Let people say whatever they like, but the coat kept her warm for the most part. Along with the cloths, her hair was messy and needed a wash from all the sticks and leaves still nestled in the locks from her slumber on the ground. She wore it loose, the length now reaching a few inches lower than her hips. Like many in the camp, she needed a bath, however never dared to wash up in a stream especially during the cold; not even to wash her face with patches of smudge dirt on her cheeks and forehead.

The muffle around her mouth didn't stop her from shouting out insults towards the privets, even though none of it could be understood, it was clear she wasn't saying sweet nothings to the groaning man.

"Sir, we caught a Fre-Oi! Stop that!" Josph grabbed Maelle's shoulders, trying to pull her back as she continued to deliver stomps at the fallen Kelv who now called out for his friends help. She was succeeding for a moment, nearly shaking off his grasp when Josph threw himself on her by wrapping his arms around her and making his body limp, causing Maelle to fall over from the extra weight. Still she screamed through the muffle and fought as the privet did his best to keep her wrestled to the ground. It wasn't till Kelv recover from his whimpering and moved to help keep her down by pushing down on her back with his hands were they able to contenue. Josph had to take a deep breath before he could contenue.

"Sir!" He shouted out again, standing right back up in a salute, "We caught a French Spy!" A large grin grew on the lads lips, he looked proud of their accomplishment. It was obvious a great deal for him, or hoped it would be.

[Ragnarok]

The men were just packing up and Smithers was thinking how nice it would be to gut Major Eddings like the pathetic fish he was when he heard boots marching up to him. Breathing out slowly he stifled a groan and closed his eyes, hoping whoever it was would just keep walking. His luck was as bad as always though, a loud cry behind him caused him to wince. 'Sir, we caught a Fre-Oi! Stop that!' a familiar voice sounded. Sighing regretfully at being disturbed, Smithers opened his bloodshot eyes and turned around to see who it was. It was an unusual scene, Josph and Kelv, the battalion idiots, were wrestling on the ground with a woman. The sight was so stupid, so out of place, that Smithers allowed himself a grin as the two pathetic privates struggled with the wild looking woman. Finally getting her under control, the odd pair turned to him with salutes and stupid smiles on their faces. 'Sir, we caught a French spy!' Joseph said, obviously excited with his imagined accomplishment.
Smithers took a moment to look the woman up and down, taking in her dirty clothes and disheveled appearance but not failing to see the beauty hidden underneath the dirt. His amused grin grew into a smirk. "My my" Smithers said, in a rasping voice, "You boys are impressive. Capturing a dangerous French spy before she could report back to the frogs." Still leering at the helpless captive who was obviously no spy, Smithers took out a flask of rum and took a swig to settle his swimming head before wiping his mouth and putting it back in his jacket. "She looks like a stubborn Frenchie, but I can think of a few ways to make her talk" Smithers said, causing a ripple of course laughs to break out among the men who had stopped to watch. "First thing to do is to strip her of course, make sure she isn't hiding anything dangerous in that dress of hers." The two privates were beginning to look uncomfortable, they were dull as rocks but even they were starting to realize what the captain had planned for the prisoner, and while stupid they were decent men at heart. Not rapists. Josph looked from Maelle to Captain Smithers and began to say something, but thought better of it and swallowed his tongue. For his part, Smithers couldn't remember the last time he had a woman, much too long. The camp whores were too dirty or too expensive for him, and after he was done with her he could give her to the men.
Taking out his knife Smithers advanced on the now frightened looking woman who was fighting harder than ever, but before he could reach her Lawford pushed his way through the soldiers. "What's going o-" Lawford started, before seeing the restrained girl and the knife. "Sir!" Lawford exclaimed in horror, and Smithers turned to face the young lieutenant. "Is there a problem Willy?" Smithers growled at Lawford, "Is there a reason you don't want us searching this French spy?" Thinking quickly, Lawford stammered, "Of course not sir, just...just that we have to be marching to...to the rear to meet up with the Colonel is all sir." The captain fixed Lawford with a gaze that could have melted a boulder before shoving the knife back in its sheath and advancing on him. Suddenly afraid and regretting his boldness, Lawford backed away but Smithers grabbed his shoulder and leaned in close. "Listen to me, boy. One whisper of this prisoner finds its way to the major and he won't ever find her, or you. Understand?" Lawford swallowed uncomfortably and nodded. Giving Lawford's cheek a hard pat that made the boy flinch, Smithers stepped away and glared at the soldiers gathered around them. "What are you looking at?" he snapped, "Into marching order, time to join the rear guard."
The company of 107 men soon formed up into marching order and made their way to the rear where Colonel Rutherman was waiting. Lawford's heart was still pounding in his chest after the brief confrontation with Smithers, and he cast worried glances at the captain frequently. For his part, Smithers seemed to have forgotten him, and simply marched forward stoically, occasionally taking a drink from his flask and shutting his eyes against the harsh morning's light. The girl, whoever she was, was still being held by Josph and Kelv, but at least Lawford had delayed the inevitable. He would have to free her, he couldn't just sit by and leave her to Smithers' tender mercies, but that was a problem for later. While Lawford was fretting over the prisoner, a company of highlanders came up beside them. He looked at the fierce Scottish soldiers with admiration. The Black Watch was known to walk into cannon fire as calmly as other men walked into rain. A tall Lieutenant was leading their group, and for a second Lawford had a mad urge to ask the man for help, but he quickly suppressed it. The 42nd was known for being fierce fighters, but with that also came their reputation of being wild men as well. They could hardly be trusted in this matter, none of them were gentlemen after all. The lieutenant looked over at him for a second, sensing his eyes, but Lawford quickly looked away, too nervous to meet the highlander's eyes.
After a few more minutes of marching the 51st finally arrived at the meeting point. Colonel Rutherman turned out to be a large man on a small, miserable looking, horse. When he saw the last two companies arriving he gestured enthusiastically for the officers to come forward. Smithers shouted for the men to halt and, with Lawford tailing a respectable distance behind him, went up to talk with the overweight Colonel. The officers of the other companies were already there, the highlander Lieutenant that Lawford had seen earlier among them. Beaming energetically at the approaching men, Rutherman began. "Gentlemen" he said, in a strangely high, nasally, voice, "It falls upon us to guard the rear of his majesty's army this fine day, and looking at you I couldn't ask for better men." He took a minute to smile at everyone around him before continuing on, "The dragoons have been getting rather, shall we say, adventurous of late, so we'll be keeping in tight order of course. The highlanders will take the left flank, grenadiers the right and everyone else will form up in the middle. The riflemen and light companies will of course form up in front in a skirmish line. The cavalry will be held back in reserve. Is everyone understood?" Looking around cheerily at the silent men, Rutherman rubbed his hands together and smiled, "Wonderful, let's get to it then!"
The officers went to their men and they arranged themselves according to the jovial Colonel's orders. It wasn't long before the first of the French horse was seen in the distance, and as they approached the pickets were forced to halt their march and take up their positions. The light dragoons came first in a rush, riding up to the British rear guard with their carbines. The green jackets started doing their deadly work though, the riflemen were able to shoot before the cavalry even got in range and the frustrated horsemen were forced the curve off to the side and regroup to avoid the deadly fire. Only three of the French had actually gone down, but a cheer came up from the men nonetheless as the cavalry pulled back for the moment. The rear guard was able to continue its march unmolested while the French shadowed them but otherwise left them in peace. After an hour of undisturbed marching the light dragoons came forward again in an attempt to harass them while they were unprepared, but the superbly trained troops quickly redeployed again and the backer rifles again cracked, causing a few horses to go down. Instead of falling back as before however the light dragoons continued onward, until they were within musket range at which point the 51st opened fire.
Lawford could feel his blood pumping, he wasn't involved at all in the fighting, but he was invigorated just by its proximity to him. Smoke rose from the guns and obscured the field, filling the air with the rank smell of rotten eggs. To his amazement, Lawford saw that the light dragoons were still advancing. They leveled their carbines and opened fire when they were within 100 feet of the light infantry, sending a volley that was largely wasted on the loose skirmish line. Then men jeered as the light dragoons split off down the middle to double back, but their taunts died in their throats when they saw what the light cavalry had been obscuring. Riding behind the now retreating light dragoons were the heavy cavalry, Hussars with long lances and dragoons with wicked sabers. Whistles sounded as captains furiously blew to their men to fall back. Behind the light infantry the line infantry were grouping into the only formation known to repel cavalry, the square. In total three squares were being formed, one for the right, middle, and left. The 51st light infantry and 95th rifles fled to the safety of the left square, formed by the Scottish soldiers. Running from the cavalry behind them, the men broke up the tight ranks of the highlanders, and the cavalry saw their opening. A loud cheer went up from the French cavalry as they smashed home with a bone jolting crash. At first it looked like the line of men would hold them off as horses went down to bayonets, but the sheer force of the charge simply rode down the front line and pushed through the rest of the square, splitting it in half. Men wavered then broke under the assault, once the square is broken no infantry in the world could stand up to a cavalry charge, and their square was undoubtedly shattered, weakened by their own men. Seeing their peril, the British cavalry was unleashed to attempt to turn the tide, but they were few in comparison to the French, and hampered by the fleeing British. They clashed briefly with the French and were forced to fall back, unable to stop the victorious French. Men were ridden down and cut to shreds as they fled wildly for their lives. Some attempted to flee to the right to other squares but, seeing the fate of the highlanders, the squares remained closed and the men were forced to keep running.
Looking around wildly, confused and afraid, Lawford ran for the hills that were on the left side of the British formation. Others followed, seeking protection from the French in the steep, rocky, hills. Everything had gone by so fast; looking down Lawford saw he had a pistol in one and his sword, unbloodied, in the other. All he remembered was firing once into the advancing wall of horsemen before the impact, then the flight. His legs and arms ached, but he kept climbing further up into the hills, desperately seeking protection. Ahead of him Lawford saw other soldiers seeking safety in the rocks. Smithers was ahead of him, and Lawford saw Josph still clutching that prisoner behind him. A few highlanders, riflemen, and even dismounted cavalrymen had also picked this route, but nobody spoke as they all continued to feverishly climb. Unconsciously the men started gathering closer together as the sounds of battle and hours slipped away. It was night when everyone finally stopped, they had reached the edge of a forest and collapsed, their fatigue finally winning out over the adrenaline. Still nobody spoke, but somebody, Lawford thought it might have been Smithers, started a fire and the survivors gathered around mutely, everyone drifting asleep in a matter of minutes.

[Roran Hawkins]

Roran had merely nodded after receiving his orders, even though noone would actually notice. He was one of the few men of the current rear guard that found being a part of the rear guard enjoying. Roran disliked the travelling, and saw some action this way. He would have to prove he was worthy of earning his way to the Officers just like his father had. He carefully joined the cavalry, and watched as the enemy dragoons skirmished once with the infantry, falling back shortly after. A mere hour later, they tried once more to attack, but this time, after the first volley, they kept charging, up to the point where they fired, largely missing their shots, but quickly dispersed, discovering a large heavy cavalry charge. Barely in time the British rear guard adopted protective squares, and Roran saw the charge thunder into one of them. Too late. He thought, and saw the strike hit home and punch a hole in the square. We've got to attack! He thought, just when his officer, a battle-hardened veteran raised his sword and announced the attack. Roran hit his horse with the spurs and drew his sabre, releasing a fearsome warcry upon charging forwards. After an infantry square was broken they often lost all hope of survival, and every bit of extra morale would be welcome. However, the same troops he was trying to encourage were now obsructing his way as he slowed down after running over an infantrist. To his surprise he saw that most of them were Scottish. They were of all infantry units what he thought to be the most resistant against a melee clash such as this one, but it seemed he was proven wrong. Heavily delayed by the fleeing troops he looked forwards and already noticed that the enemy heavy cavalry outnumbered them. Their charge had lost its strenght and it now came down to a man-to-man fight, where the French held the advantage. They outnumbered the British cavalry and more importantly consisted largely of cuirassiers, plate armoured shock-cavalry. Unlike most armies of that time, the British army did not field real heavy cavalry, just heavy dragoons. The one thing closest to it was his unit, the Life Guard Household cavalry, who had thick breastplates to protect them from bullets.

When he finally reached the melee he attacked a cuirassier right infront of him. He slashed at the man's neck, unprotected by the helm nor cuirass, but both blades met halfway in the air. For a short moment both men dueled before the drifting tides of the combat divided them, where Roran drew a pistol in an automated move and shot the poor man in his face. The other cuirassier dropped the pistol halfway Roran's chest, and reached for a growing red spot on his cheek, before tumbling off his horse. Roran stored the pistol away while he parried a blow aimed at his leg, and locked the other sword with the hilt of his sabre, and slided his blade over the side of his enemy's, untill he reached the hilt where he released his foe's blade, and stabbed his sword into the face of his enemy. He yerked his sword out, releasing a jet of blood. He ifnored the foul metalic taste filling his mouth when blood splatterd over his face, and continued fencing his way through the slaughter. Despite his afforts the French were with too many, and not all British cavalrists were as skilled as he was, and as quickly as the attack had begun, the British cavalry staretd to fall back. Roran was forced along with several routing men, when he was almost blown out of the saddle when a bullet nearly managed to penetrate his chestplate. He rocked backwards and forwards, before regaining balance, and drew his second pistol to return the favour, this time aiming at an unarmoured part. The other cuirassier cuickly ducked, sealing the fate of another French rider behind him who took the bullet in his armpit. Roran was forced furtehr backwards before he could engage into furtehr melee, and saw the entire square being cut down. The British cavalry was suffering the same fate, while both other squares now held their formation thight, terrified by the might of the colliding forces.

Before he knew what was happening, he found himself trapped ina stream of routing men trying to escape uphill, near somewhat rocky terrain. Roran decided to dismount before his horse would trip, which might cause fatal injuries. His horse was what separated him from the miserable lower infantry, who had to walk everything themselves. He led his horse towards a group of infantrists and dismounted cavalrists by a rock, when he herd galloping hooves behind him. A single cuirassier has made his way through the fleeing men and was charging through, yelling warcries and insults in French. "Come and get me! Bastard!" Roran yelled, holding his sabre higher, and stepped aside to dodge the incoming horse, while using his sabre to deflect the attack. The rider, who turned around to finish his pesky foe, who appeared to be more skillful than expected. He charged Roran again, but didn't manage to create as much speed as before, and approached more carefully now. "Dyou English dog! Prepare zo die by my épee!" "Bring it on!" He shouted back at the French officer. No ordinary soldiers would be able to talk English, Roran thought, before stepping out of the way of the horse again, but now striking at the rider's armpit, which was unarmoured, while dodging the other man's attack. He knew his attack had hit the second he felt his blade slice through soft tissue, and continud his swing, before turning around and looking at the cuirassier, who was collapsing off his horse. "Heh! Interesting! This one's shell didn't protect him!" He yelled while looking forwards again, where he saw his trusted veteran officer valiantly attack the French. Roran watched how a cuirassier drew his pistol, and while his officer was slaughtering other French, he was shot in the face. Roran cursed. This man was a good officer. I wonder if I'll ever get one even remotely as good as this one next... He stood upright and, without hiding his despise for the cowardly soldiers, he tried encouraging them. "Come on! The French had their fun! Let's avenge our comrades and get'em!" He yelled, before mounting his horse again, and prepared to charge into the fray once more. You'll have to be fast or I'll leave none for you guys!" He yelled, when another bullet hit his chestplate but richochetted off, and struck him on his face. Knocked uncoinscious he dropped on his horse's neck, who followed the stream of fleeing men higher into the hills, where they stranded. Most fell asleep after the short terrifying attack, now the adrenaline wore off. Roran woke up some hours later, his sabre still thightly clenched in his cramped hand, when he sat upright. Luckily his helmet has protected him, but he had taken a serious dent in it. Dried blood impared his sight and brought him back to reality. He was separated from the army, and found himself at the edge of a forest, a small campfire burning in the center of some British soldiers, still having haunted looks on their faces.

"Uhnn?"

[Archangel1]

The commotion around the 51st did not escape Williams attention, but despite his long shanks he was not quite tall enough to peer over the top of the crowd. Smithers rasping tones prickled at the big mans skin before it was drowned out by crude laughter. The march alongside the light infantry was largely without incident. His gaze took in the man leading the specalist infantry. He appeared pale faced and nervous, with a fleeting gaze, and despite the winter chill William detected a hint of sweat on his brow. The man looked as if he had already come from a confrontation, rather than be marching to a a fresh one. While the officer was of yet unknown quality the 51st were remarkable well trained light infantry who had proved their steel time and time again.

The Colonel was a contrasting sight. An over-large man set on a small, famished horse. His humour and good nature clashing with the sobre red of his uniform. The orders were crystal clear and simple. Three blocks of infantry screened by the skirmishers. The skirmishers would keep lighter cavalry at bay while the three infantry blocks, if threatened would form squares, ensuring that cavalry had no flank to charge, and that the ground between the squares became a deadly killing ground for any cavalry bold enough to try and ride through. The plan was solid provided everyone did their duty, and should have been more than enough to see off light dragoons. Billy rubbed his hands as he listened, getting some heat into them. When the men were dismissed Billy led his block to the far left of the formation, forming them up in ranks. The Highlanders formed up into a marching block, muskets shouldered. Though the men were silent, and despite the lack of conversation a certian energy, an eagerness had touched the regiment. The ancient celts considered war to be a pass time, a sport, with champions and prizes in the form of enemy heads, or brains rolled into balls, using lime to turn them rock hard. While the traditions were gone the mood in which war was conducted had not. As the rear guard set about its grim duty, the Scots appeared to have forgotten the biting cold. Billy felt himself relax, rather than tense. Combat had always brought him a fleeting sense of peace. During moments of peace many concerns plauged the mind. Orders, the men, thoughts of home, thoughts of his wife, and how she might well be faring. The fear of death was constant, and their was no blanket warm enough, nor fire big enough to fend off the bitter cold. In the whirling chaos of a melee the world became so very simple, so very black and white. His concerns vanished to himself, and the other man, the fear of death vanished, replaced merely by breathless excitment and white hot heat. Billy rested his hand on his baskethilt, rolling his shoulders to loosen the cramped muscles.

At the first sight of the light dragoons a ripple formed through the ranks, and Billy waited for the order to form squares, his eyes focused on the distant riders. The charge of the dragoons was halted by the marksmanship of the green jackets, and despite a mere three kills the dragoons veered and fled out of range, at the sight of the fleeing horseman a collective cheer went up, Billy adding his voice to it.

For some time afterwards the French were content to follow, watch and wait. Billy cast his gaze to them, trying to get a decent head count. " I think the frogs are concerned." Billy grunted, the man beside him, a young ensign grinned, flashing a mouth of white teeth broken only by the gummy space where his right canine used to be. " Should be concerned, gaffer. When we get to Paris the cheese is the first thing to go." William smirked briefly, the expression twisting the sabre scar across his face. The expression vanished when the dragoons reformed to charge and the formation halted. This time the light horse powered through the shots to musket range. The 51st sent a well timed volley which broke the horseman, but as they fled the true horror of the situation presented itself. Hussars, and heavy cavalry. " Square formation lads!" Billy roared over the thunder of hooves and the feet of fleeing men. " Tight ranks, don't give them an opening!" He snapped, tearing his sword from the sheath. " Front rank, ready weapons!" As Billy prepared to give a volley to the cavalry the fleeing riflemen and light infantry hit the formation, pushing through the highlanders and breaking up the formation. " Run around, ye eejits!" William roared, shoving an unfortunate greenjacket out of his way. The cavalry like well trained attack hounds homed in on this chink in the formation, and hell loosed itself upon the Highlanders.

Without enough time to loose a volley, William roared. " Cold steel!" as he drew a pistol from his belt, turning to face the charging cavalry. The hussars hit the line first, and the bayonets of the Forty twa' scythed down the first rank, but the weight of the charge broke into the Squares centre and the formation of Highlanders was utterly split in two. Billy shot a charging hussars horse from under him, a nearby infantryman repeated this action and two hussars toppled to the floor. A third hussar leapt his comrades horses, a deadly arc of steel opened the throat of the man beside Billy, and he fell, gurgling. The shoulder of the horse struck Billy from his feet, and he rolled in the mud, coming up dazed as the two dismounted hussars rushed him on foot. The first man to reach him raised his sword in an overhand blow, but in the chaotic confusion of the fight he missed his stroke, misjudging his swing.

The first blow of Billy's personal battle was not graceful, it was not skilled. No technique, nor finesse was involved, the battle left no room for either. Billy hammered an overhand blow that struck the Hussar on his unprotected shoulder, knowing to avoid the flowing jacket worn over his other shoulder, for it was designed to protect from blades, and cuts. The sword struck the Hussar with such terrifying force that it cleaved from shoulder to breast, and Billy was forced to put his boot on the mans chest as he sank to his knees and pull his blade clear. The hussars second attack was far more talented. A strike low which was pulled at the last moment and transfered into a high, arching cut. With Billy's sword dropped low the Highlander was forced to whip his head back. The blade opened a cut across his eyebrow, narrowling missing the eye and gliding down the right side of his face. Billy cried out, staggering back, and as the Hussar lunged, aiming a disembowling cut across his guts, Billy swung his trap. Using the Hanging guard to parry the blow while at the same time preserving his offensive edge, Billy turned away the blow, stepped inside and delivered a thunderous headbutt, smashing the Hussars nose to shards. as the man staggered back Billy seized him by his uniform and dragged him into his blade. The hussar died, bringing up blood as Billy drew his sword back with a sickening sucking sound, throwing the man to one side. All around him Highlanders battled on, but the regiment had split. Some men were running, others forming knots of resistance, the formation was broken, meat for circling cavalry. Grasping his whistle Billy blew three sharp notes to sound the retreat. " Back! Back!" He roared, waving his bloodied sword. His gaze flicked to the British cavalry, surely they had been dispatched to aid the Highlanders. He spotted them trying to charge, but held up by fleeing troops. Cursing something foul under his breath he broke formation with his men.

The rest of the battle was missed, as Billy streamed with a handful of wounded, bloodied Highlanders to the hills. With the thrill of the combat long lost, Billy felt his face ache, and touched his finger tips to his wound. They came back bloody, his face a crimson mask. His blade, red and smoked with bloody execution was still grasped in his right hand. Someone had lit a fire, and a mismatch of regiments had joined it, Including the battalion clowns and their prisoner. Billy froze at the sigh t of her, barely believing his eyes. It couldn't be! Not here! and not now. Billy stared, his mouth hanginging open before he broke into a run, his legs already cramping from the limb. Before he could reach the camp a train of wounded soldiers, sluggishly marching to regroup cut him off, and William stood on his toes to peer over them, getting lost in the crowd, he pushed and shoved his way through the wounded and weary troops, trying to push through to the fire of the 51st.

[Rivvil]

Glaring into that man's eyes, Captain Smithers, Maelle felt for the first time she may actually hate someone to the point she may actually enjoy killing him if ever the chance rose up. She hated it all; the smell of liquor radiating from him, his voice rasping as he spoke which actually caused her to sneer at him, and most of all she hated how terrified she was as he pulled out that knife while he spoke how they should search her. He knew it too; she could see it in those cruel eyes of his. This wasn't the first time being captured; she had been caught by a group of fleeing French soldiers, nearly stalked by an English privet in another regiment last summer, and there was a group of Spaniards believing she was carrying out some kind of job for the French. Each time everything seemed to smooth out either by her tricking the other or kicking a man between his legs. Needless to say a crowd surrounded her. Kicking this scum would only serve her a heap of trouble, however there was no way she would go down without a fight. All he had to do was take a step closer...

A young lad appeared, breaking away the events, she was able to sigh in relief. However it was short lived, it was now time to start moving with the other soldiers.
---
Shortly after Maelle left home to find her husband, she learned very early on how quickly the environment can change; one moment you could be walking calmly behind the men of the army, the next you are ducking bullets, jumping over countless corpses, and running behind hills or rocks. One would have to get used to these situations if they wanted to live. Each time a battle crossed her way, she was always quick to flee from danger, both guns in her hands as she hid away.

However during this particular moment with battle just a breath away, she couldn't pull out either of her pistols. She would have much perfered to fight against the French than to be dragged around by two idiots who tied the thin but rough ropes around her wrists tight enough to start digging into the skin.What was worse than the ropes was hanging over Kelv's shoulder as he and Josph ran up a hill. She was sure bruises would run all over her sides come morning.
---
Later that night.

This day had been too much for her; too much running, violence, and freezing weather. Above all, nothing on her husband, nor could she ask about him with out Josph shouting at her, informing her if she spoke again he’d get Kelv to drag her away from the fire. With everything that happened, the idiot still didn’t buy in she had a husband serving under King George’s army.

Josph and Kelv sat to her left, both of them dozing off where they sat, their heads lowered and snores released as they inhaled the freezing air. Others sat quietly, some did sway off to sleep, but others stared into the fire grimly. They were so focused on the flame, Maelle was able to bring her still bound hands to her front and lift the gag from around her mouth. She now sat a tad bit more comfortably without the cloth stuck in her mouth, her legs were drawn up till her knees were resting against her chest to keep warm.

Not far from where she sat, a soldier started to mumble familiar lyrics of a song Maelle had come to adore; Over the Hills. A long sigh passed her lips as she listened to the young man. He sang to or for anyone particular, most likely in a state of shock or perhaps needed something to take his mind over the hills and far away. Her favorite part was coming up. From pure habit, she sang along very quietly.

“When duty calls me, I must go
To stand and face another foe.
But part of my will always stray
Over the hills and far away.”

She loved that verse the most, hoping that was how her husband felt at the end of a fight. God she needed him, more so then ever.

A particular urge to turn her head and look out into the cold night over took Maelle. She wasn’t sure why, but she didn’t bother fighting the urge. Light blue eyes scanned the landscape before her, nothing really catching her interest. She was ready to go back staring at the flames much like everyone else however something in the distance kept her eyes from drifting away. Another soldier.

No, a Lieutenant, his sword clutched in his hand.

A Scottish Lieutenant.

Her heart missed a beat as the man paused. Could it.. is it?

She could hardly see him in the darkness, but something about him called out to her. It had to be him, no other man could make her heart do such. It was him!

“William!” Maelle cried out, already standing up and running towards her husband. For the first time in a very long time, a smile big enough to cause pain to her cheeks at the very sight of the man she loved. Even though everything in her body protested against her running towards him, Maelle paid little mind to it. It didn’t matter how her legs threatened to collapse at any moment. She had him in reach. Two years of searching, two years of being completely alone, and afraid, it was all worth it for this moment.

As if to test just how desperate the couple was to reach each other, fate lead a large group to wonder between them. Ha! Like hell if Maelle would allow them to get between her and William, she waited two and a half years to see him; she wasn’t going to wait another moment.

While slipping and pushing her way through, Maelle continued to call out to her William, shouting out his name again and again. She started to fear if she didn’t call out to him it would turn out to be a dream and he’ll disappear. Running into a pair of particular none too happy soldiers, she excused herself politely by requesting them to pardon her.

“Move it!” She snapped, trying to slide between them. Being only five foot and they five eight or so, she figured there wouldn’t be a problem doing so. However they didn’t seem to want to budge.

“Oi! Fuck off!” One of them snapped back, sneering down at her. Maelle had enough of him. A boot to his groin sent him to his knees, then an elbow to a cheek bone sent the rest of him fell to the cold ground. Some men stopped their miserable stumbling to stare at the scene; a large man taken down by a small foe, a woman no less.

“I said move!” she yelled at the others, all whom wisely took a step and a half away from her as she pushed her way through.

“First our arse taken by Frenchies, now a woman takes our very manhoods.” One soldier grunted, watching her pass by while she called out to William in a sweet and desperate cry. Completely different from the earlier shouts she delivered just now.

As she cleared past a few others, a familiar, but bloody, face came back into her view, this time he was so much closer. He was in arms reach, it was really him! Tears poured down her cheeks at the sight as she finally reached him. “Moi epoux” Maelle murmured under her breath, followed with a sob while more tears fell over her cheeks. Without hesitation, she crushed into the arms of her husband. With her wrists still tied together, and her husband way too tall for his own good, it proved difficult for her to wrap her own arms around him like she wanted to. She did the next best thing, reaching up to cup the rough stubble that was William’s cheeks in both hands. With a firm grasp over his cheeks, she pulled his head down, bringing his lips over hers in a rough kiss.

No silly lady like pecks or quick kisses. This was a real kiss that was needed and desired desperately. The only thing that pulled her lips from his was the taste of his blood, which seeped between their lips.

Fearful eyes darted over William’s face, pausing over the cut at his brow. A small quick chuckle escaped from her lips as she raised her fingers over the cut. “Have you been collecting scars and wounds this whole time, epoux?” Tears still spewing from her eyes, even as she smiled up at him. It did worry that he was bleeding, however it wasn’t going to keep her from kissing him again.

And she did.

[Ragnarok]

himself had built. Without its heat, faint as it might seem against the bitter cold, they'd probably all be dead by the morning. Does anybody thank me though? Smithers thought sourly, does anybody even care who saved them? Resentment was a regular draft for Smithers, one that he drank from almost as frequently as the whisky he clutched in his left hand. He wasn't looking at the pathetic forms of the beaten soldiers on the ground though; another sight was causing his brooding. On the edge of the firelight, Smithers could see two shapes, one he knew to be the woman they had captured earlier, the other some soldier. The woman had been a rare find, not hideous and disease ridden like most of the camp followers, and now she was being taken from him. Smithers put a hand on the hilt of his sword and eyed the dark figure of the soldier. He was tall, taller even than Smithers, but what was he? An officer or just a ranker? It wasn't worth risking, if the shape was a high ranking officer and survived his attack than Smithers would die kicking the air on a gallows. No, not worth it at all. He hadn't climbed his way all the way to the top just to die a traitor's death in a shallow grave. He would have to wait and see what the morning would bring. His eyes stayed fixed on the pair as he rested against a large rock near the flames and reflected on the nightmare of a day.
It had all started off easy, the light dragoons were repelled with no more than volley, but that turned out to be their demise. The skirmish line, green jackets and the light company, had been under the command of a young, enthusiastic major from the green jackets. He was only about 30 years old, quickly advanced through the ranks through his powerful family connections and immense wealth. After seeing the first wave dispersed so easily the man had grown overly confident though. When the dragoons came a second time, Smithers had urged the man to pull back into the squares when they were at 150 yards, it was unnatural for them to some so close and Smithers had felt that there was something wrong. The major was drunk on their petty victory earlier that morning however, and greedy for recognition, so ordered that the men maintain the skirmish line. When the trap was sprung the young major had gone as pale as a sheet and stood, motionless, as the heavy cavalry charged for them. It had been left to Smithers to blow the whistle and withdraw the men, but it was already too late. The last glimpse Smithers had of the major was a saber plunging through his stupefied chest before being trampled into oblivion.
Knowing that, at this distance, fleeing around the square would mean a similar fate; Smithers had taken his place in the formation. He didn't stand in the front line; those men were always the first to go, if the cavalry's swords didn't get them the falling horses did, but the third. The adrenaline was pumping through him at this point, and he drew his only real prized possession, the heavy straight blade he called Weeper. He had taken it from the body of a French officer after one of his countless battles, and the blade was exquisitely made. When the cavalry crashed against the already disorganized square Smithers knew it was over. The first rank simply disappeared in a mass of falling horses and dying men, and then the French were penetrating the second line as well. One dragoon slashed at the face of a highlander to his right and, after the man went down clutching his face, spurred his horse forward toward Smithers. The Frenchman was holding his saber like a spear to run Smithers through, but he had expected this familiar tactic. Penned in by British soldiers on either side, Smithers was forced to lunge out and to the left of the man, avoiding his sword and simultaneous bringing Weeper slashing across the horse's face, causing the beast to rear and fall before it could crash into the men. Now Smithers had lost the protection of his fellow soldiers though, but as he looked around he realized that it didn't matter. This battle was lost, the square had failed to repel them and now it was an uneven competition between men on horses and those on foot.
Smithers did not consider himself a coward, but he didn't survive this long by refusing to accept when it was time to retreat either. Narrowly managing to parry a downward cut that jolted his arms, Smithers ran toward the only direction he could, the hills. The British cavalry charge provided the distraction he needed and than he was in the open field, running. A few bullets hissed around him from the light dragoons who had reformed on the flanks to pick off stragglers, but no one offered chase. He had escaped to the edge of this forest and now, taking one last swig from his flask, drifted off to a troubled sleep.
It was the cold more than the light that woke Lawford up, a thin layer of frost had formed on his clothes. The fire, left unattended by the exhausted soldiers, had long since gone out, and the cold was intense. Shivering, he managed to get up and survey the scene in the light. It seemed about an hour after dawn, and the clearing looked like a battlefield. Men from a variety of battalions lay scattered on the ground, about 50 in total he would guess, but many were motionless, dead either from wounds or the cold. Seeing Smithers, Lawford tentatively went over to his captain and cleared his throat. Getting no response, he tried a tentative, "Sir?" Still no response, Lawford dared hope he had died too before a bloodshot eye opened and closed again against the morning light. "Good morning Sir" Lawford tried, lamely. Refusing to acknowledge the lieutenant's pleasantry, Smithers rose to his feet and squinted at the clearing. "Get these men awake Willy" he ordered gruffly, "Find the officers and bring them back to me. While you're at it, get the men to rekindle this fire and cook whatever they have. It'll be a long day ahead, and we need a hot meal before we all die of this bloody cold.
Saluting, Lawford hurried to do as his captain commanded. One by one Lawford gently shook the men awake, looking for indications of rank on their uniforms. Finding a sergeant, Lawford told the man to gather supplies for breakfast from the men and hurried off. Other than himself and Smithers there was only one other officer though, a highlander lieutenant. As Lawford approached to awake him he realized it was the man he had seen fleetingly the other day, and that, lying next to him, was the woman that was captured yesterday. Lawford approached the couple and stopped. He didn't know if the highlander was awake or not, so gave a polite cough and said, "Sir, Captain Smithers requests a word."

[Roran Hawkins]

Roran woke up from the sounds of crows. When he opened his eyes he saw several picking at the stiff corpses of those who hadn't survived fleeing here. He sat upright, and patted his horse on the shoulders before dismounting. All memories of the day before were unclear and confused, except those first few moments. He noticed he was the only man of the escaped soldiers who still had his horse. A comfort he should keep that way. He grabbed the reigns of his horse and walked towards the remains of a fire, when he heard the officers gatehring. His officer, Captain Martin 'Redbeard' Tanner had died during the French attack, so he felt obliged to notify the few officers among them here. He saw several men from the cavalry here too, but those were all dismounted, and looked just as shocked as the infantry. He walked towards the grim-looking officer and gave a short polite salute. "Our officer has fallen, sir! The cavalrists here are from the Life Guard Household cavalry, sir!" He said, while carefully inspecting the soldiers around them. All of them were still shocked and shaken from the day before. They were dragging away the corpses of the dead and rekindling the fire they had started yesterday. They were going around to find all sorts of food and Roran felt uneasy when more men than he liked eyed his horse with clear jealousy and hunger. He was glad he hadn't lost his sabre, clenched thightly in his hand after he was shot. He had noticed the dried blood on his face when he woke up, and felt a stinging pain where the bullet had nearly penetrated his helm. Thanks to his thick chestplate he had survived. While awaiting the officer's reactions he took off his helmet and took a good look at where the bullet had struck him after ricochetting off his chest.