Napoleonic RPG: Talavera de la Reina

[Eric]

((This is how the RP works, each of us posts what our character is doing, as if you are writing a novel. It's what my English prof calls a "Round Robin" one person posts what the character is doing, then the next person posts his characters response. All as if it's a novel))

5am, July 28th, 1809

Colonel William Cowell breath cast a light mist in the brisk morning air as he watched an azure cloud of French soldiers march in splendid columns towards the British position. Some 40,000 Frenchmen were descending on Lieutenent-General Wellesley's 20,000 man force. Of course, there were 30,000 Spaniards further down the line, but Joseph Bonaparte, nominal General of the French Army in Spain, had chosen to focus the brunt of his assault on the British. William's command, the 21st Regiment of Foot, also known as the 21st Foot or the 21st York, as they were drawn up from around Yorkshire, stood around him. They were placed between the 7th Fusiliers and the 53rd Foot. Several blue columns were heading towards them. The British position occupied a strip of high ground ending in the Mendellin hill. It was also located on the northern banks of the River Tagus.
"Regiment will fix bayonets!" William roared, drawing his sabre.
"FIX!" he shouted out, the 3,000 men of his regiment drew their socket bayonets which gleamed in the red morning sun and placed them on the muzzle of their Brown Bess muskets. The 21st York was drawn up in a long line, with two battalions in front, each in a line 2 men deep as was the British tactic, and the third in reserve.
"BAYONETS!" was the finishing order. The men screwed the bayonet securely onto the muzzle, and then shouldered their arms again. The French columns were now beginning to enter musket range. Cannons were already booming across the battlefield. Smoke filled the air, shraphnel flew around the Colonel's head.
"Front rank, kneel!" he ordered to his two front battalions. Appropriately, the forward men dropped down on one knee, butts of their muskets braced against the ground. The French were now getting well within range. There was not a single sound from amongst the British line but the barking orders of the officers.
"Make ready!" William yelled, holding his Sabre high into the air. His men held their muskets near their face, so that the flint was roughly on line with their nose.
"Take aim!" Now the Redcoats put their Brown Besses into firing position, braced tightly against their shoulders. Before the battle had begun, Colonel Cowell had ordered each man in the regiment to load their musket with two balls instead of one, doubling the firepower of the first volley. All was silence. The stillness before the storm.
"FIRE!" William roared, sweeping his sword downwards. And a thunderous volley sent a wall of lead tearing into the French columns.

[SickBoy13]

Meanwhile, just north of the distant Caucases, Pyotor Dezhenev, his family members and friends sat around a crackling fire, warming themselves in defiance of the cold. The lamb sat firmly in his stomach, providing him a content outlook on life. Life was good, the horses and herds had grazing land, his family was healthy and growing and there was not a single person who could disrupt such peace. Pyotor smiled and laughed loudly, in spite of what anyone was saying around him.
The night continued, his jagged teeth chewed and tore more fresh lamb. Everyone sang, regaled others with anecdotes and stories, and there was a mutual bliss that encompassed all those in the camp. As the fire dwindled, the logs that kept it alive were now waning, he cast one last look over it. Resigning for the night, he headed toward his tent.
Soon, things would change, but Pyotor had no knowledge of a diminutive Frenchman with ambitions to rule Europe--that did not concern him. The French, English, they were all the same. He did not care for their politics, they could do anything they want.

[Libertine]

3.15 am July 28th, 1809

The Greenjackets moved through the trees silently, They could see the French pickets just to the north of their position, 2nd Lieutenant Shaw muttered a curse under his breath, it was freezing and he was tired. He had no idea why he had been chosen by the high command to report on the French movements - ok so he was in the Light Infantry but he was also a member of the gentry it wasn't his job...

"Easy men, try not to alert anyone to our presence, all we have to do is try and get numbers, thats it... once we do this its back to Lisbon"

A horse snorted mere yards from his position and a bluejacket strolled into view, not noticing the Riflemen scant yards from his position. Quietly shaw moved forward and drew his Sword-Bayonet. The frog turned around at the last moment as he saw the moon light reflect from the blade.

He died before he could scream.

"Ok, sod this - back to camp men... I reckon there's about 40,000 men here and thats all we need."

The Riflemen faded into the night leaving the body of a dead french soldier sans rings. one of the privates with Lieutenant Shaw had managed to remove them quickly enough for Shaw not too notice.

[Eric]

"Second volley!" William barked out. Again his redcoats made ready, as the screens of darting tiralleurs and greenjackets skirmished before the two battle lines.
"FIRE!" he roared, and a second thunderous, two battalion volley tore into the column approaching them. But the steadfast French fusiliers took the casualies and kept the advance, bayonets gleaming
"Sir, the columns are still approaching!" the lieutenent-colonel of one of the 21st's battalions reported.
"I know!" Eric retorted then sighed as he considered his options. Suddenly a plan came to him. He held up his sword and yelled out orders over the sounds of rolling volleys of musketry, the thunder of cannon shot.
"Front battalions, about turn!" and the 2,000 men in the forward battle line wheeled about completely.
"First Battalion left, Second Battalion right wheel by the left double quick march!", and accordingly the two battalions wheeled at a run, forming a three sided box with two battalions, one on the left and one on the right, and his third battalion forming the rear. Thinking the 21st was routing, the massive battle column advanced at run, to drive home the bayonet. But, the two side battalions turned about again, to face in ward. Quickly, the column was enfiladed from three sides by powerful salvos.
"21st Foot, CHARGE BAYONETS!" roared William, his sabre glinting in the air as he led the charge. The British bayonets plunged deep through blue uniforms, and a great slaughter there was amongst the devastated battalion of Frenchmen. William parried a slash from an enemy officer, and countered with a darting stab through the throat. He turned and shot his pistol, bringing down a sergeant bearing down upon the Colonel with a pike. Just then, William saw a regimental eagle amongst the fighting, held onto desperately by a French officer. Roaring in battle fury, Colonel Cowell charged the man, slashing and stabbing against the frightened frog. Finally, he got in under the man's guard and drove his sword through the French belly, with his free hand he seized the pole of the Eagle. His regiment, they captured an eagle! He though incredulously as he looked up at the gleaming bird of bronze and gold.

[Libertine]

"About that back to Lisbon sir?"

"Don't blame me... blame Wellington. Turns out we're needed here after all"

The Rifles had been huddling around a series of fires with Shaw going from one to the other and trying to lift morale amongst the men. What was meant to have happened didn't. The Rifles where not on the way back to Lisbon, they were doing what Rifles did best - acting as a skirmish screen for the main battle.

-------

Musket balls zipped past the heads of Shaw's men as they tried to find cover in the midst of battle. All that had happened so far was the exchanging of pleasantries with a company of Voltiguers with minimal casualties on both sides although Shaw could see the main French army moving forward and threataning to engulf the British position by sheer weight of numbers.

"This is useless, CAN ONE OF YOU GET RID OF THEIR SODDING OFFICER?! sweet Jesus, why do I have all the bloody Irish with me..."

a musket ball wrapped in leather whistled past his head taking out a Voltiguer with a slightly more fopish uniform than the rest, the Voltigeurs wavered and the Rifles followed up with another salvo at long range. The sheer range of the Rifles put the French under pressure and they retreated without being able to cause any sufficent casualties.

Then the large Army arrived. All 40,000 of them.

[General A. Skywalker]

"21st Foot, CHARGE BAYONETS!" roared William, his sabre glinting in the air as he led the charge.
... oh no!! There it was. It was the one order Samuel Johansen didn't like to hear during a battle at all. Sam wasn't a bad soldier, but he was lucky to live in a time where ranged weapons ruled the battlefield... well, at least most of the time they did. He was good at shooting, good at loading, probably even the fastest shooter in the battalion but if there was anything he was not good at it was hand to hand fight.
And that was exactly what was going to come next: a bayonet charge against French Line infantry. A column of Fusiliers, terribly wrathful fusiliers as they had to be the prime targets for the 21st Yorkshire Infantry just a few moments before. Sam saw a lot of them going down, he saw heads splitting apart, and arms and legs being shot away each by 3/4 of an inch of British lead. The big musket balls made terrible wounds and those shot from a Brown Bess where the most terrible ones as the British Brown Bess had the biggest calibre of all muskets used in the war.
Sam saw the Fusiliers bleeding, screaming and dieing and he liked it. He liked firing the clockwork-like volleys, seeing the enemies blown away by the devastating power of thousands of 0.75 calibre smoothbore muskets and he somehow he even liked to see the powder smoke engulfing the battlefield after a few volleys, creating the illusion as if the French weren't even there.
Musketry was the main advantage of the British infantry. Sam knew that. He knew that for a long time the British musket fire was seen as the most dangerous one and Sam was proud of that.
This all made it difficult to understand why the bloody Colonel was ordering a charge now. Why not just continue firing? the French were deployed in their clumsy column-formation, they hardly had any firepower, while the British where in their famous 2 rank-deep line. A gunfight had to be won by the redcoats.
"MOVE, MOVE! Johnsen, we won't wait for you, FORWARD!!" Seargent Morris yelled. Sam stopped to mind about the seargents and officers shortening his name from Johansen to Johnsen.
Only a few seconds after the Colonel shouted his order, the seargents repeated it and so they pushed the men of the 21st Yorkshire Infantry towards the French cloumn.
They were around 100 yards away from the French now, Sam guessed and he saw French officers raising their sabres. Although being in a bad formation for firing, those few fusiliers in the front ranks aimed their muskets and fired. Sam closed his eyes. It was something he always did when charging a firing enemy. He didn't make it on purpose, in fact it made moving forward a lot more difficult, but he always did and after some seconds he opened them again, when he could be sure of not having been hit. Sam didn't know how many Redcoats got hit by the little volley. He heard screams which seemed to come from the battalion, but he didn't see anyone going down. He watched to his left. Three men next to his left he saw Thomas Cooper, a good friend of his. With his 21 years he was 3 years older than Sam. They knew each other since their childhood years, both joined the army together and both being one of the few recrutes among the British army who really joined to fight for king and country, to liberate Europe, to beat the troops of the Emperor.
Sam was relieved seeing him alive, as he always was during and especially after a battle or skirmish.
"Make ready to beat the **** out of the crapauds!" Seargent Morris shouted.
The last few yards always were the worst ones. If the enemy managed to shoot a volley from 20 yards or so, hardly a bullet would miss it's target, so even if just a few men fired, several redcoats would go down.
The French didn't seem to plan to fire anouther "volley" as Sam saw them holding their muskets straight ahead, creating a wall of glimmering bayonets.
And there they were: French fusilers ready to take revenge for the numerous comrades who just have died helplessly a few minutes before and for the terrible fear of being hit by a British musket ball.
Sam could see their anger, every redcoat could. These were the moments Sam wished he wouldn't have joined the army. He wished he would have stayed in Yorkshire waiting to overtake his father's business. But it was too late now. A peninsula had to be saved.
Sam heard the terrible sounds of bayonets doing the slaughter they were made for. Then everything began to go fast. To the left and to the right of him Redcoats and Fusiliers were peircing each other with their bayonets. He saw a Fusilier right in front of him screaming and stabbing with his bayonet in his direction. The Frenchman tried to hit him at his head but Sam avoided the sudden attack by kneeling down. He watched up and saw the Fusiler striking out and suddendly sam was hit by the butt of the Frenchman's musket. The last thing he saw was an ambigous disorder of red and blue, the last time he heard a terribly loud knock. Then everything went quiet and black.

[Eric]

As a Fusilier corporal bludgeoned one of his privates, a certain Sam Johnsen if William remembered correctly, over the head, the Colonel charged up behind him and felled the man with a slash against the shoulder. The frog went down heavily, falling on top of the downed Private. William looked around and saw tired but victorious redcoats picking their way amongst the dead and stabbing wounded French, and spotted a Major.
"How goes the fight, Major?" asked the Colonel.
"Like clockwork sir. Just like your plan must of been, that enfilade was brilliant sir, and the bayonet just drove the terror home." the Major responded with a salute. There was a momentary lull in battle.
"I see you captured an Eagle, sir" said the junior officer.
"Oh yes, I saw it and went right for it" William responded.

Just then there was a commotion as the Division commander, Major-General Rowland Hill, rode up with his staff to William.
"Colonel that was the damndest thing i've ever seen. Why the hell did you do that?" asked the general
"General, sir" William replied panting "I saw that the enemy column wasn't going to go down with just musketry. So I drew them in, enfiladed them with volleys on three sides from all of my regiment's battalions, then charged in with the cold steel" Colonel Cowell finished. There were shots of musketry that whizzed through the air again, and another set of columns, a whole brigade's worth, came up the hill again, a cloud of skirmishers harrasing the regiment.
"Back to it, Colonel" Hill ordered and reined his horse around and galloped off to continue his errands.
"Very good sir. 21st FOOT! ATTENTION! STAND TO!" he ordered, sword high in the air. Within minutes they were back in the previous formation, two battalions in front, the third in reserve. Leaving the Napoleonic eagle down by the knocked out Private Johnsen, William ran back to his previous postion in the center of the line. The first rank kneeled again and they made ready.
"FIRE!" he shouted out, and the rolling volley tore into the columns in front.

[Manji]

Dust rose far to the north. Then smoke followed, white clouds turned to black and fires were finally seen, licking trees and bushes as they consumed the small villa and the surrounding area where the British had deployed some scouting units.

"Brigadier, we captured ten englishmen." the man wore a blue and white Lancer uniform with corporal and had visibly not seen running water for more than two days. Or any water, for that matter.
"Dispose of them but leave two as prisioners." he replied without lifting his head "Gerard?"
A hussar, a tall young man with a flamboyant moustache approached.
"Yes Brigadier?"
"Take the two prisioners to the back" his lowered his voice "Tell them they will be left behind, unharmed, if they tell us where and how many artillery units the british have. If they refuse to speak... cut the throat of one of them. That should make the other more flexible."
Gerard noded, made a sharp salute and followed the Lancer corporal back to the burning ruins.
Alexandre de la Fère, Brigadier of the Hussars de Gascogne, was tired. It was not because he had not slept well in over a week or that he and his men had to acompany those damn polish Lancers everywhere; simply put, de la Fère was tired of this war. It was one thing to chase down italian infantry near Milan and end the day, the company intact and with minor wounds, in some warm and friendly hostel along the road to Rome with some laughing peasant girl or barmaid. The Peninsula was bad. It was worst than bad, it was like back home in Gascony, the people were tired of war and famine and roaming armies that pillaged the countryside. Yes, the hussars were famed for being the cavalry equivalent of ravens, pillaging and looting and generally a nuisance but his company, "The Laughing Gascons", were not of that sort. Well, not all the time at least. And at least they actually were civilized, not like the 900 lancers they had been ordered to escort to the battlefied, the brainless bunch.
But that mission was over. The Lancer's Brigadier had already sent a courier to the frontline and awaited instructions for deployment. Now it was time for the hussar to do what they did best.

"Dust", the Brigadier's horse, was a magnificent white and gray stallion, a bt too muscular for a hussar's horse and not so nimble as a scout horse, or so most thought, but to the knowledge of the brigadier, Dust had exactly what he could hope for in a steed: strenght, bravery and endurance.

"Alexandre" the Lancer corporal adressed every other officer by their first name, to much of de la Fère's displeasure "We have your orders, you and your men can continue their task".
"Good luck. Drive them to the sea Jacques" replied Alexander, a bit of sarcasm in his tone.
Both officers were mounted, the rubble of the villa now silent and the smoke almost completely dispersed. The 900 lancers had formed into 4 lines and awaited the command to depart southwards towards the battle while the 104 hussars had formed into 4 units of 26 each, one awaiting the arrival of their Brigadier.
The lancers started marching slowly, their horses tired from the long distance already made. The hussars advanced southwards but along the tree line and leaving the battlefield to their left, the Brigadier wanted to scout ahead before plunging his men into the thick of the battle.

[General A. Skywalker]

Before Sam could see anything, he heard an undefinable and muted sound. It sounded like shouting men and banging lashes. The sound became louder and louderr and suddenly Sam's eyesight came back, too. At first he didn't know where he was, he would have expected to be in his barracks back in Yorkshire but then he remembered the last things he saw before "going to sleep" and compared it to the first images he saw right now: The blue gleam was missing and he just saw a blurred red line whcih seemed to be very far away. He was based on his elbows now. Watching to his left he saw a long baton with something golden attached to it. He didn't care about this mysterious item but began to realize where he was. "The battle!" he screamed out. 'It was the battle! Was it won? No, you idiot!', he said to himself. 'They are still fighting!' He tried to get up and saw a bleeding French fusilier, a corporal lying on his legs. He pushed him away, knowing he was still alive, as he saw him holding his heavily injured shoulder. Sam wondered if he should... no! He was not a danger any longer and this was not his business. He got up and picked up a Brown Bess muskets with a bayonet attacjhed, not being sure if it was his own or one of a fallen comrade.
Sam felt a terrible pain in his head but carried on running towards the redcoat line. He almost stumbled over the piles of dead Frenchmen which proved that the antedecent firing hasn't been useless at all.
Finally he reached the line. Sam guessed that they were already firing for 5 minutes or so, as there was a thick smoke in front of the line. He saw the Colonel around 15 yards to his left repeating the orders "Take aim! FIRE!!" again and again. He watched out for Seargent Morris or Lieutenant Roberts, his Platoon Commander. After some seconds of watching he found Seargent Morris. "Seargent Morris, Sir! Private Johnsen at your service, sir!" Sometimes Sam miscalled himself that way, too, simply because it was faster than saying "Johansen".
The Seargent turned around to identifie the young Private. "Johnsen! You up again? Took a little break, eh? Get your ass back into your platoon. Private Gapper has just made a fine gap for you to be filled, you see?" He pointed down at dead Private Gapper with a terrible wound in his chest. That kind of humour was typical for Seargent Morris and it made Sam feel very bad. "CLOSE UP, PRIVATE!!"
sam did so, loaded his musket and waited for the order. "Take aim, FIRE!!!" HE pulled the trigger and fired into the fog without seeing one single enemy.

[General A. Skywalker]

EDIT: (sorry, double post)

[Libertine]

"FALL BACK"

Shaw had just seen the charge of the main French army at the main body of British infantry and if his maths was as good as he thought it would be then the Brits stood no chance.

Shaw's men retreated to behind the British Line, the Voltiguers held little threat anymore and he had only lost a small amount of men to their return fire.

-----

When the smoke arose from the field of battle Shaw could tell he had made a terrible mistake, the Crapauds where retreating and the Brits still held the ground they started on. Shaw cursed the blinding effects of Musket fire and then realised he had to get his men back in case they where seen behind their lines... he had no plans to get shot for deserting.

"Ok you useless bastards, back up the hill - we are going to form a line next to those fools from York! Show them how a real man fires!!"

The Rifles surged forward as the men came into view Shaw took off at a run and reached the man in charge of the regiment.

"Colonel Cowel sir, I'm 2nd Lieutenant Shaw I've instructed my men to form another line 200 yards down from yours - I thought you may need the range and reliablity only a Rifleman can offer sir despite the fact their a bunch of paddy bastards"

he awaited the reply...

[SickBoy13]

Pyotor's camp was having problems with wolves, the wolves would kill the sheep, sometimes even wound a sleeping horse. He could not curse them, for he deeply respected them and admired them. They were generally weak alone, but they were smart, and when forming a pack, they were a force to be reckoned with. He had resolved to take 12 men on horse to deal with the wolves. At dawn, he set out.
The rising sun glistened of the dew that crested the grass. Pyotor climbed from his mat, arming himself with his sword, a small knife, his bow, and a quiver of arrows. He left his rifle at home. After all, rifle balls were expensive, and he used the traditional bow when hunting as he favored its smoothness. After slinging his quiver over his back and locking the belt around himself, he grasped his bow. The bow-string vibrated as he flicked it to check its tightness.
Walking over to his horse, he mounted it, as did the twelve others that made up this party.
They rode to the forest, always vigilant. The horses had slown to a trot and the hunters scanned their sorroundings for signs. Domazhir, Pyotor's cousin, whispered just loud enough to hear "Praise be to God! We have found tracks!"
Pyotor smiled as the party followed the tracks, which lead to a natural alcove of sorts, a ditch, much wider than deep, with a gentle decline. Their, they found the wolves. The wolves had already been alerted to their presence and were poised to fight. Pyotor quickly strung up an arrow and let it loose, striking a wolf in the neck, causing it to drop from its legs and die.
The arrows flew, and yet the wolves attacked, nipping at the heels of the horses, causing one to throw its rider, Mikahil. The wolves tried to pounce on the fallen man, but the other riders encircled and defended him. The remaining wolves fled, and a feeling of satisfaction came over Pyotor.
Mikahil was put onto another rider's horse and the party returned to camp succesful. They recounted thier exploits to the rest of the camp and went on with the rest of the day.
That night, as Pyotor thanked God in prayer, he had no idea of the war in the Peninsula. "God, you who are all-wise and omnipitent, I thank you for your favor that you have shown me. Through you I accomplish good deeds and to you I am indebted. You, who gave your son to the world, have also given us victory. Above all, I thank you for peace. You have allowed us to live in harmony with our neighbors, even the Turks. For that, Lord, I thank you, Amen."

[Eric]

"Okay Lieutenant" William said, looking from side to side for cover for the Greenjackets. He saw some rocks in between his regiment and the 7th Fusiliers to their side.
"Get your riflemen to go take cover by those rocks and sweep the approaching brigade columns with sniping shots. Start with the officers and work your way down. Go" he ordered then turned back to his regiment.
"Take aim and FIRE" the rolling volley tore through the leading column and sent the fusiliers fleeing, giving the 21st momentary repose.
"Major!" he called over to one of his junior officers. The young man, with light brown hair and baby blue eyes, whose uniform looked around three sizes to big for him came running over, sword unsheathed, and saluted quickly.
"Get a swift horse. Go to General Hill and ask him to send over some artillery support. 4 to 6 pounders should do the job. And have them get shraphnel shells while they're at it. Musketry alone won't win us this battle" he ordered. The major saluted again "Yes sir!" he said enthuisatically and ran off.
"21st foot, platoon fire, OPEN FIRE!" he roared out after that, to give his lungs a break from the constant shouting of orders. Salvo after salvo of fire on a platoon level began to drive back the steadfast columns of French.

[Libertine]

Shaw and his greenjackets re-positioned between the fusiliers and the yorkshiremen and began to pick off French soldiers. A Crapaud on a horse rode into range of the greenjackets and an explosion of rifles evicerated rider and horse.

The battle raged on.

[warluster]

Henry's battery of cannons moved to the hill behind the fieace fight, little dots could be seen as the battle raged. The two cannons Henry commanded buckled, then fit back into position.
"Men, load the 4 pounders!' yelled the commanding officer, The Cannoneers picked up the massive Cannon Balls and plonked them in.
"get the ramrod over here!" yelled henry. The sounds of muskets firing could be heard, the battle getting worse. The man with the ramrod jogged over, then fixed up the cannon, and left. The cannoneers aimed at the battle, when henry noticed something.
"Sir? Wouldn't we hit our own comrades? the British? Portuguese?" asked henry, the officer shook his head, and yelled,
"This will help the battle!' he screamed. henry nodded, and drew an match. He lit the fuse. He covered his ears. The cannon slammed back into the ground. A roar issuing from it. Smoke poured out of the Cannon Hole. There was an whistleing of the cannon ball. it went wide, and missed them by 2 km's. Hitting the dirt, it flew up engulfing the surrounding country side. That was when the battle stopped. the british had won, for now. more French appeared, and henry ordered his men to re-load the cannons. When an Horse Men came charging over the hill.
He hopped off his horse and saluted to there officer.
"Sir, our Commanding British officer has ordered that the 4 pounders are to fire onto the French lines" said the Major, there officer nodded.
"Doing that now, commeance firing!" there officer yelled. Henry motioned for the Cannoneers to load Sharpenal shells. they loaded once again. then aimed. Henry lit an match and lit the fuse. the cannon again threw it self back. But this time its aim was true. The cannonball flew into French lines, sharpenal flying everywhere, cutting French men.
"Hit Squad A2!" yelled Henry, he lit another fuse and lit the second cannon. this time his cannon fired, and so did 2 others. The three cannonballs all flew into the French lines, killing hundreds.
"Job Done Sir, i am sure the Army can finish the rest off, men, stop firing, but be on caution" said there officer. The Horse Men got back on and the horse galloped down the hill, with news that the army was to finish the rest off.

[SickBoy13]

Any French players? This is rather one sided.

[warluster]

Well later in the war Prussia starts Fighting for France, so theres 2 people fighting for France, right now prussia fights for britain.

[Manji]

Any French players? This is rather one sided.

Er... I'm one mate.
Alexandre de la Fère, Brigadier of the Hussars de Gascogne

[removeduser_426582376423734]

The sound of hooves crashing is a deafening one. If you manage to live through the crash of steel shoes and slashing sabres, you will never be the same. The Indian Contingent could remember their fights in India. Against their own countrymen. They sang and drank and were merry that night - after Assaye.

Shyam Popat, on the other hand, did not sing, or drink. He was not merry at all. He rested on the banks of a stream flowing past the battlefield, purposely looking away from the bodies slewn that day. From their brown faces, you could not tell who's side they were on. Only the uniforms showed this, and these were torn apart from constant cannon fire.

But, today, he was not in India. He was fighting with his friends and relatives, not against them. He was fighting a blasted Frenchman.

He roared with delight as he charged down the hill towards the French column. The cannon fire had all but annihilated them, but he would take the credit for finishing them off. He led 30 men off to the left, veering away from the thundering column, and towards a picket of men guarding the French cannons. These men were not exactly riflemen, armed with only pistols and sabres, but Popat's carbine fired, leading the rest to do the same.

"We have the cannons!", he screamed to his unit, a roar resounding from them.

[Atterdag]

Bullets tore though the air as they advanced. They stepped over bloody bodies in blue uniforms.
The first French wave had been stopped by the blasted British on the hill, by the number of fallen it looked like there had been an outright butchering. But that's what the British do. They butcher people.

As Christian led his men through the small wood, he thought of his houses at home for it was nomore, burnt. He thought of his brother and mother for they were dead, and up there sitting on that hill were they. Perhabs not them, but perhabs a distant cousin, a brother or if he was really lucky a beloved father.

''Time for payback!''

He shouted out loud and the regiment began to run. Faster and faster, they held the tight formation as they came out of the woods. the French on the side suddenly encouraged by their allies shouted their battle cry.
His bannerman unfolded their standard and in the blue sea there was a square of red and white.

''Follow me!''

He shouted again and the company followed. In front of them stood some darkies, but that wouldn't help them. They bore the redcoat.
They celebrated how they, around 40 men had taken a pair of cannons from 20 artellerists.

''Halløj cirkusneger, vælg en på din egen størrelse!''
With this gesture the first rank kneeled. A second later one big crack sounded as their rifles opened fire. And a wall of lead hit the British auxillaries.
Most of the enemy in fornt fell and the rest stood for a moment dazed and confused as the second volley was unleashed..