Napoleonic Roleplay: Tras os Montes

[Amman d Stazia]

Spoiler

http://www.google.com/maps  and enter exactly the words "Tras os Montes"  Zoom out so that the scale at the bottom shows 50kilometres per unit.
you will get a map of north and west Spain and Portugal. Convert to Map/Terrain. This is our area of operations!  You will hopefully also see the letter Ain the top corner of Portugal.

A = Field Marshal Nicolas Soult's Corps.  About 20,000 effectives. 


1807 – The First Minister of Spain, Godoy, strikes a deal with Napoleon.  A French Army under Junot marches through Spain and occupies Portugal.  The Portuguese Royal Family flee to Brazil, and request that Britain, their ally, send an army to liberate Portugal.  The British are uncertain – it is a risky thing to invade a country occupied by Napoleon’s veterans, even if the populace of that country might be sympathetic to a British Army…
Fortunately for Portugal, Napoleon Bonaparte, rather than confirming Godoy as Regent when the old King abdicates, pours a hundred thousand French troops into Spain and puts his brother-in-law and friend Murat in place as Viceroy.  There is a riot in Madrid in protest, Murat responds with brutality, and suddenly all over Spain there are uprisings.  The British government realises that this is an opportunity to strike at Napoleon, and Wellesley, a veteran of India and Denmark, lands in Portugal with a small army.  He defeats Junot quickly.  At the same time, the Royal Navy rendezvous with Romana’s Spanish Army, part of the French –allied forces occupying the Netherlands.  Romana is loyal to the old King, and has decided to turn against the French, as do most of the Spanish armies in Spain.
Napoleon is no fool: He takes personal command of his troops in Spain and quickly starts destroying the military opposition.  A detached Corps is isolated however, and forced to surrender at Bailen.  This shocking loss – 18,000 veterans – forces Napoleon off balance, and Britain takes advantage of this to land a much bigger force under Moore, which advances into Spain, liberating Salamanca and winning a brief fight at Sahagun, capturing the commanding General of Napoleon’s Guard Cavalry in the battle.
Napoleon concentrates his 80,000 in the North of Spain, and Moore, with less than a third of that strength and abandoned by the Spanish armies, retreats towards Vigo.  Tormented by a harsh winter, both Moore’s army and the pursuing Corps of Soult and Ney suffer hideously.  Thousands of Moore’s men – by the end, 8,000 – drop out, straggling in little groups. Of these, only a few hundred live to tell their tales.
Soult and Ney finally catch up with Moore outside Corunna, where the General has decided to embark his troops instead of Vigo.  The battle itself is a draw, but the British embark unmolested through the night and following day.  Napoleon, satisfied with this humiliation of the British, leaves Spain for the last time. It will be months before Wellesley returns to Lisbon to reinforce the garrison there and build up a new army…

This is the opening of our story:  it is early 1809, Sir Arthur Wellesley commands in Lisbon and intends to expel Soult from Portugal.  Napoleon, having installed his brother Joseph on the Spanish Throne, has returned to France to destroy Austria’s armies.  La Romana and his fellow general Cuesta are campaigning against Junot and Ney in central and southern Spain.  The peasantry of Portugal are in open rebellion against both the French and their own aristocracy.  Scores of little bands of soldiery roam the countryside, some of them British hoping to rejoin their armies, some Spaniards, torn between rejoining their unlucky generals, or the wild bands of guerrileros in the hills.  Others still have been separated from France’s armies, and seek their comrades…



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Rules:
this is the real world.  Muskets are not accurate, rifles are slow, and horses need to eat. Lots.
Bear that in mind when you post.

the RP is set in a real part of the world, and as you all have internet access you can go to google maps and have a look at the area. See above...

Respect the Gamesmaster (GM) and the other RP'ers.  This RP will be written in English but we are aware that this is not everyone's best language.

Characters are to be human, not superhuman.
When you post your 'character information, it need not be a life story, if you would rather bring that out as the story progresses.  Just a few basics is enough.
post it here  ->  http://forums.taleworlds.com/index.php/topic,88335.0.html

please DO NOT drop out of character in this thread.  You can use the planning/discussion thread for that, and you can PM to your heart's content.

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[Amman d Stazia]

The French 15.Leger
Zamorra was boring.  It was under curfew, for any Frenchman who ventured out in the night was liable to be found with his throat slit the next morning.  Four battalions – even elite troops like the 15. Leger - was a small garrison for the sprawling riverside town, and their Colonel had no intention of losing any more men from his already thinned ranks.  They had won easy victories against the Spanish armies for nearly two years now, but the peasants had proven remarkably skilled in banditry, throat-cutting, and ambush.  So the men crowded in their billets, drank sour wine, cursed the war, and gambled what little pay they did receive on dice and cards.

The Colonel put his booted feet on the table and used his toes to tip the beautifully plumed hat to and fro.  It was a new hat, taken from a fat and trembling Spanish General of Brigade a week before when the fool had surrendered himself and his brigade to a single battalion of the 15th.  The Colonel had improved the hat slightly by swapping the red and gold Spanish cockade for a handful of canary-yellow feathers, donated by the Madame of the whorehouse where he had billeted his senior officers.

There was a sudden commotion at the entrance of the whorehouse, and the Colonel sighed deeply, finished his wine, and stood up.  Before he could put his scarred head round the door to remonstrate with the disturber, the door opened to show a young hussar cornet.  The hussar threw a salute, which would have been impeccable had he had a hand in place of the mangled, bloody stump that protruded from his silver-grey dolman.
“Sir!  The convoy, sir!”

 

[Venitius]

The KGL:

“Achtung Rechts! Achtung-“ Lieutenant Roesstingen would have ignored the call, except that when Sergeant Krontaler shouted ‘ware right’ then there was undoubtedly a problem to the right: On top of which the Sergeant had been cut off by a ragged volley of musketry.  Roesstingen stood in his stirrups to look across the heads of his charging troopers, but really there was no need.  Four hundred French Dragoons, at the charge, are not easily missed, even with a few German light-horsemen in the way.
Roesstingen screamed an order, hauling on his horse’s reins as he did so.  The rest of the squadron ignored him and continued thundering towards the little convoy, the bait, Roesstingen realised bitterly, in a very sharp-toothed trap.  Ninety three troopers had whooped with joy as the Major ordered the attack on the three wagons, escorted as they were by only a single company of French infantry it looked like an easy victory.  The blast of musketry had been well-timed, too: Just at the right moment to stop any German heads glancing left or right.  The French Dragoons had erupted out of a gully, hidden until that point, and they were now only metres from the Germans’ right flank. 
Roesstingen’s troop wheeled, their dressing ragged, but their obedience to his command faultless. Their long, heavy swords came down as Roesstingen shouted his next command, the only one that could possibly help: “Charge!”

Twenty-two against four hundred:  And the French were cheating.  Roesstingen felt his heart lurch as the truth dawned on him.  The leading rank of Frenchmen had no swords, instead they held their carbines steady along the necks of their galloping horses.  Even as his own men spurred into a desperate counter-charge the carbine muzzles flashed and gouted smoke.

The dragoon carbine is not accurate at the best of times, and held one-handed on a galloping horse, the chances of hitting even a barn door at fifty paces are about one in fifty.  But the French carbines were barely ten paces from the KGL dragoons, and there were a hundred triggers pulled.  Eight of Roesstingen’s men disappeared – a horse is a pretty big target, even if not so good as a barn door – and a flurry of earth glimpsed to his left suggested that the rest of the squadron had also taken some hits.

The French dragoons had no time to draw their swords, but with bayonets already fixed on their carbines, they didn’t need to try: Confused by the blast of musketry at point-blank range, the Germans were not ready for the thrusting steel spikes.  A further six went down, and only one French trooper joined them, his face flayed to the bone by the razor edge of a good Klingenthal blade.

Behind the first rank were fifty paces of empty space, then the lowered sword-points of the next hundred Frenchmen.  Roesstingen was painfully aware that he had sacrificed his troop almost pointlessly, for he had inflicted at best a few seconds delay on the French attack, and forced them to empty their carbines on his troop rather than the main squadron.  There was no time now to think about that, however.  He bellowed another order, and his last handful of troopers hauled on their reins in response.  There was only death, useless death, in continuing into that second line of green-coated, brass-helmeted swordsmen.  Instead he had ordered his men to pursue the first rank of Frenchmen.  They, swords drawn, were busily hacking into the flank and rear of the KGL squadron, which had too late realised the danger…

Roestingen spat and shook his head to clear the memory.  A regiment of Dragoons! No wonder that his squadron was virtually annihilated. Less than a score of men had come clear, and now what? They had lost the pursuing Dragoons in the first night, but now they had reached the end of the road.  The sea – the Atlantic – lay grey and angry before them, barely two miles distant across a couple of low ridges.  To their left, South, lay Oporto and eventually the garrison of Lisbon.  On the right, twenty thousand Frenchmen were between them and Vigo.  Their orders had been to scout the road to Vigo and round up any British troops stranded there by Moore’s evacuation just three weeks previously.  No question, now, of doing that…

 

[Temuzu]

Maria Luisa Hussars, at your service!

“We will sweep the treacherous Corsican from Spain! Madrid will rejoice to our glorious drums! Spanish bugles will crow over French corpses! God Save Ferdinand! Viva Espana!”
The Colonel took a half-step back from the edge of the platform, and quaffed deeply from a fine goblet.  He raised his free arm as he stepped forward again,
“Soldiers of Spain!  You are armed with the best powder and shot, your horses are strong and swift, and your packs are filled with the best proviant! March now, and God and The Virgin will bless your fight to liberate our country!”
Eight hundred voices raised a ragged, dispirited cheer.  Three hundred horses shifted nervously at the noise, then slowly responded to the unfamiliar tugs and kicks of their riders as the two majors, six captains, twelve lieutenants and twelve cornets of the Maria Luisa Hussars bellowed orders.
Right turn; Close up; Prepare to march; March!  About half the regiment were gorgeously uniformed in the sky blue dolman and breeches issued to them a week previously.  The remainder wore the ragged remnants of the same uniform, torn, patched and stained after two years marching, fighting and dying.  So many had died or been captured that their General, Penne Villemur, had ordered the Regiment to Badajoz to regroup and recruit.  Now, troop by troop, they walked and rode north, to where General La Romana was attempting to reinforce Ciudad Rodrigo before the French could surround and besiege it.

A week had passed, and now the last troop of the last company clattered across the Coa bridge, only two days easy march from Ciudad Rodrigo.  Their appearance was examplary, every one of them a fresh recruit.  Their numbers had been slightly depleted by desertion, but far less than the unit average.  Their commander, Jose Lacrossa, raised a hand to halt the troop as they left the bridge.  The Colonel’s favourite, Capitano Draga, was cantering back along the disorderly, unsoldierly column of mainly horseless hussars.
He reined in next to Lacrossa,  “A special task!  We have reports from the peasants here that French troops are just across the Portuguese border from here: Well, the Colonel doesn’t care much for that, so take your troop, ride into Portugal for a while, and then report back! Here – your formal orders!”
Draga thrust a folded paper at Lacrossa and wheeled his horse with a casual salute.

Jose read the paper. The formalitys were to simply scout the area between Oporto and Braganca. After reading the letter three more times, he ordered one of his soldiers to throw it in the river they just crossed.
After this, Jose ordered his men to march forward, towards Ciudad Rodrigo. He decided to march trough the fortified town, figuring it would save the most time. He galloped his horse to the side of the marching men, checking if everything was alright.
His men were talking happily about the task given to them. Jose didnt tell them what it was, but the soldiers near him when Captain Draga read the letter out loud had propably heard it too. He didnt really care, they would have found it out sometime anyway.
"A special task, for us!" "Finally, a challenge for the Kings finest!". Jose listened his men speaking about the task, even though he knew the task wasnt anything special, it was good for morale of the men to think it was.

When the other half of the men were talking about the task, the other was laughing and discussing about the hussars that just went past them. The hussars tried to care little, but every once in a while a respond to the laughter emerged from the crowds.
"Well see how you look like in two weeks!" "Peasant rabble dressed in uniforms!". Eventually the last of the beaten hussars crossed the bridge, and laughter and mocking changed to relaxed talking and occassional laugh.
Jose then rided to the front of the column, with his officers, and started talking about the task. Some of the most officers were as enthustiastic as the soldiers, but most of them atleast kept their pokerface on.
After a good hour of talking, their plan was to march trough Ciudad Rodrigo, and from there to Figueira de Castelo Rodrigo, in where they would plan the rest of the trip.
So, Jose and his men marched towards Ciudad Rodrigo, eagerly waiting for their first taste of battle.

 

[Amman d Stazia]

The Colonel flicked his new hat and made a gallant bow, "Monsieur! You are hurt - do you require a doctor? Our regiment.. No?  How may I assist?"
He broke off his offer as the young Hussar shook his head firmly.  Despite his scarred face, the commanding officer of the 15th was an impeccable gentleman in his speech and manners.  He was reputed to even apologise profundly to brigands before shooting them through the head.

The Hussar relaxed a little as he took another pace into the room.  "I carry orders from Madrid to Marshal Ney, but that is not the reason I disturb you.  I - and my escort - came across a party of brigands looting one of our convoys.  They had more or less destroyed the escort, but we were able to rescue a few wounded men after we put the bandits to flight.  The problem, Sir, is that the bandits also slew most of the draught animals - the wagons are immobilised."

The Colonel's face had betrayed just the tiniest flicker of emotion, and the Hussar Cornet hurried on, for he took this as disinterest: "Sir, the convoy carried your Regiment's ammunition - ten thousand rounds of ball shot! I don't know how well provided you are, but it would doubtless be benificial if you are able to send, perhaps, a company to help move the wagons?  My escort captain agreed to wait there with his Company until he is relieved by your men."

The Colonel nodded, his face still impassive. "Thank you, most kind of you to assist us, and at personal loss too!  Please, take a seat, I will have food and wine brought up immediately.  I will speak to my Adjutant, and as you thought, I will send some men out.  Your escort were of the Third Husar Regiment?"

The Cornet shook his head, "No, sir.  The escort are from the 27th Horse Chasseurs, Belgians mainly.  Good men, though.  Their captain knows his stuff..."

The Colonel nodded, slapped his hat onto his head, and strode from the room, bellowing orders.

Less than half an hour later he returned, to find the Cornet fast asleep, head on the table next to the clean-picked bones of a roast chicken and an empty wine bottle.  He shook him gently, on the uninjured arm.
"Young man, I have sent a company of my Carabiniers off, but if you would be so kind, as to join them and guide them?  They are only just marching, so you should catch them before they have gone one kilometre from the town.  Your horse has been fed and watered - I would offer you a swap, but none of my beasts approach that gelding for bloodlines! C'est Magnifique!"

The Cornet could not suppress a grin at the sudden boyish enthusiasm of the senior officer,  "thank you, Sir.  I will ride this minute.  We may pass by later today, as I need to reach Ney as quickly as possible.  He is still North of here, yes?"  He saluted as the Colonel nodded agreement, and was out the door in a flash, shako jauntily perched on his head.

 

[Boomie]

"Shoot! Keep shooting damn you!" shouted Sergeant Nicolau Rocha, his hands violently shaking due to fear which had returned to him. His rosary was tied around his left hand as his right was slowly pushing in a musket ball into the rifled barrel. His Lieutenant, obviously given a promotion before he could **** a woman, was half-wading in the water as one of his men was lifting him up as the other was covering him with musket fire.

On the other side of the river some remnants of the Cacadores were either still shooting or were making a quick run for the other side of the river, were Rocha and his platoon was already ready, picking off French troops attempting to chase or shoot at the Lieutenant. However, only Rocha and his six Riflemen were able to properly shoot at them, as the muskets, even at this range, were far too unreliable. However they do become lucky at times, as they'd occasionally injure or kill a Frenchman sometime or another.

The French cavalry stopped before they reached the bank, resorting to using their pistols and carbines to shoot at the stragglers in the water to no effect. However, a loud cheer came from the cavalry when the whole French line formation had arrived and aimed their muskets into the stragglers in the water. A Frenchman wielding a sabre was facing the line infantry, ready to give the command. "Tire-!"

Bang! Rocha's rifle had hit the Frenchman on the chest, he buckled off his horse, foot still dangling on the saddle as his horse ran off in one direction, almost comically. This, however, did not stop another officer to order the line to fire. "Tirez!" one Frenchman shouted, waving his sabre in the air. A whole line of smoke erupted and blood filled the river as everywhere Cacadores screamed in horror and pain as the French mercilessly shot them. Another line came forward and did the same thing, and then another, and then another.

Da Silva and Rocha's two men had reached Rocha's position, Da Silva leaned on a tree as he breathed heavily with exhaustion. It seemed like a miracle, for wherever in the river Rocha looked there was nothing but a mass of brown bodies floating amongst the red river. But here, with Rocha and Da Silva was his platoon, exhausted, wet and still shooting, but otherwise unharmed.

"Ceasefire!" Rocha roared, Da Silva made no objection, but only nodded in approval. "Lieutenant, Lieutenant!" Da Silva looked up and licked his lips to try and get his voice.

"Yes, Sergeant?" said Da Silva finally, still clutching the standards.

"What are our orders?" asked Rocha, who put down his rifle and stared off into the other side of the river. The breeze had disappeared, and the French were nowhere to be seen, the huge cloud of white smoke obscured everything.

"Lisbon, or Oporto. Whichever one we get close to. Firstly, the safety of the colours. We'll need to rearm first, ammunition, food, water." Da Silva gestured for Rocha to turn around. Da Silva opened Sergeant Rocha's knapsack and tucked in the colours, trusting the Sergeant with it's care. "Don't lose the colours, Rocha."

"Yes, sir. I'll suggest the Vila Nova de Famalicão, about twenty kilometres South-West of here."

"Very well, Rocha," said Da Silva, who's hand Rocha had taken as he aided the Lieutenant stand. "What of the French on the other side of the river?"

"The river itself shall help us sir," answered Rocha, who picked up his rifle, ready to march.

"Ah, yes," answered Da Silva, stuttering a little, "loose formations then, keep your muskets and rifles loaded, hopefully the powder isn't wet. Let's continue to... umm... to..."

"Vila Nova de Famalicão," Rocha completed Da Silva's sentence for him, as when the Lieutenant stood he seemed to shake a little.

"Yes, to Vila Nova de Falacaomi," stuttered Da Silva, who was busy reloading his pistol with wet powder.

Rocha sighed and gave the orders to his men, who had spread out a little and continued on the march.

 

[Jec94227]

Lightning forked across the Spanish sky, crazy splinters of glowing white light.  Piper Corporal Mckinnon, the second in command of their ragged group, looked scared.  The others knew that they were scared.  A thunderstorm was one thing, but this was insane.  Second Lieutenant James, seventeen years young and totally out of his depth trying to lead sixty-five starving stragglers from nowhere to safety, had never seen the like before.  The lightning seemed to last for five or ten seconds every time, and the thunder! He had stood amongst a battery of 6-pounders at Buenavente, and the discharges from their seven muzzles had been no louder than this.  This thunder did not roll ominously, it hammered physically at the senses, and worst of all it came in that moment of utter blackness when the lightning had just gone.

For nearly thirty seconds there was silence.
“We need shelter! We’ll be fried if that comes any closer!”  The speaker had once worn the green facings of the Warwickshires.  Now, only his collar remained, and he had tucked it into the pocket of the monk’s habit he wore as a talisman.  He was not the worst dressed of the group.  That dubious honour went to a Scotsman, an hussar, who wore a brown dress and clogs beneath the once-ornate pelisse of his regiment, a piece of finery that was now merely a dark blue rag with dirty white shreds hanging off it.  He spoke next.
“Mister James, we will die of exposure. You’re an officer – do something!”
His soft accent belied the challenge in his words.  There were a few grunts of agreement, but mainly the faces just stared at James in sullen resentment.  He had dragged them, God knew how or why, from their various stages of drunken stupor, aided by his dozen sober Riflemen, and forced them, day after freezing day, through the hills, west of south, and now, prompted perhaps by the misery of the weather, they were unwilling to be dragged any further.
“What are you suggesting I do, Trooper? There are no buildings here to shelter in.  If we march into the next valley, perhaps…”  James’ voice trailed away, and he cursed inwardly that he had set six of his remaining riflemen to sentry duty.  The other four would support him, and probably Piper Mckinnon too…  The dark pistol barrel that pointed at his face, however, could command the support of up to fifty of the others.  It was, his mind noted hysterically, an officer’s pistol – the silver inlaid along the fine dark stock would have betrayed that even if he hadn’t noticed that the barrel was octagonal – certainly not a service-issue weapon.  The soft Scots voice spoke again.
“Major Hardie had two o’ these.  Percussion pistols, waterproof…. He was ever so proud… Now, Mister James, we are going to go back down the hill here, tae the big kirk – church – and if the Frogs are there, we’ll have to talk with them, now won’t we?”

James mastered his fear, and he heard the soft scrape and click of a bayonet – several bayonets – being drawn and fitted to muzzles behind him.  That didn’t matter any more.  The bullet would end him before any steel could do so. He stood,
“Trooper, if you wish to desert, wait until you can bribe a sentry to let you run.  If you shoot me, that’s murder, and the French won’t ignore that even if they welcome a deserter and turncoat.  Put the weapon down and-“
The lightning was so violent that James hesitated, and the crashing thunder totally drowned the pistol shot.  He looked down, a slight frown of disbelief on his young face as dark blood flowed over his dark uniform.  Then he died.

Jack Grover was a conscientious sentry, so he hadn’t looked at the main group all night.  He was keeping watch to the West, aware that the French would have sent cavalry riding down the coast road to cut off any stragglers.  After a minute or two of relative silence, the lightning returned with a vengeance, and he twitched involuntarily.  Then as the echoes died away he whipped his head around in disbelief – screams and the unmistakable sounds of a fight came from his comrades behind him.
In the harsh blue-white flashes of fresh lightning strikes, he saw the full horror of the massacre as forty-five of the soldiers set on the dozen men who had refused to mutiny.  His mates from the 95th were among the loyal men.  It was over in seconds, and black rage swelled in his heart as he unwrapped the oiled rag from the lock of his Baker.  One hundred and fifty yards…  The Scotsman, the hussar in the dress, seemed to be the ringleader, and Jack took immense satisfaction in pulling the trigger.  He stood and stepped left, out of the powdersmoke, and saw that the murderous bastards had all dived for cover, leaving a blood-stained corpse right where he had wanted it.  Then he turned and ran. 

 

[Venitius]

Lt. Roesstingen's unit, 3rd King's German Dragoons/4th King's German Light Dragoons, Between Braga and the coast.

The weary cavalrymen reached a small rise above a stream, and went to water their horses and fill their canteens. Roesstingen dismounted, patted his horse, and took it to the stream and let it drink as he walked to the rise and took out his telescope, and scanned the horizon for any soldiers, allied or enemy, and caught sight of a beaten track with discarded equipment, and remarked quietly to himself,

"It seems we have found the road to Vigo."

Sergeant Krontaler brought his Lieutenant's horse to his side, and offered to fill Roesstingen's canteens. The officer handed over his canteens and continued watching for a while, then collapsed his glass. Krontaler returned with Roesstingen's canteens, and then the officer ordered his men to remount, and the Germans trotted down to the road.

They found the remains of an army on retreat, discarded loot, tattered rags, even a corpse or two. Sergeant Krontaler, the second-in-command of the unit, asked Lt. Roesstingen what they were doing. Roesstingen replied that they were to "ride to Vigo, avoid all French patrols, round up some survivors, and get back to Lisbon as quickly as possible, without dying." Krontaler nodded, and understood why Roesstingen chose to do this. The men were all loyal, and wanted to keep their regiment's honour up, and being court-martialed did not help this. They also knew that the British needed as many troops as possible in the Peninsula, due to its small army, so they rode on.

The map, however, didn't help on their ride as it was originally carried by a now-dead cornet, staining part of it in blood as he was cut above the sabretache, and it was open at the time. The map was also accidentally dropped by the cornet in a puddle as they left on the mission, and so some of the lines bled and the distinction between road and river was not clear.

 

[Boomie]

Sargento Nicolau Rocha, 3rd Caçadores, on the road toward Vila Nova de Famalicão

After walking ten kilometres Lieutenant Da Silva ordered the platoon to stop. The weary Caçadores obediently ordered as they needed the rest. Choosing a small rise beside the road, strategically hidden by trees and shrubs. Da Silva constantly checked Rocha's knapsack to make sure the colours were still there until Rocha himself told the Lieutenant off, which led to Da Silva going off to lead the skirmish formation that was walking along the road.

Lieutenant Da Silva was observing a map of the location for a few minutes, however after some tries he crumpled the map and threw it away, muttering under his breath. Suddenly, one of Rocha's riflemen told them to be quiet, as they heard a horse's footsteps followed by some marching men.

"Nepomuceno, Oliviera, take a look," ordered Da Silva to two of Rocha's rifles. The two men went off in one side of the shrubbery and returned after a minute to report.

"Godoyistas," said one of them, the other rifleman following behind him.

"Are you sure?" said Rocha, sceptical.

"Sim, Sargento, they had French troops with them."

"Couldn't they be prisoners?" asked Da Silva.

"No, Tenente, they were carrying their weapons with them," answered the rifleman. The platoon was silent for a moment, Da Silva and Rocha were obviously thinking about their choices.

"They'll be heading into the village," said Da Silva after a moment. "If we can get help from the villagers we can properly ambush them without killing them. Do you agree, Sargento?"

"Yes, Tenente," answered Rocha, trusting Da Silva.

 

[Venitius]

Lt. Roesstingen’s Unit, 3rd King’s German Dragoons/4th King’s German Light Dragoons, on the Road to Vigo.

The Germans rode along the road, occasionally riding off it if they saw signs of life. They did come across a small hut belonging to a goat farmer and his family, who sold the Germans some goat’s cheese. He also told them that while he was herding his goats, he saw some red coated men being dragged to a cart by some green coated men with horses not long before he returned to his hut. The Germans set off to the rise where the man saw it.

The Germans rode to the hill and dismounted before they reached the crest. Roesstingen walked to the crest and laid down. He took out his telescope and looked down. He muttered to himself;

"Chasseurs. Horse Chasseurs. Small forage party perhaps? Well we need to get more troops for General Wellesley, so we need to free those redcoats."

There were some five Chasseurs, and some three redcoats. There was a corpse of a redcoat nearby, but Roesstingen could not tell whether the blood on him was recent or he had died on the retreat to Vigo previous year.

Roesstingen ran down the hill and ordered his men to mount up and attack the Chasseurs, being as quiet as possible. They charged the unaware Chasseurs, but one saw them and took out his carbine to fire at the Germans. It misfired, and Roesstingen was upon him, and killed the Frenchman with his Heavy Cavalry Sword. One Chasseur tried to flee, and Krontaler fired his carbine at the Frenchman, killing the man. The other three Frenchmen also died. The Germans rounded up the three British.

The Lieutenant asked them their rank and unit, and they were all privates except one, who was a corporal from the 43rd Regiment of Foot. Roesstingen told them to get boots and overalls from the dead Chasseurs upon seeing the bad condition of their clothes and to get some ammunition from the dead. The Germans were all wearing their overalls now, to stop their bright red and blue coats from being easily visible and to keep warm. The three men joined the fifteen cavalrymen and they went on to a small brook where they watered and fed the horses and filled canteens. They continued on.

 

[Amman d Stazia]

"Field Marshal around anywhere?"
The man asking the question was a rare sight in Soult's army these days, an impeccably uniformed officer.  What was even rarer, he wore the uniform of the 2nd Horse Carabiniers, a regiment not even in Spain.  Two of its squadrons had been allocated to new 13th Provisional Cavalry Regiment, but they were off east, besieging Valencia or some other God-forsaken collection of Spanish slum dwellings...

Soult's aides glanced at each other briefly before one answered, showing just enough insolence to remind the stranger that an aide to Field Marshal Nicolas Soult, Duke of Dalmatia, was in fact a higher form of life..

"His Grace will be available, when it suits him.  In the meantime, can I take a message?  Sir."

The Carabiner officer took off his helmet and flicked an imaginary speck of dust from the bright red crest.  "Don't be a ****ing retard, boy.  Tell me where he is, and sharp."  His tone was warm and friendly, as if he were offering a glass of wine to a welcome visitor...

The aide blanched and dropped his hand to his sabre-hilt, "How dare -"

"Take your hand off that sword.  Where is he, Capitaine?"  The Carabinier stressed the aide's rank.  He himself wore the heavy eppaulette of a Major, and the mention of rank subdued the aide.  He pointed at a battery of horse artillery which was waiting to cross a bridge.
"In the farmhouse by those guns.  He won't like-"
The Carabinier officer had already turned his horse, so the aide just shut up.

A few minutes later the Carabinier officer was saluting a rather dishevelled and annoyed Field Marshal.
"Mon Marechal!  News, and orders from Paris.  The British are landing men in Lisbon, our agents report nearly thirty thousand, but that must include Portuguese units.  The orders are no doubt outdated, because I was advised to stress the importance of a swift capture of Oporto, and, as I have just discovered, your troops are already in the city.  However, here they are."

"Thanks. Wait."
Soult ripped open the waxed packet, read the single page, and dropped it with a sneer, "Written on the fifteenth of January!  March south, remove the English
from Northern Portugal, secure a base in Oporto, and await reinforcement before capturing Lisbon.  Out of date by a long way.  The only relevance is that His Majesty intends to reinforce me.  You return to Paris?"

The Carabinier shook his head,  "Madrid.  Any messages?"

Soult shook his head, and dismissed the man with a wave.

 

[Boomie]

Sargento Nicolau Rocha, 3rd Cacadores. Vila Nova de Famalicao, Tenente Da Silva's platoon.

The Godoyistas have already entered town, the Cacadores had watched from a distance as a Spanish Godoyista summarily executed three peasants for attempting to resist. They also watched as the Godoyista had pointed his pistol at a Portuguese child just to force the peasants to give them food. Da Silva was cursing under his breath as the others watched with fury. The other Cacadores had their eyes fixed on the Godoyista, remembering fully that they executed the Portuguese people.

They were situated on the side of a rocky hill where they were able to view everything. Their brown uniforms had made them look like the shrubbery from this distance, which was about a quarter of a kilometre from the village, fully able to see everything from their vantage point.

"We shouldn't have waited!" Da Silva blurted, before letting off another string of curses.

"We did what we had to, Tenente," Rocha said, trying to calm down the raging Da Silva.

"We strike tonight, Sargento. Absolutely no excuses! We strike tonight, no delays, no setbacks, no mercy!" Some of the men were agreeing, and Rocha himself couldn't help but to agree with it, though he made the sign of the cross before he himself had no choice but to agree with Da Silva's plan.

"Soldados, Cabos, split into four groups and go to the four roads leading into the Vila and block them with whatever you can use, make sure no villagers see you. Cabo Nepomuceno, Cabo Magro, you shall come with the Sargento and me, we shall scout out the village," said the Tenente, somehow now fully battle-hardened, which surprised Rocha, who kept his mouth shut.

"Sargento, I shall need your full assistance. We need to get down there and count the Godoyistas, they seemed few when we passed them, but now it looks like their numbers swelled! Are you with me, Sargento?"

"Yes, Tenente," replied Rocha, who was busy loading his rifle.

"Good. Rocha, Nepomuceno, Magro, let's go," said Da Silva, unsheathing his sabre and running down the hill while the others split themselves into groups headed by a Rifleman and went off into different directions. Rocha urged Nepomuceno and Magro forward as they fixed their sword-bayonets onto their rifles before following the Tenente.

 

[Amman d Stazia]

... on a road between Zamorra and Salamanca ...

The carabiniere company of the second battalion, 15th Light Infantry watched the green-coated Chasseurs ride off with mixed feelings.  As infantry, they had no particular love for horsemen of any army, and especially not Belgians! (They were all Frenchmen in the 15th Light, even the Germans, Danes and Italians in their ranks had adopted a snobbish national-chauvenism...)

On the other hand, eighty horsemen are a handy reinforcement in bandit-infested country at any time.  The carbiniers knew that the convoy had already been attacked once, and only a dozen or so of the original escort still lived, fortunate men indeed - the Belgians had arrived just as the bandits had beguin slitting the throats of the wounded.  They set their shoulders willingly enough to the wagons when their Captain gave the order, and the score of oxen and mules that they had pressed into service as replacement draught animals seemed to appreciate the help - at any rate, the heavy four-wheelers moved off with reassuring speed.

 

[Amman d Stazia]

Vila Nova de Famalicao

A burly French sergeant, the gold stripe on his arm tattered and blood-stained, emerged from the village church.  From inside came a loud ringing, like a hammer striking stone...

A cloud of dust erupted from the wall and one of the narrow windows disappeared.  A French shako appeared briefly, then a musket muzzle.

The Sergeant pointed at some invisible object and barked a string of orders.
Shortly afterwards, six French infantrymen came into view, pushing a heavy farm-wagon.  Once it was blocking the street completely, the Sergeant nodded and two of the infantry smashed the wheel-spokes on one side using their musket-butts.  The wagon collapsed on one side, making a steep wooden ramp across the street.  The Sergeant laughed at some joke, and turned to the Spanish fusiliers who were manhandling large beer-barrels into the road on the other side of the church.  As a makeshift redoubt, it was a decent start to the day...

 

[Boomie]

Sargento Nicolau Rocha, 3rd Cacadores, Vila Nova de Famalicao

"Defences?" asked Da Silva to Rocha as the four of them observed from a nearby shrubbery.

"Sim," answered Rocha.

"Suggestions, Rocha?"

Rocha went silent, observing the front of the town that was facing them. He could properly see a French officer along with some Godoyistas, mostly Spanish but there was a sizeable presence of blue uniforms that were common with the French. Flanking the barricade are two houses on either side, removing all chances of a forward assault. The area in front of the Church was being used as a makeshift redoubt, barricades surrounding the Church provided no opportunity to flank the enemy.

"Tenente, we need more information," said Rocha after a few minutes of silence while Da Silva was still observing the location.

"What more information can we get? There's no way inside and if we can't possibly get in without drawing attention to ourselves."

"Tenente, Sargento, if I may have a suggestion," said Cabo Nepomuceno, pointing to a Portuguese man looking out his window, properly seeing the four Cacadores. Da Silva instinctively grabbed his pistol and pointed it at the man, but Rocha lowered it.

"An informant, Tenente," said Rocha while Da Silva returned his pistol into the holster. "Magro, stay on guard, we'll talk to him."

"I don't think that's necessary, Sargento," answered Cabo Magro, pointing to an open door and the Portuguese man storming out of it with what looks like an antiquated blunderbuss in hand.

"Help us!" the Portuguese man silently screamed, "they've taken my daughters, they've taken my wife and they've killed my son! You have to help me!" He grabbed Cabo Nepomuceno's arms, dropping his blunderbuss.


"Senhor!" said Rocha, dropping him down to a kneeling position. "We cannot attract attention to ourselves!" Rocha looked around to make sure they had not been heard, seeing that the French officer was still shouting at a Spaniard, Rocha returned to the man. "We need information, Senhor. Go back inside, hide the blunderbuss and count how many of them are in town, we'll return in an hour."

"My daughters! MY WIFE!" shouted the man.

"We shall help them later, Senhor. But nothing can be done for them now without exposing us. We promise you that we shall rescue your family, but not now, Senhor."

The Portuguese man stood up and slowly went back to his house, closing the door behind him.

"Now what, Rocha?" asked Da Silva.

"Your call, Tenente," answered Rocha, not knowing what to do next.

"Uhh... why don't we just go and check the barricades our men are building?"

"Sounds like a plan, Tenente," said Rocha, seeing that Da Silva was seeking encouragement.

"Okay then, meet back here in an hour. I will go to Cabo Oliviera's barricade, Rocha you go to Cabo Vasquez. Cabo Nepomuceno to Cabo Carvalho and Cabo Magro to Cabo Patrocinio." And with that Da Silva stood up and drew his sabre, going off in some unknown direction.

"A question before we leave, Sargento," asked Nepomuceno.

"What is it?"

"Who leads the platoon, Sargento?"

"What stupid question is that, you know Da Silva leads the platoon," answered Rocha, fixing his sword-bayonet.

"Pardon me, Sargento, but it seems that you've been saying everything to do and he just follows. It seems to me that-"

"That's enough, Nepomuceno. Go to Carvalho's, now."

"Of course, Sargento," answered Nepomuceno who then fixed on his sword-bayonet before heading off in some unknown direction, followed by Magro and then Rocha himself ran off.

 

[Venitius]

Lt. Roesstingen's unit, 3rd King's German Dragoons/4th King's German Light Dragoons, between Braga and the coast.

The Germans and the English came across a barn and they approached it, trying to look for survivors, when the farmer came out and berated the soldiers due to conflicts between the English and Spanish, with Roesstingen trying to tell the farmer that they were Germans, hoping that the Spaniard wouldn't know that the KGL Infantry facings were blue, not the white of the 43rd. After some time, they gave up and went away. They then found another barn, which was abandoned. As they neared, they saw a group of redcoats. It appeared that there was a mutiny, and the loyalists and the mutineers were having a brawl after the death of the officers. The brawl now extended outside, and Roesstingen shouted at the men to stop. The men split up, the loyalists on the right and the mutineers on the left.

The mutineers refused, and the loyalists joined Roesstingen. The mutineers then charged, those few with loaded weapons fired them, wounding a German and a loyalist. They then charged, and the loaded loyalists, the three British who had joined earlier and the Germans fired, obliterating the mutineers. The four survivors tried to flee, but the cavalrymen pursued them and shot them down with their pistols, or hacked them down with their long cavalry swords or curved sabres. Roesstingen saw that he was still the highest ranking men, and ordered the 10 or so loyalists to get some equipment from the dead, and they marched on. They found another Spanish family who also disliked the strangers, but the British and Germans managed to buy some food.

 

[Amman d Stazia]

"Bloody peasants!  What the hell are you doing in Portugal?  Can none of you read a map? Do you even have a map?"

The officer's eyes flashed angrily as he reined his horse in in front of the Hussars.  With the road blocked, they too halted.
The officer rolled his shoulders to ease the stiffness of the long ride: His heavy silver eppaullettes danced across the midnight-blue uniform coat.

"You're the Maria Luisa patrol commander Lacrossa, are you not?  What idiot idea made you cross the border? We are not at war with Portugal, we are at war with France!"

Lacrossa reached into his valise to pull out the Colonel's orders, then remembered that he had destroyed the slip of paper.

The Life-guard officer snorted at the explanation. "Your Colonel must have been related to Don Cuesta.  What an idiot! The last thing we need, Lieutenant, is to give the Portuguese an excuse to attack us  - which your presence here might do!

However.  Too late - I have been looking for you for three days now.  The rest of your Regiment is destroyed.  They joined Cuesta's army near Salamanca.  General Cuesta decided that his forty thousand could defeat the French Marshal Ney and his twenty thousand: Reasonable assumption, except that Cuesta has less military skill than those mules being ridden by your men!  Cuesta now has twelve thousand left, and no cannon: The gunners died fighting.  Ney, with his army, has taken Salamanca and Ciudad Rodrigo.  There are eighteen thousand Frenchmen between your troop and Spain.

I need you to assist me here, Lieutenant.  I could say that you have new orders, but that would not be true: I have orders, to ride to La Romana, his army is marching from Vigo to Lisbon to join the British there.  I am asking you to provide me with an escort.  It will be dangerous, for the French are between us and the Lisbon road.  Will you do it?"

 

[Temuzu]

Jose didnt know what to do. The situation was difficult, as he had orders to patrol on the Portuguese soil, but no way to prove it. The only reasinable way to act was to take the new orders, and think of an excuse later on.
"Fine, we'll take the job. But after that, we wish to return to our own commander, to report the situation."
They start the march towards the coast of Portugal, from where Jose thinks is the safest to travel to Lisbon.

The travel towards Mirandela had gone well, with only 2 deserters. This didnt really shake the morale of his men, but after the first rout, he decided to put nightguards to keep an eye on his men. The second router actually escaped while on guard duty, by knocking his guardmate unconsious and fleeing. The other guard didnt get any permanen damage, but he had an mighty bump in his head for the next 5 days.

Just before reaching Mirandela, in Vila Noa de Foz Coa, where Jose decided to give his men a little rest, a funny accident took place. While his hussars were giving their horses a chance to drink by the river near the town, one of the hussars lost control of his horse, while propably watching the women of the town washing their laundry. The horse ran towards a cliff nearby, and while running it didnt notice the sudden fall.
The hussar, named Carlos, ran after his horse, only to hear it cry in pain at the canyon below. Jose offered Carlos his pistol, and without words, Carlos climbed down the cliff, and after 5 more minutes, the crying stopped for a little while and then the a gunshot echoed deep beneath the canyon.
Carlos climbed up the cliff with marks of crying in his eyes. His friends took him to his tent and left him alone for the rest of the evening. Although, Jose could have sworn to have seen a certain peasant lady entering Carlos's tent later in the night.
The recruits of Maria Luisa hussars had owned their horses since the days at the barracks. Their horses were like muskets were to infantrymen: It was theirs, and no-one elses. They took care of it, practised with it and spent time with it. The horses were dear to the hussars, so no mocking towards Carlos was heard. Actually, his comrades decided to collect the money to buy an new horse to Carlos from the village. Their groupspirit was higher than ever.

Jose ordered his men march forward, and with almost matching marching steppes, the men of Maria Luisa started their march towards Lisbon.

 

[Venitius]

Lt. Roesstingen's unit, 3rd King's German Dragoons/4th King's German Light Dragoons, between Braga and the coast.

As night fell, the troops decided to make camp for the night in a abandoned farm. The horses were tied up inside it beside a trough filled with water. Trooper Hertulz cleaned the hooves of the horses as some troops cooked the food and boiled some water to make tea. The guards were a mix of Germans with carbines and British with their muskets and rifles. Sergeant Krontaler softly played the flute, which made practically everyone homesick, especially because they were in an abandoned farm that had a leaking roof and it was rather cold. Roesstingen, as the officer, had a separate room which at least didn't have a leaking roof, but otherwise was no different from the place where the other men were sleeping, with the horses.

Due to a lack of issue tents, the troops either had to sleep close to each other, bundle up in their greatcoats or overalls, or sleep in some very smelly and old hay. They were all rather close to the fire, which was under a hole in the roof, but the fire had a temporary awning made of leather placed over it. The troops ate companionably, and eventually fell asleep.

Five hours later, the thunder of horses' hooves could be heard.

 

[Captain Pyjama Shark]

Trooper Hanning has spent the night practicing his English, by speaking to the British corporal from the 43rd.  The corporal had been startled at first, as the private's knowledge of language and his bicorne-the headgear worn uniformly by the KGL dragoons- seemed to mark him as an officer.  Hanning described his predicament, how he had been a school master back home in Hannover, mastering English and French, languages of the upper crust, and yet how his education had never spared him from drink, which had eventually doomed him to the army. 

He had  fled to England like the rest of the KGL, but as his old Hanoverian battalion of infantry had ceased to exist, he had decided that the prestigious life of a cavalry man would be more to his liking.  Here on the plains of Portugal, he slightly regretted his decision.    After a long conversation and a well brewed cup of tea, as well as finding bedding for his horse, he had fallen quickly asleep,.

'Till five hours later, he was roused by the sound of horse's hooves.