Campfires (open)

[Bog]

That order struck him as odd, but he could hardly contest it. "To the left, face! Four paces' distance, extend! Second rank, close up!"

A single long rank it was. Gibbons faced about and rendered a salute with his musket. "Permission to join the skirmish line, sir."

Whatever might happen once they got moving, he wanted to be alongside his lads, not ahead of them - and certainly not behind. There was no way of telling what, if anything, they might find before halting for the night. Gibbons hoped these woods would yield nothing more dangerous than a turned ankle, but one never knew where the rebels were concerned.

[Chørd]

`Matthew

Matthew again waited patiently as the corporal carried out his commands, the platoon obeying the orders until they were positioned how the lieutenant wanted them - a long skirmish line that would cover a greater distance.
Matthew looked up as the corporal turned to him once more, saluting with his musket and asking permission to fall in.

"Permission granted," Matthew nodded, glaring at the surrounding foliage. "Stay alert lads," he frowned, raising his voice slightly as he studied the faces of all the soldiers. "I'm not convinced we're alone."

The lieutenant started walking onwards again, indicating for the corporal to order his men to follow, their line spread out across the woodlands. As they pressed on, the trees started to thin slightly to a sort-of clearing, where the breakage in the leaf tops allowed the sunlight to dapple the ground in larger patches.
Currently, there'd be no sign of movement besides the ranks of redcoats pushing forwards through the trees.
Matthew's hand rested on the hilt of the sword at his side as he glanced around nervously. If they were ambushed here, it would be hard to get away, particularly since these grenadiers weren't used to fighting in dense woodlands, and the rebels more often than not knew the terrain like the back of their hands.

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[Bog]

They weren't alone, as it turned out. Gibbons had scarcely taken his place at the near end of the long rank when a single musket shot split the air. None of the men in the spread-out rank were hit, from either regiment, but Gibbons was no fool. Where there was one shot, there would be more. He wasn't disappointed.

The line slowed its advance and almost immediately there came a more concerted volley of fire. Precisely where their assailants were was impossible to tell, when they weren't firing. The fact that they were confident enough to take on the mixed group of redcoats was troublesome though. Gibbons lifted his musket to the Poise and barked, "Make ready!" With his right thumb, he pushed the cock back, making the musket ready to fire, then added, "Present!"

Along the line, the men shifted, seeming to take a quarter-step backward with their right foot and their long-barreled muskets settled outward, ready to fire. Gibbons slipped his finger around the trigger.

"Fire!"

[Chørd]

`Matthew

The eerie stillness of the woodland was quickly disturbed as a shot rang through the surrounding area. Despite being alert and ready for an attack, the lieutenant couldn't help but tense up momentarily at it, his fingers curling tighter around the hilt of his sword.
Matthew glanced along the long line of soldiers. Good. No one had been hit.

Still, the group couldn't see their enemy; they were well hidden, somewhere. Another volley of shots soon followed the first initiating fire, but again no one appeared to have been hit.
Unsure what to do, Matthew was glad the corporal with him had already taken action, both he and the other men poised with their muskets at the ready to fire. He felt useless, behind the other men with no musket or other decent weapon besides a sword, but that was hardly appropriate for the situation at hand, considering the enemy had yet to be sighted.

As the combined regiments fired, there was some disturbance in the trees ahead and to the side, but still no one showed themselves. Matthew kept his eyes peeled, looking for any signs of the enemy - the glint of a gun, the flash or smoke from it being fired, or even the form of a person.

The enemy returned fire again, and this time one of the men were hit - square in the shoulder, it appeared. He faltered slightly from the impact and pain, his hand flying to cover the wound. The other men around him didn't so much as flinch, and waited for the order to reload agitatedly.
There was movement again, this time someone making themself briefly visible as they shifted amongst their foliage cover. They were positioned almost dead ahead of the long line of redcoats, and no doubt their comrades were situated around them too.

I feel like I should be doing something, Matthew frowned, chewing on his lip and refraining from pacing back and forth. About the only contribution I'm making is a target for the enemy. Seems the corporal has everything under control, though.

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[Bog]

"Steady!" Gibbons barked, entirely forgetting there was an officer present. The wounded man was down now and, for the moment, beyond concern. "Prime and load!"

His right hand had dropped automatically to his cartridge box, which rested comfortingly at his right hip. It was mindless work to bite the end off the cartridge, tap a measure of powder into the open frizzen, shut the pan, then drop the musket butt to the ground. The rest of the powder went down the barrel, closely followed by the rest of the paper cartridge, ball and all.

The ramrod scraped out of its tubes and once the long, thin metal rod was loose, Gibbons turned it in his fingers and pushed the ramrod's bell-end down the barrel. A couple firm taps then he was drawing the ramrod out again and, turning it again, returning it to its brass tubes under the musket barrel.

He waited a beat, then snapped, "Make ready!" He had already drawn the lock back himself. "Present!" The rustling movement ahead of them gave a near-perfect target. "Fire!"

The crackle of musketry had attracted attention from the combined party nearer the road, who in their movement to support Gibbons' party found themselves under assault as well. If their second volley had any effect, there was no telling. Gibbons bared his teeth in a fierce grin, heedless of the powder that was already beginning to stain his lips and mouth, and snarled, "Prime and load, fix bayonets!"

One more volley, then they would advance with steel and flush these rebel bastards out.

[Chørd]

`Matthew

Matthew was somewhat glad the corporal seemed to be taking everything in his stride, even if it deem the lieutenant pretty much useless. As the wounded man dropped, Matthew was torn between holding his ground and going to help him - or at least pull him out of the way. He chose the former, watching closely as the rest of the men fired a second volley. Hopefully they'd been luckier this time, since they'd spotted, roughly, where the enemy was.

Matthew heard another round of musket shots split the air - from neither his men nor the enemy. Another party had probably joined the skirmish, too. With two groups having a go at the rebels, they'd hopefully make short work of them.

As the men fixed their bayonets to their muskets following the order given, Matthew felt himself smile inwardly. Perhaps, once they charged the rebels, he'd see himself put to use after all.

The enemy returned fire, only since they now had two directions to fire him, there were fewer shots fired at Matthew's party. There were several narrow misses from the musket balls, and more movement could be seen ahead as the rebels changed positions and reloaded.

The other party now involved fired again. They'd definitely hit someone, as they gave a muffled cry. Matthew smiled proudly, glad they were making progress. Hopefully only one more volley, and they would advance. Matthew kept his hand on his sword, willing the next round of shots from his men to be as successful as the ones from the other party's.

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[Bog]

It was more difficult to load with the long, razor-sharp bayonet fixed to the musket's muzzle, but Gibbons paid no mind to the slicing pain as his fingers passed too close to the bayonet's edge. Draw ramrod, poise ramrod, ram cartridge, withdraw ramrod, return ramrod. Every movement was pure muscle memory, performed so many times he could go through it all in his sleep.

"Charge bayonets!" The corporal already had his own musket levelled, waist-high, bayonet leading. He waited a beat, more than that being fatal, then cried, "At the quick step, march!"

The lads off to the left were making similar movements. Had Gibbons felt it necessary to glance toward them, he would have been heartened by the sight of a tall bearskin cap moving steadily forward with their supporting line. A grenadier officer was in charge there. But the corporal's attention was fixed ahead of him, alert for the barest flicker of movement that would betray the enemy's presence.

There. Not more than ten paces ahead. Gibbons spat out a powder-salty wad of saliva and snapped, "At 'em!"

What he knew of these damned rebels told him they would not stand against a bayonet charge. The spineless bastards. It was more in their brand of courage to attack from the shadows, wasn't it? Well. They were about to meet proper British fighting men, weren't they? Gibbons swept forward, bayonet-tipped musket leading. The gleaming length of steel would be tinged with scarlet before he was done.

[Chørd]

`Matthew

Once the men had fired their muskets again, causing more movement from the hiding rebels, the corporal gave the order to charge bayonets. As they started to move forwards, Matthew drew his sword, grinning, following them hastily.

The other party came into sight, lead by a tall grenadier, moving forwards too with their bayonets attached to the ends of their muskets. Their faces were darkened from the powder, but the eagerness on their face was transparently clear.
Ahead the rebels began to move, not bothering to conceal their position any more - the British already had a good idea of where they were, and would soon be on top of them if they didn't move.

They were only a few yards away from the rebels now, and their constant movement and rustling was giving them away.

The other party had already broken into a jog to flush the rebels out, the bayonets on their muskets held ahead of them to jab into the enemy in the skirmish.

Finally. I might just get a chance to make myself useful, Matthew thought as the corporal barked another order at the line of men. The grenadier's party and the rebels could be heard fighting and, most likely, the colonists were losing. They wouldn't stand a chance against the two parties the second Matthew's line joined in, bayonets bared for action. He'd kept quiet so far, gladly allowing the corporal to give the commands. He'd never admit it, but he often didn't know what to do in these situations. So long as he got his fair share of rebel blood in the quickly approaching skirmish, he'd be satisfied he'd made some contribution, even if it was a poor one.

---

OOC: Sorry for the poor post, I lost my first attempt when my internet crashed, and I have to head out soon. D: But then, none of my posts have been brilliant recently, so...massive apologies!

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[Bog]

Owing to his longer legs, Gibbons was able to outpace the smaller centre company men. He and his handful of grenadiers loped determinedly forward, keeping their muskets level and down at waist-height. There would be a free for all in only a moment, as their rebel assailants realised the danger they were in. Several were already abandoning cover in order to flee. These men would be the ones run down like hares by the baying British hounds.

"At 'em!" Gibbons cried again, plunging heedlessly through the underbrush after his chosen target. A rebel who looked whiter about the face than Gibbons' smallclothes. He could hardly be more than a boy, but if he was brave enough to fire on the skirmish line from behind a tree, he was brave enough to die for his cause. Gibbons' bayonet speared the boy through the side, even as the young rebel turned to run.

Stupid boy had left it too late was Gibbons' only thought about it as his bayonet stabbed downward to finish the job. Then he was in motion again, running now, joining his lads in their full-pelt pursuit of the enemy.

[Chørd]

`Matthew

The line quickly advanced to where the rebels had been hiding and firing from -some were now making a hasty retreat through the woodlands, though a few were quickly stopped in their tracks by the soldiers.

It was a free-for-all now, the soldiers all mashing together into melée combat. 

A few rebels made a dash from the skirmish, running straight towards Matthew and the rest of the men with a shorter gait than the grenadiers. They soon met the British bayonets, speared by the metal. 
There was quite a few of them it appeared; including the several that were now dead, there appeared to have been at least twenty. No match for two parties of experienced and well trained British soldiers, though.

Matthew couldn't hide the slight twisted smile on his face as he stabbed his sword into the stomach of a rebel, withdrawing it and moving on to another target. Some of them were still boys, barely more than eighteen years old. 
The opposition were quickly being pushed back, however, and some were running full pelt from the scene without so much as a backwards glance. Those who remained at the scene were rapidly being slaughtered.

The blade on Matthew's sword had long since been tainted scarlet from rebel blood, and as he stuck it into another victim more stains were added to the metal.

Before long, there were very few rebels left - the others having been killed or deserted.
Well that was shortlived, Matthew thought wistfully as regular soldiers finished off the last few remaining rebels. 
Matthew glanced around at the other men, noticing the Corporal had his own fair share of blood on his bayonet. 

Clearly it had been a good idea to flush out the wooded areas; it could have been a turn of the tables if the rest of the army had been caught by the attempted ambush. 

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[Bog]

Here and there, the odd musket fired. Light clouds of spent powder smoke drifted amongst the trees as the British turned their yellow-bellied enemy to complete flight. It was a rout. But of course no other outcome was possible. Not with the Twenty-third's grenadiers involved.

"Reform!" It was time to rein the lads in, or they'd pursue the handful of surviving rebels across the country. "Reform!"

The panting, victorious redcoats began returning, in ones and twos. A grenadier lieutenant was present, his bloody sword and a white handkerchief in either hand. He was watching the reassembling redcoats with a hawk-like intent, no doubt taking a mental count of every man.

Something clawed at Gibbons' ankle as he tramped back toward where his assigned clearing party was gathering. He looked down in disgust to see a wounded rebel grasping weakly at his black canvas gaiter. The poor wretch was trying to speak but could do no more than croak. Stupid bastard. He wanted help for his suffering, did he?

Gibbons shook his foot roughly out of the rebel's grip and moved on two steps. Then he turned and lifted his musket to his shoulder. The shot echoed about the now mostly-silent wood. Several men were looking his way in alarm, but shortly saw there was no danger. Without a backward glance at the now-dead rebel, Gibbons shouldered his musket and headed toward the officer who'd been with them during the charge.

"Lads are reforming, sir," he reported, offering a salute.

[Chørd]

`Matthew

There was no live rebel left any longer, all of them having been killed or forced to run away. Some of the soldiers were eager to go after them, but were order to reform before they could take off on their hunt. Matthew started to trudge back through the undergrowth to where his party were gathering again, lined up and ready to receive their next orders. Matthew counted them mentally, glad to see most appeared to be present, and the others would likely show themselves soon anyway.

Matthew looked around at the sound of a shot being fired, not expecting there to be any more shooting now the men were reforming and all rebels appeared to be dead, or at least down and out.

He saw the corporal and frowned, wondering why he'd fired his musket, then noticed the now-dead rebel at his feet. Ah. His expression didn't lighten, but decided it was best not to say anything, be it a congratulation or a chiding.

Matthew was glad there was another officer around now, whose sword was also bloodied. Matthew glanced down at his own weapon, which was just as scarlet-stained from the rebel blood.

As the corporal approached him again, Matthew straightened up a bit, nodding in acceptance of his salute.
"Good work," he replied, then headed towards the grenadier lieutenant.
"Any killed or wounded?" He asked as he approached, glancing over his shoulder at his now formed-up mixed party. Other than the soldier shot earlier Matthew hadn't seen any other severe casualties. The other lieutenant seemed to have been paying more attention, however, and Matthew hoped he could - and would - fill him in.

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[Bog]

"Two wounded, sir," was Gibbons' reply. They had not suffered any men killed, which was remarkable. Or maybe not, as it hinted at the rebels' being terrible shots. He wasn't going to complain. They'd been attacked but had quickly driven off their attackers.

He glanced toward the grenadier lieutenant, who was speaking with Sergeant Merton. Where the hell had Merton come from? The lieutenant looked up and saw Gibbons. His expression was not a happy one and Gibbons guessed he would be stood in front of Captain Peter that evening for his conduct. It hadn't been the smartest thing, shooting that wounded rebel, had it?

"Press on, you lads," the grenadier officer called, addressing both clearing parties, choosing for the moment not to deal with Gibbons. There was still plenty of work to be done anyway.

[Chørd]

`Matthew

Matthew nodded at the corporal, glancing around to see if he could spot the alleged two wounded men.
"Where are the wounded?" He asked, turning to the corporal again. Matthew noticed his attention had been diverted temporarily towards the other subaltern, who didn't look best pleased. In fact, his unhappiness seemed to be directed at the corporal.
Matthew's gaze flitted between the two, sighing slightly as he turned the events over in his head.

Perhaps he should have said something, if the corporal was going to be in trouble for shooting the rebel. But then, if he had, he might have been in the wrong.

At the grenadier lieutenant's order, Matthew turned and headed back to his party, double checking that they were all present and well.
"Move them forwards, corporal," he instructed. "Hopefully we shan't have any more pests to deal with so we can finish before late noon."

Providing the first group of rebels didn't have any friends lurking in the shadows ahead, the area should be cleared soon enough and with ease. If there were more, then hopefully they had sense to follow their comrades' leads and turn tail and run. Cowardly, but they would be massacred by the group of redcoats, as demonstrated earlier.

Matthew watched the other lieutenant cautiously, still wondering if the corporal would be in trouble after the current job was finished.

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[Bog]

"Just there, sir," Gibbons told him and pointed. They would be left for the rest of the column, whenever the column caught up. With the enemy proven to be ahead of them, Gibbons reckoned the two unhappy fellows would be all right until then.

Not that there was any time given to think about it. The lines were formed again and in fact the grenadier lieutenant had gotten his own party on the move again, marching them back toward their initial path.

Gibbons shrugged. "Here's hoping, sir," he said. Then, "With your permission, sir..." it was best to get the lads moving too, or they'd leave a gap in the overall vanguard.

[Chørd]

`Matthew

Matthew glanced aside before turning back to the corporal again, one eyebrow raised.
"'With my permission' what...?" He pressed. He looked across to where the corporal had pointed earlier and noticed the two wounded soldiers were sat, or rather slumped, against a tree.
"Get the men moving forwards again. I'll be following you shortly," Matthew ordered and headed towards the two soldiers, not waiting for a reply from the corporal.

Matthew approached the wounded, crouching down slightly to inspect their wounds. One was the private shot in shoulder, and the other appeared to have been hit in the leg. Both had large patches of blood around the area of their shot wounds, which continued to give them grievance.
"Have you a tourniquet for your leg, private?" Matthew asked one.
"No sir," the private replied, keeping his hand pressed firmly on the wound. Matthew glanced around before pulling out a kerchief from his jacket and passing it to the man.
"Tie it tightly around the top of your leg. Hold fast here, you'll be taken care of shortly," he explained.
"Thank you, sir," the private nodded, doing as he was told.
"We beat them, sir?" The other soldier asked, but Matthew had already turned to catch up with his party. Once back alongside the corporal again he cleared his throat to catch his attention.
"Keep your eyes peeled for any more movement. Next time let's hope we spot them before they get to fire their first volley," he muttered, half to himself. The two wounded would be fine, he was sure, but he'd like to be able to complete the job with no further casualties to report.

---

OOC: S'all I could work up. Tired and got a headache coming on..

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[Bog]

Or maybe this officer didn't understand his role. It was beginning to seem that way. Wonderful. Gibbons saluted again and about-turned, taking comfort in his own experience. "Let's get on with it, lads."

The line moved forward again, every eye searching the surrounding terrain. With one ambush having been sprung on them, no man was keen to be caught so severely by surprise again. Gibbons kept his musket in both hands, ready to bring it to bear in an instant if needs be. This was no way for a soldier to fight, he thought sourly. This was a coward's work, right enough!

There was a crashing rustle of noise approaching from behind and Gibbons stopped, spinning about on his heel to present his musket - but it was only their officer, damn it all, come to rejoin them. The corporal let out a sharp breath and lifted his musket with a jerk. This was becoming ridiculous!

[Chørd]

`Matthew

Matthew cleared his throat nervously, continuing to walk alongside the corporal. He had the feeling he didn't particularly want him there, and just tolerated his presence, but what could either of them do about it? Matthew would rather let the corporal get on with things anyway - the less he intervened, the less likely he would get caught in the crossfire, or make a fool of himself.

The job was boring, but it had to be done.

They pressed on through the woodland, thus far with no more signs of rebels. Perhaps they'd come to their senses and run off before they could be found. Who knew how the groups on the other side of the road were going on, though there'd been know sounds of shots being fired over there - hopefully a good sign that they had not yet run into any rebels.

Up ahead the trees started to thin.
"Hopefully that'll mark the end of our work," Matthew muttered. Unless the rebels planned on ambushing them then and there, they should get out without another scrap.

---

OOC: Again apologies for such a terrible post, wasn't sure what to put...

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[Bog]

The woodland was ending. Ahead of them, an open field could be seen. Finally. Gibbons would not be sorry to be out of these trees. This was light infantry work, dammit. He and his grenadiers were wasted on this. Why hadn't Captain Peter insisted they be replaced by the Light Bobs?

Not that it mattered. They would halt for a few minutes just short of the end of the treeline and survey the ground ahead before pushing on. For his part, Gibbons hoped for a proper fight as they got into that field. None of this sneaking about amongst trees and bushes. It wasn't natural, by God!

At his word, the line halted and the men knelt or crouched down, reaching gratefully for their canteens. Gibbons himself remained standing, alert enough to conceal himself partially behind a tree as he gazed out over the field. It didn't appear as though the rebels had prepared any further surprises for them, but appearances could seldom be trusted.

"Hopefully, sir," the corporal replied, even though he hoped for entirely the opposite. They had only shown these spineless bastards a fraction of what grenadiers were worth and he longed for a chance to make a proper display of it.

As it turned out, he was not to be disappointed. Well ahead, a lone figure on horseback raced into view, passing swiftly from one slight rise in the earth to disappear out of sight behind a distant barn. Gibbons' attention was instantly caught but for several long seconds, it did not appear that the horseman signified anything important.

Then there was a dull bang and a familiar long whistling. Oh damnation. "On your feet!" Gibbons cried, his gaze following the track of the heavy round shot as it crashed through the tree canopy overhead. Branches showered down on him and his comrades as another ball ripped through the treetops.

"Reform to line!" Somebody was shouting from away to Gibbons' left. "At the double! Reform into line! Reform!"

[Chørd]

`Matthew

Matthew scowled at the field ahead, hoping they wouldn't be expected to march through there and search it. It was better than sitting around in camp performing chores and drill, but he knew most of the soldiers resented the work. The corporal himself didn't seem best pleased with the whole affair either. Damn it all, the grenadiers probably weren't being put to best use being ordered to do this work...but orders were orders. There was sod all the lieutenant could do to contest them, not unless he had a perfectly good

Once they'd fully emerged from the woodland the line was halted, the soldiers all taking quick drinks. Matthew stood beside the corporal, following his line of vision when he appeared distracted by something - a horse and rider, it turned out. Probably a rebel, but he doubted the horseman posed any threat to them, particularly when the figure headed behind the cover of a far-off barn. The lieutenant turned away, rubbing his face slightly, but paused when he heard the distance sound of a cannon being fired. He glanced over his shoulder, eyes widening slightly as the drawn-out whistling grew louder.
"Jesus!" He hissed, ducking instinctively as splintered branches and twigs fell down. The men scrambled to react to corporal's order, just as surprised by the sudden fire as everyone else.

Ah, great. Couldn't end the job on a positive note could they? No - the bloody colonial bastards had to pound the men with roundshot!

"Move them back towards the other groups!" Matthew shouted at the corporal, heading back towards the others. They were slightly ahead of the other formations, and he decided it would be better to join them. At least then he'd be near to someone who know what the hell they were supposed to be doing. What on earth were they meant to do anyway? You couldn't use firearms against artillery.
The poor injured buggers left in the woodlands were probably wondering what in God's name was going on, though the sound of heavy roundshot tearing up the foliage and the urgent shouting of soldiers most likely made it obvious that the group were under artillery attack.

Matthew approached a Captain-Lieutenant from his regiment, looking just as confused as he did.
"What do we do, sir?" He asked, frowning slightly. Retreat back, warn the others, or - God help them - retaliate?

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