Campfires (open)

[Bog]

The mixed group scrambled to fall back, as much in obedience of the lieutenant's order as to rejoin the rest of the line. One man was knocked sprawling by a falling tree branch but Gibbons hauled him up again by his crossbelts.

"Form into line!" He was taking up the cry now, even though most of the men had by now assembled into two neat ranks.

He heard, as he took his place in the first rank, the question asked by the lieutenant who'd been with them. What do we do? The answer was obvious, at least to Gibbons. Fight. It was well-sited artillery but a firm advance by infantry should disperse the gun crews.

"It seems we're going forward," the other Fifty-fourth officer replied, sounding a little put out. Precisely why, Gibbons couldn't guess. Did he want the glory only for his own regiment?

Captain Peter lifted his hanger over his head. "Shoulder firelocks! At the quick-step, march!"

Good, Gibbons thought. It was going to be a fight.

[Chørd]

`Matthew

Matthew nodded in response to the other officer's answer. He'd expected as much - he just hoped he wouldn't have to assume any authority in the situation. Still, he was relieved he was the only subaltern around, nor the only officer.
"Aye," he nodded again and spun on his heel to head back to his group again. He wondered why the officer sounded a little disappointed, but didn't bother to ask - it was probably best to get back into line before everyone could start advancing without him.

Matthew was already heading back to the group again when he heard an officer shout an order. He hurried himself a little, rejoining the corporal and the privates, frowning slightly. Back to this awkward work again - what joy.
Hopefully the American artillerymen would turn tail and run when they saw the redcoats coming for them, or wouldn't provide them with any more surprises. A spontaneous guerilla ambush and being suddenly put under artillery fire was enough to keep them on their toes, that was for sure.

Matt walked two or so paces ahead of the front line, hand resting on the hilt of his sword in its scabbard and watching the other soldiers behind him. They weren't the only little section to be forming up the front of the advance any more; another group lead by a twenty-third subaltern had joined their right flank. The roundshot kept whistling overhead but if the soldiers kept moving forward, Matthew guessed the gun crew would have to keep adjusting their guns to fire the correct distance which hopefully would slow down their firing. He hoped they only had round shot, and no canister or shrapnel.

He glanced over his shoulder at the corporal, then turned his attention to the following sections, before looking back round to the front again. The sooner they got to the site of the cannons, the better. It wasn't that he was worried the artillery would best them before they could give as good as they got, but the lieutenant was starting to feel his ineffectualness kicking in again.

---

OOC: Matt's uselessness combined with my tiredness and evil computer has spat out this tragic excuse for a reply. I just couldn't leave it any longer though D: Sorry!

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[Bog]

Somehow, it was easier to keep his composure when under direct fire than when there was only the the uncertain anticipation of being fired upon. Gibbons kept his gaze directly forward, more to show he had no fear of the enemy than not. If they were more than two companies advancing, the hail of round shot would be something more worth fearing.

"Steady now, lads," Captain Peter called. "Keep your dressing!"

It wasn't that much farther before they'd be at the base of that small rise. Without a doubt the rebel artillery was placed behind it. Gibbons felt himself grinning. If there was one thing he liked most of all, it was turning these yellow bastards to flight.

Captain Peter's voice came again. "Charge bayonets! Advance at the trot!"

Here we go, Gibbons thought, levelling his musket. His captain's last command was better suited for cavalry, but the men understood his meaning. The line stirred into a brisk trot, managing somehow to keep cohesion as it moved forward up the little hill. When they reached the top, they would see their enemy, no doubt caught in the middle of trying to adjust their guns' elevations to meet the redcoats.

That was only a fanciful thought. Gibbons topped the hill and looked down to find himself looking squarely down the slope at a waiting line of bayonets. Oh Christ.

Captain Peter wasted no time. "Halt! Present! Fire!"

[Chørd]

`Matthew

The enemy artillery continued firing but, thankfully, it didn't seem to be doing much damage to the moving troops. It was reassuring to think that over the ridge hiding the rebel guns from sight would be a gun crew scrabbling to adjust their cannons to the correct angle to try and inflict some damage on the advancing redcoats.
They'd better show them they should pick their fights better.

At the Captain's order, the soldiers quickened their pace to a gentle jog, Matthew drew his sword from its scabbard, baring his teeth slightly. If they wanted a skirmish, they'd get it.

Just like the others around him he was expecting to find the sight of a panicking American gun crew in the midst of fiddling with their guns, but almost skidded to a halt when he found a line of bayonets glinting at him.
"Jesus..." he hissed, wishing he had a musket with him as the lines fired. Fat load of good a bloody sword was when you couldn't get near the bastards to start killing. No, the most you could do was stand idle, bark orders and be an obvious target to the enemy.

With luck they'd only fire a few volleys and then they'd initiate the charge, then he could get stuck in.
The rebels already had their guns loaded and primed in preparation for the redcoats appearing over the ridge and returned fire. A few soldiers on the fore-most lines fell back or dropped to their knees, which only boosted the rebels' ego.
Gutsy little things weren't they? But they'd make them turn tail and run.

Matthew waited in anticipation of a Captain's order to reload and fire again, or to charge, his fingers curling tighter around the hilt of his sword.

---

OOC: Second time writing this up thanks to my darling dog... D:<

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[Bog]

Both lines fired at each other nearly in the same instant. The result was murderous on both sides. Gibbons felt a ball slap against his leg and cursed, but kept himself upright through sheer force of will. He would not fall. Not while these cocky bastards stood formed before him.

Captain Peter sounded devilishly calm when he shouted, "Forward with bayonets!"

It was the only order worth giving in the circumstances, Gibbons thought. They couldn't waste the time to reload - doing so would give the rebels the same opportunity. Better to show these sneaking fools how a proper soldier fought!

"At 'em!" Gibbons thundered, all but leaping down the slight slope to plunge his bayonet into a startled Yankee's throat. It was one thing to take a redcoat line by surprise, but could these pathetic excuses for men stand up when that same line closed with them? They hadn't done before. The grenadier kicked the dead rebel off his bayonet and speared the man behind him, who was fumbling to bring his musket to bear. Too slow!

[Chørd]

`Matthew

Finally the order was given to charge - or near enough. It had felt like a long wait whilst the two volleys were fired, before the Captain barked another command that sent the redcoats charging full-speed into the line of rebels. They all looked a little pale when they saw the British bayonets and swords heading straight for them, or at least that's what Matthew thought as he cut across one's front with his sword, grinning through bared teeth.
He turned sharply to parry a blow from a rebel thrusting his bayonet in the direction of the officer. The two steel blades clashed against each other for a few seconds before Matthew gave the younger soldier a kick and cut him down.

Some of the rebels were already turning away, though most were caught in combat with the redcoats, which had got themselves worked up into a killing frenzy, some shouting incoherent words at their opponents.

Matthew turned to stab his sword at another Yank, gritting his teeth in frustration when the blade got stuck in his back. As the man dropped to his knees he managed to twist his weapon free, then, panting, looked for more enemies to kill. For the most part, the redcoats looked to be making short work of the rebel opportunists, but that was providing they didn't have any more tricks up their sleeves. They didn't fight fair, with their ambushes and spontaneous attacks, but when they did skirmish in the shadows they often claimed a fair few lives. On the other hand, going face-to-face with a redcoat military unit in an open space was madness. Perhaps they knew it too, because some were now turning and running.

Matthew cut his blade across the stomach of another rebel, then gave him a shove over, glaring down at him for a moment.
He swore as he felt a bayonet catch his side, and whirled round to face his next opponent, blocking his second attempt to stab him by parrying the blow with his sword.

Finally the rebels seemed to be officially retreating, their gun crews included.

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[Bog]

There was no containing the grenadiers this time around. Being permitted to charge the enemy which had dared meet them line-to-line was like setting hunting dogs loose. The result was a madness of stabbing, slashing, and bare fists. Here and there the odd musket barked amid the greater clamour of angry shouting voices. The only object was to kill.

Gibbons had left his musket buried bayonet-first in one rebel sergeant's midriff and fought now with his hanger. He was no less dangerous for it. Hack, slash, parry. Grenadiers were at their most lethal in close quarters, for they were trained to fight not only with musket and bayonet, but also with sword. The big-framed corporal was employing his sword to bloody use now, ignoring the pain in his leg and the increasingly-desperate attacks from the crumbling rebel line.

When the Yankee ranks broke, the result was a flood. The spineless bastards weren't withdrawing so much as they were in full flight, many dropping their weapons as they went. The redcoats streamed after them, baying like foxhounds fresh on the scent. Gibbons himself was amongst them, utterly heedless of the blood staining its way down his leg. The enemy would not get away. Not this time. Shouts from their officers were unheard, or, if heard, were being ignored.

[Chørd]

`Matthew

The Lieutenant hesitated when the rebels broke into a full, disheveled retreat. A lot of the Yanks threw down their weapons and sprinted as fast as they could from the redcoats, who were charging after them, screaming their incoherent battle cries. It was a wonder how, in the heat of the battle, somewhat civil and refined men could transform into bloodythirsty killers.

Matthew didn't go with the privates, who looked as if they intended on running the Americans down. The officers, positioned a little way back, were shouting as loud as they could to call their men back and try and regain control, but their voices were lost amidst all the noise. Their sergeants and corporals had run after the enemy, and seemed either oblivious to the reform orders being bellowed, or were simply ignoring them in the haze of the battle. Matthew ran after them, hoping he could find a corporal or sergeant who he could tell to bring the men back. For all they knew, the rebels could have been feigning a retreat only to lead their enemies into an ambush - though he highly doubted it. They were cunning, sly bastards sometimes, but it seemed their luck and plans had been trampled on for today.

The Lieutenant managed to find a corporal from his own company, and ordered him to attempt to rein the men in. Gradually some slowed in the chase after hearing their corporal and officer shouting to them, though most continued on, oblivious and obstinate that the day's fighting was not over.

The other officers were approaching, not wanting to lose sight of the men and be entirely out of earshot.
Matthew shrugged at the thought of the redcoats catching the Yankees again. Ah well. The poxed bastards deserve to be taught a lesson. Let them chase them.

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[Bog]

The pursuit, so eagerly begun, came to an abrupt halt when the fleeing rebels ran straight through the formed ranks of a grimly silent Yankee regiment. Another bloody trap!

"Form!" A sergeant was screaming, the first to recover his wind enough for speech. "Form, m'lads! Sharpish - "

The waiting rebels, with their mates safely clear of the killing field, fired.

[Chørd]

`Matthew

But apparently, their luck and plans had not yet been snuffed out by the British, as over the edge of a ditch-like slope in the field, waiting in formation for the charging redcoats, was an American regiment.

Matthew heard the sergeant's shout before he saw the waiting Yankees, and hung back as some of the men ahead hastily forming into some sort of line were shot down by the first volley.

He cursed violently, not just because the bloodybacks had fallen into another trap, but because he simply didn't know what to do. The sergeants and corporals hopefully had control, and if they didn't then he was sure as hell no one would listen to the lieutenant anyways.

There was, at most, about 100-200 redcoats facing, at the very least, 300 rebels. While he knew that to be certain of a chance of victory, it was best to outnumber the enemy 3 to 1, the Brits still didn't stand much of a chance. They'd been fighting all this time, and now they were faced with fresh troops firing lead into their force. Matthew wanted to order they fell back, but figured he'd wait for someone other than a subaltern to give that order. He didn't want to open his mouth and find out he'd made a mistake that would wind up up with even more of the men dead.

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OOC: Truly, terribly sorry that this is so awful. Matthew just isn't 'talking' to me at the moment...and hasn't been for a while. ¬_¬

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