The voltigeur fired just to the right of Lieutenant Dubreton, the foul smelling smoke obscuring his view of the fleeing Spaniards for several moments. He could tell from the laughter of the other men under his command that the shot had missed.

“Really Alexandre,” said the Lieutenant in a mocking tone, “you shoot as badly as you make love – or so Madame d’Estaing tells us.” The comment drew hoots of derision from the men.

Private d’Estaing, the newest member of the voltigeur company of the 18^th Regiment de Ligne, swore loudly and began the familiar routine of loading his smoothbore Charleville musket. “Why doesn’t the Emperor give us rifles like those damned British green jackets?”, he protested.

“Next time you’re in Paris Private d’Estaing, call at the Imperial Palace and ask him,” the Lieutenant replied, “but for the moment our concern are those two filthy peasants”, he continued, pointing at the Spaniards.

The larger of the two stopped momentarily to fire his musket but the range was too great and the ball went wide. Seeing the French running towards him he turned and fled knowing that just a little further along the track a small group of British Riflemen were encamped in a ruined farmhouse.

 II

Rifleman Watkins at last managed to get the wood to catch light in the remains of the fireplace. The farmhouse was little more than a ruin, but at least it provided some shelter from the wind. Now he could get a brew going and get warm again.

Lieutenant Jack Blunt strode up, “How’s my tea coming along Watkins?”, he enquired.

“Be ready in a few minutes, sir,” came the reply.

“Good man, good man. Bring it through to the drawing room would you,” said Blunt with a wry smile. He was looking forward to a quiet few hours with some tea and a two week old a copy of the London Times. A cavalry vedette of Hussars from the King’s German Legion had ridden past and reported that there were no French within miles. The only excitement of the morning had been a pair of rascally Spaniards who had approached asking for musket cartridges. He’d spent ten exasperating minutes attempting to explain, in his very limited Spanish, that they were equipped with the Baker rifle, not regular muskets.

“Sir,” called Rifleman O’Connor pointing along the track, “Look, it’s those two Spaniards again.”

“What do those bloody rascals want?”, he replied looking wistfully at the mug of tea and the newspaper.

“Dunno sir, but they’ve brought company! Frenchies!” shouted the Rifleman. Within a few moments each man had a loaded Baker rifle pointing along the track.

By MOS