As much as I hate to do this, I'm putting this one on hiatus now, as I've been working on a new idea that's apparently much more interestin. Thanks for reading this though, I've enjoyed writing it thus far but a break will let me come up with a better ending. In the meantime, any comments will be appreciated and take on board for the remainder of the story, and please check out 'time to love' my next story. Thanks again...

Part 18 - 1813 - Battle of Vitoria

It was 1812 and I was in Spain. Ciudad Rodrigo to be precise. Lambert, or Wellington as he was now known, was leading the allied army of Britain, Spain and Portugal, but things had been going badly as of late. Just when we thought we had Napoleon on the run he would manage to give us the slip and hit us with a stronger army, as had been the case with our most recent retreat, first out of Burgos, then Madrid and finally Salamanca leaving us all the way back in Rodrigo.

In the years that I had been fighting at first alongside, and now for Wellington he had gained many commendations for his tactical brilliance and bravery. The bravery was something he should have naturally, but his ability to adapt and create new tactics on the fly was something of a joy to behold. One would think that a man who was god knew how many years old would run out of ideas or become stuck in his ways, but not him, and I suppose this was possibly a large reason behind his extended existence.

He had decided to put me into a special team that would carry out certain duties that the ordinary men could not do, and now we had been together for a few years we were developing a bond.

I was designated as the leader based mainly on age and experience. A requirement of joining our squad was being told our true nature, and none were close to my age. I took orders from Wellington, and often his underlings, relaying them. Often I would also need to think on my feet and direct the team on the go. Those were the more exciting missions. Other than that I would act as lookout constantly, often unsheathing my rifle to fire off a shot when none of the men even noticed an enemy presence.

My number two was Taffy Walters. When he was in battle mode he was unstoppable, a whirlwind of rage, and at all other times he was loud, brash, ignorant, rude and hilarious. I shall get to some of his antics later.

DeCosta, the Spaniard was interesting. He had been born blind, and his mother had decided that rather than raise a blind child she would abandon him, so, in the dead of night she took him in a basket deep into the woods and left him in a cave. I wont tell you he was raised by the animals out there, as that would be ludicrous, but he was able to survive somehow, taking on many traits of the bats who inhabited the cave which he called home. He was able to see through vibrations in the air, so sensitive was his hearing, and his power of smell was almost on a par with mine. Since he couldn't see it coming he did not fear death, which allowed him to move freely and without second thought. His weapon of choice was a blade he had bought from a travelling Japanese man, and he used it with deadly speed.

Then there were the twins. From Yorkshire in England, they had been brought into a life where mining down the pits was commonplace for a toddler. They survived this by being strong, powerful and unrelenting, but most of all by being excellent thieves. They were able to steal food from their fellow workers enough that they were able to grow much larger than the other children of their age. When they were old enough they would often replace the shire horses pulling the mine carts, and their brawls in the local pubs were the stuff of legend. They were quiet most of the time, focused, never relaxing, always on the lookout for a score. Many an enemy outpost found itself unable to defend itself thanks to their plundering. And they still had an almost inhuman strength about them. I never caught their individual names, but they both answered to Gammon. Not sure why. I never asked and they were not story tellers.

The most unlikely member of our gang was Yardley, an old fellow who's diminutive stature gave off the impression of a frail old man. However, he was anything but frail, and he moved with incredible speed. This was not what made him special though. He had spent thirty years in the mountains of Asia living with a chapter of monks. From them he had learned not only martial arts from millennia ago, but the ability to channel his energy into a form of magic. Be it a fireball or a glimpse into the future, his abilities never ceased to amaze, and I would often think of him as my most valuable player.

There were others of course, but this was the core of our group while many came and went, either falling at the hand of the enemy or finding they were not up to the task.

Our group was a part of the rifle corps, and we were developing a name for ourselves amongst not only our countrymen but also our enemies for our speed and aggression in battle. We skirmished like devils and reviled in the spoils.

During the retreats we had been at the rear, protecting the men as they were evacuated from city to city. A far more dangerous task than you would think as we would be the front line for the enemy to fire upon. I took many shots and arrows while shielding my fellow soldiers.

And so there we were, in Rodrigo, awaiting our next order. It didn't take long to arrive. I was cleaning down my rifle when Wellington himself approached. The others stopped what they were doing and snapped to attention, while I remained seated, concentrating on the barrel. When I could see he was standing directly in front of me I carefully placed the gun barrel on the ground and looked up slowly. His face was neutral as always, impossible to read. He looked around the space, a small outdoor area where we had set up our tents. "As you were." He said in a low voice and my men dropped out of view. "Efficient team you've assembled here, Castor."

"Thank you." I smiled wryly. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"I have a mission for you." I chuckled low and deep, but he chose to ignore me. "We are going to move on the enemy in a flanking formation."

"Sounds simple enough, so what brings you here in person?"

"Well." He let out a deep sigh. "I want you to go hard at the centre. The flanking move will be by the infantry, I want you to break through and get to Joseph Bonaparte."

"A hostage mission?" Now I was interested.

"If we can get Jo then we should be able to leverage the hell out of his brother." I nodded. This was going to be more interesting than I thought.

The sun beat down on the dirt outside of Vitoria. Light was glinting and bouncing off the helmets and weapons of the French who were lined up a few hundred yards away. Our force was a few thousand, their many more, but we knew we held a key advantage. It was the first time we had been set loose against a large force, and now was the time to prove our worth.

I raised a hand bringing my men to a halt. Taffy came to my side. "One or two of the stinky fuckers, isn't there?" He said.

"Think we can handle them?"

"Piece o piss boss." I always enjoyed his confidence.

"Gammons?"

He surveyed their lines before answering. "Hard at it boss. Won't know what hit en, will they."

"Good. Have Yardley bring some fire." Taffy nodded. "Lots of smoke too. Let's make things fair on DeCosta shall we?"

He laughed a low, menacing cackle. "Aye lets fuckin ave a go then." And he staked off to find the others. I could see the Gammons now, flitting from man to man no doubt picking up as much ammo as possible. I smiled. It was time. I raised my bow. I always liked to kick off a battle with my bow. I could see the ripple in the French ranks. The leader was on horseback and he looked pompous and soft. When my arrow was lodged in his throat he fell like a sack of potatoes. This caused the enemy to rush so raised my hand and pointed forward, taking off at a run. It didn't take long for me to reach them, and now I was feeling them fall. On the way I had fired a few shots and now I was going hand to hand, tearing and smashing. Hot blood splashed my face and that was enough to set the sparks flying inside my head. Then it went dark.

As requested Yardley had thrown a fireball at their centre and followed it up with smoke. Now an early darkness fell. It did not slow me at all. The French however were in panic. Many were now finding they had no ammo. They were an undisciplined mess, and they were running around like headless chickens. The Gammons were pounding anything that moved, DeCosta was slicing through the dark with grace and Taffy's wolf ravaged the blue clad enemy like a dog with a bone. The only one I didn't see was Yardley but that was normal. His movements would be so fast and fluid even I would struggle to see him in battle.

I could see we had the battle won after just a few hours of fighting, and their command tents were now visible. I called my men and led a charge to the tents, taking an enemy trooper and tearing out his throat with my teeth as I ran, drinking the blood and feeling the electricity in my veins.

We reached the tents and I peeled back the flap of the largest, walking in. The place was full of French officers, and in the middle was a character in old style armour and a cape. Our eyes met and for a second he held my gaze until he broke off and ran. I would have caught him but for the explosion. He made for a large pile of gunpowder and lit the fuse. It was between us and when it blew it sent me flying. The last thing I remember of the highly successful battle was a sight of my quarry disappearing in a cloud of dust.