http://forums.taleworlds.com/index.php/topic,254320.0.html was the original, so might as well make it here too.
"The Battle of the River's Crossing" - A story from the map River Crossing and on EU1 today.
It was evening, the Russians had just started ending the evening, the red sun slowly setting over the green field. A river flowed quietly through the middle of the field, between the Russian camp and the quickly approaching British, with one large regiment* and a vanguard of troops approaching the Russians on the right. The river was not shallow enough to cross through the water so they were forced to cross on the bridge, a small village was set around the bridge. On the other side of the river, the Russians quickly got up and ready, grabbing muskets, swords, and pistols. Militia from the last Russian town were with them, gathering they bottles of Vodka, pikes, muskets, and farming equipment. They took position behind rocks on their side of the bridge, awaiting for the vanguard to approach. Russian heavy cavalry and some hussars rode quickly to the left, through the shallows of the river, on land their hooves beating the earth like many loud bass drums being slowly pounded, a roll of artillery sounds in the north, opening holes in the village houses and putting gaps in the line of the British line. The British vanguard quickly tries to cross the bridge, and gets slaughtered by the Russians awaiting. The Russian cavalry swoops through the British lines, killing many, some escape to the village houses. The Russian artillery** pounds the houses till the British regiment retreats back to their cannons to reform. The Russian militia charges foolishly across the bridge, only to get slaughtered by skirmishers left to fend for themselves in the buildings. The British reform quickly, rushing to the shallow to take out the artillery and close in and crush the Russians from both front and back. The artillery men fight to the death, taking several British with them, blood spilling everywhere, cannoniers slowly dieing on their cannons, British soldiers with stained bayonets, as they were only able to win by close fighting. Some Russians cross the bridge to flank, getting slaughtered by British cavalry,skirmishers, and the rear guard. A cloud of smoke all around the Russian camp from musket fire, the Russians slowly taking back their camp. The ash stained Russians from round after round shooting at the British, charged with bayonets. The British officers slashing with their swords, firing pistols, the infantry smashing each other with the end of their guns, stabbing with bayonets. The battle clouded by smoke, cries of pain and anger droning in fields. After an hour, the British soldiers, surrounded and out numbered, surrendered, giving into the Russian officers. And night fell, as the British flag fell to the ground.
*Regiment was the 32nd Regiment lead by Col. Lance
**Artillery was by 92nd Lt. George MacKintosh and Nr57 Hauptmann PrideofNi.
"The Betrayal on the Bridge"
It was early in the morning, the French had quickly overnight got to the huge mansion on the island, water surrounding it on all sides. The gentle wind was whistling throw the air, the waves of the water gently smashing on the sandy beaches, the warm sun beating the the green grass, warming the French soldiers. They smashed out windows preparing for a fight, the artillery men made a whole in the house facing the other mansions to the north. Private Bruce Dunken* was warming himself in the light in the middle of the house. Warmth. Something he has not felt since before the war. The breeze from marching gone, the cold air of Russia, finally finished in Russia, now being chased by Britain. Just great he sarcastically thought. The British had been stationed to the east, having a boat and a bridge to cross the water to get to their position. Before breakfast, the sappers had gone out with dynamite and wooden boxes. That means one thing. Blow the bridge. The loud boom awoke the troops, in perfect time for breakfast. To the east they heard the english shouts from the British officers. The french officers had looked to their camp with spy glasses. They shouted quickly, "British on their blasted boat of theirs, soon to arrive. Prepare the artillery and load your muskets." A quick volley came from the windows facing eat. In seconds the rooms were crowding with smoke. Within five minutes the boat reach ashore. Fifteen soldiers came out, their red shirts and green facings. The 51st. We popped shoots at them, firing at will, and as quick as possible. After a couple minutes of shooting, we charged outside to meet them. Bayonets ready we quickly took them. Blood stains on Bruce's bayonet, he went out through the water to the other mansions, a few following. The enemy was greeting him there. Ready to take him and his followers. and the first English soldier flailing around, nervous and young, not a killer yet Bruce thought. In the back artillery was readying to shoot towards the enemies towards the north, the new recruits reloading the cannon loaded canister, pressure and carelessness had taken him, and within the minute, the cannon was ready to fire. Youung Bruce had just about beat the young English soldier, when mini bullets whizzed past his ears. Like dozens of bullets flying past your ear.
Pain. Sudden pain. The most pain since his whipping, more pain too. His knees collapsed. Blood spilling on his uniform, and quickly covering his stomach he was he legs with holes in them, he took his hands off his stomach, a bullet hole, right underneath his chest. He looked for the British soldier, not a killer yet he thought, believing the young opponent was dead or giving him mercy. Quickly his eyes spot him on his side, no blood on his uniforms. The British soldier grunted and shoved his bayonet into Bruce, right in the chest. Smoke soon covers the area of where he dies, bullets flying from both sides. More men fall. The British wade through the water, taking causalities as they walked slowly. But soon, the French house had been taken by the British. Smashed windows no long surrounded by smoke, or death, but of silence. No British cheers, no French discussions. Silence.
*Private Bruce was me, forgive me for not providing the story with a more French name and totally ignoring French ranks.
