The empires guardian platoon
"Is it me or is it hot sir"
"I do so belive it is hot, I"
"I wish I was back in cloudy England"
A platoon of 120 crouched hiding in woodland not far from not far from Midrid. The British's European campaign was marching easterly into France.
The men were waiting, waiting, waiting. Waiting for the army to push his Spanish majesty to flee to his long standing ally, France. The British had been driven out multiple times by the French but this time he was going to fail to flee. A commander and his platoon had supposedly died on the battlefield but had tricked the enemy. The Spanish general had emerged with two sets of cavalry, one for him and the other surrounding the cart the Spanish monarchy were hiding in.
The stayed waiting, beginning to saver the defeat of a nation that they were about to taste, waiting. The cavalry's were getting closer, closer and closer, but they continued to wait, the cart was closing, you could hear the horses breathing, gasping, the men spluttering in defeat, and could see the sweat on their brow. Waiting they continued but readying their weapons, the muskets loaded and aimed, the swords readied for after the volley. The first horse, scouting ran past, completely missing them, they waited. The Spanish general came closer and closer and closer. A shot goes off, BANG, THUMP, the general is dead, the commander rifle smokes.
"Now lads charge, for king and country"
All the muskets fired and smoked now, the majority of the generals guards had fallen and same as the Spanish carriage horse's, they charged with screams that would make a banshee scream in horror. The most of the cavalry retreated but the few that stayed tried to protect the Spanish king were taken care of easily with the swords plunging deep and flying lead orbs going out the other side with the blood as a fresh water spring poring out like overflown rivers. They had lost no men but they were still blood thirsty. The commander stood proud as he opened the carriage door. The Lieutenant wandered behind him. As he opened the door a girl blasted out at him and started hitting and slapping him. He threw her to the troops so they could, handle her, then the sword came to his throat. The Spanish king held it in his hand. It, engraved with gold and clean as the day it was made was a poor move by the king. A large arm flailed around breaking his arm and the sword fell to the floor. He looked at his uniform, his face shows an expression, he basically sees the devil himself in his eyes, a dark blue military trench-coat with of red highlight and inlays and a dark green and black tartan kilt and a black three pointed military hat. Colonel James booth also known as commander booth of the elite. He was a large man of 6ft 4" and built like a brick.
"you, and your family, your majesty are now claimed by king and country of Britain" he said looking the king in the eyes with his brown blue eyes "senior" with a smile.
"Commander what will we do with the" the lieutenant asked
James shoved the king back into the carriage. "Think of them as a gift to the general as our requiem of death" he said as he turned around to his men. The lieutenant was standing there, he was a small fellow of 5ft 5" compared to James, he and the rest of the platoon were wearing a British red uniform but in a dark blue, they also had no hats, non but a few though as victory souvenirs.
" right men, I need you to let the girl back into the box, with her family, and I require 9 of you to help me pull this crate back to the fort" commander James shouted to his men
And as he had ordered, 9 of the his troops had gathered and shoved the now festering, limp, horse's body's away for them to pull the carriage back to the fort. It was about 12 miles back to Fort paz, funnily named peace in Spanish because it was to symbolise everlasting peace between France and Spain.
They marched back with haste and determination for it would only be a matter of time until France would charge back to retrieve Spain, after hearing from their spy's that the Spanish monarchy was captured . at the pace that they set it only took them 4 hours to get back and the sun was setting in the distance with an ominous orange glow of the fires that lit midrid after the siege. General George Williamson was the man that was in charge of the British army and he would be, pleased, to see that they are safe.