EXCERPT Except for the single picket, the surviving members of the already under
strength company of Red Coats assigned to escort the convoy now lay exhausted on
either side of the rutted track. They had fought hard, buried their dead,
cleaned and then reloaded their Brown Bess Muskets, and now they finally enjoyed
the kind of sleep that only seasoned soldiers could achieve. That practiced rest
that could take them from being fully asleep to wide awake and grabbing for his
musket in a split second.
Around them the wagon drivers had fed their oxen, and pulled their wagons into
a ragged defensive square that allowed for the state of the land, and now they
also slept. Not that fifty men and a hand full of Wagoner’s could put up much of
a defense if the raiders attacked again. The air was full of flies, brought on
by the dung and the assorted animal and human corpses. Death always brought
flies. Death also brought the smell. Not the full blown rank odor of decayed
flesh as the bodies had only lain there for a few hours, in the may sun, but the
smell of copper, that always seems to follow the spilling of blood.
Thwack! "Bloody flies!"
Henry took no notice.
Thwack! "Bloody stupid flies!"
This time Henry sat up. At five foot ten inches with a lean body, sun bleached
hair and lines eaten into his skin by the sun the wind and snow over the last
ten years, he looked far older than his years. He pushed to his feet and
stretched, his bones cracking and his muscles rebelling from the lack of sleep
and over exertion. Henry turned round and stared across the land just turning
green now that spring had arrived. To the unwary eye, the landscape looked flat.
However, it was marked with hidden valleys that offered an all too real
danger.
Henry stopped, and turned back to look at the companies youngest and newest
recruit. "Wilf."
"Yes Sergeant?"
"Leave it."
"But Sergeant…"
"Wilfred, there are more flies than men and horses in this god forsaken
country. For every fly you kill, hundreds, maybe thousands will take its place.
Now. Go. To. Sleep.”
"Yes Sergeant, bloody flies."
Henry laid down, closed his eyes and dozed. Around him rested his company, or
what was left of it. They had started out from Liverpool as the light company of
the 4th Battalion, the 47th Lancashire. Regiment of Foot. The Battalion had been
drawn mostly from Liverpool and the West Lancashire area. They had been farm
boys, factory workers, jail bait and a lot in between. A hundred and twenty men
and their five officers, of the light Company had marched along with their
comrades from Liverpool to Portsmouth to take ship to join up with the rest of
Wellington's Army heading for Lisbon. Now here they lay, fifty men, and he, for
what it was worth, had been left as the ranking Non Commissioned Officer in
command of what remained of the battalion.
Henry sighed. Sleep was no longer an option. He stood up and stretched out
again then let his gaze search the horizon. Somewhere out there were the locals.
They were supposed to be friendly welcoming their liberation from the Russian
and Prussian armies, but outside of the big cities and towns as far as the
people went, nothing changed. Whoever ran the country beat them, stole from
them, and treated them like shit. Offering aid and comfort to one side got them
killed by the other. So, the best defense to these people was to hide. He knew
how they felt. Back in Liverpool it did not matter who was on top, it was always
those at the bottom who paid the price.
As he worked out the kinks Henry reviewed his life. He had been a soldier
almost longer than he could remember. He had been born in the Liverpool slums
close to the quays that brought the city its wealth, the result his mother told
him of a fumble with a sailor. She had died when he was young, twelve, he
thought. At that age he had a choice. The army, the sea, the factories or a life
of thieving. Henry had tried the sea, and found he was a poor sailor, and had
spent most of the trip outward bound being sick. Then on the way back he’d
knifed a man who thought that the cabin boy provided other services to sex
starved sailors. Worn out by the sickness, Henry had fought back the only way he
could with the knife kept under his pillow. On arriving back in Liverpool,
before action could be taken, Henry grabbed his few belongings, and cash from
the Captain’s cabin, then jumped ship.
He lived on that money for sometime and then tried thieving, and almost been
caught. The idea of being hung or deported for stealing did not appeal to him,
so then Henry tried factory work. He’d survived that until his eighteenth
birthday, or what his mother in one of her less drunken moments had told him was
his birthday. His good looks and large size which his mother told him came from
the large Swedish sailor that had fathered him, attracted the ladies. Henry had
lost his virginity within the first week of arriving at Porters Rope Works. It
had been in the warehouse on the coiled rope waiting to be shipped out. The
woman pushed him down, opened his trousers, lifted her skirt, and mounted him,
then rode him like a horse, her large breasts free of any restraint bouncing as
he moved up and down. It all happened so fast, that it was over in minutes. The
woman climbed off and smiled leaving him laying there. That was his first time,
but not the last. Over the next four years, Henry enjoyed the perks of the
factory, including an older woman who worked in the office.
Milly had been almost twice his age, and a widow. She made no bones about it,
she missed the sex. Henry filled that gap, and as well as teaching him a few
things that came with practice, also taught Henry to read write, and do sums.
"A man that can read, can go places," Milly had said. He would have stayed
there forever in that hell hole, but he’d gotten in to a fight. Henry had fought
many a man in his short life, but this one was different. This one was the
boss’s son, and had decided that there wasn't enough room for two cocks in the
hen house, and instead of getting his father to sack him had, taken a swing at
Henry. The idea was to not only take over Henrys place with the women, but show
the men how tough he was. Henry had ducked, and floored him with a single punch.
The years of working in the factory had strengthened him. The young thug then
came at him with a four by two, and swung hard. It hit Henry across the back,
and he went down and rolled just in time to see the boot coming. Henry had
dodged it, and was back on his feet and punching. A straight right to the face
broke the man’s nose. Another one closed his right eye. Henry had kept punching
until at last he had been dragged off and the bosses son lay on the floor, a
bloody mess.
"You better make yourself scarce," one of the men who dragged him off had told
him. "The boss is going to have the watch on you for this."
Henry had nodded, grabbed his coat, dashed back to the hovel he lived in, and
while he picked up the few possessions he had thought about his future. His card
was marked. Every factory owner in the city would have known about him within
hours. Every one will be happy to hand him over as an example to others. The sea
was out. So, what had he been left with?
Henry had thought about it for less than an hour and then made his way to the
local army Barracks where he had signed up. They didn't ask questions, and Henry
quickly settled down. The training was hard, but he’d found he enjoyed it. With
his size and his fists, nobody tried to make him supply other services. So, what
was the first thing the army did after he had finished training?
March him half way across the country to Portsmouth, and put him on a blasted
ship again, and send him out to join Wellington’s army in Portugal.
Henry was sick. All the way from Portsmouth to Lisbon. He was not the only one.
The army liked value for their Money. They crammed soldiers into those transport
hulks as if they were Negro slaves, and once the ships hit open water and the
first man was sick that started a reaction, and others joined in. Soon you could
smell the transports for miles down wind.
Men died. They had nothing left to bring up, but still they tried. Their bodies
went over the side, giving a little more room to those left below. The journey
seemed to last forever, but at last the foul smelling fleet arrived in Lisbon
and the weak soldiers staggered down the gang planks and on to firm land. Henry
vowed he would die before he ever set foot on one of those hell ships again. If
the French broke through, he would fix his bayonet, to his Brown Bess Musket,
and charge the enemy single handed, just as long as it meant avoiding the living
hell of the army transport ships.
However, the French did not break through. They reached the great redoubts that
Wellington had prepared, and they died. Then, having failed to carry the battle,
sat it out and starved. They’d died of hunger because the French Army lived off
the land. Wellington had stripped the land of everything. Every last grain of
wheat. Every sheep cow goat and chicken were either brought inside the Earth
Works, or destroyed it instead of letting it fall into the hands of the enemy.
The French had just one hope. Set up a supply line all the way back through
Portugal and Spain to France. However, that meant heavy escorts for each convoy,
and escorts needed feeding, so very little had managed to reach the troops
surrounding Lisbon. In time, the French army started its long retreat back to
their mother land with Wellington followed them all the way the French border,
picking the time and places to hit them.
Henry was there, at every little skirmish and battle from Lisbon to the French
border. All the way through until the British, along with their Portuguese and
Spanish allies, had looked down upon the fields of France. It was now the turn
of the French to feel what it was like to have an invader kicking in your door.
The combined forces had stood ready to fight their way to Paris. To see French
towns and cities burn, as they had been forced to watch the destruction of both
Spanish and Portuguese towns and cities. It never happened. True, they attacked
Toulouse, but in April 1814, Napoleon Bonaparte, the scourge of Europe
abdicated, and went into exile on Elba.
Henry's war was over.
Once more, a King ruled France and Henry and with the rest of the army now
marched to the coast and those bloody death hulks that stood ready to take them
back to England, and peacetime duties. All he had to look forward to now were
garrison duties. Either in England or perhaps as he now, thanks to good luck
hard work and his Captain - A maverick officer called Berry - wore three
stripes, as a recruiting sergeant, he could enjoy a nice little posting where a
half naked native girl could fan him.
Or, god forbid, he might end up at the Fever Isles. He had heard of those
places. Men died faster than flies in those god forsaken places.
It wasn’t to be. Within a few months of reaching Liverpool, news had arrived
that another war broken out and the Forty Seventh started recruiting once more.
They marched across England. This time to Harwich to board another bloody hulk,
to join Wellington's New Army and headed for Antwerp. Now here he was, laying on
a bloody road in the middle of no where, waiting.
"Horses coming, Sarge." On the small hill to the left Nat Higgins covered his
eyes with his hand. Many years ago, Nat had been a farm boy, and added the odd
rabbit to the pot with the combination of his sharp gaze and a sling shot. Now
those eyes helped to keep him and the company alive. "Look like French."
Henry stood up and pulled out his small telescope. He had found it on a body
some years past and hung on to it rather than trade it. Now, until somebody else
took over from him, he played the role of an officer. He focused on the
approaching horse men. Even with a telescope, Henry could not make out the
uniforms.
"French flag at the front," Nat added, and then Henry saw it glitter in the sun
light.
"Christ Nat your eyes get better," he spat, Henry could still taste the grease
and black powder from the cartridges. "Bloody French." Henry muttered. "Trust
them to arrive too late to be of any use." He replaced the scope, and lay down
on the grass, and placed his Shako over his eyes. The ground shook as the horses
came closer. "Can't a man get any sleep around here?" Henry asked himself as he
sat up. He looked up once more towards the approaching troops. He was angry. "If
they had only been an hour or so earlier, then.…"
The troops loomed closer, riding at a full gallop, their colors flashing in the
sun. Then just as it appeared that they were about to ride right over the
British troops, and without a word, the four man wide column spilt, and
surrounded the decimated company.
"Who's in command here?" An N.C.O. asked, as he rode into the centre of the
British soldiers.
" That would be me." Henry brushed the dust thrown up by the horses off his
already dirty uniform.
"Don't you stand up for a superior officer or N.C.O. in the British Army?" He
pointed to the fact his sleeve showed the rank of R.S.M.
"Wouldn't know, never met a French man who was superior to an Englishman yet.
Any way, I am only used to seeing French backs as they ran away from us, and it
is hard to read a rank when somebody is running."
Henry's men started to laugh.
"May I suggest that you ask your tailor to put your badges of rank on your
trousers backsides. It would make it easier for us."
The Frenchman reached for his heavy saber. "Why you! I was in Spain. I saw
plenty of British backsides as you ran like hell away from us."
Henry knew that his temper at the late arrival of these men had pushed him over
the edge. He should not have said that, but it was too late. The French man was
about to kill him. In one fluid movement that came from years of practice, Henry
stepped forward, grabbed the man’s foot, and lifted him out of the saddle and
dropped him onto the ground. Then, as the French N.C.O. tried to sit up and grab
his pistol at the same time, Henry swung his Brown Bess off his shoulder, cocked
it, and brought the large bore muzzle up until it was inches from the mans face.
The man turned white as he found himself staring down the barrel of Henrys
musket.
"I would think very carefully about your next move if I was you. At this range
this thing will blow a hole through you without bending.” As Henry brought his
gun up, the fifty surviving members of his company aimed and cocked their heavy
weapons.
"Covered, Sarge." Years of practice by the veterans had been instilled into the
few recruits the company had received.
"If you take a good long look," Henry remarked without taking his eyes off the
N.C.O. sitting on the ground in front of him. "You’ll see that every N.C.O., and
almost every man in your company, has a Brown Bess aimed at his belly. At this
range, the ball would blow out their spines."
"More riders coming, Sarge." Nat called out.
"Christ! Is this the only road in this god forsaken country? Why the hell are
we fighting for this piece of dirt anyway?"
"Lancers, Sarge." Nat stated. "But it looks like the Union Flag at the
front."
Henry rolled his gaze towards to the sky. “Hells bells, why me Lord?" As he
stood there waiting for the worst, a detachment broke off, and galloped up
towards the stand off.
"You men!" A dusty British officer shouted as he approached. "For Christ sake,
lower your guns. They’re our bloody allies you stupid fools!" He reigned in his
horse, a big black brute of a thing, in. “Who's in charge here?"
Henry stepped forward, and gave the man a right out of the book salute. "That
would be me, sir."
"No, I mean.” He took a deep breath and looked around. “Where are your
officers?"
"Feeding the worms, sir."
The young officer brushed the dust off his uniform, and stared down at the
filthy N.C.O. "Are you trying to be funny? Bring your officers to me now! I want
to ask them why they allow their men to point guns our gallant allies."
"Do you have a shovel sir?" Henry asked.
"Yes, of course I have a shovel."
"Well if you go across to that mound up on the little hill, then dig down about
three feet, you can ask him himself. Mind you, not that he said much when he was
alive, he left that all to me, and I don't suppose having half his head removed
will have done much to improve his speech."
The young officer stared up at the row of earth mounds, realizing what they
were. With a sneer he then looked down at the sergeant. "You, Sergeant are going
the right way to receive a flogging."
That was the final straw. Henry looked up at young fop with his daddy bought
commission and snapped. "And you sir," he whispered, "Are going the right way to
end up in ground along side of out friend over there."
The fop pulled back on his reigns, causing his horse to rear. Henry stepped
back as the young officer lost his seating, and finished up in the dried mud. As
he did, the lancers behind him started laughing, as did the French troops. For
the troops under the control of the battle green court fool, it had proven to be
a wonderful sight.
The man pulled himself up, spluttering, spitting dirt as he turned to his own
N.C.O. "Sergeant! I want this man arrested and flogged now!"
"General Officer approaching, Sarge." Nat called out.
"Bollocks! What next, the bloody Arch Angel? "
The newcomer was stout, short and balding. His Grey coat covered with the dust
that seemed to make up this world. It was hard to put an age on him, late
forties, early fifties? Henry had never met this general, but he had seen enough
paintings and busts of him. Only a few years ago, Henry would have been promoted
on the spot for killing him. In front of him was the scourge of Europe. Napoleon
Bonaparte.
As Henry watched, a rider broke away from the column, and within minutes a
British Major, a red faced man who seemed a bit old to be holding that rank, was
staring down at both the fop, and Henry, from the saddle of a large grey heavy
cavalry horse.
"Charles," The new arrival said. "The Emperor would like to know what is going
on here?"
Henry spat. "He’s not a bloody Emperor. He’s a bloody thief that should have
been hung for stealing. That's the trouble with this world," Henry went on. "I
steal, and your lot would hang me. He steals on a larger scale, and he gets to
call himself Emperor, and you lot kow tow to him. Christ why don't you just put
him up for saint hood and have done with it.”
The Major’s face colored as he took a deep breath. “Well, in that case, the
General would like to know what is going on here."
The fop gave his side of the story, and Henry could not help it, he laughed.
"May I ask your name?" he asked the young officer.
"Not that it is any business of a guttersnipe like you, but it is Dorset.
Ensign Charles Dorset."
Henry spat again. "Well, may I suggest you are wasting your time in the army.
You should leave and take up writing. That was the best work of fiction, I’ve
heard for many a year. You could make a decent living spinning yarns like that."
Henry smiled as he heard the French R.S.M. mutter. He’d picked up enough French
over the years to understand more than the basics. "Bloody officers. Christ, why
don't they go away and stop bothering real soldiers?"
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Children`s Fiction
Non-Adult Fiction
