The sharply inclined hills and ridges surrounded the villages of Obidos and Roliça and gave the nearby countryside a rugged and chaotic appearance. Jagged rocks popped up everywhere, mixing into the long grass. But the night had hidden all of this, for now, and all that could be seen in the valley was an intimidating shadow.
Although an army was sleeping near Obidos, no campfires were present, the general order being given to douse all fires to prevent the enemy from receiving an estimate of it’s size. The men were left outside while the staff and senior officers took residence in several of the village’s houses for a far greater comfort.
But that wasn’t worrying James Henderson, Lieutenant in the 1st Battalion of the 29th Worcestershire Foot. He was far more concerned about the small blade that flickered in José’s hand that glimmered in the limited light, as the well-built Portuguese merchant flicked it expertly between his two hands. He was smiling unnaturally, as if he was enjoying it, as if he was visualising the death of the British officer and taking pleasure it.
“Did I not warn you, Englishman, about my daughter?” he said, calmly.
James hesitated. He recalled the man talking about marriage, but beyond that, he couldn’t remember. Anyway, his eyes were too focused on the blade that seemed to be coming slowly towards him, and for a brief moment, panic consumed his thoughts and he wanted to do nothing else except run back to his Company where he would be safe. But he knew he couldn’t run. He had to fight, but he’d never used his light cavalry sabre for anything else except giving his scabbard some weight. And this Portuguese looked like he had killed a hundred men with that knife.
“You hear me, Englishman? I’m going to cut you so you never talk again, yes? Not that you say much anyway,” José said, laughing at his own joke, but it was a forced laugh, and he stopped quickly and narrowed his eyes so they bore into James’ skull and James felt a trickle of sweat appear on his brow. He was scared, and couldn’t even force his hand to withdraw his sword. Always trust your instincts, and for a moment he cursed himself for ever walking into that house.
Lorena had gone. Probably back into the house. He never noticed her leave, but she probably saw her father and left him. Maybe this had happened before. For a second James imagined a mound of bodies of past fools who had fallen into the same alluring trap and died on the short blade that threatened him now.
“Can you use that sword, Lieutenant, or is it glued in there?” José said, his voice echoing in James’s ears. The man was calling him a coward and he had now response. His throat was dry with anticipation and fear and his brain had dissolved into a vacuum. But he dimly understood the jibe, and his right hand cut across his chest to finger the curved hilt of his sabre. It was a cheap sword, nothing special, and James could not remember even sharpening it since the journey from England. It probably was blunt and would bounce off José Guomez who looked like a rampaging elephant couldn’t scar him.
“I’m going to give you one more chance to draw that sword, and then I’m going to slit your throat,” José said grimly. He was strangely calm; as if the upcoming violence was something he did every single day. James gulped; that probably wasn’t an exaggeration, either. What had Lorena said? He had sympathies with the French? He’d have no qualms about slaughtering an Englishman.
James suddenly felt something surge through him. He had no idea where it came from, but some flame ignited within his soul, whether it be patriotism or a spontaneous bravery, he had no idea, but it gave him back his voice, and his easy confidence. He spat on the ground in front of José.
“Your daughter is a good kisser, senhor,” James replied, and smiled as if he was courting a young lady to a romantic ball, rather than getting ready to fight an experienced Portuguese killer.
But he had to half-stumble backwards to avoid the sudden reaction by José, which had skimmed through the air inches from his face. It was more of a probe to check whether he was alert, and James realised he had failed the test, and doubtless the man would realise he had no battle skill whatsoever and would proceed to disperse his guts upon the hot, dusty Portuguese ground.
If his first dodge was clumsy, the second was worse. José was quick, extremely quick, and the blade once again swerved inches from his unprotected neck and James was forced to throw himself awkwardly backwards. He lost his already wobbly balance and fell to his knees, his blue-grey trousers scraping the rocky floor, and he looked to any spectator like the loser of the fight, fallen to the ground and awaiting the final blow. José thought so too, and approached the grounded British officer showing insouciance and expecting nothing more than an easy kill.
But James wasn’t finished. Someone had forgot to tell him when to give up. He must have missed that lesson, because ever since his birth, he had fought his father, his birth right, his position in society, his whole life had been one great struggle to prevail and right now, it was balanced, literally, on the tip of one knife. But he wasn’t going to die in some forgotten Portuguese valley. He’d always imagined dying gloriously on the field of battle, a remembered hero, and while James had always known that was a stupid dream, he didn’t care and so instead of lying their and dying like he should, his right hand gripped the hilt of his sword and he placed one foot back onto the floor.
And whipped out the sword, quicker than he had expected, for the blade was light, onto the advancing figure of José, who was as surpised as James by the speed of the withdrawal, and consequently could do nothing as it sliced through the air towards him. He just stared into the oncoming blade with a frightening display of nonchalance, his dark eyes not blinking as it swung wickedly towards him.
And scratched his cheek. It was a melodramatic sort of cut, one that barely pierced the skin but still bled remarkably, the dark red liquid slipping slowly down his cheek. José stood there, not reacting to the obvious pain, and instead reached out and touched the blood on his check with his finger and gave it one, prolonged lick.
“I’m definitely going to enjoy killing you, Englishman,” José said assertively.
(*Update*)
With a longer reach and longer blade, James definitely had the advantage and therefore more chance of causing a serious wound. But he’d never used a sword, except for the brief lessons back in England, and the man in front of him looked like he had fought with his chosen weapon for decades. The void in experience was astounding, and no length of anything would do much to change it. But that didn’t include James’ stubbornness in the equation. He didn’t know how to use a sword properly, but given half a chance, he’d bludgeon the man to death with it if he had to.
José was moving slowly, watching the sabre involuntarily shaking in James’ hand, as he tried to balance it into a decent position in front of his body. José had the knife poised high up above his head in his right hand, waiting for the moment to strike. But he was acutely aware of the danger offered by the sword, and since his injury he now was unsure whether James had any skill with the weapon.
The seconds trickled by, the moment almost frozen in James’ eyes, time passing like a light breeze on the Portuguese night, and for a while he wondered whether he would die. A sudden dread hit him, because he suddenly realised if he died tonight, he’d have missed out on all the things life offered, a woman, a family; all those would perish along with him. But he shook it off just as quickly, replacing it with a more powerful defiance of his fate, one that strengthened his mindset, and he realised pro-action was his only chance of success. Standing here would only increase his possibility of perishing.
He decided to try a few feint attacks on José, to force him into some sort of action. José would have to get close to unleash the knife on him, while James could stand back and watch him injure himself on his defensive stance. He thrust the sword forward, towards José’s chest, but the Portuguese man spun expertly to the side, and then darted forward, momentarily breaching James’ defence and getting behind his sword. The Portuguese man was fast, undoubtedly, but James equalled his speed with a lightning slice to the right, towards José’s head. But José was ready for it, and moved out of the way easily. James noticed something incredulous on the Portuguese’s face. José was smiling! He was enjoying the fight! James, in complete contrast, was sweating like a pig on a hot Sunday afternoon, and panting. José’ feet were dancing together in a sort of hypnotic way, the pair standing on their tiptoes to give the man faster movement. James’ stance was totally the opposite – flat and defensive. The two participants couldn’t have been any different in this fight.
José struck unexpectedly with his foot, kicking James leg with a lengthy stretch, momentarily crippling James and leaving him unprotected, as he buckled under the pain. José took advantage of this forced benefit, and sliced downwards with the knife, catching James on the forearm. It wasn’t a deep cut, but it was sufficient enough for James half-dropped the sword, as he backed away from the onslaught. It fumbled in his fingers and made him totally unprepared to defend against José’s next attack, which was at his weaker left. But he managed, somehow, to flick his light cavalry sword, 32 inches of straightened death, on inch in width, to knock away José’s knife from stabbing him. But nothing prevented José’s fist from smashing into his nose.
It hurt. He heard and predominately felt the cracking of bone, and under the incredible strength of the thrown punch he lost his stability and felt backwards, landing on the ground badly and damaging his back. But his hands were focused on his nose, which was excruciating, blood was throwing freely, some of it filtering into his mouth, and his fingers could nothing to stem the flow.
José was above him, smiling, but his eyes showed his true feelings. He was readying himself to kill James, quickly. And then hide the body, because a dead British officer couldn’t be explained very easily.
“You are tough to kill, Mr.Henderson,” José said begrudgingly, “And that is why I will enjoy this even more.” He raised his knife and paused it melodramatically. James wasn’t consciously breathing, for he had paused to wait for the death stroke. Instead he felt himself screaming inside for the Portuguese man to kill him, and hated the long-winded moment before it. Just kill me, he thought, just kill me and be done with it.
Then the loud discharge of a musket shattered the mostly silent night, and José was thrown backwards. James, from his position on the ground, could see nothing, but heard quick footsteps coming towards him and he assumed someone had shot José and was coming to finish him off. But José Guomez was no fool, and under threat of guns, ran away into the night, and disappeared.
James groaned. The blood had soaked his face, and his forearm was bleeding too, seeping onto the dusty ground, and staining the one light brown a dark red. He stared up into the night sky and saw the distant glimmering of the stars, and for that peaceful moment he wished he could live on one of those beautiful things rather than lie here wounded in a god-forsaken, small Portuguese village.
Then a cheerful face blocked his view. James recognised him; it was the friendly Corporal that had helped him earlier. For a man that had just shot a musket and probably put himself in danger, he looked insanely happy with himself.
“You alright down there, sir?” the man asked, happily.
James looked down at his bleeding arm, glanced at the blood on his hands and face, and said, “Do I look bloody alright to you, Corporal?”
“Of course, sir. You’re the very spectacle of a modern soldier,” he said, grinning.
“Who the hell are you, anyway?” James said, although he regretted sounding so ungracious to a man that had just saved his life.
The man straightened up, and saluted, a bit overly officially for James, and he reckoned he was being made fun of. “Corporal Jennings, sir, from the 1st Battalion of the 9th Foot, sir. At your service, sir.”
James almost felt like laughing, “At my service? You’re my bleeding guardian angel, Corporal.”
Corporal Jennings’ grin, if it were at all possible, managed to get bigger. He relaxed and stood at ease again. “Yes, sir.”
“Now help me up from this ground and find me something to wrap round my arm, if you don’t mind,” James said, and gladly took hold of the Corporal’s arm as he offered it down to the Lieutenant. He was strong, and tall. James himself was over six feet, but Corporal Jennings still towered off him effortlessly. He reached into his pack and took out a ragged cloth that James looked at in distaste, but it was wide enough to do the job and Jennings, after clearing up some blood on the arm and James’ messy face, tightened it over the wound.
“Nought to do about your nose but leave it be, sir. Of course, you should probably straighten it before it heals, otherwise you might be a bit of a laughing stock,” Jennings said cheekily, although he had meant nothing by the small jibe.
“What do you mean, Corporal? Battle wounds are always impressive to the ladies!” James retorted, in the same jovial tone.
“So who was that, sir? The man that was attacking you?”
“Oh that was…” James started, and hesitated, because he realised revealing the true identity would probably not be the best story to go round. Portuguese and British relations would dip as a result, and there would be an investigation, and James couldn’t be bothered with it. He’d kill him himself, not lot the local authorities find him. “That was just a robber. He jumped me and was going to finish me before you came along. Lucky you were here,” he said, which seemed perfectly reasonable.
Jennings seemed to accept it without question. “Bloody Portuguese,” was all he said on the matter. “I was just in right place at the right time, sir,” he added modestly.
“You seem to have a habit of being the right place at the right time, Corporal,” James replied, referring to the earlier incident.
Jennings just laughed. “I better be going, sir, if you’re alright now. My Sergeant wanted me to find another Lieutenant who’s gone missing. Can’t be missing before a battle, can we?”
“Battle?” James said curiously.
“Yes, sir. The French have stopped down in the valley, and rumour has it we’re gonna fight them!” Jennings replied excitedly, as if the prospect of having one’s life at risk was something to be happy about.
James nodded but as Corporal Jennings began to make his way, stopped him by touching his shoulder and saying, “Thank you, Corporal.”
Jennings just winked and pulled off his trademark grin, “Just happy to be there, sir.”
Lieutenant James Henderson had survived. But a whole new fight was just beginning.
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