Young Writers Society

Bear in mind these aren't chapter numbers. I have no idea why I'm saying this, I just don't want people to be confused. This is just the 5th part I've posted on YWS. I can't be bothered sorting out chapters as yet.

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It was almost impossible to breath – the dark basement was consumed with the semi-translucent smoke of cigar fumes and the echoes of merry laughter. The room had no windows or exit points, so it just built and built until an almost shadowy wall of smoke existed. José Guomez found it an arduous effort every time he wanted to inhale, and periodically began to cough. His eyes were stinging, but his pain tolerance would lead to greater rewards. The men in this room were worth more than his breathing, because these were the men who would help him make a fortune and secure his family line.

They were an odd bunch, he mused, as he looked up and down both sides of the long table where they sat. Some of them were scarred horribly; especially one man, who had a hideous wound that cut through one side of his face. The years had moulded it into his skin and it looked like a particularly unlucky birthmark. Some of them were old; one man bearing the last whiteness of his hair, and others were young; in particular a young lad barely old enough to shave. But they had a few things in common. They were all merchants. They all hated the British.

And they wanted to be rich. That was what had brought them long distances from throughout Portugal, Lisbon to Oporto - an obscure message from the eastern merchant José Guomez, promising them gold and silver in return for aiding the French in Portugal. At first José had feared patriotism would be a big stumbling block, but it seemed some of the naïve ones sincerely believed the French would be a stronger ally than Britain. Others fully realised they would become a puppet of Napoleon but were defeatist, knowing that any success against the French war machine was a far-off fantasy. Whatever their political beliefs, their undeniable greed was the same.

José coughed exaggeratedly to gain their attention. The conversation didn’t die instantly but instead tailed off after a few seconds, the raucous of noise fading to silence. They swivelled their heads down to stare at him at the head of the table, and José, used to such attention, smiled and realised he was in his element at last.

“Gentlemen! You have travelled here from all corners of this beautiful country to hear what I have to say. I congratulate you on your determination and your duty, because when you listen to my plans, you will not be disappointed, I’m sure. It is possible we will save Portugal and become rich at the same time!” he delivered eloquently to the crowd of men. He spoke clearly, not loudly, but his deep voice resonated and echoed in the small room and everyone could undoubtedly hear his words. Their patriotic hearts would spur them onto his side, thought José, but even more so man’s attraction and ambition for money would help him win them over even more. No one chatted as he paused.

“Today is just the beginning! By the end, we will be filthy rich, and Portugal will be rid of its enemies at last!” José spoke in a grandiloquent manner, his hands waving to support his mouth. He wasn’t being entirely truthful. France would still be there, but if he had his way, France would no longer be an enemy. “I know you all love Portugal. It is a country as patriotic as it is unmistakeably picturesque. From the luscious beaches to the bold green countryside, our hearts are entwined with the very soil we stand on. So why do we sit here and let foreigners control us like mere sheep?” José was in his stride now; the words were being spun from his mouth like an artist painting a picture. He was starting from the bottom, but by the end, he would be left with a masterpiece of a speech and everyone would fall at his feet.

He had their attention. From the start, a few had occasionally yawned and made other gestures of boredom, but now no one moved and instead hung on his every word. Except one man, placed securely at the back, who interrupted.

“You mean the French, senhor?” and stopped to laugh out loud, which shattered the silence that had consumed the room until then. He was a small man, but had a short untamed beard, and his always moving eyes added to the image of a wild man in the hills. “We can’t stop them treating us like sheep. They do it to the whole of Europe.”

The eyes of the crowd had swept to this new man who was arguing, and back to José who stared into the man’s defiant eyes for a while.

“I am not referring to France, senhor.” José replied, fighting the man’s strong gaze.

There was an instantaneous intake of breath synonymous across the room. Every man had gasped at José’s statement. One man, after a long, awkward pause, decided to ask. “So who are you referring to?”

José took a long breath, and began to paint his first masterpiece. “Britain.”

Instead of the previous rapid inhaling, instead there was an uproar of shouting and falling chairs as men in the room threw themselves into a fury. “Britain are our allies! They fight for us!” bellowed one man against the backdrop of loud noise.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, please!” José shouted above the furious response that threatened to overwhelm the tranquillity of the room and situation, but his voice was strong enough to quell most of the arguments. Most of them men gave him dirty looks, a few picked up grounded chairs, and peace was mostly restored, except for a few grumbles from the back.

“Mr.Guomez, please explain to us your hare-brained scheme and I’ll be taking my leave. I don’t enjoy wasting my time with pro-French sympathisers. I have better things to do,” growled a man near the front, a rich-looking fellow, with a golden chain, and a small amount of grey-white hair left on his mostly baldhead.

“My friends,” José replied, opening out of his hands in a friendly manner. “Once I’ve had my say, none of you will want to leave.”

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Next bit is the battle *deep breaths*

YAY!!!!!!!!!

I don't really have anything to say. However, for an eloquent speech, it lacks some of the electricity that it would have in real life. Try adding some more tension, some more feeling, to it.

can't wait for the battle...

Mm-hmm. I can't do speeches very well.

Something to wet your appetite.....

The stamping of thousands of men’s feet on the dry caked ground sounded like a monotonous beat on a drum, thought James. He was advancing in a column along with the rest of the 29th and the 82nd, the two battalions under General Nightingale’s brigade, down the hill towards the French position alongside Roliça. Beyond the repetitive thumping of boots, James could feel the heat burning inside his body and out, from his brain to his skin. It was unrelenting, causing the sweat to form inside his red jacket, and his forehead was beginning to be wet with perspiration. He dabbed it a little with his handkerchief, but it made no difference. He was walking alongside the ranks of his company, on the right hand side, while Captain Featherstone rode the middle. Derek was protecting the rear, not from the enemy, but to prevent any fleeing redcoats.

The sun beat down mercilessly against the forward-moving British and Portuguese troops. Three separate columns were to throw themselves towards the French. One, easily the largest, consisting of four infantry brigades, twelve guns and a small amount of cavalry, around ten thousand men, would advance directly in front. Two others were to perform flanking manoeuvres, and would fall upon the right and left of the French position. James took this all in as he gazed from to each side, able to see the flanking columns above the other men’s heads due to their slightly higher altitude on the low ridges. If the Major he had conversed with before was correct, the unhurried wandering of the British forces might result in the French retreating swiftly to better, fortified placements than now. He fretted, but reckoned the judgement of the experienced men above him should be sound.

The men had barely made any significant distance from their original positions, their cautious approach due, perhaps, to the indomitable French or their rawness in continental warfare. It was hard to judge whether the Generals or the men were more nervous. Some of the former galloped round anxiously on their powerfully bred horses, checking every detail and preparing themselves. The latter kept themselves busy, checking weapons, uniform, thinking of home or family; anything to prevent their mind from falling into the trap of fear.

James was attempting to do the same. Memories of home and family were painful, so he crossed that thought off the list. Suddenly, his cheeks went a bright red, and he realised with a horrible embarrassment what he could do to pass the time. Feeling like a novice fool, he grabbed his pistol out from its holster. He was sure the men would see him, but there was nothing he could do about it now. Sergeant Rostern, beside him, was already looking inquisitively over at him.

He remembered what he was taught, pulling the hammer of the flintlock pistol back to the half-cock position. Without this precaution, his face might be splintered by the ball firing prematurely, which was something usually avoided for obvious reasons. He reached into his hip box, a brown leather holder, and pulled out a cartridge. It was difficult while walking, but the pace wasn’t too fast, and at the moment he experienced no difficulties. But the tough part was yet to come. James would have to bite off the top of the cartridge, and pour the released powder onto the priming pan and down the barrel. He managed to rip it open with his teeth; however, some dropped into his mouth and a little floated to the ground. The gunpowder tasted salty and he tried spitting it out but it stubbornly remained. In the hot, dry weather it stung his arid mouth even more. Clumsily, he managed to pour half of the remaining powder into the opened priming pan, and just about was able to pull the frizzen upright between both of his full hands, while attempting to keep walking straight and looking where his feet were going. It was better than taking an unloaded pistol into battle, though.
He swivelled the pistol upwards until it was pointing towards his face, and dropped the remaining powder straight down the smooth barrel. The ball, resting in his right hand that was also holding the pistol, was taken by his now free left hand and placed it into the barrel after the powder. The ramrod, attached to the bottom of the pistol, was removed and James pushed the ball down hard to the bottom. Then, using the cartridge paper, which he had just about held on to as he usually forgot to secure the ball, was pushed down afterwards too. James left the pistol on half cock and decided to hold it in his right hand, to prevent it from firing into his leg.

He looked up and saw the French retreating.

The blue mass had left its original formation and begun to move backwards with extraordinary competence. The infantry had swung round magnificently and begun to march hastily towards the tall ridges now towering in front on them. The British advance had faltered; they couldn’t now hope to catch up the French moving from them. James looked across and saw the men of the flanking columns far from their designated areas of attack and it was apparent the French might be able to slip away. For a second, James thought that the small cavalry attached to the British might be able to attack the retreating French forces, but his answer came in the form of horses appearing underneath the bold white windmill that marked the original French position. The cavalry shone in the heavy sunlight. The presence of them and well-trained French infantry would prevent any attack. No, the British advance had floundered and now they could only watch as their enemies slipped through their fingers.

*sigh*

Jacky, what am I going to say...

I don't know, you tell me....

IT WAS TOO GOOD!!!