Just to clarify again, these aren't chapters. Just different parts I've written at different times, so this bit continues straight from part 8. Otherwise the beginning is a bit confusing.
But instead of sightseers it was full of blood and death and sweat. Men heaved and breathed their way up the slope, struggling the incline but determined to keep the momentum. It had slowed since the original impetus, and now it was more of a slog than anything else. Ten companies of redcoats were pushing themselves through the rocks and the grass, and approaching the cover of the captivating olive grove, a sense of calm amongst so many chances for panic and fear.
James was still shaking as they made it to the first trees. They were hardly taller than a man, but their bulging branches forcing men to go round and inbetween them, breaking up the column momentarily. Sergeant Rostern was struggling. To battle through the pain, he had been forced to hold his wound with one hand, and climb the ridge with just one arm assisting. Fortunately James had helped, but now the NCO had to lie down on the grass.
“Right flank companies to attack!” bawled Sergeant-Major Richard Richards, echoing across so it’s meaning was unmistakeable. Only half the battalion would climb the rest of the slope to fight the French. James’ company was one of them.
“Stay here,” he ordered Rostern, not harshly, but for his own good. James formed up with the rest of the men under Captain Featherstone.
“Leave behind packs and excess equipment!” came a second order, and instantly the grateful men threw their heavy packs weighing down their backs onto the floor. James followed suit, and it cooled him a little under the pressure of the burning midday sun, but his thoughts were no longer on the heat, nor on the ridge, nor on Rostern. He could only think about dying. It was fruitless to even consider it, but all his entire mind could imagine was darkness, a void of thought or love or happiness, spiralling with destruction and hate. His stomach was suddenly empty, his head dizzy, his limbs vibrating, and everything in his body was trying to prevent him from moving forward. He resisted the temptation to just let go and faint backwards, but he couldn’t be seen as a coward. An officer was an example to his men, and such cowardice couldn’t happen.
James knew he was going to die. His instincts had told him so since the night before that death was stalking him around every corner, and that this was a culmination of several nightmare-filled nights. To him it seemed impossible that this small group of men could even hurt all the French waiting for them up there, and the musket balls would fly and his body would just be a target for blood and pain and death.
The order to keep moving was given, and a half-battalion of the 29th, almost five hundred tired, hot men marched up the last part of the ridge.
* * * * *
The plan was extraordinarily simple, but José loved every bit of it. It was easy to implement and the rewards were great. A perfect plan was one where every single thing that go wrong was either prevented or made allowances for, but to José this plan was so simple that nothing could conceivably go wrong.
It had first happened when he was in Lisbon, trading for goods, some time after the French had taken the capital. Usually when he travelled thus, the capital was busy place of life and excitement, and by the end of his days staying there he had become drunk too many times. But since Napoleon’s army had seized Lisbon, its old atmosphere was subdued along with its normally energetic inhabitants. The presence of foreign troops had caused the capital to become gloomy and forever miserable. No one would buy his goods. José strove from market to market but there was no one in the mood, or had enough money to trade properly. Those who made the effort to talk to him José found had little goods left, most being taken forcibly by the French. José had come with the aim of gaining some suitable wines, but they had been all drunk or smashed. It seemed they were strangling the merchant’s business, attempting to prevent Britain from trading with Portugal.
It was on the third night on his visit, with no money being made, José had been forced to approach the French Governor Lassaut, of the city, who had been given command of the city. The Portuguese royal family, who lived in the Palacio das Necessidades, had fled several months before. The Governor had taken residence in the grand fortress of Sã Jorge, Saint George, placed strategically on the largest of the seven hills that the city was built on. It dominated the skyline, gloomy and threatening. José had decided to attempt to talk with the Governor to explain his situation. As he wandered round the streets, an odd collection of Moorish architecture with later Christian buildings, he was still enchanted by its melancholic beauty, its odd contrasting structural design and quaint alleyways. It was a city of romance, but the French had taken away its life, and already José, by just walking around, could sense the resentment and disgruntlement shimmering just below the surface.
It surfaced as he was making his way, mid-evening, towards the castle, navigating through the streets of the old district of Alfarna. It was a maze of houses and steep winding roads, and as he was making his way through one particularly hot and narrow passage between buildings with his two bodyguards, two nervous-looking men accosted him with knives.
“Give us your money now!” one said unconfidently. He was young and looked incredibly frightened, sweat forming on his brow, and his body action suggesting he’d like to do nothing else but run away.
José said nothing, but moved forward slowly. The man started to back away, but José swiftly grabbed the man’s wrist, and twisted it roughly, so the knife fell out and the man howled in pain. “Why do you think you need to rob us?”
“The French ruined my father’s business, senhor,” the robber spat, wrenching his arm from José’s grasp and looking in disgust at him.
José ignored him and reached into a small pouch tied to his waist and withdrew a few gold coins, and gave them to the man who eagerly collected them, and his colleague stared excitedly too. Without giving thanks they ran off from whence they came and José didn’t see them again.
It was a tough climb up the hill towards the castle, but José and his bodyguards were strong and by the time the sun was setting they came to the front of the grand fortress, even more impressive up close. Surprisingly, it was not well defended, a few sentries guarding the entrance. José thought the French must think there was nothing to worry about. Maybe they were right. José attempted to go through the sentries, but they pointed their bayoneted muskets at him and pushed him back. He couldn’t speak French so any communication attempts were fruitless; and they weren’t in the mood to be generous.
José was about to turn back when a cheerful officer appeared on the battlements high above the gatehouse, and shouted, “Monsieur!” and continued to converse in French to José. Of course, this totally went over the Portuguese merchant’s head and he just shook his head.
“Je ne parle pas francais,” José shouted back, cupping his hands round his mouth. “Parlez-vous anglais?”
The French officer nodded amiably. “I speak a little,” and he shouted in French down to the sentries who grudgingly allowed José to walk into the courtyard that greeted visitors to the castle. The French officer walked down the steps two at a time, and shook hands with José vigorously. “Welcome, welcome.”
“Why did you let me in?” José inquired, a little harshly, wondering why the officer had let in an unknown Portuguese.
The French officer laughed at his question good-heartedly, ignoring the antagonistic tone. He was a handsome man, with a well-shaved and cared for face, and clothed in smart uniform, pristinely kept. He wore a bearskin hat, which signalled to José he must be a Grenadier. The role fitted the officer, for he was in excess of six feet, and was at a similar eye level to José. “I let you in, monsieur, because all the other Portuguese are too scared to come up here. But you just walked up without any fear. I like that in a man. What is your name?”
“José Guomez,” he replied, dropping his guard a little. José knew the man was just being kind and there was no point in returning that with unneeded hostility. Besides, this may be his chance to speak with Governor Lassaut. “I’m a merchant from Obidos,” he added as an afterthought, thinking it proper to introduce his trade.
“I am Captain Henri Confian. I’m an aide to Governor Lassaut, at the moment. Very boring work, but better than risking my life, eh?” he replied, and laughed at his own joke. José managed a smile. “I assume you came here to speak to the Governor? About why you have no business?”
José nodded, surprised at the French Captain’s insight. “I was hoping to acquire some wine in exchange for some of my olives. They’re well renowned around here, usually. All my normal business contacts seem to have disappeared, though.”
Henri ignored most of what José said, except one particular part. “You have olives?”
“Lots. I own many olive groves.”
Henri grinned. “You may be the right sort of man I am looking for.”
And the plan was born.
* * * * *
“Why aren’t we moving?” gasped James, as they waited just before the crest of the ridge. He knew the French were waiting just beyond that bump in the ground, but it seemed odd the advance had suddenly paused. “Why aren’t we moving?” he repeated, to no one in particular.
Five companies of British soldiers lay just out of sight of the French in front of them. The British had been under fire for a good number of minutes, from flanking French infantry. But it wasn’t doing terrible damage, and as the British now neared the summit, their fire was limited due to difficult angles. James took the time to check if the men near him had loaded muskets, just to pass the time. It was still boiling hot, and many of them didn’t answer their Lieutenant’s question because they enjoyed the brief wait before having to walk into the enemies’ frontal fire.
They weren’t moving back, and they weren’t firing either. James wondered if Lake had lost his nerve. It didn’t seem likely. James’ heart began to pound again and the French to either side of the British began to mechanically pour musket fire into the paused British. James once again felt his limbs shaking and felt like diving to the floor and clasping his arms to his head. But an officer must show nonchalance, and so he just had to stand there, and attempt to hold his hands and legs still.
Men were falling. Not many, but it was a slow whittling down of much needed men. James wondered once again why they had stopped. It put his mind off the close reach of death. Then he saw Lake riding over towards their company, on his impressive grey horse. He must be an easy target for the French, so high up, James thought. A miracle he hasn’t been hit.
And as if God was listening to his thoughts, Lake suddenly was thrown sideways off the horse, as the grey beast stumbled forwards and collapsed to the other side.
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