(start of something new, I hope)
16th August, 1808
Lieutenant James Henderson of the Worcestershire Regiment, or the 29th Foot, was drunk. Blindingly drunk. He hadn’t admitted it himself until now, even though the men had jeered good-humouredly and clapped him on the shoulders for a while. But when he hadn’t been able to walk in a straight line without the help of Sergeant Rostern, and his eyes were burning stubbornly, his pride dropped a little. Already the men would think he couldn’t take his drink. Lightweight Henderson, not Lieutenant. He almost stumbled again, but the strong arm of the Sergeant buckled his fall and he regained his balance easily.
“Watch the puddle in front, sir. Wouldn’t want you to get those nice shiny boots muddy, would we?” Sergeant Rostern said, grinning. James looked at him peculiarly; it seemed the Sergeant had always been there for him and other young officers, even on the horrible sea journey. Like a guiding hand, the veteran Sergeant was always there to send you in the right direction. Beneath the harsh grey facial hair, bony face, and barking voice, there was some degree of geniality.
James managed to turn his intoxicated head to the right and glimpsed in the dark street a group of British soldiers holding a screaming woman down. He tried to point his arm in a vague attempt to tell the Sergeant to put a stop to it, but Rostern just shook his head sombrely.
“There’s nought we can do now, sir. Leave them to it is as best,” he muttered, pulling the Lieutenant further away from the scene. Other soldiers were doing the same everywhere. Some would say they deserved it, nobody knew if they’d still be alive tomorrow. The French had more men, and the whole of Europe was under Monsieur Napoleon’s control. Why should a little army under an unproven General be any trouble?
James was a patriot, a true patriot. He’d die for his country. He considered himself superior to any Frenchman, but that didn’t mean a victory was ensured whatsoever. Wellesley may have had some success in India, but the French troops had beaten the Austrians, the Russians, the Prussians, everybody. The English hadn’t won on the continent for many years. No, a defeat or a bloody victory was the more likely outcome. So the men took some pleasures while they were still available.
(*Update*)
He stumbled again, but the Sergeant was on hand, as always, and they made it most of the way back to the tents with the help of a friendly Corporal with the pale yellow facings of the 9th foot. As they walked over a bumpy ridge to the mass of infantry, overwhelming the plain, they were distracted by the sound of a squabble between two doughty Portuguese civilians, whose raised voices shattered even the numbed, doused hearing of James Henderson.
One man, tall and dark, was illuminated by a nearby hanging lantern, which assisted James in seeing his aggravated face. The Sergeant, if he had noticed the men, which he must have, didn’t show it, and instead attempted to pull the Lieutenant back to where the rest of the battalion were. But James was having none of it, and tried to shrug him off. His head was spinning, that’s true, and he doubted he could walk unaided, but a Sergeant wasn’t carting him around. Not a bloody Sergeant. He was angry. Angry because he shouldn’t be drunk. Angry because he shouldn’t have let himself get to this state, but he was young and new and thought he had tried to make a good impression on his men. But it had got out of hand, and now a bloody Sergeant was trying to pull him around. He was also probably angry because he was filthy drunk.
“Get off me, Rostern. My head hurts but I’m not one your buggering pack mules,” he scathed; perhaps too harshly because he recognised the Sergeant was trying to help him.
The Sergeant obediently released him, “Of course not, sir.”
“What the hell are they arguing about, anyway?” he asked, rubbing his sore head. His confident speech was rare for such a novice officer, but Henderson had never been scared of men from the streets. He’d grown up with them, despite hailing from an aristocratic family. His father was an Earl, but he was illegitimate, and so he wanted nothing to do with James. The Army was always a good place for unwanted fellows, and so James fought alongside murderers and thieves that were similarly not wanted. He’d been gazetted as an Ensign a year before, and then his mother had convinced his father to pay the money for a Lieutenancy.
“God knows, sir,” Rostern answered, “Nothing to do with us, sir, begging me pardon.”
But James was interested. He had no idea why, but he was drunk, and he didn’t feel like going back and having the officers seeing him drunk. Better to sort out some silly Portuguese argument than face the snivelling faces of people like Captain Featherstone. Another reason for the man to hate him.
He approached the two men, who had their arms flailing up and down, and they were shouting in the Portuguese language that James knew minimally at least. And that would be a compliment. But he reckoned he could separate the two men. One was tall and dark, his black was wet with the rain previously in the evening, and the other was a more rounded, short man with a red face. He had a louder voice and talk extraordinarily fast, too fast for James to catch even a word of what he was saying. Neither of the men noticed his approach.
(*Update*)
“Os Senhores,” he greeted them, “O meu nome Lieutenant James Henderson.” He managed to spurt out a greeting and an introduction, but the cheap alcohol had given him a poor slur, and he doubted whether he could pronounce it properly in the first place, so what he said was probably not recognisable. But one of the men, the tall dark one, turned to him and gazed at him strangely, and James had the odd feeling of being scanned and judged. The man seemed to accept his appearance and introduced himself as José Guomez, and said he was a merchant in Obidos, which was the village the British troops were near and the 95th, the odd green jackets with Baker rifles, had won a quick skirmish earlier there in the day. It seemed the man spoke good English.
James still had one hand on the Sergeant’s shoulder, who had followed him closely behind. He spoke slowly and with concentration, “I was wondering what in the hell you two were arguing about.” He couldn’t be bothered to be polite and the man saw the absence of it and just smiled.
The Portuguese waved vaguely at the short man who had temporarily stopped berating his opponent after the arrival of James, and instead began to look strangely between the two of them as they talked in English, and often screwed up his face, showing his distinct lack of English understanding.
“This man believes I cheated him. He thinks I raised my prices before the English came and then dropped them as soon as you arrived,” the dark-haired merchant said simply. James found this rather implausible, as merchants usually raised their prices as soon as an army arrived, rather than the other way round. This led him to believe the short man was just trying to get himself a cheaper deal. The merchant told him the same thing.
But the red-faced man was impatient and instead grabbed James by the arm and started speaking angrily to him, shouting in Portuguese. Sergeant Rostern instinctively pushed the man off him and told him to get lost. The short man looked like he was going to argue, but Rostern raised his musket threateningly, and the man changed his mind and toddled away.
“My thanks, Lieutenant. I probably could have got rid of him myself,” he ventured, and James agreed as he looked at his biceps and large chest, “But a British officer seems to always scare them off quicker.”
James nodded, and rubbed his head again. The alcohol seemed to be wearing off a bit, because he’d taken his resting arm off the Sergeant’s shoulder, but his head still felt like it was ripping in two. The dark merchant noticed his predicament.
“Want to come in for a rest? I can offer you water and some food if you’d like,” he said kindly, pointing out the modest white-bricked house behind him as his own.
(*Update*)
It blended in with the many other similar sized and similar coloured buildings on the outskirts of the village, giving the impression of tranquil coolness amongst the Portuguese heat. James followed José towards the front door round the right side of the house, an arch shaped opening, with a small protruding roof supported by stone pillars. Sergeant Rostern followed close behind, although he was a little warier.
José stopped just before going in, ducking his head as his six feet plus demeanour prevented him from walking straight in. He took a large sniff with his nose, and smiled. “Looks like we are expected,” he said, and noticing the puzzled glance form James, explained, “My wife has food ready. We are lucky today, no?”
James nodded gratefully. He reckoned some food in his stomach would get rid of the affects of the drink, and besides, he was ravenous with hunger, having not eaten since lunchtime. And that was only a small snack as they had marched quickly and without pause towards the French. James didn’t have a horse and was envious of the other officers who were rich enough to afford a good English or Irish thoroughbred. Rostern, hearing the offering of food, moved closer to Lieutenant Henderson, and looked up hopefully. “Of course your Sergeant is welcome too,” José said and laughed suddenly. He had a strange kindness and instantly James had a strange feeling of danger, like as soon as he walked inside this house he would have to be on his guard. His instincts were playing up, and James blamed it on the alcohol. This man had offered only kindness, and he was just being paranoid, and so happily followed the man indoors.
He was instantly greeted by several sensations; firstly, the lovely aroma of recently cooked food that flowed from a pot half-open on a table; secondly, the lovely sight of well placed pale pink flowers that perfectly contrasted the white walls; and thirdly, the increased temperature. It was hot outside, but a bearable nighttime heat, but inside here it was sweltering, and he almost collapsed as he stumbled inside. And then he saw her.
She wasn’t of the mind-numbingly beautiful category, but something about her innocent brown eyes took hold of him. She was almost normal looking, a working daughter with plain clothes and an almost forgetful body, but those eyes were so mysterious that he couldn’t do anything except freeze and let his breath be taken away.
She didn’t notice him though. After placing down the bread and the cutlery, she scuttled back into the protection of the kitchen on the far side and ignored his very presence. José sat down, ripped off some from the bread loaf and eagerly tore into the food. He motioned for Henderson and Rostern to sit down, and they obliged and took some cheese and bread and ate along with their host. They sat on a short bench, it’s partner on the opposite side, which José occupied, and they sat in silence as they greedily consumed the basic meal.
After a while, the heat subsided, and the food started to have an impact on James, his head became less heavy and for a while he felt somewhat unrestrained. But then, just as the pinnacle of his senses unclouding, she walked in again and took away the dirty plates and threw him back into the realms of confusion. José introduced her as his daughter, called Lorena. She smiled briefly, and as she did, James’ senses erupted horribly and at that moment he felt like jumping up and kissing her sweetly on her small, thin lips. But he reluctantly held himself back and turned to José as Lorena moved out of the room once more.
“She is a pretty one, yes?” José said proudly and as he watched her disappear from his sight.
“She’s rare-looking,” James agreed, careful with his words. Sergeant Rostern nodded next to him.
“She is young, but soon she will marry. I hope I find a good man for her, no?” José said sadly. “It is hard for a father to watch his only daughter leave. Are you married?” he asked, directing the question towards James.
James shook his head, “There was someone once, but it didn’t work out.”
José didn’t probe the subject. “I’m sorry. Love is hard, yes?”
Sergeant Rostern decided to offer his opinion. “Hard as buggery, if you don’t mind me saying, sir.”
José laughed and stood up, “Would you like a drink, gentlemen? I have plenty of wine to share.”
Sergeant Rostern decided to nudge James just to press home the point. But James had already realised his precarious position and declined.
“Thank you very much, senhor, for the food. We must be going now,” James added, and tipped his bicorne respectfully and him and Rostern made their way outside. It was colder than he expected, and for a moment he shivered and clamped his arms together in an effort to warm up. Any remnants of his drunken state had dissolved and he was feeling quite fine, though he expected when he woke next morning, his head would feel totally and utterly abused.
“Sir?” asked Sergeant Rostern, sounding surprised, as if he had something bewildering to tell. James was willing to ignore him, but the particular sound of his voice made him turn, and he saw Lorena standing in the illumination of the lantern hanging from the house, looking at him with those lovely eyes.
James said nothing. He didn’t really know what to say, so he just stood there and looked back, caught in a trance by her hypnotic chocolate brown eyes.
“So…err…I’ll just be going, sir,” Rostern said, raising his eyebrows and moving slowly away.
“Of course, Sergeant,” James said, not removing his eyes from the luscious face of Lorena, who was looking innocently at him, and a brief smile wrapped around her lips again. James walked forward, his boots making a crunching sound on the pebbled ground, breaking the silence of the quiet night.
“What are you doing here, love?” James said.
She placed her thing, petite finger on her lips to signal his silence, and grasped his hand with her other free one. She touched it lightly and smiled again and looked up into his unshaven face. They were close now, inches from each other, and without thinking, he tilted his head and pushed it forward and they kissed lightly, not over-passionately, but with it still made his heart stop beating for just one second. But she pulled away after just a few seconds.
“If my father sees he will not understand,” she said angrily.
“Why in hell not?” James responded, angry, not with her, but because the moment had been cut brutally short.
“He does not like the British. He has sympathies with the French,” she replied calmly, not raising herself to his rudeness.
“With the bloody Crapauds?” James said abruptly, and it shocked Lorena, for she backed away from their intimate distance, and letting go of his hand in the process, “Sorry. Why did you come out here then?”
“I…I don’t know,” she said, a tear forming on her vulnerable looking cheek.
He moved his hand gradually towards her face, and she looked at the ground as he brushed away her tear and caressed her cheek, holding it there for more than a moment, “Are you lonely?”
She looked back into his eyes, and for just a second, those powerful, dark eyes moved back their impenetrable shield to expose just a small bit of vulnerability as she nodded.
“We’re all lonely,” James said, sighing. But the precious moment had gone, and she returned to her natural defiance.
“You must leave, senhor. I’m sorry I ever came out here,” she said, a tear forming on her vulnerable looking cheek, “It was a mistake.”
“No,” he said, moving forward and grasping her hand again, “No.”
She looked up into his eyes, and for a moment it looked as if she would not argue with his decision, but she stuck by her defiance and released his hand painfully and began to walk away. “Lorena!” he called, but to no avail.
And then José stormed out of the house.
It's really REALLY good. 
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