It was still minutes before dawn would break, the countryside was motionless, but gradually lifting itself from the night time rest and beginning to come to a slow life. While the odd farmers were awake and working already, most of the village population was hours from disturbing their peaceful sleep. But an army was already at arms.
Breakfast, if it could be called that at all, was their main preoccupation. They had cleaned their muskets lovingly, putting them carefully into the ground and pouring hot water into the barrel, stopping only when the used water came out clear from it’s cleaning. After that, they had dried the barrel in the baking Portuguese heat and poured a little oil to lubricate the inside. If possible, the outside was oiled as well, and another small part of oil spared for maintaining the condition of the ramrod. And they went further, cleaning the pan to prevent a failure in the heat of battle, wiping off powder remains and rinsing it. Some checked if their flints were working, a NCO shouting a warning to ignore the shots while a few tested their weapons. Luckily, most muskets had been unused, as most men hadn’t even seen a battle, but meticulous care was still granted to their tools. Every man was learning, weapons first, food later; because miss breakfast, and survive another day, but if your barrel jammed in the midst of a volley, there’s no one to save you.
Lieutenant-Colonel Lake, commander of the 1st Battalion of the 29th Foot, had called an early morning parade before the expected battle. All of the tired men and their unenthusiastic offices congregated a the top of a small hill, overlooking the Roliça valley, feeling rough and undoubtedly hot, as the strong Portuguese temperature was a strong contrast with the ordinary coldness of British soil. Major Way has told the Colonel thus, that the men were irritated at what they called a waste of time.
“Nonsense, Edward, nonsense!” he responded, replying to the Major’s complaint with his Christian name. “The men must be clean and properly dressed! This is a very important day!”
“It is, sir?” Major Way asked, slightly confused.
“Of course, Major! This will be the battalion’s first European battle! We must be appropriately decorative for such an occasion! Don’t want to look like a ragged unit, do we?” Colonel Lake spoke enthusiastically.
“I suppose not, sir. But don’t you think it’s a little overboard?” Major Way asked.
“Nonsense!” Lake countered, voicing his favourite expression.
“The officers observe no other battalions are pursuing a similar course,” Major Way said tactfully, careful with his words. Lieutenant-Colonel Lake was a fair man, often overly excitable, a real extrovert, but did take offence to direct protests against his will. Major Way pointed over to the rest of the British position, where the remainder of the army was performing no similar displays.
Colonel Lake was standing in front of the whole battalion, which had formed itself into companies and had manoeuvred into four ranks deep, an odd battle formation, but for a spectacle beforehand it fitted well; the ten companies had placed themselves in a long line, the Grenadier Company with their customary tall bearskin hats occupied the right flank, while the Light Company took the left. It was terrific amalgamation of bold red with silver epaulettes and yellow facings, which stood out against the divergent green countryside background. Lake beamed.
“A beautiful sight, Major!” he said, proud of his men, and Major Way meekly nodded to please the Colonel. “Our Battalion must be better than the others!” Lake continued passionately, “While they sit down and rest, our men are ready and willing! We must be the shining star of the whole army!”
Lake’s enthusiasm was overpowering, and even Major Edward Way had to admit that the spectacle was a great sight. He had seen them parade back in England, but on a drill ground it just wasn’t a comparison to a diverse battlefield. The partly risen sun reflected off the arranged bayonets, swords, muskets and pistols so that the whole line was almost like a glimmering iridescence, but at the same time, it emitted grittiness and hardiness throughout – the tall proud men weren’t just a pretty image to be admired. They would fight today, and they would fight hard. For many it would be their first battle, but it wasn’t as if fear consumed them, for some, the opportunity to rid themselves of this virginity was apparent, their eagerness coming through. Others were used to fighting, they were born to it – murderers, thieves, drunkards. They provided the core of this battalion, and for all it’s attractiveness stood on this hill, Major Way was pleased to know it wouldn’t break at the first sound of gunfire.
“’Talion, attention!” bellowed Sergeant-Major Richards, an extremely large man with frighteningly big lungs. He was often called Richie Rich, not because he was particularly wealthy, but had the unfortunate forename of Richard to match his surname. His voice was instantly replied by the sound of feet and musket butts slamming the hard ground, and immediately almost a thousand soldiers stood upright.
Lieutenant-Colonel Lake was mightily pleased. He had dressed splendidly for the battle – possibly overdoing it – being as he was in full dress, and had signalled to the stable boy to bring forward his horse. It was a spectacular thing, he thought, a full 17 hands tall, a proper battle-trained charger, a handsome dark brown animal. He mounted it, his sparkling clean boots and best uniform blending well with the impressive beast, and together they were the furthest from inconspicuous as humanely impossible. A man on the other side of the valley would probably have noticed the tall man mounted on the big horse.
“29th!” Lake shouted, although not that loud. It was doubtful most of the battalion could hear him, but others could pass it on. “Today we’re going to fight a battle. And we’re going to win!”
Most of the men that could hear grinned at their commander’s confidence. Such things would rub off on the men and would only improve their morale, Major Way thought. From the horrible hot march the day before, and the cramped sea journey, and the thought of fighting the indomitable French military force; their spirits would be low. Lake was doing all he could to raise them.
“They say the French can’t be beaten! Well I’ve got a secret for you, lads! Today, you’re going to be the first to do it. And it’ll bring glory to you and this regiment!” Lake continued, with sincere gusto.
The men cheered. They liked a simple talk, and they liked self-assurance in their commanders. An indecisive officer was hated by all; but a man that told them what they wanted to hear, and then provided it, he was the one that would be loved.
“Today is the day we start the French running with their skirts between their legs! And when that happens, it means more women and more alcohol!” Lake finished.
This was greeted with an even greater roar; Lake had told them exactly what they wanted. Now it was up to him to provide it.
“Battalion dismissed!” shouted the Sergeant-Major, and the spectacle was ended, for all the companies broke apart and moved back to their original positions lower down, were food and water and rest beckoned. It would probably not be long before the whole Army would advance, but for now, the men would use what precious time they still had.
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Oh god, this is bad. Please, please, please someone help me make it good.
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