Lieutenant James Henderson walked down with the rest of his company, accompanied by the young Ensign Derek Sullivan, a seventeen-year-old from Scotland, who James had befriended on the journey from England. He had vomited earlier because of the thought of battle and was too embarrassed to tell anyone except James.
“Don’t think on it, Derek. Everyone gets nervous,” James said, trying to calm him down a little. He wasn’t doing too well, because the Ensign was still trembling, but that was mainly because James had never seen a battle either, and all he could think about was the horrid feeling he received last night when he thought he would die.
Derek Sullivan wasn’t so sure, and looked timidly up at James. He had an awfully small face with freckles and looked about five years younger than he should, and only stood up to James’ shoulder. Frailty was his middle name; it looked as if his arms would break upon the barest of touches. “You never look nervous, though.”
“I just hide it well,” replied James, but inside he wasn’t so sure. He could think of nothing else but the thought of dying. Being shot, or worse, being cut in half by a cannon’s roundshot on this unknown battlefield, destined to be but another name on some old sheet lingering in the filing cabinet back home. But it wasn’t just the lack of honour and prestige that worried him – it was the fact that if he died, his father would be right.
A tall man mounted on a spectacular-looking grey horse, who frowned at them as his horse neighed at their presence, approached the pair of them as they neared the bottom of the hill.
“Are you ready, gentlemen? And have you seen Colonel Lake! Mounted in full dress, nothing less!” he cried good-humouredly, and then laughed at his own mistaken rhyme. He had a well-trimmed black moustache, which only sought to increase his already apparent wealthy appearance, from the expensive pistol at his side to the meticulously cut hair on his head. He was Captain Featherstone, the wealthiest officer in the Battalion, and James’ company commander.
“Yes, sir,” said James breaking the momentary silence that had took hold since the Captain’s laugh. “Perhaps the Colonel just wants to keep up appearances?”
Captain Featherstone growled, to show the improbability of James’ suggestion. “A bit over the top, don’t you just think?” he asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. “I hope you shall do your duty, gentlemen. This isn’t a day suited for incompetence,” he added, and with that finishing comment that was ridden with resentment, he rode off, dust momentarily blinding Derek and James from the impact of the horse’s hooves.
The heat was still just about bearable, but James thought by midday the heat would be sweltering and looking across the rugged, hilly countryside, he hoped he wouldn’t have to storm up one of the tall ridges that were off behind the French positions. Luckily the French had taken up position a little to the right of the village of Roliça, in a basined valley. Ensign Sullivan was gazing too over towards the French positions, but he had the advantage of watching through a small golden telescope. James asked if he could borrow it and took in the situation for himself.
He focused on the small hill that he could vaguely see a blue mass congregating on. It had a white windmill on the top, spinning slowly because of the lack of noticeable wind, but it was the exact middle of the French position and James guessed it was the central marker for their formation. A road split straight down the valley, going through Roliça and another village called Columbeira, to the James’ left in regards to the French army. Columbeira was directly behind the French and James assumed it would be their line of retreat and most of their baggage and other necessities would in probability be placed there.
Moving a little further back with the eyepiece he looked once more upon the heights behind Columbeira, the end of the valley and was glad he would not have to climb such a sharply-inclined ridge under the fire of an enemy. The French luckily were placed much further up in the valley, closer to the British army. James, as the telescope had consumed all his attention, did not notice the staff officer who had appeared beside him and jumped when he first spoke.
“He won’t stay there,” the man said, in a confident tone. “Delaborde, I mean. The French General. He’ll move back when we attack. He realises he’s outnumbered by about three to one! Unless he’s blind.” James glanced over and saw the man was looking through his own telescope.
“You think he’ll move back to that ridge?” James asked.
“I’d bet my life on it, dear boy,” the man answered. He was much smaller than James, and a lot more aged, probably touching on fifty, James reckoned, as he studied the man. “Do I pass your inspection?” the man asked, teasingly.
“Sorry, sir,” James apologised, noticing the crown on his badge of rank, and realising he was in fact a Major. He was probably one of the aides to General Wellesley, although James had nothing to base that assumption on.
“I’m Major Houghton, nice to meet you, and all that. Saw you looking and reckoned this little vantage point was good for a little last minute viewing, eh?” Houghton said good-humouredly, smiling at James. He was a friendly man, and obviously just wanted some companionship.
“Lieutenant Henderson, sir. And this is Ensign Sullivan,” replied James, introducing Derek too, who had skulked off for a while but had returned with interest when he had seen the newly arrived officer.
“Of the 29th? Good regiment. Commanded by dear old George Lake? I knew him at school, by God! Sprightly fellow!” Houghton exclaimed, happily. “If the French go back to the ridge we’ll probably spend all day digging them out! That’s an awfully strong place.”
James was a little downcast by the Major’s pessimistic prediction. If the French were to move back to the ridge, as he said, the day may not be as glorious as he had imagined. No defeating them on an open plain. It would be dirt and sweat running up the steep ridge under enemy fire. He decided to take a closer look with the telescope, and held his breath in fear as he realised it wasn’t even fully open ridge, but split into several small passes, almost narrow gullies that would be the only climbable parts. So the French could defend those passes and be practically immovable. James hoped Major Houghton was incorrect. “Surely we can catch them in the valley before they try and retreat?” James ventured.
Major Houghton shook his head. “He’ll have it planned. I’ve got a feeling this Delaborde is a canny fellow! Good record, they say. No, he’ll have it sorted out. Carts loaded, quick movement. Also, you may have noticed we have no cavalry! He’ll just use those Chasseurs as a cavalry screen and retreat quickly. We could only stop him if we charged down the valley with bayonets.”
Ensign Sullivan suddenly looked pale at the very idea of charging down the hill into the waiting muskets and artillery of the French, and James thought he looked as if he would vomit onto to himself and Major Houghton almost straight away. As if on James’ order, Derek ran off.
“Poor fellow. A few battle nerves, eh?” Major Houghton suggested. James nodded in agreement.
“Can’t blame him. The French have hardly been beaten on the continent for a decade! And we’ve hardly won on the continent in the same time. I’ve been a-trembling myself sometimes,” added Houghton. He removed his bicorne, and saluted James graciously. “I must be taking my leave. Nice meeting you, Lieutenant. And good luck,” he added, and walked off towards the rear of the army.
“Thank you, sir. And farewell,” James responded as the man moved out of his sight.
He frowned. The sun was now fully risen and it beat down without holding back, the light making both armies glitter like a collection of diamonds lying in the grass. He sighed heavily. If the friendly Major was correct, and James was inclined to believe the man was, today would be tough. He spat on the hot floor and went to find Derek.
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