The King's Schilling
(6 April 1812) In hindsight my current course of action may have been, and I'm trying to be somewhat generous to myself, well it may have been poorly thought out and given due consideration. One could ask how Thomas Robert Mason from far away Charleston in South Carolina, could find myself in a rifleman's green jacket, lying on his belly in the ruble outside of Badajoz in Spain, fighting for the king of England against the forces of Napoleon. That would be a very good question indeed. I suppose I could blame the ale, or the wine, or even the good company, the ladies were a delight. I could blame all of that, but really, the final decision had been mine and mine alone. It was me who announced my intention and it was me who fell for the bait. That wretched Reynolds had been clever poking my pride because I am a prideful man even in the best of times, and a belly full of drink and women to impress is not my best time by any measure. He had wagered that I wouldn't put my name upon the line and join. Gambling had led me to that rain soaked English town and gambling led me right on out of it, so I had no one to blame but myself when I marched out of the tavern, and straight to the two uniformed men in the center of the small town. One was very young and banged away on a drum. A drumhead full with shiny schilling pieces bouncing with each strike of the young soldiers drum stick. To reach in and take that money was to become a soldier in His Majesty's army. Like a fool, I took the King's schilling from that drumhead. Not for the first time, I have wondered whether I had indeed won the bet with that bastard Reynolds.
Badajoz, a great fortress of rock and Frenchmen. We hoped, the long war against Napoleon in Spain was finally drawing to a close, the end to what some called The Peninsula War. The assault on those walls was always going to be bad, there simply was no easy way to get inside the place except by force. I knew it, our commander Lord Wellington whom we called Old Nosey because of his prominent nose, he knew it, and certainly the French knew it as well.
Napoleon's Marshalls knew the strength of thick, high walls and they were ready for us from the very start of the battle. The tops of those walls bristled with guns, both muskets and cannon. I watched as wave after wave of red coated infantry marched at those wall, cannon fire a constant drumming for them to set their pace to in that madness. The defenders, for their part, were more than accommodating and red coated bodies littered the ground at the base of the walls. I have speculated if a man could walk from here to the walls without ever touching the ground for there were that many men lying bleeding or dead on the killing fields.
To make the matter worse, a rumor had spread that the French were using some kind of sorcery to defend the great pile of stone. The rumors never gave much detail, but one man I saw this morning as we moved forward was gibbering about little demons attacking the wounded men at the base of the west wall. He was also suffering from several nasty wounds to his head and chest so I took his words with a measure of disbelief. Men who've been badly wounded say all sorts of odd things. I myself had encountered a man who claimed his horse was talking to him after a canon had taken his right leg off at the knee.
Thirst was my second priority after not catching a musket ball with my head. Reaching my canteen while staying low involved a lot of rolling around. This had been a forward defensive position called Picurina by the Spaniards before our big guns had utterly destroyed it and allowed us to advance to within 100 yards of the southeast wall of the fortress. We had been sent forward to try and pick off some of the defenders but the effort was wasted. The height of the walls denied us an angle to bring our rifles to bear and now we were stuck in this pile of wood and cut stones. The position looked to have been constructed of stone blocks from homes in the town. The French had likely run the inhabitants off at bayonet point and took their homes apart for building material. I'm not sure the thing had fulfilled its purpose, because we'd simply blasted it apart with heavy cannon from a range the defender's muskets couldn't reach. Unless of course, wasting powder had been its mission, in that case it had done a very good job.
I knew that I couldn't stay there for much longer, and looking around me I can see the riflemen near me had the same thought. This was safe for a few moments more or maybe a minute at the most, but we couldn't stay. Eventually those French gunners are going to decide we were easy pickings for their guns.
I checked my rifle, as I am not overly fond of surprises. I edged up the frizzen, that bit of steel the flint hits and makes the spark to fire the rifle, and saw powder still in the pan of my Baker rifle. I am pretty sure I loaded the thing. I know that sounds funny but when you're running for your life and musket balls are flying by your head, you can get somewhat disoriented in your regular activities. I looked over towards Reynolds. He wiped sweat from his face with a rag and looked at me shrugging. That simple expression said all that could be said about this situation. We couldn't stay and going was just as bad. The French had to eventually discover that sixteen of the hated, green jacketed riflemen were in the destroyed position.
The line infantry of the British Army wore a red waist length coat and light grey trousers, their main weapon is a smooth bore musket, the venerable Brown Bess. We were riflemen. Dressed in dark green jackets and trousers, carrying the famous Baker rifle, a weapon slower to load than a musket but much more accurate. Theoretically we were the elite of the King's Army, in practice we were mostly good shots who had been cast out of the line units for the sin of independent thought.
I nodded at Reynolds and he nodded back and griped his rifle tighter. Pulling my legs up under me, I got ready to make a run from the wall. Oddly, I have found that directly at the base of a wall is relatively safe, of course, it is until they started pitching things from the top like rocks and bombs. Between here and there was nothing but opportunity for the French soldiers on the wall, but our choices were somewhat limited right now. I drew in a deep breath and held it before vaulting to my feet and trying to run through the shattered French position.
Reynolds yelled "Run you bastards, run for the wall!" and jumped up stumbling almost immediately.
Collins, a skinny kid from London jumped up with us, and immediately caught a musket ball in the throat. He dropped his rifle and grabbed at his ruined neck, slowly falling to his knees. Poor kid, he was a deader for sure, you don't come back from a wound like that.
I could see the other riflemen and it looked like most had the same idea. I only saw one other, a man I didn't know well, go down when we started our rush, it was as if his feet had suddenly stopped working, he still held his rifle in his hands as he fell forward. War is a weird thing for a man to experience, there is no telling exactly what you will see. Strange sights, like the three foot tall things that scampered around at the base of the wall we were trying to reach. We couldn’t see them from our position in the ruble but now they were quite evident as they looked to be picking at the bodies of the dead men near them. Mottled gray in color, they had long pointy ears, spindly arms and legs, big dark eyes, and a long snout full of very sharp looking little teeth. I must confess, I owe that man from this morning an apology, those were certainly demons to my eyes. They matched the descriptions I'd heard in church as a boy, even to the long pointy tail. They spoke some guttural language to each other and could undoubtedly see us coming but they didn't seem overly concerned. Perhaps they are worried the Frenchmen will hit them instead of us and are waiting for us to come to them. I can’t really say for certain.
I saw three of my fellows stop in terror and shock at the twenty odd little creatures. That was a mistake, the defenders on the wall were not above taking advantage of this situation and my compatriots who made that grievous error regretted it almost immediately. Two pitched over and the third dropped his rifle and turned to run. He made it a few feet before he caught three musket balls in the back for his foolishness.
Reynolds threw his rifle to his shoulder as he ran and fired. To my deep and abiding appreciation, the little things proved not to be immune to a rifle ball. I watched as the head of one of the bunch exploded, and the body just dropped in place. That changes things a bit doesn't it?
"Shoot the bastards!" Reynolds again. He is brave and it'll probably get him killed. I could see him reloading on the run.
I brought my rifle up and fired toward the crowd of critters, satisfaction as one went down. My fellow riflemen fired as well with very good effect. We had whittled them down by maybe half. I didn’t bother with a patch, I pulled a cartridge from my box, bit the top off, poured some powder down the barrel and just let the ball fall to the bottom. No ram rod, no time. I used a bit of powder to prime the weapon and threw it to my shoulder as soon as I could, pulling the hammer back as I did. I squeezed the trigger and heard my rifle make the chuffing sound of one that hadn't been loaded properly. It’s a kind of delayed sound and one that usually would draw criticism and derision from the other riflemen if we weren't assaulting a fortress guarded by demons. I don't know if I hit anything.
One of the older men, Richter, got amongst them first, and I watched as he casually smashed in the head of a demon with the butt of his Baker. I would have expected some kind of enchanted sword or something like that to be needed in this situation, that’s what the stories I grew up had said, mind you I am not complaining.
I pulled my sword bayonet from the scabbard at my belt and soon found myself in the mix. The little creatures relied on claws and a peculiar hopping they did to fight, it wasn't working against Englishmen or their lone American. I lopped off an arm, and the demon to which it had been attached set to making a dreadful keening sound, which Reynolds cut off with a butt stroke to the back of its head.
We found ourselves alone at the base of the great wall in very short order, the small demons arrayed in death all about us.
"Load!" I heard someone yell over a sudden burst of musket and cannon fire from above us.
My hands were shaking. I could barely get my bayonet back into the scabbard. This wasn't my first battle but you can't help being terrified running across the devil's own playground as we just did, it's hard on a man's nerves. The line infantry are supposed to be doing this kind of thing, not riflemen, but war doesn't like rules. I was very thirsty, but there was no time for that. I loaded my rifle, the bitter taste of powder compounding my discomfort. I looked and Reynolds is already looking up to the top of the wall. I don’t think the Frenchmen know we are down here as yet, I certainly hoped they don't know we're down here.
"They don't know we're here boys, stay quiet for a bit and let's see what is about." I hadn't seen the Corporal make the run but he stood there panting none the less. The man was doing an excellent job of ignoring the demon corpses strewn all about our feet.
I couldn't stop shaking, what do we do now, we don’t have any ladders or ropes to scale the wall and by my count there are only 12 riflemen standing here now. Reynolds grabbed my arm and starts to say something when the world explodes.
My ears were ringing, and Reynolds is trying to tell me something. He shakes me and points down the wall toward the north. I look and there is a huge hole in the wall about 50 yards from where we are standing. The Corporal is gone with whatever put that hole in the wall. My head is fuzzy and my ears are still ringing but that’s a breach in the wall and that is no small matter.
Reynolds is grabbing the remaining men and pointing at the breach. We have to go through, that’s why we are here. I think that’s what Reynolds is saying to them. My rifle seems in good shape and my sword bayonet is still in my scabbard where I put it after the fight with the demons whose bodies seem to have vanished entirely in the explosion. That’s an odd one, how could they just disappear when we were standing amongst them. It is almost like they evaporated.
We started to move toward the breach. I had no intention of being a hero, but we must face facts, we can't stay at the base of the wall forever, the Frenchmen will be looking for us to exploit the breech so they should be paying extra attention, it's actually amazing they haven't noticed us yet. Perhaps the explosion has them rattled, that won't last long. We can't go back, to do so would simply add our bodies to our comrade's bodies in the ruin of the wrecked defensive position. Our only real and viable course is into the breach and fight our way through. Maybe we'll catch the French recovering from the explosion if we go now. I can be optimistic.
"The Regiments coming. We got to get moving." Someone yells, and I can see the blocks of men in red heading for the breach. We have help coming, but that thought no sooner clears my mind then a musket ball smashes into the ground at my feet. We have to move now.
The first unit to assault a position is called the vanguard, and the first group in that unit is called the Forlorn Hope, riflemen do not typically comprise the Hope. It's usually some daft young officer wanting fame and a bunch of men someone important probably wants dead, a condition that they usually achieve when the assault begins. I have never wanted to be part of the Forlorn Hope, not ever, but war is weird and eleven riflemen were now the Forlorn Hope for Lord Wellington's assault on the fortress at Badajoz.
I followed Reynolds as he rounded the corner of the breach. The ruble has made a nice ramp into the fortress. The climb doesn't look bad as long as the Frenchmen don't begin to object to our entry into their position, if that were to happen we would be dead men. The footing is difficult and I had to lean forward to climb the stone. That’s a bad way to be if I have to start shooting.
One blue clad man appears at the top of the ramp and one of my compatriots fires from his hip. I see the impact of the rifle ball hit the man in the stomach. I can't see anyone else oppose us. Reynolds reaches the top and gestured forward, urging us on. I stumble a few more times before he grabbed my arm and helped me up to join him on the partially shatter walkway at the top of the broken wall. French bodies are splayed all around us, casualties of whatever blew the great hole in the thick wall. I can see French gunners at a cannon some twenty yards to our right and a tower close in to our left. I pointed right and Reynolds starts that way.
Two riflemen stop and fire on the gunners, dropping one and scattering the others. I can hear the drums from the regiment now, they are getting closer. We have to thin the defenders out here and help the infantry make the assault. I looked over the wall, and red coats are maybe 150 yards away and coming on as fast as they could through the blasted position we had been in only minutes before. I think it likely one of the large British siege cannon made the breach and the regiment had started marching before the gun had even fired. No matter now, we had work to do.
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I picked out a French Sergeant near a cannon and put my rifle to my shoulder and fired. He went backwards over the smaller inner wall and into whatever lay below. I reached back and grabbed a cartridge to reload. I can suddenly feel a tightness in my chest, I can’t get enough air into my lungs. The men are all struggling around me. The smoke from our rifles is thick but not thick enough to affect our breathing.
A figure steps from the shadows down the walkway on the parapets we've been moving down. He's clad in dark colored robes and carries a long stick in his hands. That is strange indeed, you don’t see people wearing robes in this day and age, perhaps he's a Moor. I struggled to finish reloading as he begins waving the stick in the air. A man who had been a poacher before taking the Kings Schilling burst into flames. His entire body covered in orange and yellow flames, he screamed like the damned are said to do in Hell itself.
Reynolds raised his rifle and shot the man with the robes and stick in the face, I saw bits of bone and blood eject from the back of the conjurors head and he crumpled to the ground like a puppet with is strings cut. Demons and now some kind of sorcerer as if the French army wasn't bad enough. I will be glad when we are done with this place. I admit to some comfort in the knowledge that good marksmanship and lead would dispatch them as easily as a man. Small comfort because the sorcerer had just set Private Bryce on fire, but some comfort is better than none at all.
We advanced down the parapet, firing as we went, until we reached a stair going down from the wall into a small court yard. I count nine of us now. I turn to Reynolds who is staring down into the courtyard below. I looked toward the area he is concentrating on at present. A blue glow emanates from a block building in the center of the open area below this section of the wall. The structure strikes me odd, it doesn't attach to the wall or anything else that I can see, in defiance of modern convention. There appears to be no windows and but one door, and it is from there that the glow is visible. It is a soft bluish tinted glow that pulses slightly, a forge perhaps, gunners set up forges near their guns to heat shot. But that’s what the Navy does, why would you need heated shot in a land war. Heated cannon balls are used to start fires on ships. Demons, a sorcerer, and now a strange block building with a blue glow coming from it, I am unsure we want to know what is causing that emanation.
If we are to leave this place alive we must conquer Badajoz, part and parcel, and that includes buildings with strange blue glowing doorways. Reynolds fell in behind me as I made for the stairs. The remainder of the surviving riflemen joined us as we progress down those stone steps into a courtyard oddly devoid of Frenchmen.
We are unopposed as we move toward the target of our attention. Closer, I can see mismatched stone blocks comprise the sides of the structure. This thing is newly built and more than likely from local homes as was the defensive position outside the walls we had inhabited only ten minutes before. The roof is roughhewn lumber and looks to be done in haste. This place was constructed for some strange purpose most certainly centered around the defense of Badajoz. I can feel in my bones a sense of wrongness as we get closer. It is difficult to describe, but as we get closer I feel a kind of fear grip my innards, a dread of sorts, like a child when confronted with a scary dark space.
Undeterred we stop at the wall facing the stair that brought us down from the wall above. I can hear shouts and the distinct sounds of many men moving through the breach, the red coated regiment of infantry has arrived. One could say that we had breached Badajoz, but I don’t think future historians will say a small group of riflemen breached the great defenses of Badajoz. The mob of scared men climbing the ramp of stone and wood and funneling through the breach would get that distinction. They were welcome to it, as long as we lived to be able to debate the point. I know in my guts that unless we dealt with whatever this building hid, survival would still remain in doubt.
I moved first, my focus overcoming my fear. Something evil resided in this pile, something men should avoid. We ran to the front of the building which held the open doorway, and Reynolds with three others ran across the glowing maw to position themselves for entry. I got close as I dared to the door frame and looked to my friend. Reynolds closed his eyes for a second, his mouth forming words I think are most likely a prayer for divine assistance and protection. He opens his eyes and looks into mine before a hasty nod. I pull the hammer back on my rifle and turn into the open door, my body bathed in the blue glow coming from a stone basin in the center of a plain room.
My eyes only need a second to adjust before seeing a great beast of a man standing bare chested on the other side of the glowing stone bowl. A bloody dagger in his right hand and a great hunk of red flesh in his left, held aloft in some offering to the heavens, blood dripping into the basin. Just as quickly, I saw the body of a French Colonel on the floor at the man's feet. His uniform torn open and a huge chasm in the center of his chest. The fiend had cut the man's heart out to offer to whatever evil he served. That was the only justification I needed, friend or foe, no man should meet his end as this Colonel surely had this night. I leveled my Baker rifle and sent a 62 caliber lead ball at the bastard. I couldn't miss at this range.
The fiend looked at me, and I saw the pits of Hell in those eyes, before his eyes twinkled in mirth. He laughed, low at first but then with real gusto. He looked at the neat hole in his chest where my ball had struck and his laughter took on even greater humor. I am unaware of any situation where a wound like that would be funny, but nonetheless the man laughed like he had heard the greatest of japes. Three more rifles added to the sound in that terrible room. All had the same effect on the bloody man. He seemed to care not one wit about our efforts.
Through the smoke from the rifles discharge I saw him point the bloody dagger at the man to my right. The poor fellow, who I think was named Gould, cried out and grabbed at his chest before collapsing, his eyes finally rolling back in his head, clearly struck dead. This is a bad turn for us.
Reynolds took valuable seconds to aim and fire his own rifle. It was as if I could actually see the ball travel through the smoky air and strike the fiend right in the center of his forehead. His head snapped back as would be expected, but he stayed on his feet. A look of profound shock spread across Reynolds face as the man stood straight again and fixed his gaze on the impudent riflemen. Reynolds took an involuntary step back and right into another man. The room was crowded around the doorway and none of us wanted to get closer to that dagger and gore covered villain. We had jammed too many into that space, and now we had no way to retreat quickly if things became uncomfortable, as they were doing right now.
The priest or sorcerer took on a more determined look, all mirth gone from his face. He began toward Reynolds, the dagger leading. Reynolds is on my right against the wall and I am on the left wall, so I do what I must, and move forward, stepping over the dead French Colonel. I draw my sword bayonet as I step around the basin. The fiend places no importance on me it seems, so it must come as a surprise when I bury the blade to the hilt in his kidneys. He draws up straight and stops his advance on my old friend. He turns slightly at the waist and fixes me with a look of incredulity, for my part I have the presence of mind to twist the blade. This wound should be fatal, but the bastard backhands me with the heart in his fist and sends me careening into the far wall. This whole affair was not going very well at all, and I am afraid it is about to get much worse.
The bloody man turns to me sprawled on the floor, the dead Colonel at my feet. The look is now anger, all amusement gone. We have transcended distraction and become something he must deal with now. I can see death in those eyes, death and damnation promised for my impudence. It is a nice bit of timing when he grunts and I see the point of a sword bayonet emerge from his chest, Reynolds grimacing face visible behind the man. A second and third man rushed forward stabbing the man in the innards.
The bastard still stands. He grabs the closest stabbing man by the throat and tosses him toward the open doorway like his was naught but a rag to be discarded. The poor riflemen bowled over several more leaving me and Reynolds alone to face the now clearly infuriated opponent. I see the handle of my sword bayonet still in his lower back. Stumbling and counting on his arrogance, I climb to my feet and snatch at the handle. The thing is lodged fast and it takes considerable pulling to clear it from the man's body. When the man turns back to me, Reynolds grabs the handle of his own weapon and pulls in back through.
Even famed Achilles had a weakness, surely this bastard had one. I am struck suddenly by something in particular. The man holds a dagger, and that makes sense, a weapon is a good thing to keep handy. The heart however, he still holds it tight in his right hand. That is interesting indeed. Does it confer some power, perhaps power to take our shots and stabs and survive? I have nothing to lose in truth, we are going to die unless the almighty himself intervenes. This thing will pull us apart like a child with a fly unless we can turn the tide of battle to our favor, so in a fit of desperation I swing with all my might.
The standard infantry bayonet used by our red coated brothers is more spike than blade, but a rifleman's bayonet is a short sword. It is twenty three inches of sharpened Sheffield steel and it passed cleanly through the man's wrist with no more trouble than cutting bread. The hand and heart dropped to the floor.
Those eyes that had begun our fight with interest, then humor, before turning to fury, now held fear. His face took on a look of absolute terror. I have seen that look before on men who were certain death had come for them before they had a chance to repent of sins they may have committed in the course of their life, and that was the look the man wore now.
Reynolds saw it too and he wasted no time before plunging his blade back into the man's back. The tip again emerging from high on the right side of the chest. This time the man cried out and stood straight, rising on his toes as if to escape the blade, but to no avail, it was planted firmly. The time was now to strike and I didn't waste this opportunity. I stabbed forward and up, coming under the fiend's ribs and into his heart. The air seemed to go out of the man, his body shook and his eyes rolled back before he collapsed onto the steel implanted in him. Reynolds and I let his body fall to the floor. We stood there for a minute, perhaps two before I became aware of a red coated man in the doorway.
"Well played lads, well played indeed." A Colonel stood in the door, looking down at the dead sorcerer.
I started to come to the position of attention when he wave us all down.
"Rest easy lads and get your kit in order, Wellington would see you now if you would be so kind as to disengage." A smile on his face.
Colonels in the British Army are not to be trifled with, and a question is good as an order, so we all said "Yes Sir" and straightened ourselves out. He stepped aside and indicated we should head back up the stairs.
"He can be found back at the point of departure, make haste, he awaits you directly." And I knew he would not be going with us.
We moved quickly up the stair and carefully moved back down the parapet, bumping and jostling along as an endless stream of line infantry went in the other direction. Badajoz's hours were numbered now. The breach looked much different from this side and of course without the fear of being shot. I was missing my shako hat, and I earnestly tried to find it as we walked back over the same ground we had ran across, but to no avail. I hoped Old Nosey wouldn’t mind overly much that I was technically out of uniform.
We made our way like salmon swimming upstream until we reached a group of officers on horseback watching the infantry flood into Badajoz, in the center of that group of gold and silver braided uniforms sat Sir Arthur Wesley, the Earl of Wellington, in a simple black long coat and white pants, the dark bicorne hat sat straight on his head. Looking at him, I thought the hat made his prominent nose look larger. I have no doubt that no one would be so bold as to point that out to him. I certainly had no intention of being the one to do so. I was not sure how to introduce ourselves, we seven shabby looking riflemen. My green jacket had been holed and had more dust and dirt than I could have imagined possible. Reynolds was no different, but at least he still had his shako hat.
Wellington waved away some insect and then turned his eyes to us.
"So it's done then? You did for the sorcerous bastard I am to assume?" it was a question only in so much as decorum dictated it. He seemed to know what had happened, which struck me funny, how he could know exactly what we had done just a short while ago.
Reynolds separated himself and stepped forward, he reached to the brim of his shako with a gentle tug.
"Milord, I must confess some confusion." Reynolds managed to say.
"Oh bother, the conjurer sir. Did you kill the bastard or not?" Old Nosey was notorious for his temper.
I stepped forward, "Yes Milord, he is most certainly dead. Well and truly dead." For once I put things together and understood what he was referencing before Reynolds. Old Nosey was referring to the sorcerer in the block building or maybe the fellow in robes on the parapet. My answer still stands.
A man with a short gray beard, a long gray coat, and a wide brimmed hat leaned toward Wellington, "As I said Milord, the conjuror's presence passed with his demise. Our man was correct on the where and when of the deed."
Wellington turned to the officer next to him, "See, I told you they would do the thing, Picton and Leith said the riflemen would shirk like black guards. Ha, they owe me fifty pounds each, if they manage to not get shot by the French."
Wellington turned back to us and held us with those intense eyes. He was a man of immense gravitas and the sort who stopped conversation when he walked into a room.
"What are your names?" names can be problematic with officers, but he asked and we must answer.
"I am Private Reynolds Milord, and this is Private Mason."
"Which of you put paid to the bastard?"
"Milord, my friend Private Mason had the forethought to lop off the man's hand, and deprive him of whatever magical talisman made him immune to our attacks. Once that was done we both ran him through with our bayonets. That did the deed and he lies still where we finished him." Reynolds, always forthright. He kept the sequence of events simple, most lords don’t like details. Keeping it simple was usually a good gamble when speaking to the aristocracy.
"I knew I chose well. I will want to know how the action was done, but for now Sergeants Reynolds and Mason, take your men back for some food and rest. His Majesty will have need of your talents in the very near future and so will I. Bonaparte dabbles in the dark arts and we need men ready to put his plans in the dirt." Apparently Wellington wasn't like most gentlemen. We had no doubt he would call us later and want to hear the steps of the fight that lead us here. They say he forgets nothing. He turned his horse back to the others officers, we had been dismissed.
Reynolds and I had both just been promoted on the spot. I admit to some relief and an equal measure of fear at the words we had just heard. As we walked to the rear area I wondered how much else we didn’t know about the war we had been fighting for years. The other five riflemen seemed stunned, and shuffled along behind us in silence, even Richter who is known for his boisterous disposition.
I could still hear Wellington as he laughed, "Riflemen, I told you all they were right for the job."
It was apparent that there was a war within the war we fought against the French and we were now a part of that secret conflict. A war being fought in ways we couldn't have envisaged, with magic and deviltry now to be our daily fare. So be it, I would fight where and whomever needed fighting, be they devils, men, or other unnatural entities. After all, I asked for this, I had walked up to that young man's drum, and I had taken the King's Schilling.