Hello Gentle readers; those of you that have been following the blog from the beginning will be aware that I was writing and publishing my novel "Lazarus Rising" here on the blog.
It has been unfortunate that due to lots of other commitments I have not published any new material for over 2 years. But here finally I will present chapter 12.
Be warned this chapter includes some graphic passages concerning injuries received by soldiers.
Lazarus Rising
Chapter 12
Waterloo 18th June 1815
Midnight
Alex Tremaine blinked against the rain that was coming down so hard that it soaked through his uniform to his very bones. He cursed out loud at the Regimental Sergeant-Major who had chosen him for guard duty. Who was there to guard from? The French were still 6 miles away and the villagers had all fled. His troop was safe and warm in the well-built stone barn and he, yet again, was posted to stand guard.
He though back six years to that fateful day, the day his honour had been taken away. The day he had gambled and lost everything. The sunny and hot climate of Portugal and the harsh dry mountains of Vimiero seemed a world away from this rain soaked, cold mire of a farm just outside the insignificant Dutch Empire village of Waterloo. But, as his snot-nosed Lieutenant had informed the troop, Lord Wellington believed that this place, would be where Napoleon's army and the combined forces of the British, Dutch and German armies would battle and, according to the Sergeant, a brute of a man called Haddigan, today was the day that honour would be earned and history would be written,
And here he was, wet, cold, hungry and angry; so very angry. His anger permeated every pore of his skin. It filled his heart and created his dreams. His dreams of vengeance. Vengeance against the man that he blamed for his downfall and subsequent disgrace, Vengeance against the man who had been his friend. Vengeance against the man he had admired and loved, even though he had not returned that love, he was happy just to be near him.
He gripped the musket in his hands tighter and imagined it was the neck of his former friend. His hatred and lust for revenge kept him warm inside. He rubbed his eyes again to keep them dry against the torrent. In a sick, twisted way he hoped the French would attack now. Every Frenchman he killed would have the same face.
The face that had said nothing after the battle of Vimiero; the face that refused to speak in his defense at the court martial. The face that had watched him being flogged and showed no emotion.
His back still bore the scars of the beating he had received 6 years ago. Although healed, they still itched and when he fucked those pretty blond boys they would ask hesitantly where he had received the horrible scars. His answer was always the same.
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| Alex's Flogging |
"Because a friend let me down."
After six years and countless battles in Portugal, Spain and France. He was here. Here in Waterloo. Alex knew that soon he would see his "friend" again. Captain, yes Captain Robert Foxworth and his "Fighting Foxes" were here somewhere. He had heard that they had been part of the action at Quatre Bras a few days ago and had now rejoined the main body of the army to fight Napoleon once again.
The 95th rifles, he thought to himself, the war in Spain and Portugal had made them legends among the men. Their valiant acts had inspired the main army to victory after victory which had led eventually to the defeat of the French and their emperor. Everyone believed that the war was over but Boney's escape from Elba had revitalised the French and now everyone was here. Foxworth was here too, somewhere, out in the dark beyond the range of the lantern that hung above his sentry post. He was probably in a warm bed with a Belgian whore grasping his treacherous, back stabbing, heartless cock.
He was relieved from his guard duty by a young boy called Perkins who was new to the unit. Alex remembered the boys arrival well. He had caught him crying for his mother back home and had admonished the boy for cowardice, He had threatened to tell the Sergeant about it unless the boy did him a favour. Perkins had kept him warm that night and several nights since.
"About fuckin' time too" Alex grunted.
"Sorry Alex" the boy whispered.
"You fuckin will be if I have anything to do with it." Alex declared, "Its not the French you have to worry about, its going to be me standing behind you with my bayonet in your arse."
With that Alex headed inside leaving the boy shivering. But it wasn't the cold or even the rain that made him tremble.
4am
Alex had tried to get some sleep but couldn't. His restless mind kept thinking about Foxworth and the events of the past 9 years. The fateful day when they had signed up together and took the King's shilling. They had become firm friends and had always looked out for each other. All through basic training and when they had joined the 95th they were inseparable, They drank together, sang together and even on occasions, whored together. Alex obviously played an act, it was hard to be different, especially in the army. He would go with Foxworth and flirt with the girls and go through the motions but the only time he ever got hard was when he and Robert shared the same girl.
Robert and he would talk constantly about their pasts and Robert had even told him about his mother, father, Abigail and all that had befallen him. Robert had even told Alex about Eton and the incident with Abigail's father. After a few years, Alex knew more about Robert than Robert probably knew. Alex remembered everything.
He had fallen in love with his friend; not platonic love that one would have for a close comrade, but a physical and emotional love. He desired Robert completely and wanted to tell him how he felt but he had been too scared to reveal his true intentions in case his feelings were not reciprocated. He remembered that night, the night he had eventually told Robert how he felt. The night before Vimiero when neither knew if they would be alive the next day.
Robert had said they were brothers.
"Brothers" Alex muttered into the dark. His /"Brother" abandoned him to his fate, left him to suffer his ignominy alone. Disgraced, despairing and down hearted he had made it his goal to regain his honour and former rank but six years had passed and although he had seen some action in those intervening years there had been little chance to redeem himself.
Robert, on the other hand, had been at the center of everything. He fought in almost every major battle of the war in Spain and had become a favourite of the senior officers. His promotion after Vimiero had led to even greater honours for both him and the regiment. He had been allowed to pick his own men from the cream of the regiment and they had gone behind enemy lines to harass and damage the enemy.
At Talavera, he had led the line when the infantry officer had been killed and even though he had been wounded by a piece of flying shrapnel, he had refused to leave the field until the French had been routed. That piece of valour had got him made Captain and he now commanded a unit of 60 men including 4 junior officers. He had the love and admiration of his men, the senior officers and the whole damned stinking army, except him.
He remembered the day he received his flogging. Lieutenant Foxworth had stood with the other officers and watched as he received his punishment. Rhe officers watched, unblinking, unflinching as each of the 30 lashes were brought down onto the exposed flesh of his back. He had told himself that he wouldn't cry out, but the pain had been so intense he could not steal himself against it. After 10 his back had started to bleed, after 20 he was so delirious that he started to hallucinate. He looked straight at Robert and pleaded with him to stop it from continuing but his friend simply stared back at him unemotionally. That was the moment, as the 21st blow hit that his love turned to hatred
#lazarusrising
