Pammissarae River
25th of May, 1835
Tarraqo Dú Ayorra
The only light Tarraqo could see was what was a short distance in front of him with the exception of the lightning. It was followed by a thunderous noise that made him exceedingly more nervous. When the thunder left them alone he could hear the footsteps of his brother infantrymen and the light clinking. He tightened his grip on his musket. He marched with his six comrades for the top of the hill. In perfect weather he supposed it was a good spot to overlook the area north of the river for at least a hundred meters. But in the darkness and the heavy rain it was impossible to see anything.
As they approached the top of the hill the older man on his right shouted, “Relief coming up behind you my friends!”
The thunder made it impossible to hear the first response. When it ended the response came again.
“Thank the scepter for that. We’re soaked through and through!”
“Don’t complain now, my friend. We’re soaked just marching up this damn hill.” Zohammid sounded strangely chipper for Tarraqo’s taste. He couldn’t get it himself. his feet had been sour after the quick march to Pammissarae and instead of doing their duty it had rained for days, enough to make a new damn river, or it felt like it.
When they reached the hilltop he could finally make out the men. Infantrymen in the same sacremento-green jackets with a snow white crossbelt and ruby-red epaulets on their shoulders. Their pants were as white with proper black boots. Atop their heads sat the ink black shako hats with each shako having a pompon and attached plume with the same green color as their jackets. As the lightning brightened the sky for a moment his countrymen’s olive complexion was visible against their green and white uniforms. The man who had spoken with them, Tarraqo recognized his sergeant insignia.
Zohammid placed a hand on one of the sergeant’s shoulder.
“Captain wants you down for a…” the thunder interrupted him. “…for a hot meal!”
The sergeant chuckled, “That sounds pretty good, senior private.” He turned to his men. “We stand relieved men, to the cook’s tent!”
There was a sigh of relief from the soaked soldiers. As they left for the camp below by the river they left him and the others to stand watch or rather attempt to stand watch.
Zohammid leaned closer to him as they watched the darkness that surrounded the hill. He had a smirk on his lips.
“Tell my Tarraqo, is this how you imaged it when you signed up to fight in Al-Khanni’s army?”
“Not precisely,” he supposed, shrugging.
He had known it included a lot of marching and that had certainly been the case for the last few months. Across their homeland and north into contested Nacampton. The last three days of pitiful weather had not been what he’d expected. Wading through the darn river had been hell in this weather. The rain pouring down as he and the other soldiers stood with water up to their chest.
“I, eh, I thought there would be more fighting,” he added.
“Oh that’s coming. Don’t you worry my friend.” Zohammid casually pointed forward. “All this land north of the river is ours by right. Every Saarlish brother and sister in Nacampton knows it. So does the Wilderican settlers. This is our land. Al-Khanni will see it returned with his iron will and blood.”
Ours or the Wildericans Tarraqo wondered though he said nothing.
“Wait until you see him lead us to victory of the battlefield,” Zohammid continued. “Trust me. I’ve served him for ten years. Fought in all his campaigns I did.”
Despite how far you could see in daylight from the hill with all the hills covering the landscape he thought it would be easy to side entire brigades out of sight. The thought worried him. The men constructing the bridge to cross the Pammissarae was on the south side of the river. The captain took them across to secure the north side. The heavens opened up with a strike of lighting the landscape opened up for a second, but that second was enough to behold shapes a mere thirty meters down the hillside. It went by too fast for Tarraqo to count the men but by the grand general he saw them. Fair complexions, Wildericans. For a second he froze and worried if only he had seen them. nothing else managed to cross his mind before someone fired. He didn’t know if it was one of their attackers or one of his brother’s in arms. A number of musket shots-too rapid for him to count-passed in the next three seconds. Then he felt Zohammid grab the musket and aim it.
“Hug the trigger!” He told him, and Tarraqo found himself somehow firing. Someone cried out from the darkness. Was it him or someone else that managed to hit? “Juan-Bahir, the trumpet!”
If the camp had failed to somehow notice the noise made by the muskets the trumpet made sure they understood. When he kneeled down and opened the rifle’s pan he saw a sacremento-green uniform on the ground. His hands trembled when he reached into the cartridge pouch for a paper cartridge. By god, he couldn’t tell his eyes off the body. He couldn’t even tell who it was. Was it moving? No, it had to be a trick of his imagination. With his teeth he bit the cartridge open and spit out the top, then he poured a portion of the powder from the cartridge into the pan. Just like what he’d drilled for so damn long in training. He closed the pan and placed the musket butt against the grass to pour the remaining powder inside the barrel. He placed the paper inside with the lead bullet inside the paper cartridge and rammed it down tightly with use of the ramrod and returned the ramrod to beneath the barrel where it always sat when not used. He cocked it and took his eyes off the body and looked into the darkness north of the hill. The thunder from the previous lighting strike cracked loudly.
He heard incomprehensible voices. It had to be the Wilderican militiamen yelling in their foreign tongue. He aimed his musket and hugged the trigger, just like Zohammid told him.
“Don’t let them take the hill!” Someone near him barked.
Did they have a choice either way?
“Bayonets!” It was Zohammid’s voice.
However, he managed to fix the bayonet and reloaded the flintlock musket without sparing a single thought for either. Lord in the heavens only knew how he would manage if it wasn’t wired into his brain.
Someone cried out in pain on his right. Thankfully he heard Zohammid on his left, his somehow calm and collected voice. “Hold fire until you see them! Stay on one knee, Tarraqo.”
He did what he was told and waited. Each second was agonizing and felt like an hour. He looked right and saw Juan-Bahir and Nazano. He heard a few shots, yet, they seemed further away than the others. He thought nothing of it since he saw frames running up to the top of the hill. This time he saw one of them drop. He recognized a top hat from his choice of clothing and an unbuttoned long coat. He fell backward and seemed to slip back into the darkness he’d come from. If he and three others fell at least five took their place upward. Two halted and fired a mere ten meters away. Nazano released a grunt and despite a desire to turn his head right Tarraqo didn’t. He opened the pan and reached into his raven-black pouch with cartridges.
“Let them taste cold steel!” Zohammid exclaimed. He turned his head to Tarraqo then. “No time for reloading my friend.”
Zohammid and Nazano rose first and met the two Wildericans that was in the lead. Zohammid was faster than his opponent and thrusted the bayonet into his chest and pushed. Nazano blocked the bayonet charge of his foe by striking with the butt of his musket before finishing him with the cold yet gentle bayonet. Nazano semi-turned leftward and preceded to attack the nearest man viciously.
Tarraqo somehow got to his feet and charged. He came so close to his target that he could see his blue eyes flood with pain and fear. He collapsed forward when Tarraqo pulled out the bayonet from the gut. The Wilderican couldn’t have been more than him. Not even twenty yet. He looked down on him with sorrow. He couldn’t just leave him there to bleed out. With no choice in his mind he thrusted the bayonet into his fleshy throat and with a mix of a gurgle and a gasp the young man’s life slipped away. At that point he was happy over the darkness. Made it harder to see the blood leaking out of the small wound. He stepped backward and attempted to focus to see the situation before him. To his relief, Nazano had begun to reload his musket and Zohammid horribly crushed a man’s skull with the butt of his musket. The cracking of bone made his blood freeze. There were no more men around except Juan-Bahir, again to his relief. He was wounded but alive and sat on one knee. Somehow he had reloaded his musket despite the lead bullet in his right arm. He had stuck his knife in the ground for easy access.
Quickly as he could Tarraqo began to reload for himself. he paused when audible footsteps came from behind. Men came running up the hill to finally support them. There was thirteen of them.
“Corporal, we need a physician here,” Zohammid told their reinforcements and pointed to Juan-Bahir.
“Already to precautions,” one of them answered as a man with what Tarraqo presumed was a medicine kit jogged toward the wounded senior private. There was little use in sending Juan-Bahir down to camp. They all knew that, hell even Tarraqo fresh as he was knew that. he had heard it many times from the veterans. The man did not abandon his post in battle, no matter how badly wounded he was.
“Have they given up of capturing the hill?” Tarraqo inquired carefully.
“Probably,” Juan-Bahir grunted. “Wilderican militiamen are filthy cowards. Let them go up against proper soldiers and they will run home.”
“Are-are you sure they are militia?” Tarraqo asked.
Tarraqo saw Zohammid kneel beside two dead Wildericans. “No uniforms. Wilderican militia just wears civilian clothes. It’s how they prefer to fight.”
Tarraqo fell to his knees and slowed his breathing. His eyes stayed on the man he had just killed. Soon he felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Don’t worry. First is always the hardest.” It was Zohammid’s comforting voice. “Focus on this thought, we held. We can still finish the bridge before the general arrives with the army. Then we’ll choose the bastards to stay clear of Saarlaco land.”376Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIm012SzVIW
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