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barefoot_bard) wrote2015-03-13 06:45 pm
barefoot_bard) wrote2015-03-13 06:45 pm
Entry tags:
Sweet Hay
Title: Sweet Hay
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: Names given in this story are fictional and any relation to actual persons, living or dead, is purely incidental.
Story summary: A soldier's scattered thoughts at the storming of Badajoz. April 1812.
Author's Note: Any factual errors that occur within are my own.
The smell of the hay overpowered everything else. The reek of spent powder, the sharp stink of burning clothing and flesh. The heady odour of fear. It was like a miasma hanging heavily over the ditch. But all Peter Holloway could smell was the hay. His face was pressed into one of the bales thrown into the ditch by the engineers. The scent reminded him of home, of autumn haymaking, of happier times. It helped him shut his ears to the storm of noise tearing apart the night above him. Musketry crackled unevenly, punctuated by the sharper bangs of grenades and the sullen booms of artillery, with the shouts and screams of the combatants rising in a supporting chorus. He could not, however, block out the incessant flashes and flickers of life tearing apart the night sky above. He could just see it through the drifting clouds of smoke. That the ghostly light show was from muskets and rifles seemed surreal. Peter tried to lift a hand to scratch a sudden itch on his face but found he could not muster the strength. What was wrong with him?
Above, there was another wave of shadows swarming down the ladders into the ditch. That was the lads, making another go at the breach. God bless them. They would have no better success than the previous attempts, Peter was sure, but he loved them for trying. He'd been in that first wave himself, eager to be among the first to get into the city. He didn't remember how he'd come to be sprawled in the bottom of the ditch atop a bale of hay, but he was conscious of a slow realisation that his body was alive with pain. The sort of pain that seemed to originate from one's very bones. It felt deepest in his right leg and shoulder, and his left side. What had happened? Had he fallen from the ladder somehow? Again, Peter tried to lift his hand but again could not. Why, God, could he not do something so simple? The itch on his face was worsening, increasing in intensity, and it came to him that it also now felt as though it was moving slowly down his cheek. It felt... damp. But why should it feel damp?
He blinked and his vision abruptly blurred, so he blinked again. It cleared. A little. Was this why the itch felt damp? He tried to move his tongue and was strangely relieved to feel it respond. Licking his lips was such a tiny thing to be glad for, but he was. What he tasted on his lips was salt. A thick, coppery sort of salt. Tears? Blood? If he had the strength to move, he could swipe at his cheek and mouth. Then he could find out. Not knowing was a nuisance but it gave him something to briefly focus on. Actually, he thought, it had to be simple sweat. The product of a day's honest work in the fields. His father always said a day's honest work and evening's sobriety were the keys to a long life. His father would know best about that. Old George had been a farmer all his life and never had a drop of liquor passed his lips. He'd likely tip over dead if he knew about what life was like on the march. Or what Peter had seen and done since he'd joined the army.
But the damp-feeling itch on his face was sweat. It could be nothing else. He'd spent all day in the field, raking hay for forming into lapcocks and bales, and one of those bales lay flattened beneath him. What a shameful waste. His father wouldn't be pleased. He'd never been one to tolerate senseless wastage. In fact, Peter could hear him yelling about it now. About not ruining good hay, and what would they feed the cows with over winter if Peter and his brothers spoiled it all? The hay, though. Sweet hay. It lay thick on the field, freshly-mown and ready to be turned. It smelled so much like home. The scent wafted gently about on the afternoon breeze, tickling at his nostrils. It was better than the smell of newly-tilled earth. Peter drew in a deep lungful and smiled.
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: Names given in this story are fictional and any relation to actual persons, living or dead, is purely incidental.
Story summary: A soldier's scattered thoughts at the storming of Badajoz. April 1812.
Author's Note: Any factual errors that occur within are my own.
The smell of the hay overpowered everything else. The reek of spent powder, the sharp stink of burning clothing and flesh. The heady odour of fear. It was like a miasma hanging heavily over the ditch. But all Peter Holloway could smell was the hay. His face was pressed into one of the bales thrown into the ditch by the engineers. The scent reminded him of home, of autumn haymaking, of happier times. It helped him shut his ears to the storm of noise tearing apart the night above him. Musketry crackled unevenly, punctuated by the sharper bangs of grenades and the sullen booms of artillery, with the shouts and screams of the combatants rising in a supporting chorus. He could not, however, block out the incessant flashes and flickers of life tearing apart the night sky above. He could just see it through the drifting clouds of smoke. That the ghostly light show was from muskets and rifles seemed surreal. Peter tried to lift a hand to scratch a sudden itch on his face but found he could not muster the strength. What was wrong with him?
Above, there was another wave of shadows swarming down the ladders into the ditch. That was the lads, making another go at the breach. God bless them. They would have no better success than the previous attempts, Peter was sure, but he loved them for trying. He'd been in that first wave himself, eager to be among the first to get into the city. He didn't remember how he'd come to be sprawled in the bottom of the ditch atop a bale of hay, but he was conscious of a slow realisation that his body was alive with pain. The sort of pain that seemed to originate from one's very bones. It felt deepest in his right leg and shoulder, and his left side. What had happened? Had he fallen from the ladder somehow? Again, Peter tried to lift his hand but again could not. Why, God, could he not do something so simple? The itch on his face was worsening, increasing in intensity, and it came to him that it also now felt as though it was moving slowly down his cheek. It felt... damp. But why should it feel damp?
He blinked and his vision abruptly blurred, so he blinked again. It cleared. A little. Was this why the itch felt damp? He tried to move his tongue and was strangely relieved to feel it respond. Licking his lips was such a tiny thing to be glad for, but he was. What he tasted on his lips was salt. A thick, coppery sort of salt. Tears? Blood? If he had the strength to move, he could swipe at his cheek and mouth. Then he could find out. Not knowing was a nuisance but it gave him something to briefly focus on. Actually, he thought, it had to be simple sweat. The product of a day's honest work in the fields. His father always said a day's honest work and evening's sobriety were the keys to a long life. His father would know best about that. Old George had been a farmer all his life and never had a drop of liquor passed his lips. He'd likely tip over dead if he knew about what life was like on the march. Or what Peter had seen and done since he'd joined the army.
But the damp-feeling itch on his face was sweat. It could be nothing else. He'd spent all day in the field, raking hay for forming into lapcocks and bales, and one of those bales lay flattened beneath him. What a shameful waste. His father wouldn't be pleased. He'd never been one to tolerate senseless wastage. In fact, Peter could hear him yelling about it now. About not ruining good hay, and what would they feed the cows with over winter if Peter and his brothers spoiled it all? The hay, though. Sweet hay. It lay thick on the field, freshly-mown and ready to be turned. It smelled so much like home. The scent wafted gently about on the afternoon breeze, tickling at his nostrils. It was better than the smell of newly-tilled earth. Peter drew in a deep lungful and smiled.
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