Chapter 1
Joining the army

Ian had been an orphan for as long as he could remember; his childhood always full of hardship. At a very young age he taught himself to steal food and, shortly thereafter, learned how to fight. He wasn't interested in fighting but soon found it necessary to do so to keep other homeless children from stealing the apples, potatoes, turnips and other crops that he stole from farmers and merchants.

Often times he had to fight for his food straight after having run several hundred yards to get away from the merchants or, far worse, from constables alerted by the angry shouting. When constables gave chase, Ian had to run faster and even longer than he would when it was only a merchant. The merchants cared more for their carts than getting back the handful of produce Ian ran off with.

Only rarely did he get the chance to steal any meat, though without a rudimentary knowledge of cooking, eating it raw was only a sure-fire way for him to contract severe stomach aches and spend a lot of time sitting on his haunches with his hindquarters bared to the elements.

Contradicting Mother Nature, even on this rather lean food intake, Ian grew taller than most kids his age in England.

One day when Ian was about fourteen years old, he came across a large gathering of people in the normally calm square of the village he had been calling home for a while. His business that day, like every previous day of his life, was to obtain food by any means, but with all of the ruckus he forgot about his ever present hunger. Instead, he pushed himself past people, inching and wrestling his way towards the centre of the crowd.

When he saw that it was only five soldiers causing the disturbance, he was about to turn away and try his luck at the fruit sellers' carts, though he knew it would be nearly impossible to steal anything without regular customers to divert the sellers' attention for the required second or so.

"Hear ye, hear ye!" The booming voice of one of the soldiers suddenly overpowered the chatter of the villagers. "Here's your chance of a life time! Sign up and join the powerful army of our beloved King George. Join our proud regiment and you will never have to go to sleep on an empty belly again. You will learn how to shoot and fight for your country, and you'll travel the world!"

Most of the assembled villagers booed or laughed at the soldier's promises, but not Ian; he knew very well what it was like trying to fall asleep without having eaten in more than a day. He hadn't been successful in procuring any food the previous day and had only fallen into a restless sleep long past sundown.

Being given something, anything, to eat without having to steal it first, learning how to shoot and fight properly, and seeing the world on top of all that sounded very enticing to the poor beanstalk-slim lad. So far, all of his combined travels had only brought him to various villages and small towns within the two counties of Somerset and Dorset.

Ian pushed and nudged his way closer to the two soldiers sitting on makeshift chairs at a table made from barrels with planks on top.

"I want to sign up," Ian told the nearest soldier and the burly townspeople who were able to overhear his statement, men and womenfolk alike, hooted in rowdy laughter from the brazen words coming from such a tall, yet so scrawny lad.

"Are you seventeen years of age?" The nearest soldier asked after only a cursory look at the lad standing on the other side of the table.

"This laddie can't be more than twelve," A gruff-looking man said and shoved Ian aside with a fierce push. "Where do I put my mark? I'll join, if only to get far away from my missus and seven squealing kids. I don't know what is worse, her nagging or their whining they're hungry."

"I just turned seventeen! I'm not twelve!" Ian told the other sitting soldier, while the rude man scribbled an X in the large book laying in the middle of the table.

Ian had no idea as to exactly how old he was, he couldn't count to more than four and no-one had ever bothered telling him when or where he was born, however he wasn't going to let a small matter of age cause him to miss out on a chance like this.

"Can you even carry a musket, lad?"

"You'd be better off giving him a drum," said the burly man who had just signed up and gave Ian another shove, this one sending him flying backwards and he landed in-between the legs of the onlookers.

"I'm too tall and old to be a drummer boy!" Ian objected when he got back up on his feet, "I can carry a musket as far as anyone."

"All the way to Egypt and back?"

Ian paused for a brief moment while he wondered just how far he'd have to walk to reach the city or town of Egypt, he had never heard of the place until now, then he nodded solemnly.

"Yes sir, I could, if I must."

The young ensign in charge of the recruitment came from a wealthy family, part of the nobility; he was scarcely older than Ian's claimed age. He too considered for a second. The tall boy had a look of pure determination on his face, and apart from that he hadn't been overly successful in recruiting anyone to his uncle's regiment so far; he nodded his acceptance.

"Very well, recruit. Make your mark here," he said and pointed to the next vacant line in his seemingly much too large book.

Ian picked up the sharpened goose feather, the very first time for him to use such an instrument, and carefully dipped the end of it in the small jar of ink as he had seen the man do. The blue X he put on the paper was a fair bit larger and didn't look quite as nice as the one already on the page, still it was accepted by the ensign.

"Splendid. Private Johnston!"

"Sir!"

"Take the two new recruits to our camp and hand them over to Sergeant-Major Lewis. Then return here promptly."

"Yes sir!" the private bellowed, and told Ian and the much older man to follow him.

Ian and the man walked with the private. They were closely followed by a group of people: A woman, Ian figured was the man's wife, and seven children of both genders in varying ages from about three to around nine or ten years of age.

"Roy, what's to become of me and your kids now you're off to getting yourself killed? Tell me, you useless cheap, cheating piece of rubbish!" The woman asked loudly in an angry and accusing tone of voice.

"I don't care what 'appens to you, woman! I bet 'alf of them brats of yours aren't mine, why should I care about what 'appens to them? Stop following us you spiteful smelly wench, you can't come where we go! Go back and find another sorry chap you can drive mad with your constant nagging."

"I will. I s'll find a proper man, one who will make me happy!"

"Like that would ever 'appen! No laddie, you'd be wise never to trust a wench," the man told Ian and gave him a friendly push sending him several paces off to the side of the small path they were walking along.

"Don't you listen to a word that scum tells you, boy! Mark my words, he isn't worth listening to!" were the parting words from the woman when she finally broke off her pursuit. "Don't go and get yourself killed, laddie. You're far too pretty," she added before walking back towards the town. She shepherded her children along with her.

Ian quickly looked over his shoulder. The oldest kid stood on the path with a look of despair on his face, it seemed to Ian as if he was torn between following his father or his mother. A sharp whistle from the woman finally made the boy turn and quickly catch up with her and his siblings. When he got back on the path he tried to match the stride of the private in front of them. Though he was still wearing his threadbare clothing, Ian thought of himself as a soldier now.

Chapter 2
Basic training

Life as a soldier had sounded very promising to Ian but he soon learned it was a very hard life although the promised food materialised. During basic training he was given food to eat and although it was never grand, it was still better than what he had grown accustomed to. At least now he got to eat every day and more than once a day, as the large loaf of bread and the pound of meat he was given daily was far too much to eat all at once.

The first week Ian tried to eat all of his food as quickly as he possibly could from fear of someone stealing it from him before he was able to eat it himself. Life as an orphaned and homeless kid and the street law of only the strongest survives was still deeply embedded in his very core. Only little by little did he realise his food was safe, as were his clothes and other gear; the punishment for stealing was both severe and prompt.

In fact, all punishments in the army regiment Ian joined were severe, and often times unjust. The Colonel in charge, Sir Henry, demanded blind obedience from his men; he firmly believed that the only way to achieve this was by enforcing strict discipline and swift corporal punishment for even the slightest infringement of the many rules and regulations. If a soldier under his command fell out of line or wouldn't push himself to the limit and beyond, he was severely punished regardless of age and time served in the regiment.

Often, because perpetrators were unlikely to voluntarily face up to the crimes committed due to the severe punishment, the men were punished both randomly and collectively.

Being whipped must hurt a lot more than when I am punished, Ian tried to find comfort when he once again was forced to watch a punishment, they were all carried out in front of the entire regiment during morning assembly. Ian's punishments might not have been as bodily painful as being whipped; After all, the heavy cane only raised smarting welts on his buttocks; while this made sitting a hurtful experience for days after, the cane didn't rip open his skin like the whip would.

Nevertheless, his pride took worse blows than his buttocks whenever he was disciplined.

I'm as much a soldier as the rest of them, I should be punished just like they are! He thought, yet couldn't keep from flinching when yet another crack of the whip was immediately followed up by a loud whimper from the unlucky soldier being punished. Real soldiers aren't treated like small boys when they are punished, not even when all they ever did wrong was believing joining the army would be a good idea!

Ian kept mostly to himself despite wanting to be part of the group. He just didn't have much in common with the other recruits, they were all at least three years his senior. They liked drinking beer and stronger alcohol, which Ian had yet to develop a taste for; he hated the taste, hated the way it made his head swim and most of all he hated the inevitable feeling of being sick and hungover that followed a night out.

Rather than loudly daydreaming of getting drunk all the time like the rest of the recruits, Ian did everything he was ordered to do without question and to the best of his abilities; repeatedly he pushed himself well beyond what he thought himself capable of from fear of being punished if he didn't. Doing so earned him a reputation of being the sergeant and corporal's pet; the two started treating him more kindly and more respectfully. Since Ian was docile and very quick to master various skills, the two superiors soon started using him to demonstrate what exactly they wanted from their troop.

This did not bode well for Ian with the other recruits in his troop; they were already fed up with the unjust punishments, harsh abuse and the long hours of repetitive exercising until they were too exhausted to fall asleep until long into the night. They were nearing the point of uprising, mutiny in fact, yet they were afraid of the repercussions of such action; and now they were told that this young lad, surely he was far too young to experience the many terrors of warfare, was better than them?

"It's about time someone taught him a lesson," they agreed and tried to do just that the next time they were practising unarmed fighting.

Unfortunately they soon realised the tall lad knew how to stand up for himself in a brawl. When Ian fought he wasn't afraid of using every trick in the book and some that he had learned on the streets: biting and scratching as if he were a little girl fighting for her dignity; if this wasn't enough, he'd target the genitals of his opponent in a most unsportsmanlike fashion.

There'd be no teaching lessons to this brat, not in a fair fight, which is why three of the recruits teamed up on Ian one night after he had fallen asleep under his blanket. While wrapped up in his blanket, it was easy for two of them to hold him down while the third kicked and threw punches at his unprotected face and body.

The next morning, Ian flatly refused to tell the inquiring sergeant as to how he had managed to get two black eyes and a lot of bruises on his body during the night.

"You ignored the curfew and went out drinking all night long, didn't you? You ended up in a pub brawl and somehow managed to drag your sorry arse back here."

Ian demonstratively and negatively shook his head; it would have hurt him far too much to speak through his split lips.

"Did one of your fellow recruits do this? I want you to tell me who did this to you!" The sergeant's voice grew louder.

"I don't know," Ian's muffled voice was scarcely higher than a whisper.

"I don't know!" The sergeant mocked Ian. "By God! The boy doesn't know who rendered him unable to perform his duty. That's not only a shame, it's a punishable offence to render yourself unfit for duty. Since you won't name the perpetrator, I can only assume you've purposely harmed yourself hoping to be thrown out of the regiment!

"You'd better pay close attention to what I'm about to tell you. You enlisted, lad! Your sorry arse belongs to the army now, you do whatever we tell you and maybe, in time, you'll be free to do what you want. What happens now is up to Sir Henry, you'd better pray to your maker that he will be lenient with you."

"I have received alarming news, men!" Sir Henry called out from atop his mount at the morning assembly.

Ian paid no attention to what the old man said, he was doing everything in his power to look brave and stoic but when his sentence was finally declared his knees buckled under him; had he not been held up by the two soldiers at his sides he would have fallen to the ground.

"For this blatant and disgraceful act of cowardice, the convicted will receive two dozen strokes of the cane."

Ian was quickly stripped of his trousers and drawers and forced to lay astride the cold corroded brass barrel of an old cannon. He was forced to hug the barrel and his wrists were tied together; his ankles were tied to the iron wheels of the heavy gun carriage before a leather-bound stick was forced between his teeth.

He never cried out during his unfair punishment for insubordination, only scrunched up his face from the pain of the cane striking home on his bare bottom. This display of bravery commanded at the very least some respect from not only the other recruits in his troop who knew what had happened in the night, but also from the rest of the regiment, for no one was allowed to leave the parade ground until the end of his punishment.

The whole experience of first being cowardly beaten up by some of those he had so desperately wanted to be accepted and befriended by, then being punished so fiercely and unjustly for a crime he hadn't committed combined with the week-long agony that followed, sure didn't motivate Ian to start any friendships during the rest of his time in basic training; it only made him more determined to work harder at everything he was ordered to do by his superiors, and this only to prevent further punishments.

When he was told to charge at a bale of hay, pretending it was the enemy, he screamed at the top of his lungs while he ran as fast he could with the musket pointed at the centre of the bale. He drove the fixed bayonet so hard into the hay that it went straight through and came out the other side of it.

When he shot his musket, he made the effort of actually aiming it instead of keeping his face as far from the powder pan as possible, like the rest of the men on the line did. This always made his eyes burn and well up with tears from the gun smoke and his ears hurt from when the gunpowder ignited and sent the round bullet flying towards the target. But, he didn't let it distract him, he forced himself to keep his eyes open and ignored the discomfort while keeping the musket as steady as possible.

Neither Ian nor anyone else were able to tell whether he hit the wide target, an outstretched blanket strung out only fifty paces in front of the line; the musket was straight-bore and the bullets didn't fly in a predictable line. The musket was heavy as well, and it took a considerable amount of Ian's finger strength to pull the trigger. He had to hold the musket tight against his shoulder and lean right into the shot to prevent himself from being pushed back onto his bum from the recoil.

Still, the firing range instructors duly noted his efforts when operating the musket.

After two more months as a recruit, Ian was summoned by the lieutenant in charge of his detachment.

"Pack up your things, Hawkes. You're no longer a recruit and you've been transferred to another regiment."

"Yes, thank you, sir! Begging your pardon sir, might I ask to where and why?"

"You may not, private. Oh well, I suppose you'd find out soon enough. You're joining a newly formed regiment of foot. By the King's order the best shooters in the country are to join one regiment," the lieutenant explained and added in a more collegial tone of voice, "Ian, listen lad, you're by far the best when handling a musket in this regiment. Do us proud now."

"Yes sir!"

Ian wasn't particularly saddened to be leaving Sir Henry's regiment, though he was a bit nervous. He had gotten somewhat used to all of the firm rules and regulations, and all of the random and unjust punishments. Transferring to a new regiment meant he would have to get to know new people and learn new ways of doing things, though he assumed the military basics couldn't be very different from what he had already learned.

He covered the fifteen leagues [c. 45 miles/72 km] by foot; the journey took him three days. On the last stretch of the journey he often had to step off to the side of the narrow country road as heavily laden supply wagons passed him by. Finally he reached the small village of Purton by the river Severn; it was here his new regiment was assembling.

Ian tried reporting for duty with an officer who scarcely looked up from his paperwork.

"Get yourself a proper attire, then you can report for duty, whelp."

Ian had been called far worse names than that during his life and simply went in search of a new uniform. The one he wore was red and white, and stuck out like a sore thumb amidst the sea of dark green and black uniforms of his new regiment.

He was a bit upset when he learned the cost of his new uniform and kit was a breathtakingly steep amount of two pounds and eight shillings, and that this hefty sum would be subtracted from his already meagre salary of eighteen pence per day.

I wasn't given any money when I was a recruit, Ian reminded himself. It won't hurt me none that they'll only give me one shilling per day until I've paid for the uniform. And it sure is nice! He thought as he did up the buttons of his new uniform jacket.

Properly attired in the dark green uniform that fitted him somewhat better than his old one, though the sleeves of the jacket and the leggings were a bit too short for his long limbs, he reported back to the officer.

"Ah, much better. What's your name, private?"

"Sir, Private Ian Hawkes reporting for duty, sir! I was transferred from the sixty…"

"Your name will suffice, I'm really not interested in every little boring detail of your past. Hawkes," the officer said as if tasting the name and searched for the proper page in his book. "Hmm, Ian, you said? Yes, here you are… Aha? It says here your musket handling is excellent, indeed it's supposed to be flawless?"

"Sir!" Ian stated, unable to resist a bit of smugness creeping into his voice. "I can handle a musket."

"We shall soon find out whether that's true or not, I somehow doubt it. Go find Sergeant Myles, he'll get you situated. Welcome to the Experimental Corps of Riflemen."

Chapter 3
First action

Ian thought he knew everything about handling a musket; during the five months as a recruit in Sir Henry's regiment he had gotten the whole procedure of loading the musket and firing it down to less than twenty seconds. Only Sergeant Myles wasn't at all impressed by his skills when he ordered Ian to demonstrate them.

"Forget all you have ever been taught, Hawkes. When you're on the battlefield, you won't have the luxury for painstakingly going through all twenty-one steps one after another before you're ready to fire your weapon. You won't impress the enemy with your ability to go through the motions to perfection, he won't give a damn about how it's done; he will fear only the bullets coming towards him.

"Go to the supply tent and replace that child's toy for a real rifle. Let's see if we can't make a proper rifleman out of you."

Ian trotted to the supply tent and reluctantly handed over his musket to the corporal; he had spent more time keeping the weapon clean than anything else and had slept with it ever since it was issued to him. It was like surrendering part of himself, and the supply soldier unknowingly added to Ian's misery when he simply dumped the musket on top of a pile of them.

His spirits were only partially restored when he picked up his new weapon; it was fresh from the factory, still greasy from oil and fat, and he instinctively knew that he would need to clean it before he could shoot it. This was exactly what Sergeant Myles told him to do when he returned with the new Baker rifle in hand.

"Learn your tool, become intimate with it; treat your rifle like you would a fine lass. For you never know when it might save you from certain death."

Ian knew nothing about fine lassies, the few girls he had interacted with so far had been just as rough as the boys when they brawled with him for food and they had had the upper hand then; it did not seem to hurt them at all when he kicked or punched girls in the groin, unlike when they did the same to him.

He did however know a thing or two about cleaning weapons and he soon grew familiar with the Baker rifle; it had several more parts than the simple musket and required intensive cleaning far more often than his previous weapon. The barrel was rifled and the special shot were grooved; if the barrel became too packed up with the residue of half-spent gunpowder, the shot would be impossible to hammer into place, thereby rendering the weapon little more than a heavy club until the shot could be manually removed.

The Baker rifle would safely fire seven shots in a row; with determination and a bit of luck perhaps it would fire once more, but then the barrel must be meticulously cleaned, before it could be reloaded and shot again. Reloading the rifle took a few seconds longer than reloading the straight-bore musket, but the rifle had one clear and massive advantage over the musket; a shot fired from it was lethal at a distance greater than three hundred paces.

Of course, the greater the distance, the more the accuracy suffered, yet, the Baker rifle was deadly accurate at one hundred paces. When Ian adapted to the rifle and learned how to adjust the rear sights, he was able to hit a fist-sized target every single time he fired a shot at that distance. At two hundred paces, he shot down targets ten inches [c. 25 cm] in diameter three times out of four; this was a vast improvement over the straight-bore musket where one could only be certain to achieve the same results at little more than point-blank range.

Because of the far superior accuracy of the Baker rifle, Ian and the rest of the riflemen in his regiment were trained in the art of skirmishing; they were to sneak into the no-man's land between two armies and before the real fighting could start, they'd quickly kill as many of the enemy soldiers as they could before falling back.

"Our regiment is the only regiment in the entire world to utilise the Baker rifle," Sergeant Myles explained. "It is important we keep it that way for as long as possible. If you should find yourself outnumbered and about to be taken prisoner, it is vitally important that you spike your rifle; it must not fall into the hands of the enemy!"

"Yeah, long as the rifle isn't captured all's well, but what about us?" Arch Jones kept his voice low so that only Ian could hear his question.

"Shhh," Ian quickly shushed his best and so far only friend in the world. "We'll talk later, stay focused."

Sergeant Myles demonstrated the procedure of deliberately destroying the rifle, but skipped the last part. "Only destroy your rifle when it is strictly necessary, each of them costs more than you will ever make in a lifetime."

"We're worthless, Ian! That is what he's telling us."

"Dammit Arch! Don't draw his attention to us again. Yes, in a way we are worthless. We're both orphans, we have no family. Are you happy now?"

Sergeant Myles gave them an angry stare and finally Arch fell silent.

Ian and Arch had become friends not so much from choice, but simply because they had been paired up for the first training in skirmishing, and after they found out they worked well together, they automatically paired up for the next training. In the training sessions, one of them would call out targets while he quickly cleaned and loaded his rifle while the other aimed and fired his rifle, and they'd switch over.

It was inevitable that they started interacting in other settings as well, until one day Arch made the decision to sleep next to Ian in the large tent shared by fourteen of the soldiers in their troop.

It took Ian three months to master the new rifle as well as he had mastered the musket. Every day he kept practising, even after Arch left the firing range with the rest of the soldiers in their troop, and when he ran out of gunpowder and shots, he removed the flint from the lock and kept dry-practising for another hour.

The extra practise not only improved his handling of the rifle, it also built up his muscles. Ian slowly transformed from the tall skinny lad he had been into a towering, lean bundle of muscle tissue. Even with the added weight, he was still quick and nimble on his feet and able to outrun everyone else in his troop, including Arch.

When the time for forming the final ranks of the regiment came, all four captains called out Ian's name at the same time, and it was decided that he and Arch should be in the vanguard of the regiment; the very first men to enter the battlefield and often the last ones to leave after the battle.

Almost exactly four months after the formation of the regiment, three of its companies, Ian's included, boarded ships and sailed to Spain. The journey across the English Channel, down the coast of France and across the Bay of Biscay was pure hell for the lad, it was his first ever time on a ship and he was seasick from the moment he set foot on the deck to the very moment he disembarked onto the shores of Spain.

The journey was soured by his sickness and even more so by the many unwanted advances from seamen who wouldn't take no for an answer. One of them tried his luck while Ian threw up through an open gun door; before Ian realized what was happening, his uniform trousers and drawers had been pulled down to his ankles. Only Arch's chance and forceful intervention made sure Ian's virginity remained intact as he punched out one of the few remaining teeth from the seaman's mouth.

They made landfall just before sunset and when the first rays of the sun lit up the sky in the morning, Ian and the rest of the English soldiers were ready for action. Their task was relatively simple, or so it seemed, push back the scarce Spanish defenders until the rest of the English force had made landfall on the beaches and could join in the fray.

Even though the Spanish soldiers held the high ground at the top of a cliff, Ian's company engaged them pretty much head on and with their superior Baker rifles, the Spanish troops were soon reduced to nothing but a few survivors running for their lives. The main body of the English ships entered the cove and started unloading more troops, horses, artillery cannon and supplies.

In the midst of the unloading, Ian heard a loud whistling sound closely followed by the sound of a large cannon being fired. He could only watch in horror when the heavy iron cannon ball struck into a longboat full of English soldiers and sailors. He heard their screams briefly, then a cannonade like none other he had ever heard began.

At the first shot, the ships immediately weighed anchors and set sails without waiting to take on anyone, and even then, two of them sunk before they could clear the small cove.

Ian's company were almost at the top of the cliff when the artillery fire started and had no chance of getting back to the beach which was quickly turning into a slaughterhouse anyway. Their captain drove them upwards and when they reached the top, he led them away from the landing site and away from the multitude of Spanish troops quickly advancing on the beach.

Ian desperately wanted to attack the enemy, but even though he was young and desperate for more fighting, he knew they were far too outnumbered to be able to change the outcome of the battle.

The captain made them walk for two and a half hours before he allowed them to rest, then he addressed the troops.

"We've no option but to try and reach our Portuguese allies. They should be holding the city of Vigo some twenty leagues [60 miles] south of here."

To Ian, that didn't seem like an overly long distance to walk, though he was weighed down by his rifle and the rest of his gear, but before he could make a fool of himself by voicing his opinion, Arch did it for him.

"We'll be there by Tuesday!"

"Next month, mayhap," one of the sergeants quickly berated Arch. "We have to get there without anyone seeing us, idiot! If word of us gets to the Spanish army, they will soon hunt us down and kill every last one of us."

"It means we'll march at night and sleep during the day. We need to move further away from the coast in case they're searching for survivors, but first, we will rest for half an hour," the captain said and walked away from the men followed by his two lieutenants.

"You heard him," Sergeant Myles called out, "Light them if you have them, make sure to drink, water mind you, it's a warm day and it'll only get hotter in the afternoon. Open your jackets and get some air, but keep your rifles close at all times.

"Hawkes, Jones, you have the first watch. Keep your eyes peeled and your ears open; alert me at once, but silently, if you see anyone!"

"Why does he always give us the first watch?" Arch complained when they settled into a position from where they had a good overview of the path they had walked to get away from the beach. "We need our rest as much as the next guy and I'm about dying for a good pipe right now."

"We're the youngest, you know that. Our eyes are better than the rest, and you and I are the best buddy team of riflemen in the entire regiment."

"Only thanks to you, Ian. I'm not nearly as good as you."

Arch was eighteen, some three or four years older than Ian and the two of them were the only ones below the age of twenty-one in the regiment, save for an ensign. The young officer fortunately hadn't been selected for the campaign to Spain; much to his own regret he had been found too inexperienced to fight the Spanish. If they had been led by him rather than the captain, he likely would've ordered them to attack the Spanish cannon with many more casualties as a result.

As it was, only two out of Ian's company of two hundred fifty men had been killed during the fight for the cliffs. They were still a sizeable force though they were running short on supplies.

While Arch kept a lookout, Ian checked how many shots he had left. He had learned how to count to ten and he arranged the somewhat round shots with their grooves into small piles of ten. He started out that morning with ninety shots of which he found he had spent thirteen.

I've killed enemies today, Ian thought to himself, I'm a real soldier now! He had watched several Spanish soldiers fall over after being hit by one of his shots. Well, not everyone actually died from it. But some did!

He put the remaining shots into his satchel and stopped all thoughts of the men he had either killed or wounded in battle. It wasn't his fault they'd joined the Spanish army and thus became enemies of the English Crown. He knew, if given the chance, they'd kill him without a moment's hesitation.

"How much do you have left of your ration?" Ian asked, suddenly feeling hungry.

"Most of the bread and 'bout half of the meat. You?"

"Bread's long gone, but I've got most of the meat. I don't like it much, it's much too salty."

"I'll trade you my bread for your meat," Arch offered, which was exactly what Ian hoped he'd do.

"Deal!" He agreed. "Count your shots while I keep watch."

Minutes passed while Arch took inventory of his shots and gunpowder, and Ian kept watch while slowly chewing on a bite of the stale bread.

"I've seventy eight shots but less than half the powder left. The pouch must've come undone when we charged up the hill."

"Lovely," Ian muttered sarcastically. He didn't have to elaborate, he could tell Arch already felt bad enough for having lost the gunpowder as it was.

"We won't be seeing any action for a good time to come, anyway," Arch said with a confidence Ian didn't share.

"I hope so. We're just one company against a whole army of Spanish troops. We don't have any linesmen, no artillery support, no cavalry, and no reserves. If they find us, they can simply surround us and wait until we either run out of food and water or ammunition and then take us prisoners or kill us off."

"They won't find us, Ian. The cap's a veteran. He was in America and before then he did a tour in Africa."

"Yes, but we're in Spain now and… Oh, bugger me, we've had it now. Quick, get Sergeant Myles! The sons of bitches have tracked us down."

Arch quickly ducked out of the hideout and went running to where the rest of the men were. Ian kept his head low while he observed what he thought might as well have been the entire Spanish army advancing on his hideout.

Chapter 4
The longing

There was nothing they could do to get away from the Spanish soldiers; once they were discovered, they were quickly surrounded, and though the captain launched a heroic attempt of breaking through the Spanish lines during the night, they were discovered and lost the fight. Only forty-five of them were more or less alive when the fighting ceased; the worst of the wounded died along the way to the prison in which the remainder were incarcerated.

Ian had received a field promotion during the fighting after Sergeant Myles was killed. But, his newly acquired rank of sergeant didn't matter much to the Spanish; only officers were spared from having to do manual labour, and the one surviving lieutenant out of all the company's officers was more dead than alive when they entered the heavy gate that would keep them from escaping for months.

Surprisingly, the Spanish treated their prisoners of war with some level of respect. As long as the prisoners did as they were told and made no attempts to escape, they were treated like people. The Spanish prison captain even made an official note at the request of the dying lieutenant when he told them of the field promotion he had witnessed take place on the battlefield.

Ian made sure to bring the note with him when finally, almost four months later, he one night escaped from prison with all the men who could walk on their own. They now numbered only eighteen and they only had ten functioning Baker rifles between them. It was all the rifles they were able to find in the storage room of the prison, and while they had plenty of gunpowder, they only had about one hundred of the special grooved shots. The other eight of them had to use the old muskets they took from the Spanish guards.

Ian was fifteen years of age now, just shy of his sixteenth birthday; he didn't know his birthday was upcoming, nor would he have cared if he knew. Even at this tender age, Ian was now a leader of men; not because he was the son of some high-born father, but because he had earned the respect of his men, some more than twice his age.

Arch was fortunately still alive and well; Ian had promoted him to corporal and named him next-in-command. This made sense to everyone, the two had been paired up ever since their very first day in the regiment. Neither of them had studied the theories of military strategy; they based their decisions on common sense and asked the more war-hardened veterans of the small group when in doubt.

Spiced with a lot of good fortune, they managed to get to the town of Vigo, more than five months after they initially started their journey from the beach towards it.

"That's the Spanish colours flying over the town hall," Arch told Ian; they were close enough to the town that he could see the flag without the use of the spyglass Ian was using.

"Aye, I see that. They must've recaptured it from Portuguese. You know what that means, we'll have to keep going south; at some point we must reach Portugal."

Ian handed the spyglass back to Arch who slid the three brass tubes into each other and carefully placed it in its protective leather case. It had belonged to the captain of the company and was an expensive piece of equipment, invaluable in times of war.

"No point in dilly-dallying about here," Ian concluded. "If any of the farmers sees us they'll run straight to the fort over there. From what I could tell it looks like it could easily house a company. But, I'm not interested in finding out whether that's true or not."

"Maybe we should follow the coastline, without a compass it'll be difficult to keep a straight line to the south."

"Well, I just happen to have a compass. There was one in the commandant's office at the prison. I figured we needed it more than he did, seeing as I left him tied up on his bed."

"'Twas a good thing he rather enjoyed your company at night…" Arch said, making Ian shudder at the memory of just how much the old Spaniard had enjoyed his company.

Ian had been too tired to be nervous the first time he was summoned to the Spanish captain's personal living quarters at the prison; it was late in the evening, and he was exhausted from the long day's work. The prisoners were forced to crush big rocks into small pebbles using large hammers, and the hard labour had already resulted in sore muscles, large blisters and chafed fingers.

He had only just been given the food for the day and was about to take the first bite out of the larvae-infested hardtack when the guard reopened the door to the cell and motioned for Ian to follow him.

Ian was confused when he was taken to a bathroom and ordered to bathe, and more confused when the guard left him alone in the bathroom. He nearly panicked when he after the bath couldn't find his clothes, but only had the very small towel to cover his body behind when the door was reopened. It wasn't the guard who let him out of the bathroom; it was the captain of the prison guard.

The Spanish captain was impressed by Ian's body, his youthful features; so impressed he had to touch him, though Ian had pleaded with him not to. Despite Ian's distress, his prick had betrayed him and the captain had marvelled at its rigidness, its size, and its ability to shoot sperm twice and thrice in a row before he had finally let go of it.

The next time Ian was summoned, he refused to go with the guard. It was only when the guard had punched one of Ian's men twice that he reluctantly got up from the floor and was taken to the bathroom again.

Please, don't! Ian silently pleaded, when the captain reached for his prick again. Don't get hard!

But, again, his prick wouldn't listen and soon towered triumphicantly again, almost as soon as the Spaniard's clammy cold hand touched it.

On the third summon, Ian noticed a bottle of wine on the captain's side table. Before the captain could tell him to lie on the bed, Ian went and poured a glass of the wine, and started chugging it down.

"No!" The captain scolded and took the glass from Ian. "You drink wine like so," he explained in heavily accented English and sipped from the glass.

"Like this?" Ian asked, poured another glass and took another big drink.

"You English are barbarians," the captain laughed, then mimicked Ian and drank heftily from his own glass. Ian smiled and feigned drinking again, but let the wine back into his glass. The Spaniard drank again, emptying his glass and didn't object to Ian refilling it to the brim.

It wasn't every time Ian was summoned that he could trick the captain into drinking wine, sometimes he had to endure the cold hands doing things to him, but it never went any further than Ian being masturbated against his will.

Ian shook his head in an attempt to rid himself from the ghastly memories.

"Was better that he liked wine as much as he did. I always got him drunk before he could do more than…" Ian stopped himself and loudly cleared his throat. "Anyhow, we need to go inform the others. I hope they won't get too upset from us having to go all the way to Portugal."

"How far do you think it is to the border?"

"I don't know, there weren't any maps around the prison. Before the lieutenant died, he kept mumbling something about a big river marking the border and how, when we get past that, we'd be safe. I guess we'll find out if that's true."

The two youngsters snuck back to where they had left the troop and Ian explained what they had to do. There were no angry murmurs amongst the men, not even a raised eyebrow, when they heard their travels hadn't come to an end but they would have to keep moving on; no-one asked how far it was before they'd reach friendly grounds. The way Ian had led their escape from the prison without a single shot being fired had increased their trust in him to the point where all of them would give up their lives for him.

Their respect was only furthered by the fact Ian never ordered anyone to do what he wouldn't do himself, even the dirtiest and lowliest job of putting the topsoil back on top of the holes they used for latrines was something Ian did. Well, he would have, if it wasn't for someone always being quick to take the spade from his hands.

"This isn't a job befitting a sergeant," he was told when he tried to object to the intervention.

Maybe it isn't appropriate for a sergeant to carry a rifle either, Ian told himself but wasn't prepared to give up that. One of the rifles they had recaptured from the prison was the very one he was given back in England and he was without a doubt still the best marksman they had in the troop. So he trotted on carrying his rifle and an expensive gold-inlaid sword he had taken from the Spanish captain was sheathed at his hip when they set off due south long past midnight.

The walk to Portugal was long, albeit rather uneventful without any real dangers until they reached the river marking the border. Rather than risk swimming across, they spent valuable time building a raft.

Ian had hoped and fully expected he and his men would be ordered to sail for England to meet up with the rest of the regiment, but months passed by without any of the letters he wrote to the regiment being answered.

In Portugal there were however other stranded English soldiers and Ian's small troop was quickly embraced by Lieutenant Colonel Sykes. Sykes was a high ranking English officer in Portugal and he put together a regiment of surviving troops from other regiments, ending up with the strangest and most disorderly looking bunch of soldiers Ian had ever seen.

The standard of this impromptu regiment had seemingly been put together from whatever materials available at the time, an old table cloth and tapestries, but the Union Jack was present in the upper left quadrant like any proper regiment standard, and it was guarded with the same level of respect by a young ensign and six of the burliest sergeants in the regiment.

Sykes couldn't care less about the look of the standard, nor what his men wore or the state of their clothing, as long as they were able and ready to fight as soon as the Portuguese got their act together.

Ian drilled his troop daily and even more so after a cache containing forty brand new Baker rifles, along with several thousands of the special shots, mysteriously ended up at the large camp site. No one could tell why the cache was shipped to them, since Ian and his men were the only ones having any experience with the rifles.

Still, Ian was assigned twenty more men, carefully selected from the other companies in the disorderly regiment and ordered to train them. He took this task seriously, to the point where one of the other sergeants asked him if he wasn't afraid of injuring his men from the amount of time he forced them to shoot the rifles on the firing range.

"When the Portuguese finally make up their minds to go back into Spain again, I want every single one of my men ready to go on a moment's notice. Maybe you should worry about the state of your own men rather than meddling with affairs that have nothing to do with you?"

"Mind your tongue, knave! The Spanish may call you a sergeant, but you're nothing but a bloody lad still wet behind his ears!" The older sergeant said before leaving.

He dared not get into a brawl with the lad, he was young and nimble on his feet, which was something he certainly wasn't himself. The real insult was the boy sergeant was right, his men weren't fit for war; they had spent seven long months in Portugal with cheap wine and cheap, willing women, both far more alluring than training for a battle the Portuguese didn't seem to be in any hurry to start.

Women had become somewhat interesting to Ian as well; though he had yet to actually lay with one, the Spanish captain had awakened something within him, and he found himself fantasizing about what it would be like with a female. The town not far from the large camp site housed lots of women ready to invite a homesick soldier into their loving arms and makeshift beds; in fact, several of these women had travelled to the town with only that in mind. All for a price, though.

Ian noticed the women when he went to the town, it was hard not to, he heard their invitations, the lewd details of what they'd do with him; it always made his face flush from embarrassed excitement, but he had yet to take the bait. The women he could afford without spending too much of his money needed for buying food just weren't his type; they weren't young, most certainly weren't pretty, and all of them definitely weren't innocent beings like himself.

He wasn't afraid of any man, young or old, not any longer; but women, especially those with far more intimate experience than he had, were downright scary to him. Still, whenever he lay alone in the tent under his warm blanket at night, his hand snuck itself into his britches and he fondled himself picturing it was one of those slutty ladies of the night who took advantage of him like the old Spanish captain had done.

Naturally, there were younger women in the town too. Ian's age and even younger girls, some downright pretty and very innocent looking. Some of them even blushed more than he would whenever he stared at them for just a bit too long.

He finally built up the courage to ask one of these very pretty young women, in a low stuttering voice, if she might spend a night with him. She had laughed scornfully at his suggestion and in a loud mocking voice informed how she only went with officers, and only the wealthier amongst them.

The amount of money she demanded made Ian gasp, it was almost a year's pay for him, though he now earned more as a sergeant than he had as a private; and this only for a single night of comfort.

Ian now turned his attention to the even younger girls, some scarcely older than ten; they too wanted money for services rendered, far more than he was prepared to pay. Finally, he found a much younger girl, the only one to accept his offered coin.

It was a disastrous experience Ian tried his best to forget as quickly as possible; the girl hadn't the slightest idea of what to do with his prick, flaccid from anxiety as it was. She reluctantly held it with two fingers and then giggled so loudly when it grew in her hand that Ian had lost his courage and quickly did up his trousers before red-faced he ran all the way back to his tent.

The touch of the girl's fingers on his prick was sort of nice, yet highly unsatisfactory and the girl's giggles had been humiliating to Ian's ears; and so he pushed his need for being intimate with a girl to the back of his mind and focused on what he knew best, shooting his rifle.

Chapter 5
The wager

Since the arrival of the new rifles and shots, Ian's training sessions started to attract the local residents of the town. Every day it seemed as if more came to watch him and his men shoot their rifles, and like Ian had always done since he was a recruit, he remained at the firing range long after he dismissed his men.

A small pack of rowdy boys was part of Ian's most loyal spectators, they'd usually show up just when Ian dismissed his troop and took their places according to the pecking order of their group. Ian never had to silence them, as soon as they were seated, they hushed down and observed everything he did with an awed silence.

The silence lasted right up until he'd fire his rifle and one of the targets would tumble over, then they'd loudly cheer for him with whoops of unmasked joy; this was why Ian never shooed them away, the cheers boosted his self-confidence and he rightly assumed the boys had very little to be happy for in the town, though he never tried to strike up a conversation with any of them.

A fortnight passed, then another week, and the boys' interaction with Ian slowly increased from solely observation to partial participation; some of the braver boys walked onto the field and put up new targets for him when he had to pause to clean his rifle. He didn't yell to shoo them off the firing range, he only nodded his thanks and when he was ready to shoot again, they quickly cleared the range.

One day one of the lads putting up new targets ever so slightly started increasing the distance to the furthest target by a pace or two each time he put it back up; Ian didn't notice at first, but then saw what the boy was doing. Quietly Ian accepted the challenge, almost effortlessly putting a shot into the target each time.

When this had happened seven times in a row the kid picked up another target, one of the smaller ones used for close range shooting. He walked onto the firing range moving away from Ian and kept walking until he finally sat the target on its pole approximately two hundred paces from where Ian stood.

Ian gulped. The lad had increased the distance to the furthermost target by some fifty paces in one go and when he returned, he smirked before he went to stand with his friends.

Ian heard the excited murmurs from the gaggle of boys and thought he could hear someone offering bets against him. None of the boys seemed stupid enough as to risk a bet in his favour, until one little kid, shorter than all the rest and younger by at least a couple of years, piped up. The older lad who had placed the target laughed loudly and shook the young boy's hand seemingly agreeing to the bet.

Ian looked at the young boy and was suddenly saddened by the fact he'd never be able to hit the very small target at that distance; the young kid had a look of smugness on his face, probably thinking he was certainly going to win whatever it was he had wagered on Ian's ability to hit the target.

Knowing it would take a small miracle if he were to make the shot Ian decided to improve the odds somewhat by changing his shooting stance; he lay on his back on the ground with his knapsack propping up his head and shoulders; his crossed feet pointing towards the target, and the long rifle sling looped around his right foot. He pulled the sling taught, thereby stabilizing the rifle far more than he could while standing.

He took two deep breaths, filled his lungs to capacity before easing the air back out. His world centred on the single target, the one that the biggest, rowdiest lad had set up for him; he saw nothing but the target, how the slight breeze made it wobble about out there; he could scarcely see it from his position on the ground.

Ian heard nothing but the blood surging in his ears. In fact there were no other sounds to be heard; the gaggle of boys and the few adult spectators had fallen into a dead-like silence while they awaited what would happen.

Ian quickly checked the direction of the wind with a wet finger up in the air, compensated for both that and the distance by aiming high and well to the left of the target. He took another deep breath of air which he let halfway out and gently squeezed the trigger.

He heard the cock with the flint when it was released, but ignored the familiar sensation of the spring sending it flying home towards the powder pan. Out of the corner of his eye he saw how the flint drew sparks and then the rifle kicked backwards, tugging at his foot, when the powder in the pan ignited and finally, seemingly ages after he had squeezed the trigger, the shot left the barrel with a loud explosion and a small cloud of smoke.

He couldn't see the target for a short moment, blinded by the gun smoke and had to wait for it to clear. Even when it did, the shot hadn't yet travelled the distance to the target.

I missed! Ian had time to think before the impossible happened.

He, like everyone else present, watched the slim pole suddenly turn and tip over. It was another two or three seconds before one of the boys loudly began cheering and then the rest of the spectators joined in. Ian looked at them and found it was the little boy who had started cheering; his piercing falsetto easily distinguished from the other voices.

Ian disregarded the remaining targets and got back up on his feet; when he set out on the walk to the target all of the boys and a couple of wiry, old men from the town walked with him. He picked up the target, a wooden lid, approximately seven inches [c. 18 cm] in diameter. It came from an old barrel and was attached to a cracked broom handle, only fit for firewood or being used for target practise.

He examined the lid closely after he removed it from the broom handle. At first he couldn't see where the bullet had struck, there were no tell-tale holes in the lid. After carefully scrutinizing every part of the lid he found the shot had merely grazed the edge of it; the only sign of the lid having been hit by anything was a smidgen of freshly exposed wood.

Another width of a hair to the right and I would've missed it all together, he managed to think to himself before he was surrounded by the boys wanting to congratulate him. The wooden lid was only the size of a small lunch plate, but Ian could only think of one thing. If this was a Spanish soldier, he'd simply shrug it off and get down on the ground for safety. Then he'd be so much more determined to kill me.

He let go of the lid when he felt someone tugging at it and before he realised what had happened, the small waif who won the bet ran off with it, the rest of the boys in hot pursuit. Ian smiled at the sight of the running lads who reminded him so much of himself before he joined the army. He had also played back then when he had been a homeless kid, the few times when his belly had been full enough to allow for it. Part of him ached to drop the rifle and run after the boys to reclaim the target he had hit.

"Bloody nice shooting, sergeant!" Ian heard and turned his head to see who had talked to him.

"Thank you, sir, but it was a simple stroke of good fortune. Had the wind been just a wee bit stronger it would've pushed the shot right past the target."

"Still," Lieutenant Colonel Sykes said, "Only one in a thousand men could've done what you just did and the rest of them are likely north of the Channel at this moment."

"Speaking of the Channel, sir, is there any chance at all that my men and I will be returning to our own regiment any time soon? We've already missed out on a lot of the fighting."

"Nonsense! Hawkes, is it? I need all the men I can round up as it is. The Portuguese are planning to strike back within a fortnight. If the good Lord's willing, we won't be returning here any time soon. Now, you keep up the good work, Sergeant. Soon, we'll be back on the battlefield fighting for Glory again."

"I suppose there are worse things to fight for, sir."

"Yes, indeed there are," Sykes agreed and turned his horse about; without another word, he spurred the thoroughbred along.

Ian gathered up his gear and went back to his tent. In front of it sat the little boy who had run off with the lid, breathing hard. His face lit up when he saw Ian and he rose to his feet and picked up the wooden lid he had sat on. He held it up to Ian when the sergeant got closer.

"No, you hold on to it," Ian said, "That's only fair, you won it."

The boy shook his head and spoke quickly in Portuguese. Ian couldn't understand the words, but their meaning wasn't completely lost on him.

"Alright, lad, I'll take it. Wait here," Ian said and pointed to the ground, "I have something I think you'll like."

Ian went into his tent and used his knife to slice off a bit of the meat Arch had purchased in the town the same morning. It was smoked well beyond recognition, but he thought it to be pork. The boy's face lit up once again when he took the wooden lid with the slice of meat on it and tore into the food without hesitation.

"Obrigado, Sargento, [Thank you, Sergeant]" the boy said in-between two bites.

"You're welcome, lad. What's your name? I am," he said and pointed to his chest, "Ian. You?" He asked and pointed at the boy.

"'Tiago."

"How old are you, Tiago?"

The boy smiled and shrugged. Which either meant he didn't understand what Ian asked him or that he didn't know how old he was.

It didn't matter much to Ian anyway, Tiago looked to be maybe all of seven or eight years old, slim to the point of being skinny, and only wearing a dirty and ragged pair of very loose and rough canvas shorts. An old tattered rope was tied around his waist to keep the shorts in place. The threadbare shorts looked as if they had started life being a hard worked grainsack before it became too worn and was cut up and sown into shorts for the boy to wear.

The black hair on top of the boy's head was unkempt and looked like it had once been cropped close to the boy's scalp and allowed to grow back out from there. His dark brown eyes were full of life and seemed ready for adventure. From what Ian could tell the boy's skin was deeply tanned by the sun, though it was caked in the dust-like red-brown dirt to be found all over the camp and the town.

Ian wasn't put off by the short runt's untidy appearance, his own appearance wasn't much better, though he wore considerably more clothes than the boy. He would've been more than happy for once again being able to run around wearing only loose shorts in the late summer's heat, but he wore the full uniform whenever he left the tent he shared with Arch. I must be a good example to the men!

The young sergeant enjoyed his brief dalliance with the boy, the only downside was the lack of a mutual language. They tried to communicate, but Ian's comprehension of the Portuguese language was fairly limited to everyday phrases like "good day," "how much is this," and "goodbye." And quite a few lewd expressions he didn't want to use in front of the lad.

Tiago didn't fare much better in English, having mostly heard variations of "get lost," whenever he begged soldiers for some of the food they purchased in the town. Their arrival in the home town of the boy had been a welcome change in pace for him. The horrors of war so far hadn't reached the town, though most of the able men had been drafted to join it. Tiago was much too young for something like that, as were the rest of the boys living in the church-run home for orphaned boys.

Strictly speaking, Tiago wasn't an orphan; his mother was, as far as he knew, still alive but she had had him at a very young age. His father was unknown, one of the many men his mother had spent a single night with for money. When Tiago was two years of age, his mother left him on the doorstep to the church and had left the town, never to be seen or heard from again.

Tiago had, of course, been too young to remember being abandoned by his mother, but the priests reminded him of the fact often, as did the older boys in the orphanage whenever they teased him. Life at the orphanage was hard, the boys only ate what they were able to farm on the fields overseen by the priests. If the harvest failed, which it often did, the boys simply had to get by on reduced rations.

But, all of that was forgotten by Tiago as he sat there in the shadow of the canopy in front of Ian's tent. He had a jolly good time while he watched and listened to the soldier trying to tell him something in the strange sounding language he couldn't quite comprehend. The sergeant's facial expressions and the tone of his voice were very different from the other soldiers he had interacted with; they conveyed humour, not anger.

Maybe Ian was different from the others because he was younger than the other soldiers and he wasn't just a soldier, he was a sargento. And the sargento knew how to shoot, something Tiago wished he knew also; if only he could learn how to shoot a rifle like the sargento, two or three of the older boys in the orphanage would soon find themselves very dead and unable to harass him anymore.

Ian had mostly given up on talking to Tiago and was cleaning his rifle when he heard an angry shout. A Catholic priest in full vestments marched a boy in front of him towards Ian's tent and when they got closer, Ian recognised the boy as being the one who had shook hands with Tiago.

The priest stopped the boy just short of the canopy in front of the tent and an angry tirade of words in Portuguese erupted from the elderly man and when Tiago tried to respond, he was immediately cut off by even more of the angry words.

"Father," Ian said with a respect he didn't really feel towards the old man and stood in front of him; he towered above him by at least three inches [c. 7.5 cm]. "Do you speak English?"

"This no concern you," he was brushed off, before the priest turned his attention back to Tiago and resumed berating the boy now cowering in fear.

"Begging your pardon, Father, but it does. You're in an English army camp now. When you walked through the gate, you effectively crossed the border to England," Ian said, not at all certain of the truth in his statement, but at least it sounded like it could well be so.

"Evil boy Tiago steal silver coin from Jaco. Coin to buy apples, must have back now," the old man said in broken English.

"Tiago did not steal the coin, he won it fair and square," Ian told the priest and explained what had happened to the best of his knowledge keeping his words as basic as he could.

"Boys know wrong to bet, must be punish."

"It would seem the only one at fault here is Jaco. If you gave him a coin for buying apples he shouldn't be using it for waging bets against me."

"Tiago need punish! He very bad, evil boy," the priest sputtered.

"Take Jaco and leave at once. If I hear that you, Jaco or anyone else lays a finger on Tiago, I will come speak to you! It will not be a nice talk for you, I can promise you this."

"You threaten man of God?"

"I would strike a man of God if I must. So far you haven't given me a reason for that, though I must warn you, if you haven't started walking in three seconds, I will walk you out myself."

The priest considered this for a second, then increased his grip around Jaco's shoulder and abruptly swung around, making the boy run in a narrow half circle and began walking back to the town, while he spoke angrily to the boy.

"Phew," Ian breathed out, grinned at Tiago and sat back down.

Chapter 6
Arising to the occasion

When Arch came to their tent, Tiago was still there, he sat watching with interest how Ian first cleaned his rifle then sharpened his bayonet. Ian demonstrated the sharpness of the edge by ever so gently shaving off some of the dirt as well as a bit of the ultrafine hair from the boy's lower arm. Tiago traced the strip of bare and clean skin with a fingertip and looked up.

"Incrivelmente suave," he said with a quiet aweness.

"I'm sorry, Tiago. I don't understand."

"He says it feels so smooth now," Arch translated. "Something like that anyway."

"You speak Portuguese?" Ian asked with surprise.

"Some. You'd be amazed at what you can learn when you spend time with the ladies here. Some actually speak English surprisingly well."

"Not so surprisingly really, when you think of it. They've had ample opportunity for learning the language. Doesn't it make you feel, uh I don't know, like you're nothing but a number to them?"

"Sure, I'm number one! The best of all the men they've laid with," Arch responded with a grin resembling that of a split clog, "Well, that's what they tell me."

"Only 'cause you give them most of our hard earned money you should be spending on buying food for us. Can you translate a question I have for Tiago, please?

"I'll try. I might get it wrong and ask him if he wants to snog with you."

"Oh for heaven's sake, Arch. Ask him what he put on the line for the bet he placed on me. He won a silver coin when I hit one of the close range targets some two hundred paces out, but I doubt he'd be able to pay a silver coin if I'd missed."

"Two hundred…" Arch said and whistled through his teeth. "Well, that's hardly surprising really," he continued, thought for a moment, then spoke in Portuguese to Tiago. The short reply from the boy wasn't enough to satisfy Arch and he spoke for a bit longer, coaxing the boy to spill the beans.

Tiago blushed and said something in a low whisper. After Arch spoke again, the lad pointed to the front of his shorts and stuck his index finger into his mouth and sucked on it for a second before he pulled it back out.

Arch wasn't given the time to translate what Tiago had told him before the lad bolted from the canopy and ran as quickly as he could towards the firing range and undoubtedly would continue running at speed all the way back to the town.

"Why, now I've never," Ian said disbelieving what he had seen, "What the hell did you say to make him run off like that?"

"I didn't say nothing. I guess my question embarrassed the little tyke. He told me he were to suck on Jaco's thing if you'd miss the target. When I asked him to elaborate, that's when he… Well, you saw what he did," Arch explained and pointed to his groin.

"Oh? For real?"

"Yes. Although for a silver coin, that's one of our shillings I think, I'd expect him to bend right over for me."

"What?"

"Well, it's what I pay for a good night in bed with a nice, clean woman."

"No, why would you want him to bend over? He's so short he probably wouldn't be able to reach your prick with his mouth."

"Damn, but you really are naive, Ian. I'd tell him to bend over and spread his bum cheeks apart so that I could fuck him. Only, I would never ask a lad to do so, not with the many fine women in town. You ought to go and find one yourself."

"Mayhap I will go into town," Ian said. Though it would only be so I can check up on Tiago, not so I could find a woman to waste my money on.

And maybe, just maybe, the little one would want to suck on my prick, I am after all the sole reason as to why he now has a whole silver coin in his possession and wasn't punished by the old priest.

Ian had never before considered being intimate with one of his own gender, willingly, certainly not a boy as young as Tiago; not until Arch told him how he would have expected someone to bend over to be sodomized for that amount of money. But, now that the idea had been instilled in Ian's mind, he gave it some more thought.

The outlook of having sex with Tiago just didn't seem as scary as having sex with a grown, experienced woman. The small boy surely wouldn't expect Ian to know everything already, plus he could safely practise being intimate with the lad; there'd be no risk of any of his seeds being planted in fertile soil, no risk of him fathering any unwanted kin.

The only drawback would be for little Tiago, he'd end up with a mighty sore bottom, his hole must be quite small and my prick isn't exactly tiny. But, I saved him from a punishment that likely would have been much worse. Damn, that wrinkly old priest sure was angry!

The young sergeant silently thanked Arch for making him realise sex wasn't just something to be had with pretty young women and girls; it was something to be had with boys too, even some as young as Tiago.

Well, he sure isn't pretty, Ian realised, now he thought of him in a different light. He wouldn't be my first choice… But Tiago's smile had been like pure magic. The glimpse in his eyes, the look on his face as if he was prepared to take on anything that would come his way. The pure unmasked joy with which he had eaten the bitter smoked meat earlier.

While Ian didn't want to spend money for anyone to have sex with him, he was willing to make a compromise with Tiago. The small lad obviously needed more food than he was given, or more likely was able to eat before it was stolen by the bigger kids like Jaco. I could easily share some of my food with him. As it is, Arch is eating most of the meat anyway. He'll simply have to cut down on the ladies and pay for his own meat from now on.

There were however some flaws to Ian's plan. He didn't know where Tiago had run off to, though he figured he'd be able to find the scrawny lad at or near the town church. The next problem would be how to explain to Tiago what he'd expect from him and what he'd be given in return, and that it all had to be kept strictly secret.

It just wouldn't do if anyone learned about Ian having sex with the lad; if word got to any of the officers, he would be severely punished, maybe even shot or hung for his crime. Sodomy was strictly illegal in England, and while they weren't actually in England at the time, Ian was certain the law still applied to him. Even so, Ian was prepared to take his chances.

First things first, however, Ian thought, I must find Tiago, then I can worry about the rest.

Finding the lad proved to be more difficult than Ian had expected, he spent a fruitless evening searching the parts of the town he could without raising too much attention to himself. He had considered leaving behind part of his uniform in order to more easily blend in with the locals and thus be safe to roam all of the town, but quickly discarded the idea; someone might take him for a coward trying to run from the war if he were discovered.

The only punishment for desertion was hanging and Ian sure wasn't a coward, not when it came to fighting wars. In fact, he longed for the battlefield; at least there he'd know what to do, unlike now trying to come up with a way to find one specific little boy amongst scores of them.

It seemed that everywhere he looked there was a boy to be seen, though not little Tiago. They all looked pretty much the same to Ian, at least from a certain distance, but when he got closer, it always turned out to be a different kid; some of whom were cuter than Tiago and Ian considered asking one of them if he might suck on his prick and bend over for him for a bit of food or perhaps a penny or two.

But when it came to the crunch Ian stopped himself. He had no way of telling if the lad would be interested and he certainly wasn't interested in starting any rumours of him looking for a small boy to sodomize.

When darkness arrived, Ian made his way back to the camp, passing soldiers walking the other way, probably either looking for a drink or a willing woman. Both, most likely.

Ian ignored them much the same as they ignored him. The ever lengthening shadows made sure to mask the identity of the men who snuck out from the camp. Most of them anyway.

"Ian! Did you find that lad, what's his name again? Tibor?"

"'Evening," Ian greeted Arch. "It's Tiago and no, I didn't. He has vanished into thin air."

"So, you're still as naive as before?"

"Lay off, I'm not naive, I know how things are done. It's just that I have been waiting for the right opportunity to arise."

"I only pray you'll find Tiago before your thing won't be able to rise to the occasion," Arch guffawed and resumed walking towards the town.

Ian stood for a time and watched Arch as he walked away before he finally shook his head and went back to the camp. He went through the gate and returned the guard's salute.

There's nothing wrong with my prick, he noted when he undressed for the night, and he stroked it in his hand while he thought of Tiago sucking it and the small boy bending forwards while invitingly spreading his small cheeks open for him. He still had to catch the sperm in his handkerchief when he came, but he hoped that would soon change.

Early next morning, Ian was out of bed before sunrise. He heard the gentle snores from Arch and could smell the cheap wine on his breath; from experience he knew his best friend would wake with a splitting headache, rendering him next to useless for most of the morning.

I sure hope she was worth it, Arch. I won't lend you any more money from now on.

Though the fighting would resume in only thirteen days to come, if Sykes was right anyway, it wasn't a given thing they'd be able to loot any fallen enemies, which was the only way for a soldier to boost his meagre wages. Looting falling enemies was widely accepted too, officers turned their blind eye to what took place in the pauses between battles. Some officers weren't too prudish to get off their high horses and run their fingers through the pockets of a fallen enemy officer if they thought it might be worth their effort.

Ian had to drill his men, but after checking up on Arch one more time, he decided it would make better sense to do so later. Arch wasn't the only man in his troop who fully enjoyed the spoils of the town, and with the reduced number of men from the original rifle regiment, Ian couldn't spare even one of them.

The new men filling up the ranks weren't too shabby with a regular musket, but they were still rookies when it came to the Baker rifle. They still remember too much of their old training as linemen to be good skirmishers.

The young sergeant put on his uniform, did up the buttons, put on his black hat and left Arch sleeping in the tent. The town called out for him, whispering Tiago was still somewhere inside of it.

Though Ian was simply too tired to be thinking of sex, he still wanted to find the lad; if for nothing else, to give him the piece of leftover meat he put in his pocket. Tired as he was, he didn't feel like aimlessly wandering through the narrow streets and alleys like he had done the previous night, and so he decided to take the bull by its horns.

The angry old priest would have to know the whereabouts of Tiago, the lad's well-being was his responsibility after all. Though he seemed more interested in beating little Tiago into oblivion. But at least I know where I will find the old scarecrow!

Chapter 7
Even the young know

Ian had passed the church many times earlier, four times in the previous evening alone, but he had thus far never entered it. This morning he did.

The church seemed much too large for the town's size and Ian wasn't too surprised to find most of the pews empty, even though the bell had been calling people in for mass for some time already. He sat in a pew as far from the large altar as he could, not really interested in the religious ceremony about to take place. He hadn't been brought up to be a follower of any religion other than the one of the street.

His interest picked up a bit when four boys dressed in matching, simple white robes walked through the church up to the altar, two of them swinging a chain with a small golden pot at the end from which white incense bellowed out. The other two each carried a large candle, taking great care not to let the flame be blown out. The quartet moved slowly through the length of the church and took up positions near the altar.

Nothing happened for a while, then three priests entered from somewhere behind the altar. The old priest Ian wanted a word with, went to stand in front of the altar, and stood with his back to the very small gathering of people in the pews.

And then another long wait, until Ian heard the most stunning thing he had ever heard in his life. From somewhere above him he heard singing; breathtakingly beautiful voices, and though he couldn't understand a word of what they sang, he still thought it to be the sound of angels. He looked up hoping to be able to see the choir, but he sat too far back, almost directly underneath where they must be.

He couldn't move, everyone else in the church sat or stood still, and he didn't want to do anything to disturb the angelic voices he heard. All too soon, the choir stopped singing and the old priest turned to face the locals and the few soldiers in the church. In a chanting voice, he spoke in a language Ian didn't understand; but he knew it wasn't English, nor Portuguese and it wasn't Spanish either.

One of the other priests, a younger one, responded in the same language and much the same way.

That was quite a boring show, Ian decided when it apparently was all over. The locals and a few English soldiers left the church after quickly kneeling in the wide passageway and soon Ian was the only one left.

The choir hadn't sung much and this was a grave mistake in Ian's eyes. He would have placed the boys up in front of the altar and the priests would take their place out of sight, or even better, not present at all. Ian could've listened to the boys' choir for much longer; he would've happily listened to the boys singing for hours on end, even in the strange language.

He got up from the pew and walked slowly towards the altar, stopping just in front of the wide stairs leading up to it and turned to face the rear of the church. Up there, just below the high ceiling, was a plateau with a railing. This was where the choir had been, Ian knew now, well out of sight of the church-goers, but easily heard no matter where one might sit in the large church.

Ian thought he'd like to teach the boys some more interesting songs, but he wasn't at the church to give hints as to what they should do to attract more people to attend the masses. He was there to speak to the priest who had disappeared somewhere behind the large altar. He walked up the stairs, briefly noting the many golden things on and all around the altar, before he followed the route of the priest.

Behind the altar Ian located a shut door and throwing all caution to the wind, he threw the door open. The room beyond was full of people, the three priests in the midst of removing their vestments, and the four boys he had seen wearing white robes; the latter were already back in their everyday clothes, the same kind of worn shorts Tiago wore when Ian last saw him.

The oldest priest looked at Ian, at first in surprise then his face darkened.

"You not be here!" He shouted in broken English. "This sacristia, private… Holy place."

"Tell me where I will find Tiago and I'll leave," Ian said.

"Tiago!" The old priest sputtered, then cleared his throat. "Evil boy work field."

"Now? It's only just past six of the clock and…"

"Yes! Boys work dawn to…"

"Where?" Ian managed to contain his anger, but only just so.

"Church field, out west."

Without saying goodbye, Ian spun on his heels and shut the door on his way out. He quickly walked out of the church and with the morning sun shining down on him, he left the town. It was a rather long and warm walk before he eventually spotted a group of boys working in a large field, overseen by a single grown-up.

Ian nearly wept when he saw what the boys were doing; they filled baskets with rocks from the ground before carrying them on their shoulders to the edge of the field where they unloaded the baskets only to return for more rocks. This isn't work for young boys! He thought. It's work for strong, fully grown men!

He ignored the grown-up and all of the other boys and walked straight to where Tiago was bent over using both of his hands to pry a rather big rock from the dirt. He heard the small boy-child moan from the effort, straining under the weight of the rock.

"Tiago!" Ian called out. "Stop working and come with me."

The boy looked up at Ian, then glanced quickly at the overseer and lifted the rock up from the ground.

"Tiago, didn't you hear me?"

When the rock went into the basket, Tiago shrugged his small shoulders and went for another rock.

"No, no, no, lad!" Ian scolded and grabbed hold of Tiago's thin upper arm. "No more working. It's time for breakfast."

"Eu tenho que trabalhar! [I must work!]" Tiago said desperately and tried to free himself.

"I've no idea what you just said but you're not working any more today," Ian said and dragged the boy along with him back towards the town. The grown-up only had to take one quick look at the young soldier to understand it wouldn't be wise to interfere. He turned his attention to the rest of the boys and shouted at them, instantly prompting them to work harder.

"Porque você não vai me deixar trabalhar? [Why won't you let me work?]" Tiago asked when they left the field. As far as Ian could comprehend the boy's question was about working.

"No trabajas hoy," Ian told Tiago in Spanish; the two languages had their similarities, and the word for work sounded almost the same. He hoped Tiago would be able to understand he didn't want him to work more that day. I'd rather he wouldn't have to work like that for the rest of his life!

"É bom!" Tiago said and flashed a smile up at Ian.

"Bom," Ian agreed; it was indeed nice, especially when Tiago's hand found his while they walked back towards the town.

Ian wasn't terribly interested in returning to camp with Tiago tagging along, but he simply couldn't neglect his duties any longer. But I can't tell him to bugger off and come find me in the evening. I don't know how to say that in Portuguese and even if I knew, it just wouldn't be right. No, Tiago simply had to come with Ian to his tent and remain hidden inside of it while Ian did what he must.

The young sergeant desperately wanted to learn more about the kid, to become his friend; but most of all, he wanted to learn what sex with the kid would be like. Hopefully it'll be better than the disaster with that stupid girl. Hell, anything would be better than that, the old Spaniard was bett… Ian stopped himself before he could finish his thought. Unfortunately all of what he wanted to do with Tiago would have to wait until later, and so would Tiago.

The boy followed Ian like a young playful puppy would follow his master, he didn't really know where they were going, nor why and he didn't care all that much about it; he was simply happy to be with the tall and strong sargento who had shown him a bit of affection. Tiago's tummy growled from hunger, he hadn't eaten but a few scraps for dinner in the evening, but he was happily skipping along next to the man, trying to match his stride.

When they approached the camp, Ian purposely ignored the guarded main entrance and went into the camp through the firing range; here the security was far more lax during the day and since Ian knew exactly when the patrols would make their rounds it was very simple to avoid them.

Without being seen by anyone the two ducked into Ian's tent and Ian quickly did up the flap behind them.

"Here," he said and handed Tiago the piece of meat he had saved for him. "Dig into this."

While the boy ate, Ian carefully explained and used hand gestures to make it clearer that he wanted the boy to stay put in the tent.

"Cérto," Tiago agreed and Ian left him in the tent with Arch still passed out in his alcohol-induced sleep.

With Arch still sleeping, Ian had to wake all of his men himself, which he did with a swift kick to their arses, some he had to kick twice before they woke, and it was another fifteen minutes before all of them were lined up in front of him.

"I have good news for you, men," Ian said in a loud voice. "I've heard that we'll be moving out in thirteen days. We're going back to fight the Spanish!"

Most of the soldiers cheered, but they soon stopped when Ian carried on.

"If we're to stand a chance, I need each and every one of you able to shoot straight and hit a target the size of an orange from fifty paces, at least three times in a single minute. Some of you are already able to do that and you will be training those who can't.

"From now on, you will all be confined to camp, I don't want you trying to knock up every woman in the town, nor attempting to drink all of their cheap wine. This curfew will only be lifted when all of you know how to shoot properly. That's all for now. Report to the firing range ready to shoot in thirty minutes."

Ian left his men to get sorted on their own and went to see if his lieutenant was up and about. He was, but he couldn't confirm what Ian had heard about them moving out in thirteen days.

"Will your troop be ready for battle in thirteen days?" He asked instead.

"We're getting closer, though we sure could use more gunpowder and shots for training. I want all of them able to take out a Spanish officer before they even have a chance for lining up their troops. I've thought of something, if my men and I were allowed to, we'd be able to sneak right up to the enemy line and take out at least two or three of their officers and a great deal of their troop leaders.

"The lines would be headless chickens, not knowing whether to charge or flee."

"I'll run it by Captain Henderson, but I think it's safe to assume his answer will be negative."

"He must understand he has a troop of marksmen in this company, not just line infantry. If he orders us to form lines and fire our rifles like the rest of the men, we will be giving up the tactical advantage of the Baker rifle's increased range and accuracy."

"I'll see what I can do, just don't get your hopes up. Between you and me, I think you're onto the right idea, but Captain Henderson doesn't like anyone telling him what to do. Certainly not sergeants."

"That's his problem. If he won't get his head out of his arse on his own, then I'd be most happy to lend him a hand."

"Ian, don't do anything stupid now. Rumour says you're about to be promoted, and right soon too."

"I'm much too young to become a lieutenant," Ian disregarded the rumour. "Besides, the Corps surely wouldn't approve of such a promotion, I'm not a noble. Hell, I don't even know why I was made a sergeant. If the regiment were to join us right now, I'd likely find myself back to being a private again."

"It was an officer from your own company who promoted you to sergeant. The regiment can't undo that."

"They could, if they haven't changed the roster. Anyway, for all I know, they think I'm dead."

"I still think your sergeant's stripes are safe. Don't worry about that for now."

"Well, I do have more pressing issues to attend to."

He had, and two of these were in his tent and both were asleep; Tiago lay on Ian's bedroll fully covered by his blanket and Arch still hadn't moved from his own. Ian quietly picked up his rifle and the knapsack containing his powder and shots, then went to the firing range.

It was nearly lunchtime before Ian allowed himself and his men a break. Like he had predicted, most, but not all, of the original men from the Corps were able to hit the required three targets in sixty seconds, but the rest only managed two. There was certainly room for improvement and he ordered all of them to report back at the firing range in the afternoon.

Physical exercise was important too but Ian focused on the shooting first and foremost. Their upper hand over the enemy was the range and accuracy of their rifles, not the men's ability to run or brawl. Still, the men had done well, and a three hours period of rest was their reward.

When Ian made it back to his tent, both Tiago and Arch were awake and quietly chatting in Portuguese.

"How's your head?" Ian asked.

"Not any worse for wear than usual. Thanks though, I appreciate you let me sleep in. I must say I was surprised to find this little bugger here."

"I hope he didn't bother you. I found him hard at work clearing rocks from a field belonging to the church. I couldn't leave him to do that all day long."

"Oh, no bother at all. I found him sitting quietly and watching me when I woke. We've been having a nice chat for the past hour or so. He's a right clever kid."

"Hello sargento."

"Hello Tiago. Hungry?"

"Sim," Tiago nodded eagerly.

"Since you've slept the morning away, Arch, I think it's only fair that you go buy us something to eat and drink. No wine, though."

"No need to worry, I think I had more than enough of that last night. I may be able to find some oranges for juice. Apple cider perhaps?"

"Cider would work. You had better buy three pounds of pork instead of the usual two."

"Yes, little Tiago here already nicely asked me for food. I told him you're probably the only one in this camp who'd give him any."

"What can I say? I have a soft spot for him."

"Rather a hard one," Arch chuckled. "No, don't give me that look, my friend, I couldn't care less if you lie with a woman or this scrawny lad here. Your secret is safe with me, I'm only happy you've finally found someone you like."

Arch put on his jacket and hat, then said something in Portuguese to Tiago.

"Sim," Tiago nodded shyly and blushed.

"What did you just ask him?"

"Oh, I only made sure that he understands you aren't feeding him for free. That you're expecting something in return, sexual favours, and he said yes."

"Damn you, Arch! That's not how I planned to go about this. I wanted to leave the decision up to him."

"As I told you, we had a long and quite interesting chat. He knows about things, it would seem life in an orphanage isn't all about hard work and singing. There's time for the boys to have a bit of fun and games too, if you know what I mean?"

"Is that so? Has he…?"

"Oh, no! Apparently he is considered too young. You'll be his first, like he'll be yours, I presume."

"Go buy us some food, Corporal Jones!" Ian ordered in a firm voice, then grinned, "Thanks, Arch."

"You're most welcome, Sergeant Hawkes."

Chapter 8
Worm free

Ian sat on his bedroll next to Tiago, suddenly uncertain of what to do now they were alone. Ian could sense a change in the young lad, he seemed shy and reserved all of a sudden, likely caused by what Arch had told him before he left.

Ian was annoyed with his friend for having so casually informed the boy of his ulterior motive for feeding the lad; it wasn't the only reason for Ian offering to share his food with him. Tiago was in dire need of a break, a bit of good fortune in a life otherwise full of misery.

Maybe his life isn't all miserable, but if it resembled mine at his age in any way, it can't be much being him, Ian thought as he looked at the lad. Tiago sat right there, less than the width of a hand away from him, and Ian wasn't sure of what he should do; every time he moved so much as a single finger, the boy flinched.

"I won't ever hurt you, Tiago," Ian said quietly in his most soothing voice, "I'll be very gentle with you."

Tiago couldn't understand the words Ian spoke but he noted his tone of voice. It wasn't commanding like the priests', nor threatening like the older boys' and the other English soldiers'. The soldier who slept in Ian's tent, the one who called himself Cabo Arch and spoke Portuguese fairly well, had been kind to Tiago too. At least he had been kind to him after he explained it was the sargento who had brought him to the tent.

Cabo Arch hadn't been as kind as Sargento Ian, though, he hadn't offered to share his loaf of bread with Tiago, though it had seemed so large to the boy; much too large for only one person to eat and not end up with a belly ache.

Now, Tiago understood why the sargento had treated him so nicely; why he had dragged him away from the field and prevented him from working hard to earn his single daily meal. Why he had taken him to this tent and why he now had sent the cabo away. He wanted to do the same things Tiago had woken up to see take place in the dormitory late at night.

Tiago was to some extent pleased that the sargento, unlike the other boys, thought him to be big enough to do such things. At the same time he was also very frightened; a strong and tall man like the sargento must have a large thing, and, based on the outcries from some of the boys at night, it hurt when a thing was pushed into the rear end.

And all the boys who did such things in the orphanage were bigger than Tiago, their holes had to be bigger too, though not even the largest of the boys, Jaco, could possibly have a thing nearly as big as the sargento's.

Tiago had enjoyed eating the meat the sargento had given him twice so far and he wanted more. It was a lot tastier and filled his belly a lot more, and for a longer time, than the thin and bland vegetable soup served once per day by the priests. And here, in the sargento's tent, there weren't any bigger, mean kids to pry the small bowl from his hands before he had finished eating and drinking all of the soup.

All he had to do was what seemingly all the older boys did to each other every now and then: He had to suck on the sargento's pau and spread his small bum cheeks open while the sargento pushed it into his little cu.

It hadn't seemed like such a big deal when he confirmed how he knew it was likely what the sargento wanted for the food. At the time it seemed like it was something that couldn't happen any time soon; it was in the middle of the day and Tiago naively thought it was something that could only take place in the semi-privacy of darkness in the night.

Though he could hear noises from people outside the tent, he couldn't see them; more importantly they couldn't see him and the sargento in the tent. It was time to pay up for the food, and Tiago suddenly felt very scared.

Ian pulled out the chronometer he had taken from the captain of the prison guard, opened the lid and noted the positions of the hands behind the plate of glass. It had taken him a long time to learn how to tell time and it still took him almost twenty seconds before he realised it was seventeen minutes past the hour. This meant he had two hours and forty-three minutes until the end of the lunch break.

He knew Arch wouldn't return with the food for at least another thirty minutes, it would probably take him even longer than that, since he always bartered with the sellers until he had got the best deal. He'd do everything to get the best price, eventually pretending to walk away; in fact he would do just that if the sellers stood their ground.

Ian looked at Tiago after putting the watch back inside the inner pocket he had sewn into the uniform jacket for that exact purpose. The boy still avoided looking at him, he kept his eyes fixed on the dirt floor in front of him.

This won't do. I'd never be able to enjoy myself if I feel like I'm taking him against his will.

There was another issue, the boy was dirty and it wasn't only the caked dirt that was sort of offensive to Ian, the smell from the boy was quite seriously bad. Though a proper bath would have been better, a quick cleanse would have to suffice for the time being; this would give Ian an opportunity to see Tiago naked and for him to run his fingers against the lad's skin. If the boy turned out to be ticklish it might take away some of the tension Ian could feel radiating from him.

"Stay," Ian said and repeated it in Portuguese, "Ficar."

Tiago simply nodded to show he understood what Ian wanted from him, but it was enough. The young sergeant got up on his feet, left the tent and quickly walked to the nearest campfire, all the while keeping a close watch on the entrance to the tent.

If he bolts again I can't do anything to stop him, Ian realised; he didn't want half of the camp knowing the small boy had been inside his tent and thus couldn't cry out in an attempt to stop him. His worries were put to shame, when he returned with a large pot of steaming hot water in his hand; Tiago hadn't moved at all.

Ian poured some cold water from the large jug, he and Arch kept filled at all times, into a washbasin Arch had haggled over for hours before buying, placed it on the floor and topped it off with hot water from the pot. Picking up a small cake of lye soap, Ian beckoned Tiago to come closer.

"Come, it's about time we see what you look like underneath all the dirt."

Tiago hesitantly looked at the young sergeant. It wasn't Christmas, it just couldn't be as it was much too hot for that. The boys at the orphanage, those Tiago considered the lucky ones who were not in the choir or selected for altar boy duty, were only forced to bathe the day before Christmas. Unless someone had been seriously stupid and rolled himself in something smelly.

Tiago was not in need of a bath, though Sargento Ian apparently thought so, and he remained where he was; defiantly and desperately trying to ignore the dreadful washbasin.

"Porque? [Why?]" he asked miserably when he felt the sargento's hand grab hold of his shoulder.

"Because it makes you smell nice and clean, uh… Porque isso é bom. [Because it is nice.]"

"É bom?" Tiago dubiously asked and thought the sargento must be raving mad thinking bathing would be nice.

"Yes. Sim."

Tiago had no choice but to step into the washbasin; the sargento was strong, much stronger than he was. He had to admit this was a lot nicer than his last bath; the water in the washbasin reaching up to his ankles wasn't icy cold like the water in the old horse trough at the orphanage. Gleefully, he wriggled his toes in the temperate water.

"Don't do that, silly," Ian said tenderly, "You'll make a mess."

"Silly make mess," Tiago repeated.

"Yes, indeed, it is silly to make a mess. Though it can be lots of fun too."

Ian knelt in front of the boy and dipped the cake of soap into the water. He worked up a lather and gingerly he began to wash the grime off the boy's thin lower legs. They were only slightly thicker than Ian's wrists and it didn't take long for him to work his hands up to the hem of the worn canvas shorts.

"Oops, I think we forgot something," Ian laughed and quickly undid the rope holding the shorts in place. "Well, they sure could do with a washing too."

Tiago tried to prevent Ian from tugging down his shorts and only stopped when he feared the worn fabric would tear, and instead he quickly pushed both of his hands into the front of his shorts and cupped his genitals before the young man had a chance to see his little boy penis.

"You're being silly, Tiago, he needs to be washed too. All in good time, you hold onto him while I clean your buttocks. Sheesh, I think you're about the dirtiest little boy I've ever seen in my life," Ian said and built up a new lather. "I know I was cleaner when I was your age, I had to stay clean to keep the fleas from biting my nuts. But, maybe you don't have any blood sucking critters here?"

They do, Ian noted when he gently forced the boy's chafed knees apart. Where the boy was warmest, next to his groin and between his small but muscular buttocks, were the tell-tale red lumps from bites and the scratch marks to go with them. Lots of them, too.

The lye will soon do away with them. I'll wash him every day for as long as we're together, soon he'll be free from the little pests.

The small lad's bum hole was reddish pink but didn't look excessively inflamed once Ian had done away with the filth around it. Hopefully this meant the boy's arse wasn't full of parasitic worms, though Ian could only find out for sure if he probed inside the lad; which is precisely what he did next.

"Relax, lad. It's only my finger and nothing more will go inside until we're both good and ready for it. Relaxar."

"Aii," Tiago whimpered in a painful whisper when he felt the increasing pressure on his bum hole. It felt much worse than the times when he had pushed a fingertip inside to deal with an itch. At least until he did as the sargento had told him to and forced himself to relax his bum muscles.

"Good lad," Ian breathed when he felt the tight opening loosen up a little. Slowly he pushed his finger inside the lad, the lather of soap coating both his finger and the very tight bum hole let it slide in smoothly. He marvelled at the feelings, wondered for a brief moment how his prick would ever fit into a hole so small, then remembered the sizeable lumps of poo he had expelled at Tiago's age.

It had been painful at times, but doable, and he had survived. As will Tiago survive having my prick stuck inside his tight bum hole. It doesn't feel nearly as tight now.

When he couldn't push his finger any deeper into the lad's rump, Ian used his other hand to wash away the lather of soap before he retracted his finger. It wasn't exactly clean when it came back out, but more importantly there were no small nasty wriggling worms on his finger, and he had made sure to trace the inner side of the lad's hole all the way round.

"Well done, Tiago. Good boy."

"Tiago good boy?"

"Yes. Bom menino."

"Sério?" Tiago had never, ever been called good before and had to ask if the sargento actually meant it.

"Sim."

Tiago beamed; though his bum hole now itched quite badly from the lye inside of it, it was but a small price to pay to hear those words. It hadn't hurt so much having the sargento's finger inside his bum, not after he accepted it was going in whether or not he wanted it to, and maybe, it wouldn't hurt as much as he had feared to have the young man's pau slide in there, either. Still, he wasn't so stupid to think it would go in quite as easily as the bony finger had.

Ian worked the grime off the lad's back, shoulders and neck, then turned him around to face him again.

"Right, lad. It's time to uncover what you have hidden down there," he said and gently took hold of Tiago's wrists.

The boy quickly surrendered and relaxed his arms until they hung passively by his sides. It was quite a small penis Tiago had and his small balls were drawn up close to it. It would be years and years before the boy would start the transformation turning him into a man, but Ian didn't worry about that now.

We'd both have to be lucky to live long enough to see that happen. Hopefully, by that time the war will have ended and I'll be back in England. Ian didn't worry about what would happen to Tiago once he left him in only thirteen days. He must fend for himself, like I used to. I can't take him with me when I go back to fight the Spanish.

I won't be leaving this camp as a naive virgin, however. I'll be a real man by then, one who knows what to do when lying with a woman. Well, I'll know what it'll be like being intimate with a small lad, but it surely can't be so very different, Ian thought while he gently, yet very thoroughly, washed the lad's small genitals.

Chapter 9
Being a good boy

The filth was washed away before Tiago's penis was awoken from its slumber and Ian quickly worked his way up the front of the boy. He giggled along with the squirming boy when he washed the insides of his armpits, then took pity and concentrated on the short unruly hair on top of his head. He found no trace of head lice, a surprising fact that filled him with happiness as it meant he wouldn't need to worry about his bedroll and blanket being infested by the annoying little critters.

He had the boy bend right over into the lowest corner of the tent and rinsed the soap from first his hair, then the rest of his body. The shorts were left to soak in the basin and the boy was briskly rubbed down with a piece of cloth before he was carried the short distance to Ian's bedroll.

Ian sat down next to him.

"You're about clean enough to eat now, Tiago."

"Eat meat?" Tiago asked. These English words he knew well.

"No," Ian smilingly shook his head. "Not yet. That will have to wait until Arch returns with it."

"Aw," Tiago saw the sargento shaking his head and realised it was not time for eating yet.

"Sorry," Ian said and leaned closer to the boy. When he got close enough, he pecked a kiss on the little upturned tip of his nose.

This was highly unexpected for Tiago, he had never seen any of the bigger boys in the orphanage do this to each other. He tilted up his head and opened his mouth to ask why the sargento had kissed him on his nose. In the exact same split-second Ian moved in to peck the lad's nose again, only this time his lips connected with the boy's slightly opened mouth.

Ian, like the boy, was surprised by this unexpected turn of events, but instead of backing out, he followed through; before the lad had time to close his mouth, Ian stuck his tongue into it.

Tiago opened his eyes wide from shock and tried to voice his objection to the wildly disgusting thing the sargento was doing to him. It was one thing passively allowing him to stick his finger into his bum hole; having his mouth invaded by a slimy tongue was a whole different matter. While being kissed didn't hurt, it was horrible and the strange, unfamiliar taste of the man's saliva was revolting to the young boy.

But the sargento didn't let up, and Tiago couldn't tell him to stop; his words came out as nothing but soft murmurs of protests.

Ian could easily tell Tiago didn't exactly appreciate the activity, but kissing, or snogging, was something he had heard a lot of stories about from the other soldiers, Arch most of all; his friend could go on and on about the joys of it. All that he had been told turned out to be true, Tiago's small and yet surprisingly strong tongue duelled with his own, trying to push it back out of his little hot mouth.

When Ian withdrew for just a second, Tiago's tongue dipped into his mouth and Ian pushed it right back again. He held the boy's head tightly in his hands, preventing him from breaking the seal formed by their lips. Only when he felt the strength ebb out of the wee lad did he let up a little and moved one of his hands down to caress the slim neck and shoulders of the boy-child.

He didn't stop kissing while his hands roamed, and the more he explored the little lad's clean body, the more turned on he became. The blood was boiling in his veins, his manhood standing at attention, pushing obscenely at the front of his trousers and he grabbed one of Tiago's hands and placed it right on top of his prick head.

He moaned, again, into the lad's mouth when he felt the small fingers touch his most private part. It felt so much better than when the little girl had held it, though two layers of clothing still separated his prick from Tiago's fingers.

Tiago could feel the sargento's thing. It was huge, much bigger than he had anticipated, and felt warm through the rough dark green uniform trousers. He momentarily forgot the slimy tongue still roaming his mouth and preventing him from closing it, and explored the hardness within the sargento's trousers. The thing pushed upwards against his fingers and he pushed down at it. It was springy, moved down when he pushed at it and came right back up when he relaxed.

"We've not much time, lad. I'm about to bust a seam here, I must get release. Will you suck on it, please?" Ian said desperately after he finally uncoupled from the small lad's mouth.

"Não entendo," Tiago said softly. He hadn't understood one word of what the sargento had almost breathlessly said. He was quite winded himself from having been kissed so fiercely.

"Chupar," Ian said the Portuguese word for what he wanted and pointed to his prick.

"Sério?" Tiago asked. He now knew what the sargento wanted him to do, but his thing was so big.

"Sim, é bom. Tiago chupar, Tiago good boy. Tiago chupar, Tiago eat meat."

"Certo!" While the lad wasn't sure he could do it exactly like he had witnessed the boys in the orphanage do so, namely sucking most, if not all of the thing, into their mouths, he was willing to try his best. Especially if doing it would make him a good boy rather than the Devil's brood the priests always told him he was; even though the sargento's prick was both longer and fatter than any of the boys' in the orphanage.

Ian unbuttoned his trousers closely observed by the small curious lad, pushed up his arse and slid them down along with his drawers. His prick sprang out into the open and he leaned backwards, and came to rest on his elbows.

He didn't have to goad Tiago into touching his prick unlike the little girl who had been about the same age as the boy; Tiago simply reached over on his own and used both of his hands to tightly grip the stalk of Ian's prick just below the head.

At long last, Ian had again found someone who instinctively knew exactly how he wanted his prick handled. While his prick had gotten hard back when the girl had shyly touched it, feather-light compared to how Tiago handled it now, it hadn't done much for him.

Ian gasped happily when he watched and felt Tiago move his hands lower and slide the foreskin down, baring his purple helmet-shaped prick head.

Tiago, fascinated by the large, warm firmness, slid the foreskin back and forth a couple of times then leaned further down and tentatively smelled the prick. It didn't smell offensive to him so he stuck out his tongue and touched it against the firm sponginess of the purple prick head. The taste he picked up on his tongue wasn't worse than he had thought it would be and he took another lick of it.

"Wow," Ian breathed out from the sensation of having a soft, wet tongue lick the side of his prick head for the first time ever. It was even better than he dared imagine whenever he had stroked himself to orgasm. Since Tiago did everything on his own, Ian didn't even have to do anything, he could just lie there and enjoy the feelings that the small boy's tongue generated.

Though it felt very nice indeed, Ian wanted, nay he was desperate for release and if the boy only kept licking the side of his prick head, it would take far too long.

"Chupar! Tiago, suck on it," he insisted quietly. "Take it in your mouth."

Tiago looked at the sargento's prick head; it was about the same size as the plums he had feasted on last summer, almost the same colour too, and it felt nearly the same when he squeezed it again. A drop of clear liquid appeared at the pee slit and he touched it. It wasn't pee he deduced when he moved his fingertip around in it; it was thicker and slick. It didn't smell like pee, nor did it taste like he thought pee would taste.

It was salty, but not enough to make him try to back out of the deal he had struck with the sargento.

"Oh, yes!" Ian moaned when Tiago suddenly opened his mouth wide and moved down on his prick. It was still only his prick head the boy suckled on, but he had taken all of it inside his mouth. Ian slumped his head back and reflexively he thrust his pelvis upwards, driving another finger-width of his prick into the small lad's mouth. His right hand shot out, clasped itself around Tiago's nape, and pulled the boy's head further down towards his groin.

Tiago choked around the massive prick head, it had reached the back of his mouth and could go no further inside. Immediately he felt Sargento Ian's hand let up some of the pressure on the back of his head and he pulled back a bit, his mouth still stuffed full but no longer uncomfortably so. He couldn't do much, other than keep his mouth wide open, when the strong sargento pulled on his head again.

Ian marvelled at the sensation of having his prick head inside the small lad's mouth. It was hot and moist in there; the slightly painful sensation of the lad's sharp and pointy teeth scraping against the skin of his prick only added to the experience. He desperately wanted to feed more of his prick into the small mouth and he tugged at the small lad's head again.

When Tiago started choking once more, fiercer than before, Ian let up. He settled for what little the lad could take and started fucking his prick the short distance in and out of the wet cavity.

It wasn't long until Ian could feel the onset of his climax, it happened much quicker than he was used to from stroking his prick, and he picked up speed. His thrusting became less controlled, at times sending his prick back in to where the small lad would gag and splutter again. He was beyond caring for the lad's comfort; his climax was imminent and he concentrated entirely on this.

Tiago gagged again and fat tears rolled down his cheeks, but he wasn't upset. He didn't feel like crying, though his body reacted impulsively to the sickening heaves with tears. He had observed this happen a couple of times; whenever Jaco was sucked off by one of the other boys he also fucked his thing into the boy's mouth and the boy doing the sucking reacted with sputtering, coughing and tears. Tiago knew it would soon be over; Jaco only ever did what the sargento was doing now for a short while.

Tiago didn't have to endure the onslaught for long, it was less than ten thrusts later and his mouth was suddenly overflowing with saltiness. He swallowed urgently when more of the salty liquid shot into his mouth and coughed when some of it went into his windpipe. It couldn't come out of his mouth, the opening was still blocked by the massive prick head and so it shot out of his nostrils instead. He couldn't do anything about that, only try to swallow yet again.

Ian released the hold on the boy's head after he had finished shooting his sperm into his mouth. He looked at the boy's face and had to chuckle at what he saw. Tiago had sperm running from his nostrils down his upper lip, apparently he hadn't been able to cope with what had shot into his mouth. It wasn't surprising to Ian; he felt as if his orgasm had gone on and on when finally his release came.

He felt completely drained, in more ways than just his heavy balls having been emptied; he was as knackered as he had been after storming the cliff back in Spain. With a tired smile on his face he watched as Tiago used his tongue to clean as much of his upper lip as he could, then heard when the boy sniffed mightily and cleared his nostrils. His smile increased when Tiago swallowed yet again.

"Tiago good boy now?" He heard the lad ask.

"Sim. You're a very good boy."

Tiago smiled at hearing this. The experience had been somewhat unpleasant to him, but it hadn't taken very long at all; five minutes at the very most.

Chapter 10
Water and War

Tiago's smile was even bigger when he was handed the biggest piece of meat he had ever been given in his life. He didn't care that he was naked, his shorts were still dripping wet. Sargento Ian had hung them to dry on a line spanning the length of the tent. Corporal Arch had returned to the tent about ten minutes after Ian made the slime shoot out of Tiago's nose, and the two had been snuggling close on the bedroll in spite of the midday heat, when the flap was pulled aside and the corporal entered.

"Ah, I see you didn't waste any time, Ian. Was the little bugger worth it?"

"Have I ever, even once, asked if any of the women you've been with were worth it, Arch? I dare say I haven't, but if you indeed must know, then yes, he is worth it… This isn't going to be a one-time only."

"Oh, you've fallen in love! How sweet… Uh, are you going to ask him to stay?"

"I would, but I can't see how I would make it work."

"Well, I won't mind him staying tonight. Just, please don't fuck him all night long, I need my beauty sleep. I'll try to think of something so he can stay with you until we leave for Spain."

"I won't be doing anything to him while you're in the tent with us. Say, if you can find a way for me to keep him here without causing suspicion, I'll think of a reason for you spending the nights in the town."

"Deal!" Arch agreed and asked in Portuguese if Tiago wanted to spend the night with Ian in the tent.

"Sim!" Tiago said and nodded eagerly. Not only did a night away from the dormitory sound exciting to him, the Sargento still had lots of food, more than he could ever hope for if he was sent back to the orphanage.

"He sure is a wee little lad isn't he?" Arch noted. "He's hardly got anything between his legs."

"The size of his parts is of no importance to me. What matters is that he has a lovely tight and clean arse, and a mouth he knows how to put to good use."

"Well, I guess since you're giving him food and all, you needn't worry about him getting his rocks off too."

"He's so young, Arch. I doubt I could make him climax even if I tried."

"Don't be so sure of that," Arch said with a grin. "I was about his age when I… Ah, never mind that."

"I told the men to report to the firing range at three," Ian changed the subject. "I'm going to take a nap. Will you wake me at a quarter to?"

"I can do better than that, I'll lead the drills while you catch up on your sleep. You were up bloody early this morning."

"Thanks, Arch."

"You scratch my back and I scratch yours. Isn't that what friends are for?"

"It is," Ian agreed and yawned, before proceeding. "You know, Lieutenant Goodson told me I'm supposedly about to be promoted. If so, I'll promote you to sergeant as the first thing I do. I want you to remain my second in command, do you think we can handle three troops and not just the one?"

"You would be able to lead a company, Ian. Me? I'm surprised you trust me on my own. Get some sleep man. Look, didn't I tell you Tiago is a clever lad? He's already fast asleep."

"Right. Off you go now."

"I'll be back at six. Hopefully only to be told to go see Mariana," Arch said and left.

Ian removed his boots, and trousers, then unbuttoned his shirt and lay next to Tiago. He spooned him close to his chest and fell asleep within three minutes of shutting his eyes.

When Ian reopened his eyes, he wasn't certain how long he had slept but he felt refreshed. His prick was already wide awake; probably caused by his young bed mate fiddling with it.

"Hungry?" Ian asked Tiago, "Faminto?"

The reply was a dead given, of course Tiago was hungry, and he moved so he could suck on the man's prick.

Ian hadn't meant that Tiago should blow him again, but seeing as the lad had already started, he figured he might as well let him finish. Maybe he thinks he must suck on my prick or that I want to stick it in his arse each and every time he's given something to eat. I only meant for him to do it every now and then, like once every few days, but if he insists…

This time Ian didn't allow himself to lose control of his body; he wasn't dying for release, unlike only a few hours prior, and he let the boy suck him at his own pace. Tiago didn't need to be encouraged, Ian discovered, he sucked his prick with boyish enthusiasm, almost aggressively. Ian slowly turned to lay on his back and Tiago followed him, never letting go of his prick.

Tiago pushed himself, gagging repeatedly when the massive prick head went as far into his mouth as it could, eager to show the Sargento he had no fears; that he knew he must work hard for the food he was given. Working for sargento Ian was quite different from loading rocks into a wickerwork basket before carrying it on his shoulders to the side of the field, it was much quicker and the reward for sucking on the large prick was a lot better.

The slimy stuff that erupted into his mouth for the second time that day wasn't very different from his own snot, though it was a lot saltier, and he quickly swallowed it. The sour aftertaste went away with the first drink of the apple cider Sargento Ian offered him. The cider was very tasty and he drank greedily from the pouch.

"Easy does it, lad, it's a bit fermented. Now, what would Arch think of me if I were to get you drunk?" Ian asked and snatched the heavy pouch from the boy.

Maybe I'll let him drink more of it later tonight, it might help him get through the first time I fuck his tight arse, Ian contemplated while he cut a couple of thick slices of ham and bread for Tiago.

"Here, dig into this. If you're still thirsty, you can have some water."

"Wa-ater," Tiago tried to repeat what Ian had told him.

"Yes, this is water," the man explained and handed the boy his canteen.

"Ah, agua! Wa-ater."

"If you keep this up, you'll be speaking like an Englishman before I head back to war," Ian said and felt slightly saddened by the fact he would have to leave Tiago behind.

"Wa-ar."

"Yes. Guerra. I kill other men. That's what I do for a living. That's how I make the money to buy the food I give you."

Tiago smiled at Ian and took a bite of bread, immediately followed by a bite of the ham. He chewed the two for a bit, took a swig of water and swallowed. He smacked his lips and repeated the process a second time. Suddenly he burped and Ian pretended he was hit by a bullet and let himself fall backwards onto the bedroll.

Without letting go of his food, Tiago quickly sat on top of the man's belly and threw both his arms into the air, roaring a victorious cry.

"Shh, little one," Ian shushed and tickled the defenceless sides of the boy's belly. He could see each and every one of the lad's ribs and he tickled these too. The victorious cry changed into a shrill howl of laughter and Ian called it quits before someone poked his head into the tent to see what the commotion was all about.

"Heh," Tiago breathed out, abruptly ending his outburst of laughter and giggles.

"Sarge!" Ian heard from outside and looked up in time to see Arch pull open the flap and enter the tent. "Pardon, Ian. I didn't know the two of you were at it again so soon."

Ian blushed crimson from the casual, yet reproachful remark from his best friend. Though he was only having a bit of innocent fun with Tiago when Arch entered the tent, the small naked lad was perched on top of his likewise naked midsection. Ian couldn't move the lad, lest he completely bare himself to the prying eyes of his friend; though they were very close friends, they had yet to see each other naked.

And that's something that won't change now, Ian decided and quickly draped his blanket around the shoulders of Tiago; it covered enough of both of them to make him feel slightly more at ease with the situation.

"We weren't, you know, that," Ian explained. "It was only a most innocent tickling session you nearly interrupted."

"Well, if you say so. It sure looked like… Anyway, I've been thinking all the while I was at the firing range. I wonder if the men learned anything this afternoon, but I've come up with a couple of reasons for you to keep young Tiago here."

"Is that so? Please, do enlighten me," Ian exclaimed and sat up; rearranging Tiago to sit sideways on his lap.

"Well, the first one isn't a reason as such, it's more of a disguise. We could simply dress him like one of the drummer boys."

"And you don't think it would seem strange to anyone that I have one of the drummer boys in my tent? 'Sides, there are only three of them in the regiment, everyone knows them. Toby, the youngest, if you remember, is eleven and a great deal taller than Tiago here."

"As I said, it was only option one, I rejected it nearly as quickly as you just did. Well, then there's the obvious one, pass him off for your son. That might work if only you were five or six years older and had been around here for it to happen. So, it leaves us with two possibilities, either he's the troop's mascot or he's your runner. The latter would make more sense if you were an officer, which you aren't, yet."

"I'm not an officer, no, and my promotion is only a rumour. Anyway, a runner you say? Well, I know Tiago can run, he outran all of the other boys from the orphanage when I met him, but can he relay orders? He is clever, but he doesn't know much English."

"It isn't necessary that he understand what people tell him, all he needs to do is memorize what he's told and then run to the right person and rattle it off to him."

"Hmm," Ian contemplated. "Would you want to be in the English army, Tiago? Only for the short time until we move out."

Arch repeated the question in Portuguese and Tiago widened his eyes as far as they could go. Then he nodded.

"Tell him he must do everything I tell him, even when he'd rather not. That I'll punish him if he doesn't."

Tiago nodded again, this time more sombrely.

"I guess that settles it, then. What can we do about his clothes? He can't run around mother-naked like he is now and if he wears those worn-out shorts of his, the patrols would take him for a trespasser and throw him arse-first out of here."

"Leave that with me, Ian. I know a woman in the town, a weaver and dyer, at least by day, at night she's… Well, never mind, I'm sure she can make a uniform jacket for him that'll match ours. It wouldn't come cheaply though."

Keeping Tiago around will be much more expensive than I thought! Ian realised. The money I'm about to spend on clothes for him might be better spent on a night with a woman… I hope I won't regret this!

"That's fine, Arch. I'll see what I can do to round up some money for it. Aha! There's the reason for you to be spending the evening and night away from camp…

"Corporal Jones, go to the town and have a jacket and a pair of shorts made for my new runner as quickly and as cheaply as possible. You are not to return until they are ready."

"Yes, Sergeant Hawkes, right away," Arch jumped to attention and winked.

Chapter 11
Working for food

After Arch left their tent, Ian put on his uniform and told Tiago to stay put. He went in search of his lieutenant; if anyone might loan him the money required for purchasing the two pieces of clothing for the lad, Lieutenant Goodson was that very person. He was friendly towards Ian; he treated him with far more respect than any other superior had before, impressed by Ian's leadership. Furthermore, the lieutenant was a wealthy man.

"I can spare ten pounds," Lieutenant Goodson kindly offered when Ian asked if it might be possible to obtain a small loan from him.

"Thank you, sir, but that's a lot more than I need," Ian objected, in fact it was more money than he had ever seen at one time in his life. He was more than apprehensive to accept such a large sum of money; he feared he'd never be able to repay it.

Ten pounds must be more than ten times as much as I need for buying clothes for Tiago. It had damned better be, I'm not spending that much money on the little bugger. His own uniform, all of it not just two pieces, had cost two pounds and eight shillings. Which I still haven't paid back in full, he suddenly remembered.

Ian reluctantly accepted a loan of five pounds, it was an uncomfortably large amount of money to the young man whose yearly wages was roughly thirty eight pounds. Ian was paid a meagre two shillings per day, of these he spent half on food and beverage.

Thus far, during their time in Portugal, Arch had borrowed the remaining shilling of Ian's pay, promptly given to a lucky woman in the town; Arch only made fifteen pence per day, not nearly enough for both food and women.

"Don't worry, soon you'll be making a lot more money," the lieutenant told Ian when he handed him the coins, "And when we're back on the battlefield, I'm sure you'll be able to loot even more than that."

"I hope so. Being a foot soldier sure doesn't make anyone rich, not even sergeants."

"No, but I still have a feeling my money is safe with you. You won't be a sergeant for much longer."

Ian wasn't entirely so sure, still he was happy to have more than enough money to outfit his new young runner.

"Oh! Sir, I nearly forgot to tell you… I've enlisted one of the town orphans to be my runner for the rest of the time we're here. He'll be sleeping in my tent so I won't have to find him first whenever I need him."

"I see. Well, if you feel that it's necessary and you uphold his wages out of your own pay, I really can't see anything wrong with that. You'll be the only sergeant to have a runner in this regiment, I'm sure you'll hear about it."

"I'm not concerned with a little heat. If they want a runner, they'd easily find one. The priests sure don't treat the orphans in their care with a whole lot of tenderness. However, I do believe I found the best of the lot."

"Well, if that was all, sergeant, I need to take my leave. I have urgent business I must attend to in the town."

Ian thought he knew exactly what kind of business the rich lieutenant had in the town. He'd be off to meet a pretty young woman, one who probably expected a whole pound for her troubles. Ian felt slightly envious of the lieutenant, but only until he remembered he had a perfectly good substitute for a pretty young woman waiting for him to return to his tent.

Tiago might not be a pretty young woman, not even a pretty lad, but he's by far better than any woman. A woman would never have been able to enter the camp. But Tiago can! He's officially my runner now. Runner by day and a most willing bed partner at night. A perfect combination, Ian thought while he made his way back to the tent where the lad waited for him.

Ian spent the rest of the evening inside his tent teaching his new runner English phrases. Mostly military expressions, since the lad had to be able to play his day time role to perfection. Fortunately, Tiago was a fast learner and most eager to please Ian.

"So, when I tell you to run to Lieutenant Goodson and tell him I want permission to withdraw, what do you do?" He asked the lad after three hours of intensive teaching.

"I run to man with fun hat, tell 'Sargento Ian ships his regards, need go back. Now! Sir.'"

"Almost, you tell him: 'Sir, Sergeant Hawkes sends his regards, if it suits the lieutenant, he would like permission to fall back'."

"Too hard, Sargento Ian. Sorry."

"You'll soon learn, Tiago. It's only your first night as a runner. Tomorrow, we'll train more. Now, it's time for bed."

"Time for bed?"

"Yes. We must sleep, but before that, you'll work for food."

"Certo," Tiago agreed, then added with a pained expression on his face, "I need cocô."

"Cocô? What is that?"

Instead of trying to explain verbally, Tiago sat on his haunches and pretended to poo, and made the sounds one would make while doing his business. He exaggerated them and even wafted his hand in front of his face to get rid of an imaginary stench.

"Oh, you need to poo!" Ian laughed heartily. "So poo is Cocô. Well, you're not doing that in here, put on your shorts and I'll take you to the latrine."

The latrine had been built with grown men in mind, yet Tiago still managed to get rid of his solid waste while Ian waited for him. They went back to the tent where Ian washed the boy's rear end. I'm not settling for a suck this time, however nice that is. Certainly not when he just emptied his bowels, preparing himself for taking my prick in his arse.

He allowed Tiago to suck on his prick for a while, enjoying the way the lad seemed determined to choke himself on it and the feelings it provided him. It wasn't long until he had to tell Tiago to stop and he rearranged the lad's position.

Arch had said how he wanted the lad to bend over for him, but Ian soon learned that this wouldn't work. Tiago was simply too short for Ian to stand behind and when Ian kneeled behind him, the lad's rump was too high up in the air for him to push his prick into.

It made a lot more sense having the small boy kneel and rest his chest and head on the bedroll while he reached back and spread open his small bum cheeks. Ian's prick was quite wet from the lad's saliva, but when he had another look at the small wrinkled opening he realised it would likely be too painful for the boy to keep quiet while he sodomized him with only spittle as lubricant.

He had a look around and found the small jar of fat he and Arch used to waterproof their boots. It isn't perfect for the task at hand, though it must be better than nothing at all, Ian told himself and dug his finger into the fat.

It was a greasy and quite messy affair to prepare Tiago's little tight hole for entry; though the boy had only just pooed, or perhaps exactly because of that, it wasn't clean when Ian pushed his fat-covered finger inside of it.

Ian wasn't a prude, a bit of poo couldn't stop him from what he had started and he simply used another finger to dig out some more fat from the jar and pushed this along with the first into the lad. He did so carefully, whenever Tiago gasped, flinched or sounded off a quiet moan from pain, Ian paused. He wasn't in a hurry, they had all night if need be and his prick was still hard as a ramrod.

He kept sliding his two fingers back and forth while Tiago slowly adjusted to the new sensations generated in his bum hole and began to relax. Ian had forgotten all about the fermented cider and his plan of getting the kid drunk and in the end it turned out it wasn't necessary.

Tiago whined aloud when he felt the sharp pain of the large prick head being pushed into his hole but never objected to the unfamiliar activity. Had he not witnessed the older boys in the orphanage do this sort of thing, he wouldn't have thought it possible and likely would have cried out far worse than he did.

He was still determined to be a good boy, and if sucking on the massive thing had made him a good boy for a time, taking it in his small bum had to make him an even better boy for much longer. Based on the pain, it had better make him a damned good boy for days to come!

Ian gasped happily when he felt the head of his prick finally work itself past the narrow ring and enter the somewhat wider space beyond. There was more room inside the boy and it was hot in there, hotter than he had thought, and he pushed his hips harder forwards, sending more of his long, fat prick into the small lad.

He looked down to check his progress, only about a quarter of his prick had vanished from sight and the pink lips of the small bum hole had stretched almost to their limit. There's no bleeding, he observed thankfully when he pulled part of his prick back out; this fact and Tiago's lack of objections meant he couldn't be hurting too badly.

He pushed forwards again, further, and watched about a third of his prick go into the lad's hot innards seemingly narrowing the further in his prick went, only making the sensation of finally getting to fuck someone so much better for him. He pulled back, just a little and drove in his prick, harder and further than before.

"Ack!" Tiago gasped when the dull pain from his bum hole being spread open to a previously unknown capacity was overpowered by a greater pain deeper inside his body. When the sargento withdrew his prick the pain lessened, only to return in force when the prick was pushed back further inside.

It wasn't nice being on the receiving end of a coupling, Tiago realised, confirming what he had already gathered from watching it happen.

It was, however, one thing to covertly lay and watch other boys engage in coupling in the dark of the night; it was an entirely different thing to be part of it, to feel it happen. The sargento's thing already seemed impossibly large, yet it kept moving further inside him.

For the first time, Tiago started doubting if he had made the right choice to so quickly agree to something like this for more food, even if the extra food was very tasty meat. He had never imagined the pain would be so horrible, but there was nothing he could do to stop it from happening; he had most happily agreed to the terms, now he must suffer the consequences of his ignorance.

He tried to find comfort in knowing that it wouldn't take very long; it never did when the boys coupled in the dormitory.

Ian wasn't in any hurry though, only half of his prick had entered the small lad, it had reached what seemed like the bottom of the tight arse, but he wasn't satisfied with that. He pushed harder, shifting his position and lifting the boy up from the bedroll, while he tried to find a way for his prick to go even further inside. He was about to give up when his prick suddenly went a bit further inside Tiago, making the boy cry out for a short moment.

He kept up the pressure, afraid to back up in case he wouldn't be able to find the way back deep inside the boy. His prick had entered a very tight part of the boy, yet he found himself able to push further inside of him; his prick almost fully inside by now. With one last effort, he pushed the rest of it into the no longer chokingly tight hole, however deeper inside of the lad, it was still tight, moist and very hot around his prick.

Ian paused, having accomplished what he had set out to do first, his prick was crammed all the way inside the small skinny lad; his wiry bush of pubic hair was flattened up against the small buttocks. He couldn't fathom how it was possible but it sure felt nice wherever the end of his prick had ended up.

The young man relished the feelings of the pulsating warm boy flesh all around his prick for another moment, then his hips reflexively started pulling back.

This is even better, Ian marvelled and he started to properly fuck the lad. His strokes, short and gentle in the beginning, soon lengthened and increased in speed.

When his sperm finally shot out of his prick, it was all the way back inside the kid; he pulled back and pushed forwards one more time, was overwhelmed by the sensation it caused and remained stationary until his orgasm finally ebbed out of his body.

His prick remained hard and very sensitive, and he had to withdraw it from the suddenly much too tight and hot arse at an extremely slow pace. It felt as if his prick was on fire, his ballsack painfully contracted once more just when his prick head finally vacated the boy's arse with a small pop.

Ian quickly assessed both the gaping arse hole and his prick, found them both to be smeared with a yellowish/brown tinted layer of fat, sperm and something from deep inside the boy. There was a strong, yet not unpleasant, unmistakably smell from Tiago's arse in the tent.

I must find something that'll clean up more easily, Ian told himself while he cleaned off his prick and the boy's arsehole the best he could in the dwindling light; the fat was nearly impossible to wipe off.

Tiago stayed crouched on his knees, though he no longer kept his bum cheeks spread. He hoped the sargento had finished with him and that he was satisfied with the way he had worked for his food. He hoped he was now a very good boy in the eyes of God; mostly he hoped that the sargento wouldn't want to do this again for a very long time to come.

His bum hole was flexing, he could feel it sending painful reminders of what had just happened while it slowly tightened back up. He felt raw and bruised back there and he worried the pain would never stop.

He still worried when he allowed himself to be hugged close to the young man's chest and tried to fall asleep in spite of his still flexing and burning bum hole. Eventually, he fell into a deep sleep, though not until long after the sargento's hold on him had let up and he could hear gentle snoring from behind him.

Chapter 12
More Drilling

If Tiago had expected Ian to give him a break, he was sorely mistaken; when he woke early the next morning, it was from his bottom being invaded by the sargento's large prick again.

"Nooo," he sleepily objected with a quiet whimper.

"Hush now, child," Ian whispered, "Arch told me it's even better to lay with someone in the morning and you know what? I fully concur."

Tiago tiredly wiped the sleep gunk that had amassed during the night from the corners of his eyes, all the while Ian lazily pushed his prick back and forth in his rump. The sargento hadn't pushed too much inside of him yet so it didn't hurt as badly as it had in the evening, but it was still uncomfortable to wake up having the large prick stuffed into his bum and feeling a dire need for peeing.

He kept quiet though, he remembered what Arch had told him about having to do everything the sargento wanted him to, unless he wanted to be punished.

The punishments in the orphanage were bad and Tiago sure wasn't anxious to discover what they were like in the English army he now apparently belonged to. He didn't feel like he was part of it, not yet; now, he was just a naked boy to be used by the horny man lying behind him.

Tiago didn't realise that if he were to object in a stronger way; if he put up a bigger fuss, Ian would've let him go. Even so, he wouldn't have wanted to go back to the orphanage yet. His life so far had been tough: he couldn't remember his mother, thought of himself as an orphan, an unwanted child that was left behind so the priests were forced to spend their valuable time on him. He was the result of a grave sin; he knew this well as everyone had told him for as long as he could remember, and thus must be treated harshly to keep at bay the evil inside of him.

He opened his mouth in a massive yawn and stretched his limbs; flinched when it sparked a pain inside of him, and settled back into the position he had woken in. Right now it didn't feel so bad to be on the receiving end of a coupling, he realised now that he thought of it; the sargento hugged him tight from behind and kissed him on the top of his head, moaning and whispering soothing words.

Tiago would've liked it more, if he hadn't had the large prick moving back and forth in his bum, yet it felt a bit like the man actually cared for him.

"You're such a lovely good little boy, Tiago," Ian whispered and Tiago smiled at the words he heard. Yes, the sargento liked him and thought he was a good boy for letting him stick his ginormous thing into his little bum. Maybe it wasn't such a bad thing after all, it didn't hurt as much any more; it was like the man's words had made it less painful.

If only he didn't have to pee something fiercely, Tiago might actually have enjoyed the coupling, despite the painful sensations he felt every now and then.

Ian certainly enjoyed himself, the first fuck had been somewhat more feverish and daunting to him, almost a rite of passage. He hadn't known for a fact that he was able to fuck anyone before, nor that he would be able to climax from this. Now that he knew, he was much more relaxed and able to focus on the feelings it generated inside his body rather than worrying about hurting Tiago.

The small lad had never screamed from pain from being fucked, something Ian was certain he would have done had their roles been reversed. Well, if someone had asked me if I wanted to be fucked in the arse in exchange of decent food when I was Tiago's age, I might've accepted it too.

Ian picked up speed, though only a little bit. It was still early, he wasn't expected anywhere for hours; he could take his time enjoying the small lad's arse to the fullest. He had already been outside the tent and urinated, mere minutes before pushing his still erect prick inside Tiago. Now he pushed it a bit deeper into the boy, experimenting while trying to make the sensations feel even better.

Tiago wriggled when he felt the prick graze against his bladder. It made his imminent need for peeing much worse and he started worrying about wetting the bedroll. The boys who wet during the night in the orphanage were punished by having to stand naked and wet in the courtyard, holding their pee-sodden blankets up high until both boy and blanket were dry. Summer or winter, the time of year didn't matter; even the smallest of the boys were forced to stand like that.

Tiago had never wet his bed, not since he was house-broken. Yet he, like all the rest of the boys, had seen how the more unfortunate ones were punished; he remembered how they had shivered in the cold winds. And he sure didn't want to be punished for wetting now that he was awake; the punishment for doing so must be worse than doing it while asleep.

"Sargento," he whispered urgently using some of the English words, and one Spanish, he had learned only the day before. "Pee. I need. Mucho."

Ian reached behind him, located the clay jug he used whenever he had to pass water and couldn't be bothered to leave the tent.

"Here, use this," he told the boy.

Tiago grabbed the jug and quickly placed it in front of him using both his hands; he held it at an angle so his pee wouldn't run back out of it. While Ian kept his prick stationary deep inside his bum, he finally relaxed. With a small satisfied hiss, his pee started squirting into the jug. He almost cut off the stream when he suddenly felt two of the sargento's fingers grab his penis.

"Sheesh, your little prick is bloody hard and your stream is so unbelievably strong," Ian said in quiet awe while he held the prick of his little bed mate. It was strangely intriguing for the man to be holding Tiago's prick while the lad peed and he stuck one of his fingers into the yellow stream of fluid gushing out of the boy. This was something Ian had never pictured himself doing, but the same could've been said about sticking his prick into the arse of a skinny boy less than half his age and this he had.

Hell, my prick's still inside of his tight arse right now. And after he finishes peeing, I'll be fucking him again. Damn, if anyone had told me my first time would be with a small boy I would've beaten him senseless. Especially if they had claimed I'd be enjoying doing it so much as I am.

Tiago peed for a full minute before his bladder was drained and Ian could resume his lazy pursuit of climax. He pushed deeper into the arse now he knew the boy's bladder was empty. The small lad had also clearly accepted he was being fucked, whether or not he wanted it, and had relaxed considerably after his pee.

When Ian had finished, and his balls were satisfyingly empty once more and Tiago's bum filled to the point of overflowing, he washed his front and the wee lad's hind quarters. Again, he told himself to see if he could find something less greasy than fat, it was nearly impossible to remove and it gave off a smell not unlike bacon. Ian wasn't sure if he liked that smell better than the pungent smell from Tiago's arse his nose also picked up.

Ian dressed and handed Tiago his threadbare shorts. Rather than waiting for Arch to return to the camp, Ian decided to go find him after a quick breakfast. The lad needed his uniform, that way the other English soldiers would see Tiago belonged there and hopefully he'd be left alone when he roamed the camp on his own.

"Do you know where Arch went? He is with a dyer, a woman who also weaves. O tintureiro e fiandeiro, sabe?"

"Sim," Tiago nodded. There were a lot of weaving women in the town, but he had only ever seen one of them dye fabric too. He had often longed for a pair of woven shorts, some that would fit him better than the single pair of shorts he had now. Shorts that hadn't been crafted from an old sack too worn to hold grain any longer and passed down from another boy. More than anything, Tiago wanted to own a pair of new Burgundy-coloured shorts.

Ian followed the small boy to the town; he heard the ringing of the church bell so he knew the priests must be at mass for a while to come. Though he didn't think the priests cared enough, they could demand Tiago was returned to them; they had every right to do so, and he didn't want any of them to see the lad, most certainly not the hostile old priest in charge.

The boy ducked into an alley and Ian went with him.

"Aqui," Tiago pointed to the wooden door, he stopped in front of and thought for a second then smiled and said the English word he had been searching for. "Here."

Ian ruffled the lad's short hair and praised him before he knocked on the door. They had to wait for ages before they both heard the door being unbolted from the inside.

"Bom dia," Ian greeted the woman who opened the door, she looked as if she had only just got out of bed, before he quickly ushered Tiago in through the doorway.

Arch was still in bed, which wasn't a big surprise to Ian; he simply ordered him to get up.

The weaver quickly made coffee and listened to Ian's words translated by Arch.

"She says she has no way of getting proper buttons for the jacket, apart from that, she and her two daughters can sew it this morning and have it ready by lunch. She had a look at my jacket last night and she was disgusted by the poor quality of the canvas. She also told me it looked like a small boy had done the stitching."

"Maybe it was. We both know what happens to orphans if they are seized by the constables. Officially they're taught a trade, though it's little more than inexpensive slave labour.

"Anyway, tell her I'm not looking for clothing that'll last for years, Tiago will quickly outgrow it," Ian said, then lowered his voice so only Arch could hear him, "and I'm not planning on bringing the lad along when we pick up and leave. It'll be much too dangerous for him."

Arch translated. Then relayed what the woman told him.

"She says her clothes will last for years to come, she will not shame herself by crafting a set of clothes that will only be good for a couple of weeks. As for size, she will take the measurements of her oldest daughter and make the waist of the shorts adjustable. The jacket, she claims will be adjustable too, though I haven't the faintest clue how she's going to accomplish that. Either you accept it or find someone else to do the job, which she knows you can't. Not around here, anyway."

"Very well," Ian sighed and accepted the terms. Though she wanted a whole pound for her troubles, it wasn't such a bad deal. I'll still have four pounds left to spend after paying her.

Ian left Tiago with the weaver and warned him not to leave the workshop for any reason before he returned at lunchtime. Arch returned to camp along with Ian; there was so much to do, both at the workshop and at the camp and Arch would be of far more use at camp. At the workshop, he'd likely be more of a nuisance rather than a help to the woman and her two daughters.

Before the heat of the day could set in, Ian mercilessly drilled his troop in skirmishing. He made the men sneak through the singed tall grass of an abandoned field. He and Arch walked behind the wide line of crawling men and made sure they kept as low as they could and didn't disturb the grass too much to alert anyone that thirty eight men were slowly advancing through the field.

"Silence is key to our success," he shouted out when one of the men knocked his rifle against a fallen tree trunk, "We'll be making our way across the battlefield moving farther away from our line than any of us have ever been before. If we're discovered before we're ready to fire, many, if not all, of us, will die! Keep this in mind while you're busy cursing me to hell. Get up and we'll try again from the very beginning!"

The second time, Ian crawled and slid his body like a snake through the long grass for all of the five hundred yards distance with his men. It was hard and tiring work.

It'll all be worth it. If we can launch a surprise attack on the Spanish, we can take out their best men before any real fighting starts.

What Ian drilled with his men that morning was the easy part; getting close to the Spanish line without being detected was crucial, as was the ability for his men to hit their intended targets. Ian could manage these two with his troop, but if they were to survive to see another battle, they'd need support from the rest of the regiment.

The Spanish had cavalry and the horse-mounted soldiers were Ian's biggest fear. He had seen what they were able to do to infantry, especially if the infantry was spread thin; exactly how his troop must be during the surprise assault. They'd ride right into and through the thin line, using their swords to kill anyone within their reach before the foot soldiers had time to reload their rifles. Even with bayonets fixed, it would be impossible for Ian's skirmishers to protect themselves from even a small detachment of cavalry.

The field cannon, artillery, of which the regiment had about thirty, especially two pounders, would be devastating for cavalry; especially if loaded with shrapnel canisters, even explosive grenades would work. However the cannon must be placed within reach or it wouldn't matter how many Lieutenant Colonel Sykes had at his disposal. This required a redesign of the layout of the army's position before the battle.

It was a logistic nightmare to set up an army before the beginning of a battle, often it would take days to get everyone and everything into position, regularly done right in front of the enemy just beyond their reach. Only at the very start would the two armies advance closer to each other, the lines of foot soldiers marching to within firing range, fifty or so paces apart, and then they'd open fire.

One of the reasons for the Experimental Corps of Riflemen to be formed in the first place was to sneak soldiers onto the battlefield in between the two armies, well before the battle would start. Then, in the midst of battle they'd join in, disguised by the action taking place.

Battlefields, once the battle was underway, were chaotic at best. On the field, it was impossible to make heads or tails of what went on a hundred paces from you, often even less than that. The commanders of the armies usually led them from a strategic place from where they could oversee most if not all of the battlefield.

They relied heavily on runners, bringing status reports from their respective company commanders to the army commander and bringing orders back the other way. Drummer boys were used primarily to command the linemen, having different beats for every command. The cavalry used buglers, again with different calls for each command; a bugle was more easily heard than a drum over longer distances.

Ian thought of all that, when he commanded his men back to the starting point again. His primary concern was the thirty-nine men under his direct command, not the rest of the army, still he couldn't keep from thinking of how he would place the entire army to make his ambush a successful one. His mind was clouded from many thoughts when he finally dismissed his tired and sweating men. The late summer's sun was almost at its zenith and the few scattered clouds in the sky didn't offer much protection from it.

He set off towards the town with Arch after picking up their wages for the day. More food needed to be bought and Ian had to pick up Tiago, hopefully by now dressed in a uniform that made him look like he was a member of the Experimental Corps of Riflemen. A very small and young member, indeed, but still a member.

Chapter 13
Better than starving

Ian was gobsmacked when he saw Tiago in his new clothes. The dark green jacket was a bit large on the lad, but it didn't sag. It sat firmly around the boy's waist and hugged his small tight arse snugly. Tiago jabbered in a mix of Portuguese and English while he demonstrated the sewn-in tunnels with leather laces that could be adjusted to allow for the expected growth of the boy. The tunnels were on the insides of the jacket, invisible on the outside, and made it look as if it had been tailor-made for the slight lad. Which it had, sort of, though not by a tailor.

The shorts were charcoal black and quite baggy and long; they had deep pockets. "For the lad to carry stuff," Arch translated, though Ian could see another purpose for them as they sat on either side of the lad's groin.

Tiago would be able to covertly fiddle with his small prick, any time he'd want to, simply by putting his hands into the pockets. The waist was lined with one of the same tunnels as were in the jacket, removing the need for Tiago to wear a belt or bracers to hold up his shorts.

The only downside to the uniform was its buttons. They were made from wood, not really buttons at all, just small sticks that were pushed through small holes and when turned, held the two sides of the jacket closed. Still, Tiago looked more like a soldier now. A tiny soldier, without a doubt, but he would be able to pass in the camp and not be sent back to the other orphans in the care of the priests.

Ian happily paid the pound and added another two shillings when Tiago put on a black hat made from starched felt.

"She made it," the lad explained and pointed out the smallest of the girls present. Ian only managed a quick look, before the girl hid behind her mother. It was enough for him to realise it was the girl who had held his prick with two fingers while foolishly giggling at the whole thing.

"Right, we're done here. Back to camp, lads," he ordered, "Obrigado, miss," were his parting words and he quickly left the workshop of the weaver before his face could redden more.

Arch went to buy the provisions, so Ian and Tiago walked the rest of the way to the camp alone. The boy raised a lot of attention from the soldiers they passed along the way to their tent, he was dressed like the sergeant, but they knew he had to be too young to be a real soldier. A sergeant major stopped them.

"Who have we here?" He asked and stroked his finely trimmed beard, "A young sergeant and an even younger private? No, that can't be right, he couldn't have come through basics yet. He's shorter than your rifle. He wouldn't be able to carry one, let alone shoot it."

"Tiago is my recruit runner, Sergeant Major. I'm sorry, I don't recall your name."

"Benson. At your service, sergeant. The lad's jacket, there's something not quite right about it. Ah, now I see, it has no buttons. Would you like to buy some?"

Ian looked disbelievingly at the older man when he pulled open his jacket and revealed rows upon rows of buttons sewn into it. He had eight buttons resembling the ones in Ian's jacket and Ian bought them for two shillings.

"How did you procure all of them?" Ian asked when the man used the tip of a knife to cut the strings holding the buttons he had just sold.

"Whenever I come across someone on the field after a battle, I take his buttons. Usually it's the only thing of value left on his corpse."

"Well, one's misfortune is another one's fortune," Ian said and Benson agreed.

"Now we know what to do while we wait for Arch to bring the food," Ian told Tiago when they entered the tent.

Tiago reached out and grabbed hold of Ian's prick through his trousers; to his surprise it wasn't hard.

"No, you little randy bugger, not that, though I appreciate the thought. No, we're going to put these buttons on your jacket. We'll look almost the same when we're done."

"Estou com fome," Tiago whined.

"In English, lad. Tell me in English. You need to practise."

"I hungry."

"And you will eat very soon. You don't have to suck on my prick every time you want something to eat."

It would be very nice, but it drains me too much, Ian thought with some regret, "I will fuck your arse in the evenings and maybe early mornings," he explained.

"Hurts."

"You'll soon grow used to it. It is better than going hungry all of the time isn't it? Melhor que fome?"

"Sim. Yes," Tiago replied. It was better than starving, but it still hurt. Though it hadn't hurt as much that morning as it had in the evening. Maybe it was something that had to be practised, like learning to speak the strange language.

"I thought so. If I was given the choice when I was your age, I might've willingly spread open my arse cheeks too. Take off your jacket. I'll teach you how to sew on the buttons so they won't easily come off. Lieutenant Colonel Sykes may not worry about appearances, but I do."

Tiago couldn't understand much of what Ian had said, but he removed his jacket when the sargento reached for it. He was about to undress completely when he was stopped.

"No, keep your shorts on. You can take off your hat, there's no need to wear it indoors. Outside hat on, inside hat off."

Tiago nodded and took off his hat. He liked it, a lot. The girl who made it for him had been very nice to him.

Ian explained slowly while he cut off the small pieces of wood the weaver or one of her daughters had sewn into the jacket. He stitched the first two buttons in place and had Tiago do the last two. The remaining four buttons were stitched next to the first column, so when the jacket was done up, there were two columns of four buttons on the front of it. It was less than what Ian had on his jacket, but Tiago's was quite a bit shorter.

"It looks like it's been designed for a boy soldier by the regiment," Ian noted when Tiago put back on the jacket and did up all four buttons.

In fact, Tiago's impromptu uniform looked better than that of the next youngest lad in the regiment, one of the drummer boys, whose uniform was the traditional English army design; red and white. All Tiago needed was a pair of boots and a shirt, but the lad had never worn anything on his feet and Ian wanted to spare him from the experience; and a shirt wasn't needed, not in the hot summer heat about to turn into autumn.

It soon became a familiar sight to see a young, small lad, hurry from one place to another; always running as fast as he could on his bare feet with the tails of his jacket picked up by the speed at which he ran. At first, Ian simply ordered him to run to Arch and tell him stuff that wasn't of any importance, mostly gibberish to the lad; a test of his ability to remember what he was told and relay it exactly as it had been said.

"Tell Arch this," Ian would say to Tiago. "Send two men to fetch water."

Tiago then ran to find Arch, at first an easy task as the cabo wouldn't be too far from Ian.

"Cabo Arch, Sargento Ian tells, take too man send to fetch wa-ater."

"Thanks, lad. Tell Sergeant Hawkes, I've already done so and sent another one for a fine lady."

"Yes, Cabo Arch," Tiago breathed heavily then turned to run back to the sergeant. He was gone! Tiago ran to where he had last seen him and couldn't find him. He searched, then saw him lying on the ground hiding from him ten paces away.

"Sargento Ian, Cabo Arch said: I dun so. All Eddie sent an utter fine lady."

"Oh really?" Ian could barely contain his laughter, what he was just told sounded so funny, "Here, have a drink of water."

"Thank you."

"Ask Arch to come over here, I want to have a word with him," Ian said when Tiago had taken a large drink from his canteen.

Ian and Arch shared a laugh over the lad's mistakes before they had a more serious talk. Written orders would be better, however only Ian knew how to read, though not very well, and neither of them knew how to write. The only solution they could think of right then was for Tiago to repeat what he had been told word by word until he had said it correctly twice before sending him off. This proved to work rather well.

When the distances Tiago had to cover increased, he also had to learn he couldn't just stop to look at everything he found interesting, such as watching a blacksmith shoe a horse. It not only caused him to forget most of what he had been told, it also delayed the orders from Ian to Arch. When Ian for the second time had to go look for Tiago, it resulted in a prolonged bare-bottomed spanking until the boy wept miserably.

Ian disciplined the lad in privacy, held him clear from the ground with an arm around his lean belly and smacked his hand into both small bum cheeks at once; without mercy. If Tiago were to remain Ian's runner, the man had to be damned sure he could trust the lad to do what he was told without being led astray by his boyish curiosity.

The sergeant understood Tiago hadn't meant any harm from his actions, but the lad also had to understand that any misbehaviour would be followed up with strict and prompt consequences. We may well only be training and I'm not about to bring the lad onto a real battlefield, but he must learn.

Tiago learned his lesson, the sargento hit hard and wasn't stopped by tears or crying, not until he decided that the punishment had lasted long enough. The boy promised to do better and he did. He enjoyed the military ways and could watch the soldiers for hours as they did many great interesting things, though he'd only do it when he was allowed to.

The older soldiers seemed happy having the scrawny lad around, they always called out his name and cheered him onwards when he ran as fast as he could from one place to another.

Some in the camp didn't think very highly of the lad, namely the three drummer boys. The youngest was eleven and the oldest fourteen, they, especially the youngest, had enjoyed the extra attention from the older soldiers. Now, they felt challenged by Tiago's presence; the shorter, younger runt wasn't anything special in their eyes, though they had to admit that he could keep running at speed for far longer than them.

They tested the little boy's stamina by running after him, but like the boys of the orphanage, they found him much too quick for them; even when they tried to wear him out by running after him in a sort of relay run. They envied his popularity, which came mostly from being the runner and friend of the most popular man in the entire regiment, namely Sergeant Hawkes.

If any of the three drummer boys had known what happened in the sergeant's tent at night and in the early mornings, none of them would have been willing to trade places with Tiago. The lad was now fucked twice on a daily basis, and while he soon grew used to it, like the sergeant told him he would, it never became routine.

Ian was much too unpredictable for that, he had to experiment, he was but a big lad himself, and one who had only just discovered the joys of sex. Ian loved having a warm and very tight sheath encompass his large prick and there were many ways he could think up for his prick to enter the little lad's arsehole. Having the lad bend over, like Arch had said, turned out to be possible, though it wasn't easy.

However, his absolute favourite way, and the one Tiago liked the most too, was when he spooned the boy from behind like he had done on the first morning. This was what he did every morning from then on, waking the lad by slowly pushing his fat prick into the clingy arsehole still plenty slick enough from the previous evening's coupling; when Tiago woke, he'd pause just long enough for the boy to pee in the jug.

Chapter 14
New allies

The days passed by quickly, as they tend to do when you're busy or having fun, and Ian was both very busy and had lots of fun with his little runner. Before he realised it, a fortnight had passed, and still there was no word from the Portuguese of going back to fight the Spanish.

Ian still wanted to fight them, to revenge his lieutenant and other fallen English soldiers, to have a chance of proving himself once more on the battlefield. However, his wait near the town was sweetened by Tiago. He grew ever closer to the boy while the lad learned more English and they were able to converse more.

Ian told Tiago about his life as a homeless kid in England and the little one was amazed by the things Ian had done in order to survive in the cold winters. He could easily understand most of the hardships that Ian described to him, though he couldn't fathom the snow the man spoke of. It was hard to grasp that something could fall from the sky and cover the ground, and everything on it, in a fat layer of cold, white powdery stuff.

That the stuff could be compressed into balls resembling stones and be hurled at someone without hurting them sounded like fun, so much more fun than using actual stones, like the boys at the orphanage sometimes did. He was amazed again when Ian told him about the time he had built a small home, a lair, from snow alone and had sat in it for days until the blizzard he had been caught up in cleared. He wondered how brave one must be to do something like that.

Tiago told Ian about his life at the orphanage, how he had been brought up in the hopes of him joining the church choir. How hard he had strained to make his voice do what the priest in charge of the choir had demanded of him and how miserable he had felt when he was told he'd never become a choir boy and that it must be due to the evil inside of him.

Of course Tiago didn't want anything evil living inside his body; he had never asked for that to happen, and he had pleadingly asked the choir master how he could get rid of it.

He was told that it was his mother's fault; that he shouldn't have been conceived, much less born at all. He was an abomination because he had been born out of wedlock. No one would ever be able to undo that evil, he was told, and he could only try to justify his right to live by always working hard and accepting what little he was given without ever asking for more.

Tiago had tried, but then the English soldiers had started arriving and the locals started producing more food and selling it to them. It seemed like so much food and he was hungry, he had never felt what it was like not to be hungry, not even for a short while, and he had timidly asked some of the soldiers and locals for food. He wasn't given any food, and if that wasn't bad enough in itself, one of the priests had seen him begging.

He was punished by being locked inside a small cage for two days without any food at all, only water.

"So I learn be happy for food they give me," Tiago said in a low voice. "After I happy for soup they give. But meat better," he smiled at Ian.

"This meat is," Ian agreed. "Don't ever try eating it raw, though. You'll shit for days while hoping to die, if you do. I did once. I shat and shat and my arsehole bled before it finally stopped."

"Bled?"

"Yes, like this," Ian said and pierced the skin on top of his hand with the end of his knife, "This is blood. I'm bleeding now. When it stops, I won't be bleeding any more, then I will have bled."

"Oh," Tiago exclaimed and touched his fingertip in the drop of blood. He smeared it with another finger when he tried to get rid of it, then licked both clean when it didn't do away with the stuff.

"Do you like the taste of my blood?" Ian asked.

"No," Tiago scrunched up his nose.

"My sperm is better?"

"Yes. Better than blood, still salty."

"If you say so," Ian said, then fell quiet. His original plan of leaving Tiago behind at the town when the regiment moved out suddenly didn't seem right anymore. He had sort of known the boy's life must be hard, but he had never thought it to be as hard as described by the lad.

The priests were even meaner to the young boys in their charge than he had imagined. The things happening amongst the boys in the dormitory at night wasn't something they had come up with on their own either; one of the priests obviously believed his vow of chastity only involved those of the opposite gender and used the older boys as an outlet for his pent-up desires.

Ian couldn't point his finger at the priest, not after all the things he did to and with Tiago, but he still thought himself different. He didn't use Tiago's body as if it was his every right to do so, he gave the boy something in return; the priest only took and gave nothing. Ian had even asked Tiago if it was what he wanted, too. Though maybe not in the best of ways, he had at least asked first.

Well, Arch asked for me.

"Are you okay with what we do at night?" Ian asked. He figured he had to ask again, now they were able to understand each other a lot better than before.

Tiago thought for a while before he answered.

"Yes. I like eat meat, you like fuck arse. I want be good. I eat your meat, you fuck my arse and make me good boy."

There was more to it than that, there just had to be, but the boy's logic made sense to Ian.

"I'd do the same if I were you," he said instead of worrying over how his heart was skipping inside his chest.

I'm taking him with me when we go back to war. Come what might, he will come too.

Without really wanting to, Ian had made Arch's prophecy come true. He had fallen in love with the sweet little boy so desperately in need of someone who'd love him. It wasn't a parent-child love, which would likely have been better for Tiago, but a love Ian expressed mostly by having sex with the little lad.

Tiago, not ever having known any sort of love before, was also quite happy with the arrangement.

When the regiment finally got ready to leave the town to travel north, Ian didn't know whether he should laugh or cry. They would be passing the river making up the Portuguese-Spanish border, but they weren't going there to kill Spanish soldiers. England had ended the war with the Spanish and Portugal was forced to negotiate a truce with its unruly neighbour; there was another, far more important foe that needed immediate dealing with.

The French ruler, Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte, had forced the Spanish King to abdicate and imposed his brother as King of Spain. This led much of Spain to declare war on its old ally; these Spaniards were now allies of England. This moved the front much further north-east and Sykes' regiment were ordered to relocate to the Spanish city of San Sebastián.

They would travel by ship, and the only good thing Ian could see in doing so, was they'd stay close to the shore all the way there; the last time he was a passenger on a ship sailing across the Bay of Biscay was still fresh in his mind. Well, the fact that he wouldn't have to walk nearly 450 miles across most of Spain wasn't lost on him either, but he'd rather walk all the way back to England than travel across the Bay of Biscay ever again.

His young runner, Tiago, was now an inch taller and he had started filling out some. He wasn't fat by any means, as one simply couldn't grow fat in the English army unless you were at least a major, he just wasn't sickly and underfed any more. His buttocks had puffed out significantly, making sure the lad's low moans from being fucked were now accompanied by slapping sounds whenever Ian's pelvis collided with them.

Tiago had grown used to being fucked and enjoyed it nearly as much as Ian when the man fucked him hard.

He was just shy of eight years old when he boarded the longboat along with Ian, gleefully looking across the stretch of green-blue water between them and their destination: the largest ship he had ever seen. It was a three-master, one of England's frigates, a sailing fortress wielding seventy two cannon and room for more than a thousand men. He couldn't wait to get aboard the ship and explore every nook and cranny of it.

If Tiago thought he'd be free to roam the large ship as he pleased, he was soon set straight by Ian. The man told him to keep close to him at all times because the sailors would love nothing more than having a little pretty boy like Tiago to play with.

He didn't blame them for wanting to do so, but he remembered all too well the advances of particularly one sailor who hadn't been disgusted by Ian's constant being sick. The old seaman had managed to pull down Ian's trousers and britches while he was throwing up through an open gun port, his cold hands groping his bare, unprotected buttocks until Arch had intervened with a fierce right-hand hook. Ian still counted his blessings that his friend had sought him out at that precise moment.

Ian hoped his little runner wouldn't get too sick from the sea voyage, just like he hoped he wouldn't either. There'd be no nightly and early morning intimacy while on board the ship, Ian explained to Tiago, it was simply too much of a risk for them. They'd be sleeping under deck in a large room with hammocks stacked in three layers.

He made sure his men slept all around him and his young runner; he trusted only them to keep both him and Tiago safe. Even so, he didn't trust his men enough to make his relationship with the little lad known to anyone but Arch.

Fortunately the wind was mostly westerly, enabling the captain of the ship to sail with the wind astern so not having to tack to reach their destination. The rolling waves were lengthwise and made the ship feel like a very large but gentle rocking chair rather than an out-of-control hammock. They made good progress and after only four days from having embarked the ship by longboats, they spilled out onto the stone dock inside the safe harbour of San Sebastián.

With only some controlled chaos, Ian's troop met up with the rest of the company on the outskirts of the small city and then joined the rest of the regiment. They were only to spend the night there before they'd move further inland and into the mountains where they'd cross into France, hopefully taking the French by surprise. Most of the fighting so far had taken place in the rest of Spain while to the north and north-east, Napoleon and his main army was annexing all northwestern Germany between the Low Countries and the western Baltic as part of his economic war against Great Britain.

As far as the intelligence stated, there were no major armies in southern France at the time. Ian wasn't sure if he trusted the intelligence reports, they had claimed the same when they entered Spain before they were so brutally met by the Spanish army that they were driven back to sea. Well, most of them. Ian hadn't made it back to the ships, and because of that he had missed several battles with ample opportunities for looting the bodies of enemy soldiers.

Ian was still angry with the Corps for not having ordered him and his men to rejoin them. And now, he was about to make his way into yet another unknown territory. He had never seen a mountain range quite as high as the one they were facing. He turned to his young runner.

"Well, Tiago. It seems like you'll be seeing plenty of snow now. We'll have to find you some more clothes. Actually, all of us need warmer clothes."

It wasn't cold where they were, but that would soon change. The higher into the mountains they'd go, the colder it would get, Arch explained. And he of all people had to know, he had grown up in the mountains before venturing into the flatlands.

Ian didn't have enough money to outfit his entire troop with warmer clothes, he scarcely had enough for himself, Arch and Tiago. Arch had to search for quite a while before he finally managed to find someone who was willing to sell their warm clothes and he had to pay an outrageous sum for them. Still, Tiago got his first pair of long socks and boots. His new socks were long enough to go past his knees and fold over to form another layer of protection from the cold.

He also got a woollen undershirt, an itchy uncomfortable thing to wear for a boy who until now had spent most of his life running around wearing only a pair of loose shorts. The socks itched too and the boots were heavy, though they fitted his small feet perfectly. They slowed him down significantly and he was surprised at how quickly he tired from running around while wearing them.

Properly dressed for the cold weather, Ian ordered his troop to begin the march into the mountains. They were the first of the foot soldiers in the long formation, following the mounted cavalry and the three drummer boys playing their drums so loudly the six pipers had difficulties making themselves heard over the beat. The music made marching easier, and though Ian had never been fond of just that activity, he found himself walking in time with the beat.

Tiago's shorter legs didn't allow him to do the same and he had to take two steps for every beat, until he tired too much from it and ended up walking at his own pace. He kept to the side of his beloved sergeant, one step behind, close enough to hear even a whispered order if he was needed. He was thrilled to be part of the regiment marching towards the enemy.

He didn't carry a rifle like his sergeant, but he had learnt how to clean it, load it with gunpowder; and, with a lot of effort, he could hammer down a shot to where it had to go. He could also shoot the rifle still longer than he was tall, though he could only do so while lying on the ground. He lacked the strength for holding the rifle steady and aiming while standing, not to mention staying upright when it kicked back like an angry horse against his frail shoulder.

The first time he had shot the sergeant's rifle, he had done so without permission and he hadn't gotten it right up against his shoulder. It had knocked him squarely on his back and his shoulder hurt so much he feared he had broken it, and he denied that he would ever shoot the rifle again, but Ian insisted he must do so even when he was still busy smacking the boy's bottom while completely ignoring the sorry state of the lad's shoulder.

With his buttocks still ablaze from the very prolonged spanking, Tiago had cleaned the rifle, reloaded it and finally shot it again, this time under directions from Ian. Then, he had to do it all again, since he had shut his eyes just before he pulled hard on the trigger and completely missed the human-sized target, though it was only twenty five paces from him.

He had finally learned to shoot with the rifle properly, but it still frightened him every time the sergeant told him he must practise with it.

No, the pistol is much better, Tiago concluded and patted his pocket to make sure the double-barrelled weapon was still where he had placed it the same morning. It was not loaded, wasn't at all ready to fire at a moment's notice, but he imagined it was; that he only had to cock the hammers, and slide away the small lids protecting the powder in the pans.

He reminded himself he must remember to scratch at the powder before pulling the trigger to make sure it hadn't got too wet to go off. He scanned the sides of the road with his eyes, just in case a French soldier should lie in hiding. None did, they were safe as of now; they were still in Spain. But, they were at war, he was a soldier, and he couldn't allow himself to be lulled into a sense of being safe. He must stay alert.

Chapter 15
Hot bottle

The small boy soon found it most difficult to stay on the alert. The pipers had stopped their hopeless attempts of being heard over the sound of the drums and simply marched to the beat of the single boy still hitting his drum every now and then.

Tiago was happy for not having to lug a heavy drum around, or one of the even heavier rifles; the pistol was more than heavy enough for him. The weight of it had felt reassuring at first, but as the hours passed by, the pistol felt more of a burden in his pocket than anything else.

He was bored too, and tired from the endless walking. He looked longingly at the closest horse-mounted soldier. He'd give anything to be allowed to sit in front of him and just let the horse do all the walking. A horse enjoyed walking, it was made for exactly that purpose, and it even had two more legs than him.

All soldiers should have a horse, he thought wearily. He would happily sit on top of one of the horse-dragged cannon at the far end of the long column, if only he had been allowed to.

"Trrrrroop, halt!" He heard Sergeant Ian call out. He walked another step, then stopped, and remembered to stomp his right foot into the ground with the last step, though he did it most tiredly.

"Tiago, run up and see why we've stopped. I can't tell from here."

Why don't you do that yourself, Ian? Tiago thought and wanted to say it aloud but didn't. He set off at a pace quicker than he had just walked, though far from his maximum speed. It was as fast as he could manage now, if the sergeant wanted him to move faster, he would have to carry him. And then it would make more sense if Ian simply found out on his own and let Tiago sit so he could rest his weary legs. But, nooo. Let boy do hard work.

Well, this was what Tiago had agreed to do, he was given the choice and he had accepted it. He willed himself onwards while keeping his distance from the horses seemingly annoyed with the sudden change from walking to standing; they darted this way and that while the riders tried to calm them.

Tiago had to trot for almost half a mile to reach the very front of the formation, only to see that it was simply a fallen tree which had stopped them. It was already cut into two and the pieces were being dragged away from the narrow road and Tiago turned around to trot back to his sergeant.

The formation started moving before he could see the end of the long line of cavalry, and though he considered simply waiting until the sergeant and the rest of the troop would walk to where he was, he didn't stop until he was back with the man he loved with all of his heart and soul.

"Sergeant, it was tree blocking road," he gasped.

"Right. Thanks, Tiago. Good lad."

He looked up at his sergeant and out of the corner of his eyes he saw Cabo Arch nod approvingly at him too; and Tiago smiled. He was more tired than ever before, but he had just executed his first ever real job, not something that would merely train him for it. And he had done it well. The happiness carried him onwards for another hour; fortunately by then, the formation was ordered to stop for an hour of rest. He let himself fall to a small patch of grass on the side of the road and was asleep almost before his head hit the ground.

Ian sat next to the small lad and smiled at the sight of the sleeping boy, briefly considered moving him into his lap so he could rest more comfortably and sighed when he realised he could never do such a thing; not openly, not when everyone could see them. He still had to uphold a certain distance to the small boy, though he found it increasingly harder to do just that with every passing day.

I must remember Tiago is just like any one of my other men, I can't show him any more affection than I would anyone else in my troop. I'd never let Arch sit in my lap!

He looked at his troop. It was a fine gathering of men, and a single boy, and he was proud to be their leader. Sure, there were officers with considerably more power than he had, but no-one could ask these men to do the things he could. He knew he could order them back on their feet and continue marching while singing from the top of their lungs, and they'd do it even as tired as they were now. On the other hand, each and every one of them also knew he would never ask them to do that.

They trusted him, much like a boy would trust his father, though some of them were more than twice his age. The three chevrons on his upper arms were only for people who didn't know him. He could strip naked and his men would follow him just the same and look to him for guidance. He felt a bond with them, even to the men who had joined the troop in Portugal and not in England. They were closer to a family than Ian had ever had.

If I'm the head of our family, I'd be the father. Now, what would that make Tiago? The mother?

Ian nearly laughed aloud from the absurdity of that. No, Tiago would more likely be the baby of the family, a very late arrival, though he was so much more to Ian. He looked one more time at the boy lost in his peaceful slumber, had a drink of water, leaned back and closed his eyes. Less than a minute later, he too was fast asleep.

They walked for another three hours after their rest, then were allowed to rest for two hours. Ian ordered his men to eat and check their feet for blisters. The few who still had a second pair of socks put them on so the sweaty and wet socks had a chance to dry up. Ian didn't check Tiago's feet, though he wanted to. He would do so later, but right then, the boy had to check his own feet. As far as Ian could tell from afar, they were still in good shape.

It's fortunate the only pair of boots that would fit on his small feet were used when we got them. They were already worn in when he put them on.

Ian cooked for himself, Arch and Tiago, while Arch got a chance to play leader of the troop. It wasn't much the corporal had to do, but it was still beneficial to everyone that he was ready to assume command at any given time in case Ian would be absent for any reason.

The sergeant relaxed while he had nothing more important to do than stir the small pot of stew to keep it from sticking to the bottom of the pot. It was their own recipe, though they would soon have to eat whatever the army had for them, their own provisions would last for two more days. It was a darn sight more appetizing than what the army's so-called cooks could stir up in their large field kitchens.

When the stew was simmering hot, Ian poured a healthy portion of it onto a tin plate and quietly called out for Tiago to come get it while it was hot. A piece of bread completed the boy's meal and he happily started eating while making sure to blow at each spoonful of the tasty stuff before shoving it into his mouth. Halfway through, he let out a reverberating belch, to which the closest of the men laughed. The small lad could belch and fart along with the best of the men in the troop and Ian felt proud of him, yet again.

They were still far from the first battle, far from any real danger, as they sat there around the campfire and enjoyed their meal. They'd soon enough be back on their feet marching ever closer to the front. They were just a rowdy gang of men, and a boy doing his best to be years older than he really was, enjoying the warmth from the food and the fires.

And Ian allowed himself to feel happy.

It was so and so with the happiness when they marched the last stretch for the day. Everyone, even the soldiers of the cavalry, were tired from the long march. Toby, the youngest drummer boy, was relieved of his drum, Ian made sure of that when he saw how he nearly dragged it along the road. He still had to walk like the rest of them, but he did so much more easily without the cumbersome drum hindering his movements.

When Ian finally shouted his order for the troop to halt, Tiago was ready to just drop on the ground where he had come to a stop. The road had turned into a potholed track with a small strip of withering grass in the middle of it and the uneven surface had taken its toll on everyone. Ian quickly sent Arch to find the best spot for making camp for the night and the corporal left the track with two men. One of them returned five minutes later, and led the troop a short distance away.

There were several low pine trees, which Arch said would be great for making fires, and soon tired men were busy cutting them down and four large fires were built. The men's bedrolls were placed in circles around the fires, ten to each of them, evenly distributed. There wasn't much privacy, but no one cared much about that, all they wanted was to eat and then go to sleep as quickly as possible.

The night had turned very cold when Ian woke to a strange noise. Upon further investigation it turned out to be Tiago's teeth chattering and Ian quickly dragged the still sleeping and extremely cold lad in underneath his own blanket. The boy had gone to sleep while wearing his clothes and Ian had to fumble with the buttons to remove most of them.

His prick never even perked up at being so near the almost naked boy, all Ian could think of was getting some warmth back into Tiago's cold body and as soon as the teeth stopped their rattling noise, the man went back to sleep, now enjoying the slowly increasing warmth radiating from the boy he hugged close under his blanket.

"I wish I had a hot bottle under my blanket last night, too," Ian heard one of his men say quietly when he woke the next morning.

"Shut your mouth, Rogers. The lad was freezing, I heard him myself. He'd be dead now if it wasn't for what the sergeant did. He'd have done the same for any one of us," someone told the first soldier. "Well, maybe except for you."

"When we make camp tonight, we'll find rocks to put inside the fires so we can all keep warm," Arch said before anyone else could join in the discussion that wouldn't do anyone any good anyway.

Tiago was fortunately still asleep, Ian noted, and warm, not feverish. He only wore his shorts and Ian was still hugging him tight to his chest. Reluctantly, he let go of him and sat up after making sure the blanket still fully covered the sleeping boy. Quickly, he put on his clothes, all of them, it was a bloody cold morning and the fire had died out during the night. Though Arch was already starting a new fire, it would take some time before any water would be hot enough to make coffee and Ian jumped from his bedroll.

He worked his limbs and stretched his sore body, then started on a short and demanding workout. He didn't stop until sweat had broken out on his forehead and he removed one layer of his clothing. Only then did he walk to the latrine and have his morning piss. The warm yellow stream shooting out of his prick steamed in the coldness of the morning before it too was cooled. The sun was rising, and had been doing so for a while, but there was no warmth from it, not yet.

Chapter 16
Shadow play

It was hard for everyone to adjust to the cold, particularly for Tiago as he had never experienced freezing temperatures before. He woke up warm under the blanket, but his nose was very cold and every time he exhaled, the air leaving his nostrils and mouth came out like a small cloud of steam. It looked like he was smoking, and he held up an imaginary pipe, one like Cabo Arch's, took a long drag from it, and exhaled the smoke. The only one to notice him do it was Ian returning from his piss.

The man sat next to his boy and whispered he should get dressed while he was still under the blanket. His clothes, he was told, were under the blanket with him, and they had been warmed sufficiently as to not feel too uncomfortable against his warm skin. Still sleepy, Tiago did as he was told, only emerging from his blanket when both boots had been laced to his feet. He stood and quickly walked to the latrine; there he too set about doing his morning business.

When he returned with icy-cold buttocks from having been bared to the elements, Arch handed him a tin mug full of watered down black coffee. The boy didn't appreciate coffee, the liquid was far too bitter for him and it upset his stomach whenever he tried to drink it like the men enjoyed it.

There wasn't any tea, which they boy hadn't ever tasted, so the coffee would have to do. At least it was hot and soon made him feel a little better. The oatmeal that followed soon after was hot too, and was seasoned with exactly the right amount of salt. He ate quickly, instinctively knowing they would soon be called back to the track to resume the long march.

The regiment marched and rested, then was on the march again and rested, until Tiago felt like he had done nothing but alternate between walking and resting for a full week. In fact it had only been three days they'd been travelling though it was uphill most of the time. When they reached the peak of the mountain range, they kept on walking through the night. There was nothing up here to shelter them from the howling cold wind and no trees to build fires from.

Everyone was happy when they reached the top and began walking downhill again. Many of them swore they'd never cross another mountain range for the rest of their lives, no matter what time of year. They made camp twice before the mountains finally gave way to a hilly landscape resembling that of Scotland, according to one of the soldiers who had been there. They were ordered to set up camp at the bank of a narrow and fast-flowing river; here they'd wait for their new Spanish allies to catch up with them.

There wasn't a village nearby where the soldiers could buy provisions, nor were there any women or any other civilians to be found. The location of the camp site was chosen for this exact reason; if no one knew they were here, the French wouldn't either. Ian wasn't too troubled by the desolated area, he was happy for having a roof above his head again, though it was only the oilskin of his tent.

It was quite a large tent, Arch and Ian had arranged for themselves, originally designed to provide shelter for four soldiers and all of their equipment, though it would've been a tight squeeze. With only Arch, Ian and Tiago, there was plenty of space, especially with Ian and Tiago sharing one bedroll.

The clothes line was soon reinstalled by Tiago and he hung a large Portuguese flag from it. Though it had seemed like a waste of money to Ian, he acquiesced to the lad's wish of bringing something to remind him of his home country. This makeshift curtain that separated the two sides of the tent wasn't soundproof, nor did it block any light from the other side.

Arch was able to hear everything that took place on the other side of the tent and he watched the shadow play on the curtain, while he thought of being with one of the women he left behind in the town. He only had his hand to keep him company the very first night he witnessed his best friend and the small lad being intimate with each other.

He kept silent while he watched the shadows and listened to the sounds, and stroked his prick. Though he had no desire to join in, it sounded much like he thought it did when he lay with a woman.

Ian had told Tiago to keep his noise down; an easy task for the lad at first, since the large prick filled his mouth to capacity, blocking all but the quiet moaning and gagging noises Tiago couldn't help emit. The sergeant moaned and happily gasped quite loudly too; particularly when he suddenly and violently came for the first time this late evening.

He had not planned to shoot his sperm so soon, certainly not straight into the young lad's throat and he released his grip around Tiago's head as soon as he felt the first contraction propel his sperm out through his prick.

Tiago quickly pulled back so he only sucked at the very tip of the prick head and was thrilled when he was rewarded for his effort by not just another, but two additional shots of the tasty sperm. When he realised nothing more would come, he swallowed the mouthful of sperm and with only the aftertaste remaining he moved his head up so he could steal a kiss from his man.

Ian readily parted his lips when he felt Tiago's tongue try get past them. He didn't enjoy the taste of his sperm on the boy's tongue, but he loved kissing the little lad with a passion that made him quite forget the salty and tangy taste. His large prick flexed, still hard and eager for more, as were both man and boy.

It was a week since the last time Ian had fucked Tiago's little arse, almost an eternity it seemed to him, but there just hadn't been enough privacy and they had both been too tired for any intimacy while on the march.

We're not marching anywhere tomorrow, Ian reminded himself yet again and though Arch was right there in the tent with them, it was easy to forget as he was lying in the shadows on the other side of the Portuguese flag.

Tiago giggled quietly when he suddenly noticed the unmistakable sounds of someone stroking his dick and knew it could only be Cabo Arch. He wasn't ashamed of having been watched sucking on Ian's prick, he had often enough watched other boys do this in the dormitory at the orphanage and now he quite enjoyed sucking on the large thing; it meant he had the undivided attention of the man and didn't have to share it with the rest of the troop.

"Lie on your side and push your arse back towards me," Tiago heard Ian's whisper and then the quiet gasp from behind the flag. The low fapping noise he had noticed earlier increased in speed and volume.

He wondered if he should tell Ian that Arch was whittling his thing, but he chose not to and just did as he was told. He reached back with one hand and pulled open his bum cheeks in anticipation of the slick finger entering his hole. It had been far too long since the last time he had felt anything go in there, but he knew he didn't have to wait for much longer; only a matter of seconds as he could smell the scent from the olive oil.

Ian had found the perfect lubricant for his prick and the little boy's arsehole, the oil made from pressed olives was thin, but not too thin. It was also very slippery and remained so for however long he could fuck the lad's narrow arsehole. It washed away cleanly with just a little of the lye soap and it didn't stink like the fat he used the first times he fucked the boy's arse. It had also worked wonders on the reddened skin around the lad's hole.

The olive oil came in a handy bottle with a small neck and it was a simple task preparing Tiago's hole for entry with it; specifically when the boy obscenely spread his little firm buttocks like he was at that very moment.

Ian placed the bottle's opening right above the boy's hole and used two fingers to limit the flow of oil. It ran from the bottle, through the groove between his fingers and directly onto the target. Quickly he put the cork back into the bottle, using only one hand, and moved the bottle out of the way.

Tiago wondered if Ian would be in a gentle mood that night and do everything nice and easy, or if he'd simply work his two fingers into his bum as quickly as he could and then almost immediately shove his large prick into him. It didn't matter to Tiago either way any more, he enjoyed when Ian fucked him, but he always tried predicting how the man would do it beforehand.

Usually he got it right, but this time it was really hard for him. He was tired from the week long march and he thought Ian had to be too, though he was probably used to marching far longer. He finally concluded the man would want to do it hard, very hard, like the first time. They hadn't fucked for a long time, Ian hadn't whittled his thing as far as Tiago knew, and must be near desperation by then.

Ian had already made up his mind, he'd take things very slowly tonight, though he'd fuck the lad for the longest time. They weren't going anywhere the next morning, they would only sit and wait.

If a soldier can sit and wait, he might as well sleep while waiting for something to happen, was Ian's philosophy. Arch could take the early watch, though it wasn't as much a watch as it was simply being available for the men and the lieutenant.

The way he's fapping his prick, I'm amazed he hasn't come yet, Ian thought when he carefully poked the first finger into Tiago's bum hole. He withdrew it almost before it had managed to pierce through the opening and massaged some of the oil into it.

"Ooh," Tiago moaned happily and quietly when he felt his hole being gently prodded and kneaded into relaxation and dilation; this was what he enjoyed the most of all and he wasn't mad at himself for making a wrong guess, it felt much too nice to be mad at anything. He moaned another time when he felt the finger poke back into his hole and just as quickly vacate it again.

Fuck, he sounds like a little willing whore waiting for a cock to enter her twat, Arch thought and shut his eyes. He gripped his prick more firmly and recollected a particularly nice fuck with a squealing woman twice his age. She had sat on top of him and rode him hard, as if it were her last ever fuck and she had only asked half the price when he returned to fuck her another time.

Arch gasped louder as he worked himself closer to the finish.

"He's really enjoying himself," Ian couldn't help but quietly whisper directly into Tiago's right ear.

"I too," Tiago muttered and turned his head so he could moan more unrestrictedly into Ian's woollen undershirt he used for his pillow.

Ian smiled when he heard his boy moan louder all the while he lazily fiddled with the small, by now quite relaxed, arsehole.

Arch gasped out loud when he came, then quietly rearranged himself for the night. The man's breathing became more relaxed as he fell asleep. And still, Ian kept teasing the young boy's hole with a single finger, eliciting more moans from his other end.

Twenty minutes later Ian gently slipped his prick into Tiago's arse; it slid in easily, almost without any resistance, until he reached the point halfway into the lad where he always had to prod around for a bit before he found the way further inside. It didn't take long for his pubic hair to touch the lad's rump, though the connection only lasted for a second or two before Ian pulled his prick all the way out of Tiago again.

He fiddled with the pulsating hole again, dipped two of his fingers into it, massaged the rim of it with the pulp of his index finger, and then ever so slowly he pushed his prick fully inside again.

Tiago was astounded, never before had Ian done what he was doing to him this night. Never before had it taken him so long to push his large prick into his bum, and then only to remove it straight away. It felt so nice, so loving and Tiago enjoyed every passing second of it. What the sargento, his man, did to him was relaxing, so soothing he soon forgot where he was and succumbed fully to the feelings generated by his bum hole and deeper inside of him.

The boy didn't notice when Ian finally focused on his own needs and fucked into the lad's sloppily loose hole harder and faster, not until he was abruptly turned to lay on his front and felt Ian grab a tight hold of his shoulders.

Ian had to work hard for his second orgasm; Tiago's arse was looser than ever, the friction nearly non-existent and finally he had to tell the boy to firm up his hole.

"Do what you do when you want to keep from shitting," he ordered. "Work your arsehole, tighten it… Oh, yes! Just like that, my darling little boy!"

It hurt when Tiago tightened up his hole, but he could tell Ian loved it when he did; and so he squeezed his bum tight, kept it for as long as he could and relaxed only for a short while before he tightened all of his muscles yet again.

Suddenly, it felt to Ian like all of his prick was being milked powerfully by the small lad's arse. The hole that had been far too pliant, suddenly formed a tight band around the length of his prick. He had to use more force to drive it into the boy, and he did. He refused to deal with any thoughts concerning the small lad's well-being, at that very moment the only thing that mattered was pounding his prick in and out of the constricting space deep within the boy as quickly as he could.

He went into overdrive, ignored his straining muscles and willed them to continue; to work even harder. He could feel himself getting closer, slower than when he had so suddenly come into Tiago's mouth, and forced another six violent jerks out of his hips. It was all he had left inside of him, and fortunately it was all that was needed; happily he felt his sperm shooting into his boy once again.

When he finally felt ready to move, his prick had gone soft and slipped out of the arsehole all by itself. Ian rolled to his side, pulled the blanket up over his body and covered up the boy at the same time. Tiredly and contentedly he kissed the already sleeping lad's sweaty hair, and passed out into a deep peaceful sleep of his own.

Chapter 17
The March

Arch had already left the tent when Tiago woke from his sleep; immediately he noticed the soreness of his bum hole, remembered what had made it feel so sore and silently asked God if there was any evil left inside of him. He received no answer to his question which made him believe he was still a vile little boy. He could almost feel how the evil scorched his insides, though it mostly felt like he was in a dire need for squatting over one of the holes of the latrine.

This he could manage on his own though he had to untangle himself from Ian first. Once that was accomplished he put on his clothes and quickly slipped out of the tent and ran to the troop's latrine. No one else was there, and he chose the first and best hole to squat over. He pushed hard and a wet fart immediately worked itself out of his bum hole. It took a lot more effort to make more come out, and he couldn't leave the latrine until ten minutes later.

When the sensation deep inside of Tiago had disappeared he ran back to the tent with his man inside. He sat on the bedroll and waited patiently for Ian to wake, so he could get something to eat for breakfast. He had worked hard for it, and though most of what they had done had been exciting, it had never taken quite so long before for Tiago to earn his food.

But, he reminded himself, he had been given food for a whole week without having to do anything for it; maybe that was why Ian had made him work for so long into the night.

He sure hoped Ian wouldn't want to do it again when he woke this morning. His hole was smarting, not unlike it had done after the very first time the tall man had pushed his large prick into it. The pain was a reminder of what had been done before he had fallen asleep, and he felt very proud of never having cried out from it, not even when it had really hurt.

Ian woke to find Tiago watching him. He tiredly returned the boy's smile and lazily stretched his body.

"Did you sleep well?" He asked and yawned, "You weren't hurt?"

"Not much," Tiago replied, "I sleep fine. Warm night."

"Yes, it is warmer here than in the mountains. That's for sure. Are you hungry?"

"Uh-huh," Tiago hummed and nodded his head.

Ian quickly got dressed after sending the lad to fetch a pot of water for their morning coffee.

They had to wait four days for the Spanish soldiers to arrive and nearly triple their numbers. The joint forces had close to twenty five hundred men, of which around twelve hundred were foot soldiers. There were seven hundred cavalry, three hundred artillery soldiers and the rest were doctors, cooks, blacksmiths and other helpers.

The Spanish army was followed by a convoy of civilians, women mostly, but also children of both genders and even some elderly men, all hoping for some of the spoils of war finding their way into their pockets.

Lieutenant Colonel Sykes wasn't pleased with the Spanish commander and loudly damned him to hell for allowing such a large group of civilians to accompany him to a location that was supposed to be kept a well-guarded secret. Ian heard him swear and was able to see things from his commander's point of view, but the sergeant was one of very few English soldiers not desperate for female company.

Even Toby, the youngest of the drummer boys, was on the lookout for someone to keep him warm at night. If anyone had bothered listening to him, he would've happily shared everything he wished to do with a woman. Though he was still a virgin, he sure knew a lot about bed activities; mostly from having overheard conversations between the older soldiers sharing notes.

If anyone thought the arrival of the Spanish detachment meant they'd soon be on their way to fight the French, they were greatly mistaken. The Spanish Coronel outranked Sykes, and he deftly assumed command of the small army and wasn't in any hurry to move on; his troops must rest first, he explained, and that they did.

Tiago was greatly amazed by the Spanish soldiers' uniforms, even the privates had shiny golden epaulettes on their shoulders and he thought they looked very impressive.

"Psssh," Ian hissed his disapproval, "I should like to see them sneak through a field. Even in the darkest hour, they'd be easy to spot. They might as well be carrying lanterns."

The uniforms of the Spanish were yellow, only their hats were a more sensible black. There weren't any skirmishers in the Spanish detachment, only regular musket-wielding linemen and cavalry with horses decorated as if they were about to join a parade rather than going into battle. They had artillery too, much more than the English, and Ian was pleased to see the large cannon dragged behind the horses.

"Now, that's more like it, lad. Those cannon will be handy, but the rest of that lot? They might as well stay here or return to where they came from, we only need their cannon and gun crews."

But that wasn't to be. When the Spanish commander finally ordered the army to move further into France, all of them went. Even the civilians tagged along; at least this meant Arch was able to buy some better food for them than was served by the army kitchens.

On the second day of marching a scout returned to the slow-moving formation spurring his horse along as quickly as it could take him. Fragments of his report made their way back through the long line of marching troops, and when they reached Ian and Tiago, it sounded like Napoleon himself and a million French soldiers were lying in wait for them only a few leagues away.

That can't be so, Ian thought but even he couldn't fully renounce the fear spreading through the ranks. If what he heard was true, the French knew they were coming. There might not be a million enemy soldiers but there'd be no surprise attack, no advantages to be had. They wouldn't be able to pick a location of their choosing, but must go wherever the French wanted to meet them; they couldn't simply avoid them as they'd then risk being cut off or attacked from the rear.

Soon after, they were ordered to halt for one final night of peace, and though it was early in the afternoon there was no time for relaxing; weapons had to be checked and equipment too; blades sharpened, gunpowder weighed out and distributed along with shots.

"That is all?" Tiago asked. He was happy for finally being able to load his pistol, but the measly two shots and the two paper sachets of powder he was given didn't seem like quite enough for him.

"It's only for self-protection, my lad. I truly hope you won't ever need to use your pistol at all," Ian explained patiently, "Anyway, if you try to carry too much, it'll only slow you right down and I may need all of your speed and nimbleness tomorrow."

"I will be ready," Tiago said in almost flawless English. And he felt ready, as ready as he'd ever be.

"Good boy. It will be chaos right after the first shot. Up until then I want you to memorize Lieutenant Goodson's position so you can find him even with your eyes shut and ears stuffed full of your fingers. When the battle starts the field will soon be covered in a cloud of smoke. If you lose track, you might end up running to the French line instead of our own."

"I will not!" Tiago said disgusted by the man's suggestion of him running towards the enemy. It would only be to shoot one of them, or maybe two, seeing as he had been given two shots for his pistol.

"I count on you, Tiago. If I tell you to deliver a message to the lieutenant, it is important that you tell him exactly what I told you to tell him, and that you tell no-one else."

"Yes, Sargento Ian."

Ian hoped and prayed for Tiago being able to do what he so innocently stood in front of him and promised he'd do. The wee lad had never seen a battlefield before, had never been caught in the middle of a large brawl where men fought for their lives. He desperately hoped the rumours were wrong, that the French didn't outnumber them and they'd be able to win the fight without losing too many men.

I'll do my best to even out the odds, I'll kill as many officers as I possibly can before pulling back, he promised himself.

"Good lad. Now, go make sure our tent is pitched properly, you know how I like it."

"Yes," Tiago said and took off to carry out his order.

Ian busied himself with taking inventory of the supplies assigned to his troop. Though Arch helped him, it was past eight in the evening before they finally had everything in order. The tent was set up exactly like it had been at the river; Tiago had even hung the flag from the clothes line, and the last evening meal before the battle was about ready to eat, when Ian and Arch joined him.

The sergeant made sure his little runner paid for his food later that evening, just before they turned in. The next time he'd do so, the lad would've experienced war and he too would be changed forever.

Chapter 18
The carnage

The morning of Ian's first fight against the French started peacefully. He woke early and found Tiago still lying in front of him and when he hugged the small lad tight, he turned to face him.

"We fight wa-ar today!" Ian heard Tiago happily exclaim as if he wanted to make sure Ian hadn't somehow managed to forget about it overnight.

"Yes, we will fight, but not until later. My plan for a surprise attack on the French wasn't accepted or we'd be hiding in the middle of the battlefield right now. It'll probably be noon before the attack starts, the Coronel likes to sleep in."

"Like every other sane man would want to. Keep it down you two. Please!" Arch said sleepily.

"When did you return? I thought you went with one of the senoritas?"

"I did, but she kicked me out right after I came between her thighs. For a shilling, you'd think you'd get to fuck someone right and spend the night, but no, she invited another bloke into her tent almost before I'd managed pulling up my britches.

"You were both asleep when I got here, don't worry. It sure reeked from Tiago's arse in here, though."

"And it's such a lovely smell too," Ian said and kissed the lad on his nose.

"That is a matter of taste! Don't tell me you lick and kiss his little arse too?"

"Go back to sleep, Corporal," Ian said quietly, "You're clearly too tired to think straight."

"I'd still be fast asleep if it wasn't for you two yapping like old women."

"We're all done talking and you'll soon be hearing Tiago slurping all over my prick."

Tiago perked up at this and moved to obey the discreet order.

"Is he any good at that?"

"Oh, he's the best," Ian gasped when he felt Tiago's mouth on his prick, "And he doesn't demand a shilling upfront before he'll do it."

There were no further comments from the other side of the flag, so Ian was able to fully concentrate on the marvellous sensations generated by the boy's tongue on his prick head.

Three hours later they, and everyone else, were ready to fight. Ian received his orders, they were simple; sneak into the left hand side of the battlefield and wait for the signal. All of his men, even the newcomers, were dressed in the dark green colours of the Experimental Corps of Riflemen. Ian had insisted on his men being equipped the same, and while the captain of the company had shuddered at the expense, Ian was granted his wish.

The forty men and the single boy sneaked behind the main force of English infantry, already lining up in their battle formations and easily seen in their white trousers and red coats. Ian's troop, though insignificant in size compared to the long lines of men they passed, was well-known and highly respected by the other English soldiers, even before having proven their worthiness in battle.

Ian led the troop through a gap between two formations; he and his men were keeping their heads well down. The grass and weeds on the wide field were thick and grew tall, and Ian hoped they would be enough to keep them from being spotted by the French, no more than five hundred paces away. Soon after, he got down on his hands and knees, a quick look over his shoulder told him the first of his men did the same.

So far, the many hours of training had paid off, everyone knew what was expected of him and did it without Ian having to say anything. Ian knew Tiago was hot on his heels, having no problems keeping up with him as he had both of his hands free. Ian led his crawling men further into the field and into the no-man's land between the two armies.

Three minutes, and around a hundred paces later, Ian stopped in front of Tiago and the small boy crawled to crouch on his hands and knees close to the man on his left hand side. The rest of the men crawled to where Ian had stopped and spread out, forming a dotted line almost two hundred fifty yards wide. Ian waited impatiently for the hand signals from the two men closest to him; this would tell him everyone were in their positions awaiting his orders to proceed.

When the men signalled to him, Ian moved his left arm forwards and pointed to the French. 'Move out', was what the silent order meant. He waited for thirty seconds before he started crawling, it took this long for his order to reach the two men on either end of the line. Ian knew precisely how long it would take for his men to start moving, they had practised it so many times prior to this moment, but right now, it seemed to take ages.

The only difference from then and now is this time it counts! Ian thought while he and his men quietly crawled closer to the enemy lines.

They stopped after another one hundred paces, almost precisely in the middle of the two armies about to crash into each other. We're now well beyond the reach of regular muskets, Ian told himself and hoped the French muskets were just as inaccurate as the English. He also hoped the French cannon were fixed on the projected location of the English infantry formations and not at him and his men.

We're sitting ducks and can do even less than real ducks when the fighting gets underway. At least a duck has wings and can fly away. We can only keep low and hope.

Ian kept low, he resisted the temptation to try and sneak a peak at the French formations. He knew their approximate location, he could hear the faint sounds they made. Officers should be easily distinguished from the grunts of the French army, their hats were different and they wore frilly epaulettes; they were what Ian's troop had been detailed to kill as many as they possibly could before retreating to safety behind the English formation.

He had a quick look to either side, and saw the two nearest pairs of his men readying their rifles. Like in the Corps, Ian had trained his men to work in pairs, one rifle per buddy team ready to fire at all times, or as close to that as possible, anyway. Just then he heard the French soldiers being ordered to move out, and he took a deep breath of air.

Slowly, he let the air back out of his lungs; it wasn't yet time, he must wait for the French to get closer. Though Ian was an excellent marksman, not even he could hit a moving target from two hundred fifty paces away. His shot would likely hit one of the men slowly walking towards him, there must be five hundred if not more coming his way, but he didn't want to hit just anyone.

If he took out a private, the one walking behind him would just fill out his place and carry on walking. Then Ian would have to reload before he could take another shot, he had no one to do it for him and only one rifle; Arch was nearly a hundred paces off to his right, commanding half of the men.

I do have Tiago, but he still lacks the strength to drive a shot down the pipe, at least repeatedly, Ian thought and had a quick look at his little runner. He smiled encouragingly at the lad. Please, remember everything I told you, little one.

Tiago felt scared, more than he had ever been before. There were a lot of angry shouting men with muskets walking right towards him, he knew they'd hurt him far more than anyone had done before, maybe even kill him, even though he was just a little boy and they were older and much bigger than him. He could hear the drums playing now, the beat almost in time with his little racing heart.

"NOW!" Ian shouted from the top of his lungs, and immediately got up on one knee. He scanned the very wide line of men wearing light-blue uniforms with white cross belts, searching for a worthy target for the shot inside of his cocked rifle.

There! He told himself and took aim. The French formation was still walking towards him, his shout hadn't been heard by them or maybe they had disregarded it as being non-important. It didn't matter, the man with the pointy beard couldn't be a private; he was holding a sabre high in the air. Slowly, Ian squeezed his finger on the trigger until he felt the hammer being released before it created sparks.

Ian ignored the sparks and the sudden flames near his face, and kept his rifle trained on the centre of the French officer's chest. Then came the familiar, though still loud, noise when the powder ignited and exploded in the barrel of the rifle, and the sensation of the stock kicking back against his shoulder. He stayed up on his knee and saw the officer drop his sword and fall over backwards, and he quickly set about reloading his rifle.

"Tell Arch we're retreating after three shots, retreat after three shots!" Ian yelled to Tiago.

"Yes, Sargento," Tiago screamingly confirmed the order, then took off running like a scared rabbit. He wasn't in danger, not yet; the attack had caught the French completely unprepared. The privates were used to walking up close, nearly into spitting distance of their enemy, and only then set about making their muskets ready. And only when the slowest one of them were ready, would they fire their weapons; all of this only when ordered to.

Also, the closest of the French soldiers were still a hundred and fifty paces from the small troop, and thus unable to return fire even if they had been ready to do so.

Tiago was too scared to remember what Ian had told him about the range of muskets and behaved like he was about to be struck by a shot any second. He made himself as small a target as possible by leaning over as much as he could while he ran towards Arch.

"Re, re-retrreat after three shots," He wailed out of breath as loudly as he could when he finally stood next to Arch.

"Yes. Will do. How are you liking it, lad? Nothing quite like a little gunfight to grow some hairs on your cock, eh?" Arch asked and grabbed the rifle that had just been reloaded.

"I don't want hairs on my cock!" Tiago replied appalled by the thought, but then Arch was already aiming and paid him no mind.

The lad began the run back to his sergeant, again running like the Devil himself was right on his tail. When he got there, he saw Ian shoot his rifle once more, then flung it on his shoulder.

"Just in time, lad. We're getting out of here, it would seem the French aren't welcoming us with open arms."

"You think?" Tiago asked but received no reply to his question. Ian had already started running back towards the English and Spanish formations. Tiago looked left and right, and noticed everyone in the entire troop were running. He didn't look at the French at all, he just ran as quickly as he could and almost ran right past Ian on the way back to relative safety.

When the troop reached the first lines of the English formations, they were cheered on and the linemen moved out of their way, allowing them through with as little interruption as possible; they had played their small part in the large battle and were allowed to rest for a short while.

"It worked!" Arch said triumphantly when he sat next to Ian, "My compliments."

"Yes, but we achieved so little. I killed one officer, and wounded another, but they must have hundreds of them in this army alone."

"I took out one as well, and another one, maybe a sergeant, when he began shouting commands. I watched other Frenchies get killed too. So we made a difference today."

"I know, but it wasn't a crucial one. The French haven't run off, they're still killing English soldiers right now."

"Not the company we engaged, they panicked and are probably still running as fast as they can."

"Well, I don't know about you, but I haven't finished yet. We'll go support our troops, our rifles will still outrange their muskets from the rear."

And they did; Ian assigned men from his troop to the detachments he could tell were having trouble with the French. They again targeted the officers and anyone else who seemed to be in command and forced at least another three hundred soldiers to retreat.

An hour after Ian had started the battle, a temporary truce was called so the two sides could attend to their dead and wounded. Ian quickly headed to where he had seen the first officer fall and he managed to get there before anyone else did; Tiago as per usual was right by his side.

"Look at this chap, little one. He must've been a captain or maybe even a major."

Tiago had one look at the dead man, and quickly looked away from the sight that met him.

Ian wasn't as disturbed by the blood and set about searching through the dead man's pockets. He cheered when he found a small, but very heavy bag of coins.

"Gold doubloons, no less! Tiago, I'm bloody rich. Hah, now I can buy myself a real nice young woman."

Tiago was slowly turning around in a full circle while he looked over the field. There were fallen soldiers from three nations everywhere he looked, or so it seemed. And he was saddened to tears by the cruelty that had taken place; the evil that he had been part of, too.

"Hey now, Tiago. Don't be sad, we're winning. You'll see."

"We are? Por quê?"

"I don't have time to explain it to you right now. Let's go back before the next round starts with us caught here in the middle. I doubt they'd fall for it another time," Ian said and pocketed the heavy bag of golden coins; the man he liberated them from had no need for them anymore.

Chapter 19
Family

"So, you see, if we hadn't killed them, they would have killed us," Ian finished his explanation later the same day, darkness had fallen, but it was only just past five in the afternoon.

"That's no good reason. If nobody kill anyone, much better."

"Hah, yes. But then I'd be out of a job," Ian laughed. "No, seriously, in a perfect world nobody would want to kill anyone, but we do not live in a perfect world. There is always going to be someone who can't be stopped by words alone. Someone you have to fight to make him understand enough is enough."

Ian hadn't enjoyed fighting either, but it had always been part of his life, since even before he became a soldier. Now, instead of kicking and biting someone until they'd run off, he simply shot them before they could kill him. The French army they had fought that day had been pushed back, though the victory came at a steep price. Ian had lost men that day, and though not as many as some of the normal detachments, it was still a serious setback to him; he simply hadn't had very many men to start with.

They were down to thirty now, two were killed on the battlefield in the second fight of the day, another in the third, and seven were wounded in the fourth and final battle before they had gotten close to where the French had deployed their artillery. They had captured fourteen cannon the French hadn't had the time to move or spike.

The combined forces of the English and the Spanish had been reduced to seventeen hundred men, the French had lost more than that, but there were many more defenders lying in wait between where Ian and Tiago sat at that moment and Paris, the capitol of France, their destination.

"Better to kick in balls," Tiago stated.

"Yikes! That does hurt a lot. Even so, a man can still fight after taking a kick to his balls, if he's angry enough."

"I not can."

"Well, you're not a man yet, Tiago. But I bet, even you'd be able to block out the pain if you wanted to."

"Now you have money, you go with puta in night?"

"Wooh, that's a sudden change of subjects. I don't know. I guess I could, I suppose. Why do you ask? Do you want me to?"

"I need food."

"And you will eat food. You don't have to work, you know, like that. Not any more. Not for a long time anyway."

"Oh. I eat with no suck? No fuck?"

"Yes."

"Hmm."

"I have what must amount to fifty pounds now. That's a lot of nights with a puta, as you so lovingly call the women."

"I not want sleep alone. I get cold. I suck," Tiago said, paused and continued, "and fuck okay. It's good, now I like."

"And I rather like it too. Tell you what, I'll search for a young woman, one that I'd truly want to lay with and until I find her, I'll only do it with you. Agreed?"

"Yes."

The coins Ian looted from the French officer were never spent on women; he paid back the money he had borrowed from Lieutenant Goodson, then the captain of his company heard of his newfound riches and demanded that he was reimbursed the expenses for outfitting Ian's troop with the same style uniforms.

Ian objected and pointed out the dark green uniforms were absolutely necessary for his men to hide in the grass; that he couldn't have done his job properly if more than half of his men had been dressed in red and white uniforms.

His protests were brushed aside and Ian somewhat reluctantly handed over what amounted to twenty pound sterling in gold doubloons. What he had left was an almost empty bag of coins, he had no more gold coins left, only a few silver coins, worth less than eight shilling in total.

Well, it sure was fun being rich for a grand couple of hours Ian wryly thought to himself and threw the small back bag to Arch.

"See if you can find us a whole piglet to spit roast. And a keg of beer, or cider if beer isn't available. We may as well celebrate our first victory," he told his corporal.

There was no beer to be found, not any that Arch could afford, and though the piglet was quite small and the cider could've been better, he and the rest of Ian's troop celebrated through the night.

Ian was summoned by Major Orson right after Arch was sent out to shop. Major Orson was the second in command of the English regiment, and he congratulated Ian for his small-scale surprise attack at the start of the battle. A couple of hours were spent by Ian answering a lot of questions of how he trained his men and then the major asked him if he could train even more, if he thought he was able to form a light company of riflemen from the remainders of the regiment.

"It would mean some two hundred men under your command, Sergeant Hawkes. Imagine what you'd be able to do on the battlefield with that many men. The French would never know what happened until it's far too late."

Ian, tired and weary from the battle and only wanting to be with his men, didn't know what to tell the major and silently considered the request for a couple of minutes. Then took another minute to phrase his reply.

"I would be leading the company?" He asked cautiously.

"Yes, you alone. No one will be allowed to interfere with your leadership."

"I will get to choose the men for it? Without any reservations?"

"Yes. Well, you can pick from the privates and sergeants, no officers. And you can't pick sergeants to become privates in your company. We must have troop leaders in the rest of the regiment, too."

"But I can promote anyone I see fit to become sergeants?"

"Yes. If they live up to the standards of the regiment, of course."

"When would you expect a newly formed company to be ready for battle? How much time would I have?"

"No more than two months. Maybe less, but certainly not a day longer."

"What about rifles? Uniforms? I would need all of my men to dress the same as my current men."

"Ah! The rifles, well, they may be a problem, though I'll send for them as soon as you bloody well accept my proposal. The uniforms aren't a problem, we can have them made in Spain."

"I see. Here are my thoughts: I accept your request and will do my damned best to form a light company that will do us proud. However, I will need two months starting from the day the rifles arrive, all two hundred of them and ten thousand shots."

"You drive a hard bargain, Sergeant, no, Lieutenant Hawkes, but Sykes expressively ordered me to accept any and all demands to get you to agree."

"Well, in that case, I should like…"

"No, no, Ian. Too late, you've already accepted. You will be paid twenty shillings, also known as one pound sterling, per day as a lieutenant. As a company leader, you're entitled to an orderly and a second in command. If you want, I can recommend some good men for those positions?"

"No thank you, Sir. Archibald Jones will be my second in command, I know him and I trust him and would like to keep him, and I already have my young runner, Tiago. I have no need for an orderly."

"Let me know if you change your mind, Lieutenant Hawkes. Before you do anything else, remove your sergeant's stripes and put this on," Major Orson solemnly said and handed Ian a dark purple sash, "There's a sabre that comes with it, but I see you already have a sword."

"Yes, I'd rather keep the sword, if you don't mind? It's far superior to the flimsy sabre in a real brawl," Ian said. "No offense, Sir," he added when he noticed the major was armed with the same kind of blade he had just mocked.

"None taken, lieutenant, I know it's mostly for looks, and we'd all be damned to hell if I were to use my sabre in a fight."

Ian stupefied left the major's tent and walked to where his troop was. He found it strange when all of the sergeants he passed along the way saluted him, until he recalled he was an officer now. He straightened his back and walked more upright, and held his head just a tiny bit higher for the rest of the trip back to his rowdy group of men.

He wasn't surprised to find all of them drunk and in high spirits, and only the bones of the piglet remained when he joined the circle of men sitting around the large fire. Someone handed him a mug of cider and he greedily drank the fermented apple juice, emptying the mug in one long draught.

"Is that all your fucking lieutenant gets to drink on a night like this?" He complained loudly while keeping a straight face.

"Here Sargento Ian," Tiago slurred and handed another mug full of cider to his man, nearly emptying it in his lap.

"Careful, Tiago. Say, are you a little tipsy, my friend?" Ian asked when he noticed the shiny eyes of the young boy.

"He's drunk as a skunk," Arch clucked from laughter somewhere behind Tiago, "Like the rest of us. Your eight shillings weren't quite enough so we all pitched in to buy more cider. Woo, I think we may have bought a wee bit too much."

"Well, then this probably isn't the best time to be making an announcement. Still, I've accepted a promotion to lieutenant. There will be a lot of changes to this troop, this little family of men, but we will always be family no matter what may happen. I'll explain in the morning, uh… In the afternoon when we've all sobered up. For now," Ian said loudly and raised his mug up high, "To family!"

"Family!" The group cheered and drank again. Soon, it became a matter of utmost importance to get the newly appointed lieutenant as drunk as the rest of them.

Chapter 20
Demon child

"No sargento," Tiago feebly objected when he woke up to the sensation of having a lubricated finger partway inside of his bum hole. "I sick," he whined tiredly.

"It is lieutenant now and you are not sick, you're hungover. If you can get drunk like a man in the evening, you can be a man in the morning, too."

"I not man!" Tiago said and followed up his heated outburst with a whispered, "Avé Maria, cheia de graça, take pain from head."

"No one can take away your headache, only time will do that. Relax your little shitter and I'll give you something else to think of."

Ian was quite hungover too, yet he was lusting for the little boy lying in front of him. He couldn't remember how, nor when, they had finally entered their tent and went to sleep, but he had awoken with a splitting headache and an erection that just wouldn't quit. Fortunately the flask of olive oil was within easy reach and Tiago's bum hole easily penetrated, well, right up until when the boy had woken and tightened up his arse muscles.

It took a long time but finally Ian's erection had diminished enough for him to exit the tent. He let the boy drift back to sleep with his little arse slickened from both the olive oil and copious amounts of his sperm.

Arch wasn't as lucky as Tiago; Ian couldn't wait to discuss the changes about to happen, and he dragged his older friend out of the tent by his feet.

"We have no time to spare, Arch. Sober up. Here, have some coffee while I explain," Ian said.

Soon, Arch was fully awake and alert, the news was both good and terrifying at the same time. Ian's new task of forming a light company was what both men wanted, but the time frame was simply put mad.

"Two months? Sixty days? Ian, did we get you too drunk last night? You must've lost your mind, that's nuts."

"It's less time than I would've liked." Ian ignored the part about being drunk as he explained. "But it's all I could get. Remember we're at war, we're actually in enemy territory right now! First we must find some good men to lead the troops, I was thinking you'd take over the one we have now, but that leaves us to find another five men who'll be good sergeants."

"Okay. I think Jenkins and Briers will be good, they are fearless and clever. Holmes maybe?"

Ian pulled a face at the last proposal, Holmes certainly wasn't a man he'd trust leading a troop.

"Jenkins and Briers yes. Holmes? Never! He is bold yes, but he takes foolish chances. It would be a disaster waiting to happen if he got a troop to command. No, there's got to be three better qualified men in the rest of the regiment."

"We're thirty men strong now, and that's including Tiago. You want six full troops? That's uh, that's a whole lot of men we need to find."

"It's two hundred eighteen. I worked it out last night while I drank with you lot. Three sergeants and two hundred fifteen privates. We can pick anyone we see fit, but I only want the very best of the best. Within a fortnight, I want to have a company of riflemen ready for training.

"They must be good shots, of course, but more importantly they must be quick learners. I want every last one of us on the lookout and in three days I'll evaluate the first group of recruits on the firing range."

When word of Ian looking for men for his new company started spreading, men soon lined up in front of his tent wanting to enlist. Only a few of them were suitable. Toby, the young drummer boy who by the way was still a virgin, and Hans, the very obese German cook's assistant, and a lot of other men were dismissed without Ian feeling the need for testing their skills with a Baker rifle.

It took time weeding out the unfit from the fit, much longer than Ian had hoped for.

It was seven days before they had found one hundred and eighty men, still to prove themselves on the firing range. Only seventy four of these were accepted by Ian after the first round of trials.

"You have to lower your standards or we might not have enough men for filling the ranks," Arch warned Ian after the young lieutenant yet again had complained about the situation.

"If I lower the standards any more, we'll all end up dead in the first battle."

"There simply aren't enough Englishmen for you to select from here. We're in the south of France and the rest of the army is way up in the north. They've only just crossed the Channel and probably aren't even in France yet!"

"Well, if we are to stand a chance… Ah! You're right, there probably aren't enough English soldiers here, but…"

"What do you mean? Are you thinking of…? No! Ian, you can't be serious. Please, tell me you're not thinking of drafting from the Spanish!"

"We haven't seen all of the English soldiers yet, but if things won't improve, then yes… I mean, why not? Tiago isn't English, he's Portuguese and yet he's proudly wearing one of our uniforms and fighting for King George. He's not the only foreigner either, there are…"

"Tiago's not a man, Ian. He's only keeping you warm and happy at night, like a good little boy-whore!"

"Mind your own business, Arch, and be very careful of what you call Tiago. Yeah, he may have started out like a whore, but he's grown to be far more than that to me now."

"Even so, there are a ruddy million differences between Tiago and a Spanish soldier. Tiago hasn't killed any of our friends. Unlike our new allies!" Arch spat out the last word.

"I know. I don't like it any more than you, but what happened took place in the past. Things have changed, the French clown wants to rule all of Europe, and he has got a lot of manpower. If we're to stand a chance we have to work together with the Spanish. After Napoleon's dead we will deal with them."

"You had better not assign any Spanish soldiers to my troop. I'm not sure they'd survive their first night."

"If I do end up having to draft from the Spanish, they'll be in a troop of their own."

"What a brilliant idea, bunch forty of them together and give them all a Baker rifle. They'll thank you by putting a bullet into your head from two hundred yards."

"If they can hit anyone in the head across two hundred yards then I need them in my company. Not even you could do that."

"That wasn't the point I was trying to make. Oh, fine, you are the high and mighty lieutenant now and I'm just a lowly corporal. Mark my words though, you had better keep a close eye on them."

"Don't you worry, I will. And please allow me to correct my blatant error. As from now, you're Sergeant Jones. No longer a corporal."

Though they left on good terms, Ian still felt that his relationship with Arch had changed. He wasn't sure if it was because Arch had questioned his leadership by objecting to his idea of incorporating some of the Spanish soldiers into his company or whether it was due to what he had said about Tiago.

Yeah, Ian thought, Tiago was only meant to be a boy I could practice fucking for a couple of weeks, but now I really couldn't imagine a life without him. He's so clever, brave and always observant of my needs. Some encouragement is needed at times, like this morning, but usually he does his best to please me.

And it wasn't simply because Ian fed the kid, not any more. Tiago earned his own money now and was perfectly able to buy enough food to keep his hunger at bay; somewhat, at least enough to keep him alive, as the wages the scrawny lad, all of eight years old, earned amounted to two pence per day.

It's more than I got when I was eight. A lot more, as no-one ever gave me any money back then! Ian reminded himself as he set off on a walk through the large camp. He was back on the search for more men, only this time he ventured into the Spanish part of camp.

It was hard work, but when the promised shipment of new rifles, ammunition and uniforms arrived at the camp, six weeks later, Ian had found the men for his company. He, and the original thirty of his men, had exercised the newcomers, and put them through a series of tests to find the most suited for serving in the new company.

Even little Tiago proved useful in the selections. The little boy was used as a hare for testing the recruits' stamina and agility on the field. Tiago's orders were simple, keep from being captured for as long as possible and use any means necessary. He was given a twenty seconds head start, then a group of ten soldiers were unleashed like hounds trying to hunt him down. Their orders were simple too, catch the lad and bring him unharmed back to Ian.

Most everyone gave up long before they caught up with the small boy; he used the terrain to his advantage and would dodge through small groves with trees growing so close together a grown man couldn't easily get in between them. He'd dive through small holes in hedges and since he wasn't afraid of getting wet, he'd also jump into small streams if he had to. During these hunts, Tiago wore only his old threadbare shorts; he was much too fond of his uniform to risk getting it torn or even dirtied.

He was captured at times, but the few soldiers who managed this soon learned their real troubles had only just begun. Tiago wouldn't surrender himself simply because he had been caught and wasn't about to walk back quietly with his capturer. He put up a fight most men shied away from; however small the boy was, his body was lean and seemingly only consisted of bones and muscles, and a mouth full of white, young, and sharp teeth.

Most let go after they were bitten by the boy, who wasn't afraid of biting down so hard it drew blood. The few soldiers who managed to ignore being bitten and dragged him kicking and screaming along with them, were exhausted by the time they finally dumped him off with Ian.

One afternoon, Tiago had been caught again; Ian could hear his screams from far away and they only slowly increased in volume. This time it sounded different to Ian, Tiago's screams and cries were far more enraged; it sounded as if Tiago was suffering from a far greater humiliation than ever before.

"Este niño tiene un demonio dentro, Teniente Hawkes," the Spanish soldier wearily told Ian when he finally dropped him in front of the lieutenant. He had dragged along the mother-naked, screaming and crying boy by one of his ankles for almost twenty five minutes.

"He's usually such a cheerful lad, but I get your point," Ian laughed. It sure looked like a demon of some kind had entered Tiago's sweet little boy body. "Tiago, stop wailing and go find your shorts, then wash up."

"Magnifico!" Ian exclaimed to the Spanish soldier when Tiago ran off with his hands covering his groin. "What's your name and current rank?"

"My name is Mateo Diego de La Vega y Fernándes. I am a teniente like you."

"I'm very sorry, Lieutenant Fernándes, but I can't offer you a position in the company."

"The proper way of address would be Teniente de La Vega y Fernándes," the Spanish lieutenant said.

"Sorry to interrupt," Arch butted in before Ian could respond. "Might I have a quick word with you, Lieutenant Hawkes?"

Ian didn't appreciate the interruption, but followed Arch a few paces so they could speak in private.

"What is it, Arch? I know we're friends but you can't interrupt a conversation between two officers like that."

"I know, but this is important. Please, forget the bloody rules and regulations and think for just one minute. Why did you turn him away? Are you afraid he might try to take over your company?"

"I am most certainly not afraid of that. Major Orson specifically forbade me enlisting anyone for positions lower than their current rank. I don't have an opening for an officer, hell, there's only room for one officer in the entire company as it is now."

"And that is you. Yes, I get that, you've made it very clear on a number of occasions already. Though I don't like that guy's arrogance, he is a Spanish soldier. I doubt Major Orson would care if you made him leader of the Spanish troop.

"I still can't see why you think you need a Spanish troop, but you'll find no better leader than that stuffy guy there. I mean, he captured Tiago and brought him back to you! How many were able to do that before him? Three or four?"

"Two. Many more caught up with him and stopped him, but only two, well three with the teniente there, managed to get him all the way back to me unharmed."

"And that doesn't make him special in your eyes?"

"It does. I just can't go against Major Orson's orders though," Ian said and paused to think, then continued. "Only, you're right. I wouldn't be going against his orders. He told me I couldn't make sergeants into privates, that the rest of the regiment need troop leaders too. The lieutenant isn't a sergeant and he isn't in the regiment, not yet at least. Thanks, Arch."

Ian abruptly turned and walked back to where the Spanish lieutenant was waiting.

"Sir, if you're still interested, I would like for you to lead the Spanish troop in my company. However, this means you'll become a sergeant in the English army and would be treated as such without regards to your former rank as a Spanish teniente. There'd be no special treatment for you."

"I would be honoured to follow your orders, Lieutenant Hawkes, sir."

"If so, cut the 'sir'. We're fairly familiar in this company, have been up until now. I'd like to keep it that way."

"As you wish."

Chapter 21
The perfect field

If Ian had hoped his popularity with the Spanish regiment commander would increase after he had carefully handpicked the best of his men, he soon found out it wasn't the case. He never thought it would cause a crisis of such proportions, but on the other hand, he had never liked the lazy coronel. He left it with Major Orson and Lieutenant Colonel Sykes to deal with the obese and angry Spanish head officer.

"You know he threatened to proclaim all of the Spanish soldiers who signed up with you as deserters and enemies of the Spanish Court? He'd rather see them hung than wear your company's uniform. We had to remind him how they'll still be fighting on his side and that they'd do more good for the entire army in your company than where they were until now."

"I beg your forgiveness, Major Orson. I never knew it would stir up so much trouble, I only wanted to make sure we had the best men and enough of them to make a difference in the battles to come."

"It's quite alright now. After he single-handedly drank one of my bottles of twelve year-old whiskey, he started thinking that he had come up with the idea. You can focus on your task at hand now; train your new men, make all of them as good as your troop was and you will become the game changer you've always wanted to be."

"I shall do my best, Sir."

"I know you will. Best of luck, Ian. I think we'll all be needing a lot of it before the end of this war."

Ian didn't leave it up to luck alone, he personally and thoroughly trained his new sergeants in the evenings after supper and long until after the sun had set. He passed onto them the military tactics of skirmishing that he had learned in England and added his own experiences.

He spent the mornings overseeing the sergeants commanding their men and discreetly corrected any grave mistakes they made. The afternoons were spent at the firing ranges, everyone practising shooting and reloading their rifles.

Tiago wasn't forgotten in all of this; Major Orson's orderly, a strict older corporal who took every task extremely seriously, took it upon himself to teach the boy. The small lad who had never seen a hot iron before soon learned how to wash, iron and fold Ian's few clothes, though he never fully understood why they must look so pristine when Ian would just go out and get them all messed up again anyway. The lad's uniform was a completely different matter; Tiago would tenderly wash and iron it whenever he could.

Ian was pleasantly surprised to find all of his spare clothes washed, ironed and starched; he felt like a member of the royal family the first time he put on his clean undershirt, though that feeling stopped when he tried to put on his freshly starched drawers. Tiago had been far too generous with the starch before he folded them and they were fused in place as if he had used glue. It was a matter easily solved, the starched drawers were left to soak in hot water and Ian put back on his dirty drawers.

Meanwhile the war raged on, though the battles were far from the small English/Spanish army. It was like Napoleon had forgotten all about them or maybe he thought of them as nothing but trespassing squatters; which they kind of were. They weren't trying to stir up any trouble while they rested and regrouped after their first battle on French soil.

Even so, they couldn't hang back for quite as long as Ian required in order to finish his men's training; they had to move further north into France to help put an end to the war that had already lasted far too long.

Reports stated Napoleon had taken all of Austria and had his eyes set on Russia. The many small principalities of Germany wouldn't be able to stop him; not even if they united, which was highly unlikely to happen. Ian learned more about the war than he cared to know, he wasn't particularly interested in the finer aspects of diplomacy, but he had to sit and listen during meetings with the other company commanders and the leadership of the army.

During the meetings Ian only wanted to get back to where he was needed and where he could make a difference, with his men.

Winter turned into spring before they got underway and the army passed through Mont-de-Marsan and made it all the way to Marmande without meeting any resistance. In fact, they hadn't seen any French soldiers since the first battle, only civilians who didn't seem too interested in hindering their journey onwards. There were farmers who wouldn't willingly hand over their livestock to the army, though most of them changed their minds when facing the wrong end of a musket ready to fire.

Ian's company went ahead of the main army, scouting for enemy soldiers and aiding the engineers when bridges must be repaired before the rest of the army would reach them. This way, the main body of the army only had to stop for a night's rest before they could carry on the next morning. Slowly, they moved further north until one day they reached the outskirts of Limoges.

"There are enemy soldiers just over the crest," a soldier from Arch's troop reported back to Ian, "From the looks of it, they are fewer than us."

Ian ordered the rest of his men to halt.

"No fires or smoking until further notice," he informed his sergeants before he followed the soldier to where Arch was observing the French soldiers.

It looked like there were less than a hundred soldiers and Arch tried convincing Ian to just engage them.

"It'll be over right quick. They're only foot soldiers."

"Slow down, Arch. What have they been doing while you've watched them?"

"Not much. What you can see them do now; they're camping."

Ian scratched his nape. It seemed like an odd place to be camping, certainly not a place he'd choose for just that. There was no water nearby and the soldiers weren't too far from the road, though they were indeed resting for the moment.

"I know you're itching to prove yourself to me, but it won't be happening just now. This is not a small group of French soldiers, it's a van waiting for the rest of them to catch up. We must fall back to the promising field we passed this morning. Hopefully our army will get there before the French. Keep me posted of what they do, you'll be watching our arse end from now."

"Why does this makes me feel like we're running from a perfectly good opportunity?" Arch asked.

"I don't know. We aren't running, I'm just making sure we'll be meeting them when and where we're ready for them. We have time for preparing a position from where we can launch a surprise attack. Move your men back, keep only two or three with you and make sure none of you leave any signs of ever having been here. If the French for any reason at all starts moving quicker, let me know straight away."

"Will do," Arch acknowledged the order.

Ian doubled back to his men and then led them as quickly as he could back towards the wide field they had walked through earlier in the day. It took them five hours of quick marching to reach the field, then another twenty minutes to pass it.

"Tiago," Ian said quietly, "I need your speed, lad. I need you to go back to our army, find Major Orson. Tell him that I've sent you, tell him that we've met the French and are waiting for them here. Show him the quickest possible route back here, ask for him to let you ride on his horse along with him, so you won't slow them down."

"Yes Lieutenente," Tiago agreed to the plan mixing up the English and Portuguese word for lieutenant in his excitement. He repeated Ian's order and went on his way carrying only a little canteen with water and his pistol. After having run for a mile, he quickly sat and removed his boots. He tied the laces into a knot, hung the boots from his neck and set off again, this time running faster while using less energy doing so.

Ian didn't waste any time waiting for Tiago to reach the main English/Spanish force. He carefully scouted the field and found the best suited positions for not only his men, but also for the rest of the army. He and his men strode the field while keeping count of the steps and placed markers, one for every hundred paces, easily seen from one side of the field and almost impossible to see from the side where the French troops would enter.

The markers divided the wide field with its long grass into squares, making it relatively easy for Ian to draw a map in the dirt. He used small twigs of varying length to symbolize the units of the English/Spanish army and he placed them on the map while he played out the impending battle in his mind.

Tiago had, by the time Ian sat and drew his map, significantly slowed down but forced himself to keep moving. Even though the army he was heading for was moving towards him, he wouldn't allow himself even the shortest of breaks. He had to tell them to hurry so they could get to Ian's position in time, before the French did. He feared for Ian's life, never considering the man could easily avoid all contact with the enemy by simply pulling further back, and he kept running even when day turned into night.

When the sun started rising, he finally saw the long convoy, moving slowly along the narrow road snaking its way through the countryside; he still had miles to go before he'd reach the front of it. However, the mere sight of the many friendly soldiers filled his heart with joyous hope and he strode onwards with renewed energy. When he at long last was within shouting distance of the mounted man leading the convoy, he found himself much too winded to raise his voice higher than a pained whisper.

He waved his arms high above his head until he saw the leading Spanish officer spur his horse into a brisk trot towards him. That's when Tiago finally, out of breath, dehydrated and starved, fell to the ground. When the Spanish officer abruptly stopped his horse right next to Tiago, he found him unconscious and feverish.

Ian waited. There was still no sign of the enemy, nor had Arch joined up with him yet, which was a good thing. More troubling to him was that he was very much alone at the edge of the wide field. He had all of his men, save for the three spying on the French soldiers and the boy he had sent back, but he wouldn't be able to launch an assault on the approaching French army. Not with any hopes of success, anyway.

What's keeping them? He thought and turned his head to have another look at the road. He had done that only minutes earlier and with the same disappointing result. It was early morning of the third day after he had sent Tiago off with the important message to the army. He should've reached them yesterday at noon by the latest. So where the fuck are they?

The first to arrive to his position weren't the ones he had hoped for. It was Arch and his two men, and the news from the sergeant weren't encouraging.

"They're on the move again, Ian, they'll be here within two hours or so if they continue walking at the pace they did when I decided to leave them."

"Bloody hell," Ian swore and had another look at the road leading up to where he was standing, "Even if the lazy Spanish idiot should arrive right now, there just wouldn't be enough time to get everyone into position."

"What do you intend to do?"

"There's not much I can do, is there? We're forced to pull back, even if it means leaving this perfect field behind."

"Hold that thought! Look!" Arch said and pointed out the road behind Ian, then unpacked the spyglass.

Ian looked and saw a long line of cavalry approaching at high speed.

"The horses will need to rest before they can do any good. As will the men. We would have to start the battle without artillery and linemen and hope for them to arrive before it's all over," Ian stated, "But, I'm not the one who has to make that call."

"It's Major Orson in the lead," Arch informed Ian after having a look through the spyglass. "He's rushing them along."

"Is Tiago riding with any of them?"

"No. Not as far as I can tell."

Chapter 22
Act of courage

Ian scarcely had time to worry over Tiago, he soon found himself explaining his ideas for the surprise attack on the French to Major Orson; he had to do so quickly while the senior officer studied the miniature model he had made of the field.

"My compliments, lieutenant. This should prove very useful during the battle."

"Thank you, sir."

"Very well, we'll go with your plan. Move your men into position and I'll direct everyone where they must go in the order they arrive. Pray for the French to give us the time we need for setting up our ambush."

Ian focused on the six quadrants most likely to be used by the French when they'd pass the field. He ordered his six troops into a large 'V' shape, like a funnel through which the French army must go in order to reach the other side of the field. There was an increasing risk of friendly fire the further into the funnel the French would get and he made sure to make his sergeants aware of this fact.

He took up position at the very bottom of the V, one hundred fifty paces from the two closest pairs on either side of him. The two dotted lines of men stretched out with the furthermost pairs almost a thousand yards away from him. They might as well be back in England once the fighting starts, he realised, but he knew his troop leaders; he trusted them able to keep their men under control and not give away their position too early.

He wanted the first of the French soldiers almost on top of him before his men would start shooting and all hell unleashed on the enemy.

Ian and his men were the only ones of the English/Spanish force to have entered the low valley field; the rest of the approaching army kept well out of sight below the crest. Only Major Orson and a handful of his staff were hidden on top of the low crest and able to observe what took place below them. This ambush strategy was a far cry from the usual procedures, but the Major could now see the reasoning behind Ian's plan.

"Line up the men as they arrive, keep them out of sight and ready to storm the field on my command. Have the artillerists prepare their guns with shrapnel shells before they move into position on top of this hill here," he commanded and pointed out the area on Ian's carefully laid out model. "Let me know as soon as the cavalry is ready for a charge through the field."

His runners hurried to deliver his commands to the unit commanders and he turned his attention back to the young lieutenant lying prone in the middle of the field. And he prayed; he hoped he had made the right decision listening to an officer hardly old enough to call himself a man yet.

Ian quickly raised his head above the straws of grass to check up on his men. He only saw three of them and only because they were still moving towards their designated positions. As soon as they were in place, they too went prone and out of sight. Ian settled back down on the soggy ground; the grass was still damp from the morning dew. The sun felt warm on his back but his front was chilled from the clammy wetness below him.

Oh, this is perfect! He thought when he noticed the warmth of the sun was causing the dew to evaporate and form a mist making it even less likely for the French to see him and his men, now would be as good a time as any for them to come.

The van of the French soldiers stopped walking when they reached the field and waited for the rest of the convoy to catch up to them. They had been on the move from before dawn and had another two leagues to walk before lunch. The hilly terrain and the fog in front of them wasn't a thrilling sight and a short break was called for.

It didn't sit well with the commanding officer of the French army; he had heard reports of an enemy army having moved into France and seemingly quite easily defeated the only defenders in the region. Napoleon was wrong when he had amassed most of his armies in the north-eastern part of the country and thereby leaving the backdoor wide open for attack.

The French brigadier general wanted to obliterate the enemy army and send a clear message to the Spanish. He wanted to tell them to stay out of France. The Iberian Peninsula wasn't a priority for the French emperor at least at present despite the thousands of French troops stationed there trying to subdue the opposition to the emperor's brother's imposed reign. The general was in a sour mood for having been redirected to the south when he really wanted to move to assist his older brother in the north.

"Allez!" He cried out in anger when he noticed the forward detachment of his army resting. "Move out!"

Quickly the soldiers scrambled to comply with the order and entered the still misty field of grass. They could barely see ten feet in front of them, still they almost ran along the road through the fog.

Ian heard them long before he could see them; the footfalls of many men and the loud rattling of gear told him the moment he had been waiting for had arrived. His rifle was loaded and already pointing in the right direction; he only had to put his cheek up against the walnut stock and take aim. Which is precisely what he did and then waited for the first to pop out from the mist.

He didn't have to wait for very long and though this soldier wasn't an officer, he was still French and an enemy.

And, if I don't shoot him, he'll be right on top of me in ten seconds, Ian thought and squeezed the trigger. The shot deafened him but he was able to keep his eyes open and watch the French soldier fall to the ground. Ian's shot was the signal his men were waiting for and now he heard gunfire from both sides of the road and began reloading his rifle as fast as he could.

Major Orson also heard the sounds of gunfire echo through the valley but he couldn't see what took place below him. He was about to order the cannon open fire on the valley when he realised he simply didn't know where exactly the enemy was, and more importantly, where his own men were.

"Damn this fog to hell!" He swore loudly. "Which one of you knows Lieutenant Hawkes? I need someone to go down there and tell him to pull back!"

None of his men volunteered to enter the battlefield from where frenzied fighting was clearly heard; none of them knew the young officer very well. The gun smoke from the rifles was mixing with the mist and made it even harder to make out anything below, making it next to impossible to predict where it would be safe to enter the field and find the lieutenant. All of the five runners avoided the Major's stare and he sighed heftily.

Though Tiago was still suffering from his long run he had finally managed to escape from the ever watchful eyes of the medical staff. For the entire journey back towards Ian he was confined to a tarp-covered ox-driven wagon while a young nurse took care of his every need. She had treated him with a maternal, gentle strictness and made sure he drank and ate everything she fed him.

The sixteen year-old girl forbade him from leaving the wagon even when he had felt the need to defecate and when he in pure defiance refused to make use of the chamber pot, she had mistaken his passive resistance and thought he was simply too exhausted. To his utmost humiliation, she deftly undressed him and placed a bed pan under his bottom, then massaged his stomach until he could no longer hold back his waste. When she was certain he had finished, she had then given him a sponge bath.

But, when Tiago had heard the quiet sounds from the battlefield, he had finally fled the tarp-covered wagon in search for his beloved lieutenant. He walked onto the crest where Major Orson was.

"Is there no-one present who isn't a bloody coward?" He heard the fat man bellow. "I'll court-martial every last one of you!"

"I go," Tiago's young, high-pitched voice rang out.

"Ah, young Tiago! Good to see you back on your feet, lad. Do you think you can find Lieutenant Hawkes in that soup of fog down there?"

Tiago nodded, "Yes sir. I find him okay. I go now?"

"Godspeed, lad. Go with God and tell Hawkes that he has had enough fun for one day. He must withdraw so that I can lay down artillery fire. I will open fire in twenty minutes from now!"

"I tell him."

With that, Tiago ran down the slope into the fog; he ran directly towards the source of the gunfire that could still be heard. He knew Ian would be somewhere down there and he knew his rightful place was right by the lieutenant's side.

Ian was reloading his rifle again, already two French soldiers lay dead right at the threshold of the small circle making up his field of view. He heard gunfire on either side and ahead of him; the fog muted the sounds and he couldn't tell whether it was his men's rifles or the French muskets he heard being shot. Now, he heard other sounds as well; men crying out from pain and other crying out in anger, all of these sounds he knew well.

It's the sound of war, he told himself as he placed the shot into the muzzle and pulled free the ramrod which he used to drive the shot further into the pipe; he wasn't able to stand up and use both his arms for this, instead he one-handedly and frantically jabbed away with the ramrod, only driving in the shot a few inches at a time.

In the exact moment the shot was driven as far into the pipe as it would go, another Frenchman popped out of the fog. He saw that Ian wasn't ready to fire and with his musket lowered like a lance in front of him, he charged towards him, running at full speed.

Ian quickly realised he didn't have enough time for pulling out the ramrod, nor could he drop the rifle and draw his pistol or his sword; the French soldier was almost on top of him. Time seemed to slow right down and Ian noted the reflection of the sun in the sharpened iron bayonet bearing in on him; it was polished to a shine. He heard each individual footfall and thought he could feel the vibration in the ground from the fast approaching enemy soldier.

Without another thought Ian swung up his rifle as if it were a pistol and in the very last possible moment he cocked the hammer and blindly took the shot. The rifle kicked back and broke his right wrist as if it were nothing but a dried-out twig. Before Ian had time to register any pain, the ramrod was launched from the long pipe like a glinting missile, closely followed by the shot.

The French soldier's advance came to an abrupt stop when the flat end of the ramrod's handle hit him squarely in the sternum so hard that it splintered his ribcage. The shot, by this time grotesquely misshapen, took out most of his shoulder and he fell backwards, dead before he hit the ground.

Grimacing, and after making certain the French soldier was truly dead, Ian quickly examined the cause of his pain. His wrist was already swollen and his right hand rendered utterly useless. He was about to retrieve the ramrod for his rifle when another ghostly shape of a French soldier appeared.

Will it never stop? he asked himself and reached for his pistol before he remembered his injury.

The enemy soldier stopped in his track when he saw three of his countrymen lying dead on the ground, then he saw Ian and quickly aimed his musket at him.

This is it, Ian, he thought. End of the road.

The Frenchman sniggered when he saw Ian was disabled and he lowered his musket. Rather than shoot the man, he was going to torture him with his bayonet for a while before killing him; two of the soldiers this English swine had killed were close friends of his. He cautiously approached the man sitting on his knees and kept the musket trained on him; ready to shoot if he were to make any unexpected moves.

Tiago ran towards the sounds from the battle still taking place; he ran bent over, stooping as closely to the ground as he could yet he ran quickly and directly towards where he thought Lieutenante Ian might be. Intuitively he knew that the man must be in the centre of it all and somehow he knew that Ian was in grave danger.

The fine hairs on Tiago's neck stood out and goose bumps formed on his lower arms when he got close enough to see a soldier wearing a light-blue jacket and white cross belts approach Ian. At first he couldn't understand why the lieutenante was simply sitting there doing nothing to fend for himself, then he saw how the man was holding his right hand with the left. Immediately he knew he must act or the man that he loved more than anything and anyone would die.

He reached into his pocket and his fingers clumsily latched themselves around the pistol grip designed for grownups and their bigger hands.

Meanwhile the French soldier moved ever closer to Ian, only three short paces separated the two men; they were nearly within striking distance of the bayonet affixed to the musket.

Tiago moaned from anguish when his sweaty fingers suddenly slipped from the pistol grip and he had to spend several long seconds carefully working the pistol out of his pocket. Still the Frenchman hadn't heard him, and he quickly cocked the two hammers, resulting in two loud clicks.

The French soldier heard the clicks and immediately recognised them for what they were; he quickly turned to face Tiago.

"Hah," he jeered when he saw it was only a small boy with a pistol much too large for him and turned his attention back to Ian. "You allow petit garçons to fight war?"

He cowered when he heard two small explosions in quick succession and immediately reached up grasp his ear.

"Pas gentil," he stated like a teacher lecturing a naughty schoolboy when he saw the blood on his fingers. "Not nice at all," he repeated in English and hurried to where Tiago had fallen from the double blast of the pistol.

He swiftly kicked the boy in the side, and when Tiago cried out and rolled into a little ball, he quickly slid the sharp edge of the bayonet up against the back of one of the boy's boots. The sharpened edge cut through both the leather boot and the sock within like a warm knife through butter and severed Tiago's Achilles tendon.

The boy let out a shrill shriek from the pain.

"I'll deal with you soon," the Frenchman said, picking up the pistol Tiago had dropped. "Don't move," he laughed cruelly at his own joke.

Ian felt the pangs of hopelessness when he realised he couldn't help Tiago; the distance between them was greater than twenty paces. The brutality with which the French soldier kicked his little runner made him angrier than he had ever been before. His face lost all of its colour and his eyes were mere slits from the pain when he ignored the state of his wrist and drew his own pistol. He held it between his knees while he used his left hand to silently cock the two hammers and waited.

When Tiago screamed, Ian wanted nothing more than aim his pistol at the Frenchman and attempt a shot from this distance, even though he knew he'd never in a million years be able to kill him. Fortunately, he heard what the Frenchman told the boy and he sunk back down; keeping the pistol at the ready, but still hidden between his knees.

"The garçon is braver than you, m'sieur," the Frenchman mocked as he approached Ian. "I will have fun with him, but now it's time to die, English swine," he said and pointed the musket with its bayonet at Ian's stomach.

"It is," Ian agreed. "But it is you who will go to hell first," he stated firmly and with his left hand swung up the pistol; halfway through the swing he pulled on both triggers.

The pistol went off at point blank range and this time there was no chance for either of the two shots to miss their target; the Frenchman fell over, dead.

"Tiago!" Ian yelled as he struggled up on his feet. "Tiago!" He wailed when he saw the blood oozing from the lad's boot.

To Be Continued