Podric Moon and the Corsican Tyrant

by Barney Broom

  “Warm work.”

  Speaking to no one in particular, the general regained control of his mount and wheeling it, trotted off down the lane. Seeing two riders emerge from a defile, the general let out a holler.

  “You two. I say dragoons, are you?”

  The older of the two reined in. The younger fellow, little more than a boy, looked decidedly unstable astride his cob which shied nervously as several more cannonballs plummeted about them.

  “What regiment?”

  The older man seemed to briefly try and look into his collar then studied his sleeve.

  “Know what battalion you’re from, don’t you?”

  The fellow suddenly pushed the general out of his saddle and O’Hara was lucky that he did. A shell exploding beside him completely vapurised his horse. Archie dismounted and walked over to the general who lay on the ground.

  “Life Guards, sir. Captain Light and Ensign Moon at your service.”

  He was a cool one, this hussar – O’Hara had to give him that.

  “I believe I’m in your debt, sir. Not the normal way a junior officer greets a general, but I’m grateful.”

  Archie gave a slight bow. The general began wiping his tunic in an effort to clean himself.

  “Look here, my aide and ensign have gone down. I’d be obliged if I could temporarily assign you to my staff. Who’s your commanding officer?”

  “Attached to Sir Robert Boyd, Gibraltar, sir.”

  “Must have just missed you then. I was lieutenant governor. Recently arrived here?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Bloody mess – what with the navy interfering all the time. We’d better get down and see Mulgrave. No doubt he won’t have a plan. It’s what makes it so damned annoying trying to deal with that titan Hood.”

  O’Hara mounted Archie’s horse.

  “We’ll, er… follow on then, sir.”

  “Where d’you get these horses? Don’t recognise the numnah colours.”

  “We just… fell upon them, sir.”

  “Ha! Damned funny business. Ride double. The mute doesn’t seem too comfortable anyway.”

  With that, O’Hara galloped away down the hill.

  “Where do we go then?”

  “His HQ I suppose. The way he’s heading, it’ll be in the city. I’d better get in the saddle and you hang on.”

  Dog appeared.

  “Oh, here you are. Might have known you’d show up.”

  Podric clumsily dismounted and Archie got in his saddle.

  “Must say, Podric, you don’t seem too comfortable riding a horse.”

  Hanging on to Archie, Podric clambered back up behind him.

  “That’s because I never have before.”

  “A reasonable reason. Hold tight.”

  Digging in his spurs, Archie got the animal moving. In seconds they were chasing after their new commanding officer. Podric yelled in Archie’s ear.

  “Are all army officers so weird?”

  “Usually more so!” came the reply.

  ***

  “For God’s sake, Grainger – how many times do I have to tell you, I require my eggs runny on the inside – not raw, damn you!”

  The Commander in Chief, HM Land Forces Toulon, Lord Mulgrave, was unhappy with his breakfast. The victim of his wrath, Fusilier Grainger, stared at the general for a moment then averted his eyes to avoid rebuke for insubordination.

  “Sorry sir. It won’t happen again.”

  “It certainly won’t. I’m replacing you.”

  “Sir. Very good, sir.”

  Grainger had been threatened by Mulgrave more times than he cared to remember and now played his trump card.

  “I’ve made up your gout lotion, sir. It’s warming in your bed chamber.”

  “Damn and blast your eyes!”

  An officer knocked on the door.

  “Sir?”

  Grainger began clearing away his lordship’s breakfast dishes.

  “Leave that and get out, you oaf!”

  Grainger put down the tray and left the room. Without looking up, Mulgrave took a spoon and began to eat one of the eggs he’d rejected, devouring it with such voracity that yolk spilled down his chin.

  “What do you want, Drummond?”

  “General O’Hara’s here, sir – arrived from the fort.”

  Mulgrave continued his grotesque mastication. Drummond waited quietly; his commanding officer finally replied through a mouthful of raw egg white.

  “Show ’im in.”

  Drummond bowed and withdrew.

  ***

  General O’Hara was sitting in his breeches reading a report when Drummond returned to the adjutants’ room.

  “Lord Mulgrave will see you now, sir.”

  “Damned right, he will!”

  Grainger appeared with O’Hara’s semi-cleaned jacket.

  “Best I could do in the time, sir.”

  Standing, O’Hara grunted. Slipping into the garment and beginning to button up, he turned to Drummond.

  “I’m expecting a new aide and ensign shortly. A fellow named Light. Guards captain. He’s with a youngster. Rum cove – appeared mute. Devil I know where they come from.”

  “Pomphrey and Lulworth, sir?”

  “At peace, I hope. Grainger’s removed most of what was left of them.”

  He looked down at his tunic, flicked a piece of something from the fabric, and left the room.

  ***

  “Phipps.”

  “I dislike your familiarity, O’Hara.”

  Mulgrave sat slumped on a button-backed velvet three-quarter chair. Sipping wine, his feet rested on a stool. O’Hara moved around the room restlessly.

  “Henry, you may be in token command here, but that’s all it is.”

  Mulgrave coughed and moved his body uneasily.

  “Now that Baron d’Imbert has proclaimed the young dauphin Louis XVII, it’s my belief this action has spurred our republican friends to some determined activity. They’re bringing up more artillery and obviously plan to cut off our supply line.”

  Mulgrave made no comment and slurped his vin rouge.

  “We should consult Lord Hood immediately as to how best to manage the naval campaign. As for our own position, we must attack the French without delay.”

  “Really?”

  Mulgrave put down his glass and pushing the stool over, got to his feet.

  “A very interesting analysis, Charles O’Hara; gambling bastard, Charlie O’Hara, the illegitimate son of a Portuguese whore who had to clear out of England for not paying up at the tables. Don’t you lecture me about being ‘token’. I’m in command here and it’s only under sufferance I allow you to stay.”

  “I think not. In Whitehall circles, Lord Mulgrave is regarded as having bought his way to command.”

  “How dare you, sir! You will withdraw that remark or…”

  “Or what? Is it really fitting for the two senior commanders here to fight a duel? – that is, if you’re up to it, Henry!”

  Having stared Mulgrave in the face, O’Hara turned away. When he spoke his voice was quiet, almost matter-of-fact.

  “We should attack. I’ll take responsibility if it fails, so you’ll not be affected if we suffer any reverse. I cannot stand by looking at such activity amongst the enemy. I will require a conference with Lord Hood – we have to cooperate with the navy. Perhaps as senior commander, you’ll be so good as to sign the request when it’s drafted.”

  O’Hara couldn’t escape a touch of bitterness entering his voice. Mulgrave smiled gloatingly.

  “With pleasure.”

  He turned towards the window. A strange scene was playing out on the lawn.

  “Good lord!”

  Dog was jumping around Archie and Podr
ic, who were doing their best to restrain the animal.

  “Upon my word, that’s a hound. Never seen an Irish like it.”

  “My new aide. What is he doing?”

  “He’s got a fine taste in wolfhounds, whoever he is!”

  Emerging from Lord Mulgrave’s private quarters, General O’Hara walked briskly down the corridor. Reaching the adjutant’s office, the room was empty except for Captain Drummond who was studying a map.

  “I want you to prepare a plan of attack. Not a large force, two companies will suffice – a night sortie.”

  O’Hara peered at the chart.

  “Here’s what needs to be taken; I’ve heard they call the battery ‘Convention’.”

  “General Mulgrave’s decided to strike then?”

  Drummond’s voice was neutral.

  “The decision’s been made and he will sign the necessary orders.”

  O’Hara rifled through some notes.

  “Have an initial draft ready tonight. Oh, and the moment my new aide has finished his canine activities, send him along, will you?”

  Pulling out a more detailed topographical chart, Drummond’s concentration was abruptly disturbed when a minute or two later, the largest Irish wolfhound he’d ever clapped eyes on burst into the room. The animal moved about boisterously, threatening to upset desks and tables. Temporarily thrown, Drummond was further decomposed when the figure of Captain Archibald Light of the 4th Life Guards entered, followed by Ensign Moon of the same regiment.

  “Get down, Dog. Bloody animal! It’s the same wherever we go. He really is the limit.”

  Drummond noted Archie’s captain’s pips.

  “Drummond, 2nd Dragoons.”

  He paused.

  “Gazetted April ‘91.”

  Having brought Dog in hand, Archie looked across at his fellow captain.

  “Light. January, same year.”

  A distracted look flitted across Drummond’s face.

  “Welcome. I’m to take you along to General O’Hara. I believe you’re replacing Pomphrey and young Lulworth.”

  “Ensign Moon.”

  Archie announcing Podric, Drummond gave a brief nod.

  “Is there anywhere we can leave the animal?”

  “Your ensign can keep an eye on him while you get briefed. Wait here, Mister Moon.”

  Drummond and Archie went out. Podric walked over to the table. Maps and documents were spread all over it.

  “What are you doing?”

  Drummond had made a prompt return.

  “Er, nothing sir.”

  Obviously suspicious, Drummond’s eyes roamed about.

  “How long have you served with Captain Light?”

  Deciding on a twenty-first-century truth, Podric replied.

  “About six months,” then belatedly added, “sir.”

  “Seen much action?”

  “Bit. We were with Captain Nelson then in London. Archie – er, Captain Light had a meeting with Mister Pitt.”

  “The Prime Minister?”

  Drummond was incredulous.

  “Yes sir.”

  “I have a feeling I’m not going to like you, Moon.”

  “Sir.”

  “Not like you at all.”

  Drummond was almost sneering. Dog suddenly began to bark at him. Although a docile creature, the animal looked threatening. Drummond drew back, tripping over a table leg.

  “Call the bloody thing off. Now, damn it!”

  Dog barked more and louder.

  “G–e–t h–i–m o–f–f!”

  “Wha…?”

  The gout-ridden figure of Lord Mulgrave stood in the doorway. He had a glass of wine in his hand and a night cap was perched on his forehead.

  “What’s going on, Drummond?”

  Podric brought Dog to his side and the two stood docilely before their C-in-C.

  “The animal was out of control, sir.”

  “Looks remarkably under control now. It’s you who look désordre, Drummond.”

  Mulgrave turned to Podric.

  “What’s your name, boy?”

  “Moon, sir, Podric Moon.”

  “Rum name. This your dog?”

  “No, sir. He belongs to Captain Light.”

  “Does he, by Jove? And a damn fine animal he is too. Trained, is he?”

  “Well, er, sort of sir.”

  Mulgrave laughed.

  “Never known a hound yet I couldn’t train. Come with me. And you, Drummond, straighten yourself up. Uniform’s a disgrace.”

  In General O’Hara’s office, things were going better. The general had a papier-mâché model of the heights surrounding Toulon and he and Archie were engrossed in the detail of O’Hara’s proposed sortie.

  “I can’t emphasise enough, sir – it’s vital we take the ‘Convention’ battery, hold it at all costs and I know – er… I’m sure they’ll try an attack on Little Gibraltar.”

  “My thoughts entirely. Admire your forcefulness, Light. Speak as though you’re a visionary.”

  “What I say could happen, sir. What I mean is, I feel that’s what they’ll do.”

  “Important then, this attack.”

  “The most important attack of the war. Could even end it, sir.”

  “Ha! You think the republicans will give up if we drive ‘em back? Toulon is only one of several fronts.”

  “But it’s pivotal. Right now, they’re poorly led but that will – er… could change. And if it does, then so will the world.”

  “My my… this is strong stuff. Odd we didn’t meet on the Rock. Man of your vitality I’d have remembered.”

  Archie became more subdued.

  “Now don’t go off the boil, Light. Lord Hood’s coming here tonight to give us support. He’s with some kind of volunteer who he’s making a Commodore or whatever they call ‘em in the navy.”

  “Sir Sidney Smith.”

  “That’s the man. My God, you are well informed. Fortunate I came upon you – fortunate indeed.”

  O’Hara picked up a welded strip of little metal blue soldiers.

  “I’ve got Drummond working on the details, but I’d like you to take a look at what he comes up with. I’ve requested the attack be only two companies.”

  Deep in thought, Archie said, “With another in reserve…”

  “Of course. Of course. You’ll go far, young man.”

  O’Hara re-positioned the soldiers and inspected the miniature battlefield more closely.

  “Last time we attacked, they weren’t much more than a rabble. They’ll need much better organised defences if they’re to stop us this time…”

  Archie looked at the model, his expression bleak.

  7

  Lose or Leave

  Toulon in 1793 was an historic port and a sailors’ town. This meant that it was always lively, often rowdy and not infrequently depraved! Walking along the bustling streets leading to the harbour, Podric Moon wasn’t aware of any of this.

  In the past few days since he’d begun to experience eighteenth-century life, Podric was surprised at how quickly he’d adapted to it – the poverty, filth and overt public lewdness of men and women. Although it was a cold night, French female voices called out to him from doorways. Podric smiled to himself. Thanks to Ultimate Alternative Reality, he knew he’d already experienced something precious. Love. Nothing was more important than that. He did wonder how he would be able to look Catherine Halliday in the eye when he returned to twenty-first-century reality, knowing he’d held her so intimately in his arms. Somehow, he didn’t fancy his chances in quite the same way when back at Wendbury High in real life! But what was real life? By discovering a way to live inside a computer game, everything seemed pretty real – eating, walking, sleeping… loving. Surely nothing cou
ld be more real than that?

  “What could be more real than that, a real English penny, you ignorant bunch of Spanish pieces of eight!”

  His reverie broken, Podric turned to see Barney Sturridge land on his backside in the street. Several burly Spanish marineros emerged from a tavern and stood around him.

  “Spanish Main – British Main, more like!”

  One of the Spaniards knocked him on the head and Barney fell forward into the dirt. Laughing, the Spanish sailors re-entered the bar.

  ***

  Having cleaned him up, half an hour later in another tavern along the quay, Podric sat at a rough table opposite a bleary-eyed Barney. There were times in the future when the games neoteric would wonder if he’d done the right thing. Serving as a young British soldier in his self-created alternative reality inside the Napoleonic Wars computer game, Ensign Moon was beginning to understand how much time and circumstance could drastically alter things.

  “Good health.”

  Podric raised his tankard; he was getting used to 18th-century alcohol.

  “This is the second time I’ve seen you in a fight.”

  “Yeah?”

  “When I first came here, you were fighting outside a bar on Gibraltar.”

  “So?”

  “You always seem to be fighting.”

  “Nothing odd about that. We all fight. We’re here to fight.”

  “Not each other.”

  “Da! Half the ship’s company are dagos. Wouldn’t trust ’em further than knife ’em.”

  Barney drank some ale.

  “Why d’you get me in here anyways? You didn’t set me right for charity.”

  “I have my reasons.”

  “Yeah? And what might they be?”

  Podric looked at him.

  “The officer I’m with has got the crazy idea of trying to kill someone, someone who, if he wins now, will make a lot of trouble in the future. Irrespective of how much I tell him he’s daft, it makes no difference. I could do with some help.”

  “How d’you know if you don’t kill ’im he’s gonna make trouble?”

  Barney was never thick, possessing an innate intelligence.