Dusk on the Peninsular

Despite the translucent moon’s presence, the thick golden light of the evening coated the sky. Sweat continued to roll down the back of Isobel’s neck and soak into the course black shawl that protected her shoulders from the Spanish sun and the glare of God. She stared across the dusty field towards the house at the centre of the small village. In the relative cool of the evening the villagers had started to stir, doors and wooden window shutters that had kept the heat out during the day were now open, except for that house.

Its walls were crumbling, although in fairness it looked in no worse repair than any other property in the small town. Only the closed shutters and a slight shiver that rolled through her body when she looked at the building told Isobel that the mishappened hobgoblin was there. Her hands went through the motions of loading her musket as she silently mouthed the Our Father, her faith as important to her as the weapon she raised to her cheek.

The white uniforms, made grey by the gathering dusk, of the regular infantrymen who accompanied the wholly irregular company, were moving forward cutting men shaped silhouettes in the orange gold streaks of the waning light. A sapper moved further ahead, lowering his great axe to poke gently at a pile of something just beyond a distance where Isobel could make out what it might be. An instant later she watched the massive hulk of a man recoil in clearly telegraphed disgust. Three months ago, when she had been press ganged into the company, she had believed the scarred veterans who made up the unit simply didn’t have the cojones for their work when she had first seen them turn their faces from the horrors they faced. She now understood there were things that a God-fearing human would never get used to… should never get used to… should never have to see in the first place.

As the sapper recovered his composure and pushed again at the thing that lay in front of him two shots rang out. They came from the other side of the field. Isobel watched as the sapper went to ground, she prayed of his own volition. Crouched behind an olive tree she allowed a short breath to escape as she felt her heart skip a beat. She steadied her musket, scanning the field to the left of the house. In the failing light it was not possible to make out where the shots had come from, let alone who, or what, had fired them.