1821 - a Riverful of Corpses

10: New World Bourbon (Bank of the Musi River, 1821)

The Camp, Bank of the Musi River, 1821

The fire was put up and the tents were raised. The Thirteenth were placed at the furthest left. Having dug into some temporary fortifications, the Company were given lighter duties that night, the other six companies of the 13th Infantry Regiment picking up the rest of the work–sentry and guard duty, amongst others. Emplaced at the traditional left flank of the regiment, the 13th's encampment bordered that of the Flanquer company of the Mangkunagaran Legion.

Having cleaned himself, Lieutenant James Simpson left his tent as the sun was setting upon the horizon. What had been an azure blue had turned into a glaring orange and red, the clouds a scent of black. He looked to the west, where the sun slowly sunk itself away from the world, slowly replaced by a full moon. Night soon engulfed the domain of Palembang, whose great rivers were now occupied by blue-jacketed men and shouldered muskets.

Simpson noticed that the men of his Light Company had gathered round and each group of six to ten men, each assigned to a more experienced private soldier, a lance-corporal, or a corporal, where they would also share the same cot and tent.

Some had begun singing, and Simpson smiled at the thought: singing passed the time and raised the hearts of men, especially those who had gone through such a day. Comrades lost and wounded, it was about time that the daily ration of alcohol–now, it was arak, a local drink indigenous to the western parts of these East Indian Islands–was distributed, and the men rejoiced at it.

The singing continued, and Simpson couldn't help but join in, though, the difference in rank made it difficult for him to share in the revelry; upon his arrival into one of the circles, the men stopped their song and stood at attention. Corporal Lenny van der Kleij was the head of the group, and even without his two corporal's stripes upon his dark blue tunic one could easily say that he indeed was. Lenny van der Kleij's face was clean-shaven everywhere except that unique article above his lips, and it was a grand one indeed; his moustache thick, well-groomed, and arching over to the sides in a perfect handlebar. Corporal Lennart van der Kleij had the best of Ambon and Dutch blood in him: a strong body and remarkable facial hair. And he was one of the Light Company's finest soldiers.

"Leftenant Simpson, sir. Sorry that we were carried away–"

"Carry on, corporal. In fact I was thinking of joining you." Simpson said and sat down about the circle. Peter Wolesley, who was also member of this section, continued to eat his ration of beef, and did so with an ardent hunger: he did vomit out his load earlier today, and what a shame it was, though it was nothing uncommon for soldiers who had first seen action. Some men refused to eat, the image of a man being stabbed, shot, or burnt alive was too similar to what they might be eating. "How are you all?" asked Simpson.

"Very good, sir." Said Lennart van der Kleij. "The lads are holding up well, though we did lose Jean Clemens earlier and Robert Heckermann had been wounded and no news has come out as of yet. But we gave them a good fight, didn't we boys?"

"Aye!" They all cheered.

Simpson was glad to see them in such good spirits. The Light Company had distinguished themselves today, and appreciation was the least that he could do. "How about the drinks you were issued?" asked Simpson.

"Honestly, lieutenant," said Wolesley, "Wouldn't hurt to have a bit of scotch or whiskey around..."

They all cheered and laughed aloud at the jest. "That would be a proper one, wouldn't it, after a hard day's fighting..." said another soldier, in French, a man Simpson knew only as La Fontaine. He forgot whether he was French or Belgian, but he was a man of distinction especially the quality of his shooting. Perhaps he was one of Napoleon's voltigeurs, and perhaps he had even almost shot Simpson once upon the vast fields of Europe, but now they were all brothers, lost and damned to fight an enemy so far away from home, for a country they did not even care for.

"Well it's your lucky day. Your section has performed admirably; that means an extra shot. And this, gentlemen," said Simpson, who then reached into his jacket and pulled out a clean bottle of dark bourbon whiskey, "is a little treat from the New World."

They laughed and they clapped. Drinking was indeed the soldier's best friend. He distributed the bourbon from cup to cup, and they all took it gladly, the taste deeply contrasting the sweet arak, replacing it with a woody bitterness that gave the best of stomachly feeling in windy nights such as this. As they conversed in drink and switched anecdote and story, however, Simpson could hear steps coming from behind. He was relieved to see that it was none other than Sergeant De Zeeuw.

"Sorry to interrupt, sir, but, the captain wants to see you."

"Ah, well, I certainly wish the captain can wait for a moment..."

"He's with Le Chef. They say it's urgent, sir."

And there and then, he had to leave perhaps the thing he loved the most and at the same time hated the most: drinking. Drinking. Drinking. There and then, too, he was reminded of a terrible evening, where everything was lost, where there seemed like nothing good could ever happen to him. And on that evening, he had found hope.

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