Duality
Chapter 1

Near Pacariça, Portugal
September 1809

Lord Deveril Sifton, second in line to the earldom of Billingford, walked purposefully through the camp with such a commanding presence that even the least diligent of soldiers took notice. As he strode pass, the ragged men stood to attention, some smoothing out their dulled red coats before giving him a quick salute. Dev nodded his acknowledgment to most of them, but as he was in a hurry tonight, he had no time to mingle with the men.

By all conventional standards, he knew that many men in his station would never stoop so low as to speak with the common soldier. Just yesterday, he had watched Major Evans walk right by a whole company without so much as a glance. But Dev had sworn to be different. His father had purchased - albeit reluctantly - him a commission at his own request and now, holding the rank of a captain in His Majesty's service, he was more than eager to take up arms in the Pennisular War.

At the age of twenty-four, he still lacked the military experience to solely lead a battalion, but his father had had faith in his abilities. Dev knew the old dog would never openly admit it, but he was the favored son despite being second-born. Richard, his older brother, had fallen prey to the idleness of the upper class, easily prone to debauchery and excess. Had Richard asked for a commission, Dev didn't doubt that his father would've sent his oldest off to war with a celebration of blaring horns and a twelve course feast. The earl had always said that Richard lacked direction, and more often than not, Dev had to agree.

But it was the well-grounded second son who had gone to war, as was the case with many aristocratic families. However, unlike the others, Deveril truly wanted to be there. He had wanted to fight for King and country. He had wanted to stop Napoleon from conquering the whole continent. He wanted to make a difference. And that was why he had practically begged to come to Portugal with Wellington.

When he'd made the crossing with the newly anointed duke, he'd watched the man closely. He had heard stories of the man's victory at Vimiera spoken in awed tones throughout the salons of London, and after spending those few days with the military leader, he understood how true those stories were. Wellington wasn't the kindest person he'd met. In fact, the duke could be quite curt and rude at times, but he was pragmatic and observant. And he listened.

This was what Dev had admired the most. Arthur Wellesly was now a peer of the realm, but he was not above paying attention to his sergeants or his soldiers. And when one did him a favor, he returned it in kind. Thus, like an awestruck boy learning a lesson from his hero, Dev knew what he had had to do to make a name for himself if he wanted an outstanding future in His Majesty's service.

The commanding officer's tent soon came into view, and the young lord was reminded of his current situation. Dev's lips tightened into a thin line, and he suppressed a long suffering sigh. Shortly after Wellingtion's glorious victory at Talavera, he had been reassigned. In the span of one day, he'd been sent off the join Lieutenant Colonel James Hollingsworth's battalion.

At first, Dev hadn't minded. After all, he had been given the important task of helping scout out possible locations for the fortification of Lisbon. But then, he'd discovered that his new commanding officer boasted a fraction of Wellington's charisma, and none of the great leader's intelligence.

Still, he was not a man prone to complaining, and he would live with his situation. Taking one last cleansing lungful of night air, he entered the tent.

The warm glow of the lamp in the makeshift room was a marked contrast to the pale moonlight, and Dev's eyes took a quick moment to adjust. But when they did, he noted the occupants under the canopy and gave them all a proper salute.

"Ah, Captain Sifton, no need to be so formal," the colonel said, his portly middle shaking as he chuckled at his young officer's stiff manner. "We're all comrades here."

"Yes, sir," Dev eased his posture. "Major Evans, Major Hewitt," he greeted the other officers stiffly.

The two majors were a mismatched pair if there was ever one. Whereas Hewitt was tall, Evans was short. And whereas Evans boasted a mousy brown coloring that one easily forgot, Hewitt sported a dramatic mop of red hair that left an impression. In all fairness, the latter was a decent sort, at least to Dev. But Evans ...

"Well, Sifton, we didn't think you'd make it for our meeting."

The captain turned to Major Evans and gave him a hard glare. "I apologize, Major. I was discussing the food rations with one of our sergeants."

Dev tried to keep his disapproval of the wiry man out of his voice, but he knew that he wasn't completely successful.

Either Evans chose to ignore the tone or missed it completely because he gave no indication of being insulted. "Oh, I had forgotten, Sifton, that you take it upon yourself to maintain constant communication with the common soldiers." A twinge of distaste passed over the major's sharp, angular features. "I must applaud you for your efforts."

Dev nodded politely, although a little insincerely. "I believe the responsibility must fall to at least one of us, Major."

This time, Evans heard the veiled jibe, but proper breeding prevented him from fully acting on it.

"Captain, Major, your attentions please," the balding colonel interrupted as he shifted in his seat. "We have important matters to discuss."

Dev relented in his verbal pursuit of the major and directed his efforts to the task at hand. "For what was this impromptu meeting called?"

While the commanding officer made an inane gesture of flattening the map on the table before him, it was Hewitt who answered. "The colonel wishes to take the nearby fort."

The words were said in a matter-of-fact tone, but one look into the taller major's clear blue eyes told Dev that he thought the notion was ludicrous.

"Truly, sir?" Dev asked, a little disbelieving of the plan. "You want to take a fully French occupied fort with our numbers?"

"Well, why not?" Hollingsworth sounded rather affronted. "Wellington's going to need to take it to complete his grand plan eventually, and what better way to help him along than to capture it now?"

'And help you become a hero in the process,' Dev added silently to himself.

"For one, we were sent out and equipped to scout and report the situation along the proposed defensive perimeter, not engage in a full-on siege and battle," the captain pointed out as he approached the map around which everyone was gathered. "Additionally, the only way for us to reach the east bank and get to that fort is by crossing the bridge," he continued. "A bridge that, if taken by the wrong forces, would cut us off in enemy territory."

Dev understood the complete futility in the suggested endeavor. The problem was, would the colonel?

"Nonsense," Evans interjected. "We have the element of surprise working for us. The Frogs won't know we're upon them until it is too late."

Hollingsworth nodded in agreement, and the angry captain fought the urge to punch the smug look off the brown-haired major's face.

"But if anything happens to that bridge, sir, the nearby villagers won't have access to the river." Hewitt, it seemed, had his reservations too, and Dev was grateful to have an ally. "The bank we're on is far too steep for them to traverse. Many cross to the east side to get to the water."

The colonel's lips thinned at the argument, and after taking what sounded like an exasperated breath, he looked up at Hewitt. "Major, we are at war here. Certain risks need to be taken, and certain sacrifices must be made."

"But Colonel - " Dev's objection was pre-empted with an upraised hand.

"The plan has been decided, Captain," the older man said with an air of self-importance. "Tomorrow, the men will be divided into three groups, of which each of you will command. We will cross that bridge discreetly, only a few soldiers at a time. When we are all across, we attack. Understood?"

Evans nodded, agreeing readily.

"Major? Captain?" Hollingsworth looked inquiringly at his two other officers.

After an uncertain pause, Hewitt and Dev capitulated, voicing their reluctant willingness with a synchronized 'Yes, sir'.

"Good," the colonel appeared pleased with himself. "Then I will see you all here shortly after dawn. Now, go inform the men."

At the dismissal, the officers took their leave and left the tent in an uneasy truce. The next day's plans sat heavy with Dev, and he did not relish filling the men in on the colonel's foolhardy intentions.

"Sifton, you'll tell the men?" Evans asked once they were standing outside.

For once, Dev was too focused on being angry at their commanding officer's idiocy than at the irritating major. Instead, he nodded and walked off to inform the troops.

(***)

They only had a total of seventy men in addition to the three officers. If Dev's math was correct - and he'd hate to think that all those grueling hours in the schoolroom as a boy had gone to waste - then it would mean that each of them would be leading a little more than twenty men. Even Wellington wouldn't have gone through with such a preposterous thing. But to oppose a commanding officer was unthinkable. He would just have to find a way to keep the men from suffering any major casualties.

The clear full moon had reach a brilliant size that night, and Dev was grateful for its revealing light as he slowly made his way through the camp. The small breeze carried with it the freshness of the grass and the gentle rustle of the trees, and for a moment, if he closed his eyes, he could easily imagine himself taking a late evening romp through the grounds of his home, Billingford Hall. However, mingled in with the cool night air was the undeniable smell of horses and somewhat unclean men, and although a small sense of homesickness remained, Dev lost his illusion fairly quickly.

"Sergeant Riley!" he called when the identifiable man came into view.

Finnigan Riley was a stocky man who was well into his forties. His age had began to show in the errant strands of gray that had crept into his dark hair, and the deep set lines that had etched their path onto his toughened face. But each and every one of those markers had been fairly fought for, Dev knew, fought for by serving tirelessly his country and king. It was the man's quick thinking and outright tenacity that had earned him the rank of sergeant.

"Cap'n," the shorter man responded as he stood from the fire around which he'd been sitting. Two accompanying privates followed suit when they noticed him.

Dev smiled at the formality. In his first few days under Hollingsworth's command, he had made an effort to learn of the men who had the most sway over the others, and from his subtle investigations, Riley had been one of the foremost leaders. That was why Dev had made it a point to get to know the man on a less formal level. At first, the sergeant had been wary of his intentions, but after a couple of weeks, the two of them had been sharing a bottle of the worse tasting ale Dev had ever had the misfortune of tasting.

"No need for such protocol tonight, Riley," the young captain said as he made his way toward the small group. He skirted a fair sized rock and sat down on one of the logs that had been placed around the fire. By the tin cups and plates sitting on the ground, the men had been in the middle of a meal.

"I apologize for interrupting, but I'm here to give you your orders for tomorrow," he added.

The standing soldiers sat down as well, curiosity written on their shadowed faces. "And what might those be, Cap'n?" Riley asked.

Dev let out a quiet breath and prepared himself for what he was going to say. "We'll be taking the fort tomorrow." The shock on the men's faces was an echo of what his had been just moments earlier. He continued to tell them of the plan, and how Hollingsworth had wanted the men to sneak across the bridge in small groups before the attack. By the time he finished, the plan had no more substance than when he'd heard it the first time.

"But - "

"Is that colonel daft!" Riley's rhetorical question cut off the initial protest of one of the privates.

Dev didn't blame the sergeant. He'd felt the exact same thing when he'd been told the endeavor himself.

"There ain't no livin' way three score men can take a fully occupied Frog infested fort!" Apparently, Riley hadn't yet finished his complaining. "It's an act of a lunatic, not to mention that it's suicide. If I 'ad 'alf a mind, I'd march on into that old bugger's tent an' beat some sense into 'im. Why, I'd ..."

"Sergeant!" Dev didn't like where the man's thoughts were headed. "Watch yourself. Your words border on seditious."

"Sorry, Cap'n, but it's God's 'onest truth." Given his flushed face, Riley was still livid, but he'd stopped ranting, which was a good thing considering how well voices carried on such calm nights.

"I know, Riley, but if you must speak of it, do so in a lower voice."

The grizzled sergeant nodded, and let out a muted laugh. "I was sounding a bit like me wife there, only she'd probably be louder by at least three-fold."

The two privates chuckled at this, and Dev couldn't help but join in. It was hard to imagine, but quite a few of the men had wives, some who followed the sound of the drums and their husbands, but most of whom had stayed back in England.

"And how is your wife, Riley?" Dev asked.

"A 'arpy if there ever was one, Cap'n. But she's me 'arpy, and in good health with the rest o' the children from what I've been told. Mighty nice of you to ask."

Dev waved off the compliment. "No, I truly wished to know. Besides, the woman must be on the verge of sainthood to put up with the likes of you."

If there was ever any discomfort on the part of the privates at having to sit down with an officer, it had all disappeared with that comment. All the men, Riley included, burst into laughter, genuine amusement written in their expressions.

It took a minute before they regained their composures, but when they did, Riley stared Dev in the eyes and gave him a respectful nod. "You're one of a few of 'em officers I'd trust to watch me back in a battle, sir," the sergeant said. "Not at all like some of 'em rich nobs I've served under. And definitely not like our poor excuse for a colonel."

Dev was inwardly glad that the man trusted him enough to say such a thing. "That's good to hear, Riley. I - "

The captain didn't get a chance to finish. In a quick second, the sergeant and the privates were on their feet, posture straight and eyes focused forward. Dev looked behind himself and noticed Hewitt stopped a few meters short of the group.

"Major," he greeted as he stood. "What can I do for you?"

"Sifton, a word," the red-haired man said before giving a nod to the other men. He gestured for Dev to follow him, and the captain complied after saying goodbye to the men.

"Evans and I were going to head into the village for some refreshment and some entertainment. Would you care to join us?"

Dev understood the euphemisms for drinking and whoring easily, but was unsure of accepting on a night before a battle. "Do you think that wise?"

Hewitt shrugged, the red fabric of his uniform stretching over his long torso. "I figure they'll be hell to pay tomorrow regardless of what we do tonight, so we might as well enjoy it."

Dev had to smile at the logic. "True," he agreed. "And I assume this invitation comes from you and not Evans?"

"Of course," the taller man answered.

"In that case then, I accept."

(***)

The Viajante Feliz was a lively establishment that not only claimed to boast some of the most beautiful women in the region but also some of the best wine. Although Dev had frequented much more sophisticated establishments back on St. James' in London, he had to admit that the place did have its own cozy charm. Warm pools of yellow lamplight danced rhythmically along the knotted walls and worn floor planks, creating lively shadows from the two dozen men and whores lounging at the scarred wooden tables. The place had a rustic feel to it, or so the young captain thought, and served its purpose as a gathering place for men - locals and travelers alike - to relax.

"My, look at your beautiful black hair," the brunette draped on his side drawled in an accented voice. Rosa, as she'd been introduced, ran her fingers slowly through the cropped strands, gently massaging his scalp as she did so. "Darker than a Spaniards," she said, wriggling closer and smiling with her full red lips. "I would have mistaken you for one had it not been for these wonderful silver eyes."

Dev returned her smile, not opposed to her attentions in the slightest. He felt his groin tighten at the prospect of an eventful night in bed. Lord, but it had been ages since he'd taken a woman.

"My dear lady, you flatter me," he played along as he bent down in her direction to take a whiff of her musky scent.

Rosa giggled. "Lady? You call me a lady! How gallant, my lord!"

She inched closer to him as well, her mouth just barely grazing his own. He could feel the warmth of her breath gliding over his skin, and he began to feel more heat flow to his crotch.

But ever the tease, Rosa drew away, and replaced her lips with a cup of wine from the table. "Here, have a taste," she taunted with a throaty laugh. The tip of her tongue peeked out onto her roughed lips in concentration as she carefully tipped the cup against his mouth. Hungry eyes never leaving her, Dev took only a sip of his beverage. Not only was he becoming more eager to satisfy a different type of thirst, he didn't want to ruin his chances of thinking clearly the next day, regardless of what Hewitt had said.

At that thought, a roar of laughter erupted from the table beside him. Dev pushed his wine aside and glanced over in Major Evans' direction. The man had a drunken smile on his face as he clumsily tried to wipe the dripping wine from his chin with his sleeve. He looked with mock accusation at the whore who sat beside him and attempted to grab her with his free arm. His coordination impaired, he easily fell off his chair and elicited another bout of laughter from his audience.

Hewitt chuckled so hard that he unconsciously started to slap the wooden surface of his table, and Hollingsworth - who had decided to join his officers in a night of revelry - was bouncing in his chair from the humor of the situation. Dev shook his head, although more from disapproval than amusement.

"You do not approve, my lord?" Rosa asked, large brown eyes fixed on him.

The sober captain looked more closely at the woman, slightly surprised that she would voice such a question. "Not at all," he said diplomatically. "Just a believer of moderation."

A perfectly shaped eyebrow rose. "Mo-der-ation? I do not understand such a word."

Dev chuckled, unsure if she was being honest or simple playing coy. Frankly, he didn't care. Instead, he leaned down once again and nipped at the smooth bronze skin of her neck.

Rosa giggled. "You're tickling me, sir," she noted, but the tone made the statement far from being a complaint.

And he did not take it as such, but rather as encouragement. He languidly began working along her collarbone, and eventually to her exposed cleavage, reveling the enticing scent of a female. But he had only gotten to the top of her breasts before he was stopped.

"Oh, Nuno is here."

Surprised that Rosa would halt his actions with such an inane remark, Dev straightened. He didn't know whether to be insulted or not. Surely, he hadn't been that bad!

"Nuno?" he asked in a dulled voice.

She smiled at him apologetically and gestured toward Evans' table. The unsatisfied captain glanced over, curious to see what was so special about Nuno that he had to prematurely end his seduction.

A young man - more young than man - now sat with Hollingsworth and Evans, a bright admiring look in his gaze and a huge innocent smile on his face. He appeared no more than sixteen years of age, and boasted a mop of tousled brown hair and the smooth hairless skin of a dew-faced youth. What struck Dev the most however, were the newcomer's eyes: wide eyes that shone a vivid piercing blue, even in the dim lamp-lit room.

From all appearances, the colonel and the two majors seemed to know the boy. They chatted with him casually as he nodded and chatted back. The admiration never left his face, his adulation of the uniformed officers evident for all witnesses to see.

"And why is he so important that I had to stop?"

Rosa rubbed his thigh, placating. "I am sorry, my lord. I did not think before speaking." She moved and fluidly eased onto his lap. With a pretty pout, she asked, "Forgive me?"

Dev planted a quick kiss on her lips. "Forgiven," he said lowly. "Now, what's so special about Nuno that I had to stop?"

"Oh," the woman focused on the boy for a moment. "All the girls here, we have all come to think of Nuno as a little brother. He came to town with a group of other villagers whose village had been destroyed by the French army four months ago. His parents had just been killed and he lives now with an old childless couple."

She turned back to Dev and ran her fingers over the crimson fabric of his uniform. "He hates the French for killing his parents and destroying his village. But he adores the English soldiers for all they are doing. That is why he comes in here whenever the English come in. I think if he could, he would join you."

Rosa seemed a little more sullen as she told the boy's story, and Dev was beginning to regret that he had asked.

"Well, he appears fairly happy now," the captain pointed out.

She agreed. "Yes, but I fear soon, his hatred of the French will lead him to join with some guerrillas. He's too young."

"He seems like a capable young man," Dev noted.

"Yes, but …"

Her rebuttal ended with the approach of light footsteps. "Noite boa, Rosa!" came a musical voice. "And good evening ... ?"

Dev turned to the youth. "Captain Deveril Sifton," he supplied.

"Good evening, Captain Sifton," Nuno repeated. "I heard there were English here tonight and I just wanted to say hello before I go home. Oh, and to wish all the soldiers luck in all their fights against the bastard French."

For all intents and purposes, the youth looked at every man in a British uniform with hero worship, and Dev was at a loss on how to respond. "Thank you."

Nuno gave him one more smile before bidding goodbye to Rosa and practically bouncing out of the tavern.

"He's a sweet boy," Rosa said the moment the young man walked out of the building. "It is sad that the war had touched him so."

Dev continued to stare at the door where the youth had exited. He reached for his wine and brought it to his mouth for another sip. He savored the warmth of the liquid as it filled him, and a heady sense of fullness seeped through his being. Perhaps it was a residual from the surge of lust he had felt earlier, or the wine. Or perhaps it was Nuno's encouragement, but he felt as if he had a purpose now ... as if what he was doing was not all for naught ...

"Indeed," he responded as he placed his cup back on the table. "Indeed."

(***)

For an ill-conceived plan, the day had started off relatively well. Everything had gone off according to plan that morning: Sergeant Riley had organized the troops at dawn, they had snuck the men over the bridge several at a time, and they had lain in waiting as all the troops amassed. But something had gone wrong, more wrong than the very concoction of the plan.

A loud explosion sounded a stone's throw from Dev's right and reflexively, he averted his face, arms coming up to block the pieces of rock, dirt, and shrapnel that flew his way.

"Stand you ground, men!" he ordered in a booming voice, satisfied that his soldiers had stayed relatively intact. He still heard shouting and a heavy report of gunfire. His fingers moved to the handle of his own pistol, and he shook the debris off himself as he assessed the situation around him.

He had expected casualties in the first assault - such was the case of war - but with the second push, their surprise factor would've given them hope of victory. But something had skewed the plans, and the whole operation had veered in a direction he didn't want to travel.

The French had been waiting for them. Somehow, by some wicked twist of fate, the Frogs who supposedly had no clue that they were camped across the river had found out about their plans, and had been the ones lying in wait instead.

"Captain, Major Hewitt's men are losing ground!"

Riley's shout cut through the din of the impromptu battlefield, and Dev glanced over at the left flank. The whole of Hewitt's command was in chaos; his men - those who were still alive - were firing at will, but in a scattered formation that left all of them easy targets for the enemy.

Where the hell was Hewitt?

"Captain!"

This time, Riley's warning alerted him to his own problems, and he quickly reacted when he noticed a dark blue coat dashing toward him, bayonet raised. Reacting on instinct, he raised his pistol and fired, just as a deadly bullet whizzed by his head. The Frenchman's aim had been so close that Dev could have sworn he heard the bullet's path blaring in his ear. But where the enemy's aim had been close, the captain's had been true, and the bluecoat fell to the ground with a muffled thud, arms and legs flailing out in front of him as he did so.

Dev didn't have time to celebrate his narrow escape from death. In fact, he didn't even have time to think. Saber drawn, he shouted to Riley, "Sergeant, take four men over to the left flank and get them back in line! We're pulling back on my command!"

Riley fired one more round from his bayonet before shouting his agreement, and scurried to carry out Dev's orders. The young captain knew he had to keep the men organized, especially if they were to make a proper retreat. Hopefully, Hewitt and Evans were thinking likewise. Pulling back was the only option now. They couldn't possibly hold this position any longer without losing all the men.

Another cannon was fired with a whiff of grapeshot and the ground beneath the right flank exploded. Agonized cries of dying and wounded mixed in with the symphony of gunfire, and Dev wished that he could just block it all out. Sweat had coated his skin in a film of sticky grit and he had to tighten his hold on his saber as he glanced over at Evans' recently hit troops. The major's men were no better off than Hewitt's, the scattering infantrymen confused and unfocused in their defense.

Dev knew he would have to do something quickly before the doomed attack turned into a massacre. His own men would have to hold their position to make good on their escape. He knew Riley would watch for his signal to pull out Hewitt's men. That would mean he would have to gather Evans' troops and lead them back, taking his own stationed soldiers on the way.

Quickly, the captain sent three of his privates back to hold the bridge, and ensured his remaining men were certain that not a single French soul would be allowed to pass their position. His orders were shouted so loudly that he felt his throat tickle at the abuse, but he understood that what he said was crucial to everyone's survival.

Without further ado, he sprinted toward the right flank, hacking and slicing any bluecoat that charged at him. Gone were the hard learned sword lessons of form and etiquette he'd been taught as a boy. This was survival, and he was not concerned about anything save for his blade finding its target.

His muscles were straining and his breaths were heaving in no time, and as he looked with teary eyes across the smoky field, he noticed he was only halfway to Evans' near decimated men.

Suddenly, he felt a tug on his sleeve, and without thinking, he swung his saber in a wide arc, ready to fend off his next opponent. However, the familiar dirt stained visage of Major Evans stayed his hand, and he lowered the blade.

"Goddamnit, Major! The battle is lost. Pull back your man and get off the field!" Dev screamed.

But the major didn't seem to hear. Instead, he gripped the furious captain's free arm and started pulling him in the direction of the bridge.

Dev pulled back, but Evans' grip was surprisingly strong, so strong that the captain found himself stumbling along.

"We need to get out of here," the major shouted as he continued to march. "We need to get to the bridge."

Dev's gray eyes widened in disbelief at what he had heard. He stared, dumbstruck, at the back of the other man's head for a moment, mouth agape. Surely, he was jesting!

"But Major Hewitt! And the men! We need to ..."

"Forget them! Hewitt is dead!" Evans turned around for a moment, his nostrils flaring and his eyes filled with a maniacal fire. "We need to get back to the bridge before the colonel destroys it."

"Pardon?"

Dev thought he had heard wrong. At least he was hoping he had heard wrong. Yet, Evans kept walking forward toward the bridge, his grip never weakening.

"Major!" Dev protested as he tried to shake his arm free.

Evans turned to look at him again, although his stride remained undisturbed. "We are retreating, Captain," he said. "And as an order from a superior officer, I am telling you to follow."

"But the men, sir! We have to ..."

"Any arguments from you will be considered sedition and I will have you court-martialed!" Evans added before focusing his attention back ahead of him. To the man himself, he sounded like he had decided the most logical course of action, and Dev wondered how an officer with such convoluted thinking could have been allowed into battle.

But something in the young captain made him follow, his feet unconsciously moving in front of each other as his saber dragged along on the ground. A voice in his head shouted at him to go back, to gather his men and pull them out as well, but his body seemed to have a will of its own.

He entered a daze, his conscious self removing its presence from his mind, and letting the outside world do with his physical half whatever it desired. He heard the cannon fire, he heard the gunfire, he heard the screaming, and yet he couldn't make himself act.

Before he knew it, he was back on the bridge, his once shiny black boots sounding heavy and hollow as he traversed it. He saw Colonel Hollingsworth there, ordering the privates he had sent back to light the fuses on several gunpowder barrels. And soon, the colonel was joined by Evans, ... and then, himself.

'You're one of a few of them officers I'd trust to watch my back in a battle, sir ...'

The world exploded in a portrait of fire and smoke as the bridge fell into the river in a large flaming ball. Sound, sight, and smell became one as Dev found himself engulfed in his own private inferno. He could not see anything save the bright orange glare. He could not hear anything save the resonating boom of the explosion. And he could not smell anything save the acrid scent of burning lumber ... and of dying hope.

End Chapter 1