1821 - The Battle for Palembang

11: Ironworks of the Thames

The Thames Ironworks of London, Autumn 1820

Like one on many other days, that morning Mr. James Simpson had awaken with a sneering headache that was neither at the front nor the back of his head, but somewhere down on the neck. It was a rude awakening, for the woman at his side, of whom he had forgotten how he met, had tapped his side thus causing his slumber to be abruptly halted. Then he realised that his arms felt swollen and his shoulders somewhat strained from overextension, and that there was a small but dreadful gash over his brow, though somehow, it was not bleeding, and whatever bleeding there had been, was taken care of, evident by the red-soaked towels that sat by in a bowl near his bed.

"Well, mister, you're supposed to pay up now?" said her, in an accent alien to England, as it had a Mediterranean touch – Greece, Italy, or Crete, perhaps? He looked at her with blurry eyes and soon he was greeted by an ample sight. Sure, she was a pretty one, though slightly skinnier than what fitness would consider, but with beautiful dark brown locks that went down her back and a nose that looked like a Greek's, he only noticed how beautiful she was and perhaps why he had picked her at the first place.

"Christ, what happened?"

"Well, it's a long story," said she. "I'm Elaine, by the way, if you had forgotten. You were down at the Old Sailor, and you talked to me and picked me up, though somebody wanted me first. There you were in a little brawl... well, you did beat the bastard to the ground and threw him out to the street."

"Oh," said Simpson. Now he remembered what happened. It was a fellow named O'Grady, an Irishman. The man had hit Simpson first, which explained the gash over his eyebrow, but he diverted the next strike with the forearm and slammed home with his other fist. He also remembered crashing him out of the pub and beating him outside, rightly, kicking him until he vomited blood. 'Elaine,' or whatever her real name was, tried to stop him from killing him, and he remembered spitting on the man's unconscious body after he decided to stop.

"Poor fellow, O'Grady, he was one of my regulars. I was going to ask you where you had learnt to fight, but then I saw that silver medallion on the table, and now I know you're a soldier proper."

Simpson chuckled, though he coughed not long after. "Well I did give him a proper beating." He said. He reached to a drawer next to his bed and took out a half-emptied bottle of scotch. He opened it and sipped it down, juggling it from one side of his mouth to the other, then swallowed it.

"So you were at Waterloo, no?" asked she.

"Both Quatre Bras and Waterloo. I served in France and Spain for some time before."

"Oh my... I'm always a thriller for war stories," she said, and she moved right next to him, lying down, one of her legs crossing his. "Tell me all about it, James."

"Well if you insist," he sipped another portion from his bottle of whiskey, and started. "I was an ensign in the Duke of Bedford's Light Infantry. We were tasked with covering ground quickly and had to establish a perimeter to halt Napoleon's advance after he had beaten the Prussians at Ligny..." and so he continued and did so for about fifteen minutes, but before he could even finish, 'Elaine' had started taking his buttons off while kissing his neck. Not much longer did it take for her to dismantle his breeches, and it was needless to say what happened next.

After a simple breakfast of bread and eggs, James paid up and Elaine gave him a kiss on the cheek. "I'll see you again soon, Leftenant Simpson." She said and winked, and walked out of the door. Reeking of alcohol and bodily odours, James Simpson closed his eyes and went back to bed; a happy man, at least at that moment, but with a sneering emptiness at heart.

Those long nights, drunken brawls, and prostitutes for a lack of love, was what summed up James Simpson's days following the Duel. The mornings were hard and his day only started in the afternoon, where he would wash, get out of bed, and head to his desk, where journal entries and letters, many of which pleaded for a more regular occupation, and the rest simple articles of which he was to submit, and some had been accepted, thankfully, through the many London newspapers.