PROLOGUE PART III
Saravan took a keen interest in the progress of 'his' visitor. It was several months before the stranger regained his health, and it was true that he could not speak a word of any known language, but the king remained fondly disposed towards him, still feeling sure that he had come to see him. During his recovery he sent teachers and scholars to the man, wishing them to teach him the Lao language so he might communicate his travels. Having regained his health, the king commanded that they should take him out into the city daily, and bring him to the king as soon as they thought their charge was capable of meaningful conversation.
The months rolled on. As he acquired a grip of the language, the stranger revealed his name to be Paddy, and said much of his origins and stories, some of which might even have been true, although most sounded rather doubtful. Many in the Lao court thought that having a name like 'Paddy' was very odd, and despite Paddy's insistence that it was a common and unremarkble name where he came from, only the presence of the king himself could stop the Head of the royal houshold, Pingpong Poo, from sniggering when it was spoken.
Paddy quickly became a frequent companion of the king, a man who, for all his riches and the deference of his 400,000-odd subjects, was heartily sick of his little patch of the world and held great fascination in all things foreign, strange or alcoholic.
He was told of how he was first mate on a clipper loaded with pale ale, supplies for the British East India Company, bound for Burma. They met with heavy storms off the Siamese gulf, and the vessel was pushed off course. Most of the crew was also drunk, which didn't help matters much. "This was because we had run out of fresh water - we only had processed stuff left" explained Paddy, although the distinction seemed lost on his audience. After several days of being very sloshed, a large wave sloshed him overboard one evening whilst he was leaning over the side of the ship in order to be sick, and the next thing he remembered was being gently awaked by a bevy of beautiful women on the white sands of an idyllic tropical beach. Then he remembered actually waking up in a smelly mangrove, somehow dislodging himself from a jagged rockpool, and removing a large but thankfully harmless jellyfish from the inside of his tunic, before trudging off into the forest in search of beer... erm... food and water.
The King was fascinated by the man and his tales of his country, and decided, after two years in the royal court, to appoint him as his chief advisor. Although honored by this, Paddy could not help but protest both that he would not make a good advisor and that, though extremely grateful for Laotian hospitality, he still wished to return home at some point.
"Back to the British?" Saravan asked. There was a glint in the king's eyes. Paddy hated the British and most of his stories communicated this amply. "Come with me. I want to show you my army! Come!"
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They stood on the steps of a brightly-coloured pavillion and below them, filling a large, dirt-floored courtyard, were parading troops. Shabby-looking and under-supplied troops, but troops none the less. Randomly scattered amongst them, dozens of ragged red and white elephant banners fluttered delicately in the breeze.
"The Army of Luang Prabang!" gestured the king, with obvious pride, as if the exact nature of several thousand armored men armed with muskets required further explanation. The court officials behind them nodded sagely in well-rehearsed agreement. He turned again to his visitor.
"My friend," he said, "you shall go back to Ire-land, but I first wish to help you. It is the least I can do for all the interest and entertainment you have brought to me. I have a great advantage over you and your countrymen. I have an army."
Again he gestured at the soldiers, in case perhaps they should have been mistaken for a lemon meringue pie. He lowered his voice.
"Take my army with you. I lend it to you. Take it back to your country and drive out the British, for I have no use of it here. Luang Prabang has not had a war for decades."
Paddy wasn't surprised to hear this. What madman would waste his country's blood to conquer this dump?
"Let it be said that I, Saravan I, helped bring freedom to the Ire-land people", the king continued, regally gazing up to the horizon as he finished his sentence.
Paddy studied the king's face for signs of irony, but none could be found. The King glanced back at him with a look of utter seriousness.
The wind picked up a little, and one of the ancient battle flags billowing in front of them ripped from its hoist and floated down to land in a muddy puddle.
'Feck', he thought to himself, 'how can I put this politely...'
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General Stan-Lee was a short, stout little man. He was rich and his lineage noble and old, and almost 20 years ago had been married with Saravan's niece. It was natural, therefore, that the king should have made him commander of the army, even though he had never seen and battle in his life, and knew nothing of tactics, strategy or actual fighting. After all, it wasn't as if little Laos would ever involve herself in a war, was it? Stan-Lee had never considered the post to be anything other than a sinecure.
It was new year's eve, 1835, the afternoon before the traditional great annual feast. (Although the day held no significance in the Laotian calendar, the king was keen on traditions, and created this one two years ago in honour of the customs his guest had told him of.)
"Splendid!" he beamed meaninglessly at the nervous-lookinbg Irishman, "but we must have more elephants. With elephants you can achieve anything! You know, once my granmother was having a great problem with the weasels stealing her pawpaws, and..."
Paddy looked deeply unconvinced. "How many more men can you raise?" he interrupted. He had resigned himself to Saravan's proposal after the king flew into an uncommon rage and threatened to feed him to some wild aminal he didn't know the translation for the previous evening.
The general's brow furled. He wasn't used to having to think about military matters at all.
"Twenty thousand, perhaps? But that would be at great debt. Surely we could..."
"Forty thousand. No less can do. Raise me forty thousand more men and we might stand a chance, God with us."
The army chief looked unsure of himself, but at the same time felt glad that he wasn't answerable to the treasury. The king had explicitly ordered him not to contradict or argue with his Irish advisor. He nodded wearily and gestured something to a tall, gruff-looking man in a tatty uniform standing behind him. Then, gathering himself up with noticable effort, he gave a false smile and made his way out, his thoughts having turned to the far more pleasent prospect of the evening's feast. Until next morning, at least.