The Confrontation at Salamanca

by Geoffrey Watson

  Finally and quite unplanned, Thuner and his men turned their attention to the grazing horses, leading them away quietly back up the track, shepherded by Moreno and 1 Platoon.

  A Company and forty spare horses were half a mile away by the time an enormous explosion announced that eight guns were now simply large lumps of metal with no means of firing and no way of moving, other than by sweating, cursing gunners.

  Dai Evans and D Company were also half a mile away when they heard the explosion. He was making his target a large squadron of chasseurs; or maybe two small squadrons, he wasn’t exactly sure. There were about a hundred and fifty of them and they were camped close to the river, behind trees and protected by scattered and firelit camps of light infantry.

  He was expecting loud noises from his friend, Johnnie Thuner and had stolen some minutes as soon as it became dusk in the hope that he would be in control of the situation before Thuner roused every Frenchman in the division.

  His approach was not the same. There was a wide belt of trees screening the chasseurs and during the day, large parties of infantry were moving through it to fetch water. He led two platoons along the riverbank on foot, with the other two following slowly on horseback. Water-carrying fatigues ought to be over by dusk and his foot patrol could deal with any unfortunate straggler.

  Willows and alders restricted the width of the path in places and the first two platoons had to hack away surplus growth, praying that the noise would be taken for late wood gatherers.

  Fortunately much of the undergrowth stopped when the trees thinned out and the French wood cutters had helped by clearing out most of the smaller timber. Even the mounted men could spread out in cover when the campfires became visible and it became apparent that that every troop had selected its own bivouac space, with room for three or four campfires and a separate area for the troops’ horses. There were six groups of fires and a small space in the centre for a couple of large tents and a single fire of its own.

  Evans muttered under his breath. It seemed to him that the French could have been more co-operative and hobbled all their horses in one meadow, ready for him to drive away. He supposed, reluctantly, that each troop would want its mounts close to where it slept when this close to the enemy; even though they were surrounded by foot soldiers to give them prior warning of any trouble.

  It did create problems, but not for a moment did he consider taking less than he came for, it would just have to take longer than he had planned.

  He took his time and talked to all his commanders and their sergeants. Only half of the chasseurs had as yet sought their blankets and the men detailed to guard the horses were only now sauntering across to take over, quite informally from the men they were relieving.

  This informal posting of vedettes might have been a signal for a concerted movement towards blankets, leaving only a small party together around the fire close to the two tents of their commanding officer or officers.

  The sight nudged Evans’s memory and he determined that nearly everyone had sought their rest before giving the signal for the men detailed to kill the sentries were sent off.

  He turned his attention to the table of officers, using his small telescope to pick up the smallest reflection of their fire. They were sitting and drinking and as far as he could tell, the only bottle of wine in sight was happily well depleted.

  As if to confirm this, a hand emptied it into a cup and threw it to smash against one that had gone before. The noise of its destruction was the signal for the party to break up.

  The officers dispersed, each moving toward his own troop. If they were well trained they would be met by their sergeants, who would have been watching for them. Together they would visit their horses, the sentries and check that all was in order in the troop, before retiring themselves.

  Those Hornets on their way to deal with the sentries would know all about that and the sentries would be safe until the officer was in his blankets.

  Evans concentrated on the two men left by their tents; possibly two commanders or the commander and his second-in-command. They finished off their wine and entered their tents, leaving a couple of troopers to clear away the debris.

  It was not possible to be sure which man was the senior, other than by guessing who seemed more deferential. Both tents were the same size, but the camp table was set up nearer to the tent of the one he had guessed would have the higher rank.

  He fixed that tent in his mind and pointed it out to Sergeant Major Moreno. “Get your sergeant to take over your platoon, Pablo. I want you to come and help me. We have to try and take the commander for questioning. Bring some rope and a gag. He must not make a noise.”

  Moreno vanished and came back with a coil of rope and his kerchief. The French officers satisfied themselves that their horses and men were bedded down. Minutes later, the whole camp was silent, even the orderlies tidying up the colonels’ meals had retired to their blankets after pissing into the fire to put it out.

  The time had come to silence the vedettes and Evans peered through his glass again in the hope of picking up some small view of the action across the dying glow of the campfires.

  He saw nothing. He had trained his men too well and it was too dark. He had to wait a few minutes before several muted screeches of hunting owls told him that the sentries were no more.

  The whole company moved forward, skirting the sleeping men and all gave a hand to make sure that every horse was released from its hobble, ready to be driven off. The two mounted platoons returned for their mounts and quietly surrounded the separate herds, waiting for the signal.

  The dismounted Hornets were busy calming the now thoroughly nervous beasts, patting and whispering to them and selecting a suitable mount that they could ride bareback when the signal for the mass exodus was given.

  Moreno followed Evans, who had done this sort of thing before. They reached the tent with no difficulty, but took their time silently severing all the ties on the entry flap. Evans knew that however carefully they slit the canvas, it would make enough noise to waken a light sleeper.

  Having severed all the ties, only his face was pushed through, until he could make out a recumbent figure. A few more seconds were needed to be certain which end was the head and the commander was beneath a heavy body, a cloth was over his mouth, a very sharp point was drawing blood at his throat and a fierce hiss instructed him in very poor French, to keep very quiet or die.

  The alternative did not seem attractive, but before he could gather his wits, the cloth was pushed roughly into his mouth and a gag tied tightly behind his neck.

  With his hands lashed behind his back, he was hauled to his feet and shoved through the tent flap. Evans was not devoid of feeling and hastily grabbed his discarded breeches before rushing him over to the horses and onto Moreno’s mount where his feet were tied under the belly, with Moreno riding behind him.

  Evans mounted bareback and allowed his mounted platoons to channel each group of horses through the camp, avoiding the dying fires and wherever possible, the suddenly aroused sleepers.

  They were helped by the none-too-wide track through the trees. It grew wider as the cavalcade passed between the infantry encampments. There must have been consternation at the sudden eruption of so many horses, but infantrymen were accustomed to sometime strange antics by their horse soldiers and decided to ignore this latest behaviour.

  Whether they meant to ignore it was a matter for argument as that was the moment when Thuner’s explosives chose to detonate and all the French in Foy’s division had other things to think about than the strange behaviour of their cavalry.

  Most of the chasseurs probably got away with their lives, but would be a dead weight for Foy until they could get remounts. Fresh horses were now having to come all the way from France and coupled with the demand for the Russian campaign, were becoming very scarce indeed. Welbeloved could only admire Evans’s strategic thinking. It had hurt the French more than the loss of a complete regiment of foot soldiers. />
  Additionally, there was a lieutenant colonel of chasseurs who was able to confirm that Foy’s division had no ambitions to confront Santocildes. They were merely reconnoitring in strength and hoping to recruit additional men from the besieged garrisons.

  * * *

  While Evans and Burfoot could let their men relax for the rest of the night, Lieutenant Colonel Addenbrooke had moved the two companies of Ramon Hickson and Diego Blanco a couple of miles back toward Toro. He had found a place where there was a bigger concentration of troops encamped between the river and the road. Here the road itself ran alongside a wooded slope, the lower part of which was cultivated land with the tree line starting a hundred yards up, as the gentle slope began to get steeper.

  At least a couple of regiments of infantry and light infantry were encamped in this particular area. Behind them was a small area on the river bank holding two or three large tents, rather more imposing than the one that Lord Wellington had been using as his headquarters, the last time that Addenbrooke had seen him.

  Knowing that the French senior commanders had a reputation for living as comfortably as they could on campaign, it did seem that these would be occupied by colonels or brigadier generals at the very least; perhaps even Foy himself, although he was most likely spending the night in even greater comfort in Toro.

  Addenbrooke had been doubtful about the addition of mortars to his companies when it had first been proposed. Now he was as keen as Welbeloved himself to find out all the ways that they could contribute to the effectiveness of his battalion.

  The sumptuous pavilions were some six hundred yards from the road and his four mortars were emplaced behind a small ridge, just below the tree line. It made the range almost half a mile and that was about the maximum if accuracy was to be expected.

  Just one small point gave him some concern. He spoke to Welbeloved about it. “There is the question of this unwritten convention that the French are so keen about, Sir Joshua. They don’t reckon that general officers should be made targets deliberately. It ain’t the gentlemanly thing to do apparently.”

  Welbeloved laughed scornfully. “That is a conceit that they have rediscovered since Napoleon made himself emperor. They paid scant attention to it during the revolutionary wars.

  Pay no heed. If they did not dress like peacocks, nobody should know that they were important enough to single out.”

  “I did not intend to pay heed, Sir Joshua. I mentioned it only because I have heard it discussed on occasion. May I ask, shall you intend to observe our practice at dawn?”

  “I should wish it above all things, my friend. Yew must promise to take particular note and discuss all that occurs with the Condesa. It was, after all, her bright idea to make shells explode when they hit their target. It shall be diplomatic of yew; nay, it may even imperil my domestic bliss if yew do not invite her to oversee this particular debut for her brainchild.

  For myself, I am obliged to observe how Don Luis conducts his first independent aggressive onset. He is desperately keen to impress, though still has inner doubts about how good his men are. I have no reservations whatever. His men shall exceed their own expectations and grow mightily in confidence as a result.”

  * * *

  The sun was above the horizon and the French up and about, very like a kicked-over anthill, when Addenbrooke gave the signal to his mortars, acknowledging the figure of Doña Mercedes standing behind them.

  The sergeant gun captains had been fussing about since dawn and everything possible had been done to get the elevation and sighting accurate. The charges had been measured to the last grain of powder.

  They fired at two-second intervals so that each gunner could observe the fall of his own shell.

  From where Addenbrooke was lying, it seemed possible to draw a straight line between all four of the clouds of powder smoke from the explosions. Three of the shells were short, though by remarkably little. The fourth was just over. All could easily have been as a result of vagaries in the quality of the powder.

  The second shots produced a very similar pattern, possibly more closely grouped as the gunners varied elevation and charge.

  What Addenbrooke noticed particularly was the sudden volume of noise it produced. Not the noise of the guns, but the sound of dozens of drums and bugles, as a thousand men realised that they were under fire and their officers tried to do something about it.

  The mortars themselves could not be seen from the French camp, but their discharges of powder smoke were quickly spotted and hundreds of voltigeurs headed toward them; so many making for the same spot that their officers had to scream at them to get some semblance of order.

  Line infantry were more disciplined, obeying orders to fall in and form into solid blocks of men, who could move together towards the guns.

  The fourth salvo from the mortars achieved the result that they were trying for. Three of the shells fell among the pavilions. If the inhabitants had got away first, so be it. There was no point continuing and each mortar picked its own block of infantry and continued firing, urged on by the condesa, who picked out targets and urged the men to greater efforts.

  By this time, masses of voltigeurs had reached the road. A horde of green uniforms, fifty yards across, shoulder to shoulder and jostling for their places among the crowd.

  Addenbrooke had spread two companies of Hornets over a front of a hundred and fifty yards, each making the best of whatever cover they could find on the forward slope. Most were armed only with Roberto’s breech-loading, smooth-bore carbines, but the road was only just over a hundred yards and there was no cover for the French attackers.

  In the central fifty yards of the Hornet line, a hundred carbines began to fire their usual split volleys. It was utter carnage. Every shot had a target and fifty shots every seven or eight second were smashing into the mass of men who had nowhere to go except backwards.

  The voltigeurs were not cowards, neither were they stupid. Those at the back who had been funnelling inwards toward the guns, moved quickly to the sides. The whole mass split down the middle, with two separate mobs still running and leaping forward as if to circle around the powder cloud in the centre.

  It was an open invitation that the rest of the Hornets had been waiting for, quite patiently. They too had a massive target moving toward them and once again, the French had to cross the road.

  There were just as many carbines against them as against the central wave. Just because they had moved fifty yards to the flank did not mean that they were out of range of the centre. All it meant was that they were being hit from both the front and the sides at the same time.

  Over half of them were badly wounded within ten minutes and the rest were either lying very, very still or running back toward the river as fast as they could go. Few officers were there to stop them. Officers and sergeants were always the first targets to be sought out by the Hornets.

  The commanders of the infantry of the line were left in a quandary. They could see the fleeing voltigeurs and they could see the pile of bodies heaped along the two hundred yards of the road. The second view showed ample excuse for the first and if the enemy could so easily slaughter so many individual assailants, what were they likely to do to a headlong attack in column that the voltigeurs had so signally failed to prepare the way for?

  Neither could they stay where they were. Large columns of men were attracting those damned, exploding shells, like flies to rotting meat.

  As if all that were not enough, they had not yet caught a glimpse of the enemy. They did not know what they were fighting—correction—they did not know what was killing them; there had been no fighting on their part so far.

  They were, however, experienced fighting men. Very well! This was something that they had not encountered before, but they knew that they had seen smoke from only four of those damned guns and that the protective screen could not go on for ever.

  Firstly, the large columns dissolved into smaller units, blocks of fifty men, who were directed
to move well out to the side and force a way up into the tree line, where they could encircle the enemy and attack through the trees. The survivors of the voltigeurs were banded together and sent on ahead to try and recover their honour.

  As soon as the mortars no longer had a target large enough to guarantee hits, Addenbrooke knew it was time to leave. He and the condesa had been watching most keenly the way that the French had reacted to the new mortars and to the massacre of the voltigeurs.

  Now that the enemy was aiming to outflank him and try an attack through the trees, the Hornets would lose most of their advantage. A face to face brawl could most likely be won handsomely, but not without casualties. Every Hornet had too much invested in him to throw his life away unnecessarily. It was time for his men to fade away and find their sister companies.

  He may never know if his mortars had bagged a very senior scalp. It did not matter. The Condesa had created a potent weapon with her contact-exploding shells. The knowledge of today’s triumph would be shared with the other battalions. Opportunities for serious mayhem were legion. All it needed was an active imagination and there were plenty of those in the ranks of the Hornets.

  * * *

  Two miles away, on the other side of Toro, Welbeloved was listening to the sound of the guns and also to the carbines of the Avispónes. The faint breeze coming from the west carried all the sounds of conflict, whereas Addenbrooke may not have heard the muskets and the occasional breech-loader with which Quintana’s men had opened their account against Foy’s rearguard.

  This attack showed the growing maturity of Don Luis as a commander. Welbeloved had quite expected him to choose to raid some of the first-rate fighting men in the rearguard and try to score some points while doing so.

  Two months ago, it is possible that he would have opted to do so. Now he showed his understanding of the realities of the war in Spain. His attack was directed at Foy’s supplies. Horses, mules and oxen used in the French wagon train, were all grazing contentedly in a large area of meadows along the river to the east of the town.