A Mild Case of Indigestion

by Geoffrey Watson

  Mentally, he could picture the scene as similar, but on a larger scale to the one the Hornets were now concluding. When he heard the sound of galloping hooves he knew exactly what they were going to see. Only the numbers involved were unknown. He bellowed in his loudest voice. “Ware the Frogs! Shoot the leading horses first, before the dragoons!”

  The track was too narrow for more than three horses together, travelling at the gallop, but the poor beasts were in any case, strung out in a ragged line when they burst into view. The first horse was shot seconds after it appeared and just went straight on over the edge of the road into the rocky streambed.

  The next two came down in a tangle, quite blocking the track and bringing down the two behind, while the third swerved over the edge and followed the first one into the bed of the stream.

  The following mass of riders had been trained to deal with obstacles on the battlefield and put their mounts to jump the tangle as if they were in a steeplechase. Most of them got through, but the Hornets then turned their attention to the riders, knocking them out of their saddles over the next thirty yards of track from a range of less than twenty yards.

  With so many riders it was inevitable that some would survive the lethal thirty-yard stretch of road. These four or five fortunate ones had time for one deep breath of relief, before they were shot from their saddles by the concentrated fire of the six Spanish girls, fifty yards farther on.

  Half-a-dozen; certainly no more; had seen the futility of their escape attempt and had thrown themselves from their horses and over into the stream gorge, where they waited with their hands raised in surrender, in trepidation, having heard of the brutality and vindictiveness of the Spanish partisans.

  These partisans though, were quite prepared to be magnanimous. They had already fought and beaten the French supermen and were quite content to treat their prisoners as worthy opponents who had been unlucky this time, but who would have prevailed if the gods of war had decided in their favour.

  They had lost six dead and wounded themselves in the exchange of fire, but the French had only eight survivors and fifteen wounded. The only officer left was a young captain and MacKay questioned him very carefully about the massacre of the villagers and the burning of their village yesterday. He spoke through Juanita, whose french was surprisingly fluent.

  Under the circumstances, Captain Vilaret would certainly have denied having any part in such an operation, but he was surprisingly vehement against the unit that was responsible. He claimed that the man in command; a certain Colonel Roussillon of the Imperial Guard; was so embittered by his continued failures and humiliation by the British Frelons Bruns and the Spanish partisans, that even Marshal Soult was beginning to question his excesses.

  What was worse; now that the army was moving out of Galicia; was that he had been given command of a sister regiment of dragoons and charged with ensuring that the partisans caused no trouble to the army in its progress eastwards. This was the reason for the massacre. He seemed to think that terror and death, visited on the civil population would cause the partisans to hold back, whereas; and he looked around him and grimaced; the opposite seemed to be the case.

  Everyone helped to carry the wounded dragoons back close to the line of march. The unwounded were stripped down to breeches and shirt and released to get help for them. MacKay charged Vilaret to deliver a solemn warning that Roussillon was sentenced to immediate execution, should he ever be captured and that the same sentence would apply to anyone who carried out his orders to rape, kill or destroy innocent Spanish citizens.

  ***

  The information from Vilaret about Roussillon’s state of mind put MacKay into deep reflection. “Did the man say that it was the 9th Dragoons that Roussillon now has command over?” Juanita looked at him curiously. “I’m sure that is the number he said, Teniente MacKay. Is it very important?” MacKay nodded. “I think it might be if we can find a way to identify them. We have to do something to stop this terror campaign by Roussillon. Let’s go and have a word with El Martillo.”

  The Hammer was in a jovial mood. “We did excellent work today, did we not, Señor Teniente Inglese? I also heard that your putas killed some more French pigs. They are getting to be nearly as good as my fighters. I really must think about letting them join my guerrilleros.”

  Juanita was incensed. “We are better at killing Frenchmen than those bandits you call fighters and as long as you call us putas, there is no chance that any of us would join you.”

  He looked at her appreciatively then pounced forward and folded her in an embrace. “All women are putas, my little firebrand. They learn it from their mothers, but you could be my own special whore if you would only say the word.”

  “Be your whore! You lecherous old goat! What would your wife and six children in Orense have to say about that? And what about your fat mistress back in your camp? I don’t know why they put up with you. Men may call you the Hammer, but this is foolish when you only have a four inch nail to drive with it. Even more foolish if you force me to make the silly little thing even shorter.”

  Ryan had trained her well. Even as he had grabbed her in a huge embrace, a wicked eight-inch blade had appeared from a sheath strapped inside her sleeve. El Martillo leapt back with a fearsome oath as the point was jabbed painfully to prick his lower belly.

  “I have changed my mind Teniente MacKay. I wouldn’t have these vipers even if they were the best putas in Spain. You would do well to send them to join the enemy. They would emasculate the whole French army by the morning.”

  MacKay knew the Spaniard well enough by now to realise that, though he might have entertained lustful designs, his way of disguising them was by being ponderously playful. What he had missed was the full meaning behind the rapid colloquial spanish that Juanita had used to insult El Martillo’s manhood.

  This was probably just as well, as both participants now appeared to be on the best of terms, having thoroughly enjoyed their little drama and firmly established the boundaries of their relationship.

  He brought the discussion back to the strategy of terror being implemented by Roussillon and the 9th Dragoons that he was commanding. “When we released Vilaret, we warned him that we would try and kill Roussillon and any of his men guilty of mass murder of villagers. Personally, I don’t think that the French will take any notice of such a warning, but they would if your lookouts could identify the 9th Dragoons and we made an attack on them during the night.”

  El Martillo looked thoughtful. “That is an excellent idea Señor Teniente, but would you permit your ally to join you in such an enterprise?”

  MacKay grinned. “I would insist, Señor, that your ten most experienced men come with us so that they can lead other groups in the future. However, there is one additional refinement I would like you to consider. If and when we attack them, it would be salutary to leave behind posters or notices printed in french and published by the leader of the Guerrilleros of Galicia. They should proclaim a sentence of death on Colonel Roussillon and any of the officers and men of the 9th Dragoons who have aided him in the rape and mass murder of Spanish villagers.

  Not only will this attract the close attention of the French, but also it will establish you as the armed Spanish authority in this region and as the protector of the civil population. Do you know of a printer in a nearby town who could print fifty such notices very quickly?”

  It was, no doubt, the thought of the power and influence he would gain with the local Junta, once the French army moved out, as they appeared to be doing. Whatever the reason and however unworthy the motive, El Martillo became a source of energy that had his whole band rushing about. Soon they were all engaged in seeking information from the observers, searching out the name of any printer who could produce the posters and he even became deferential to Juanita, who would have to translate their proclamation into french.

  She was quietly exultant when she rejoined MacKay after her efforts had been sent off at speed to a printer who would pro
duce the finished posters out of patriotism or fear of El Martillo, whichever was the stronger.

  “It is a very good plan Teniente MacKay, but it will make El Martillo too big for his head, and that is already so swollen that he has difficulty balancing. He won’t be bothering me again though, now that he believes that I will cut off his manhood.”

  “Ah! That was what you were saying. You were speaking so quickly and using words I hadn’t heard before, so that I wasn’t able to understand completely.”

  She giggled. “Yes. He called the girls and me whores and wanted to make me his mistress. I threatened to cut off his man thing and he will now leave us alone because I meant it. None of us would let him touch us, particularly after what happened before you rescued us.” She suddenly became very serious. “But that was El Martillo. Most of the girls don’t like the idea of any man after their experience. We all feel soiled.”

  He was silent, not knowing what to say. She looked straight at him. “I too, am no longer pure and clean, but if you could bear to disregard that, I long to be your woman and serve you, Don Hamish.”

  She walked quickly away before his astonishment allowed him to find any sort of reply. Surprisingly, it wasn’t what she had said that lingered in his dour Scottish memory, it was the soft guttural Spanish ‘J’ that she used to pronounce the first letter of his given name.

  CHAPTER 16

  By the end of the next day, the watchers in the hills and the high places overlooking the army of Marshal Soult, had finally located the troopers of the 9th Dragoons. This was a tribute to their daring and persistence as they had to take risks to get close enough to identify the numerals on their sabretaches and shabraques.

  It was also difficult due to the sheer numbers of units all jumbled up together. Soult’s army was moving east, presumably in response to direct orders from Napoleon’s brother, but it was moving at the speed of a tortoise, as if unwilling to leave the shelter of the mountains of Galicia for the plateau and plains of León.

  On this particular route, the valley had opened out into broad level stretches on both sides of the river and it was crowded with units of all descriptions. Looking down from the closest point on the high ground to the north, MacKay could see the dragoons camped close to the river but on the far side. In order to get to them it would be necessary to cross the river having negotiated ground occupied by a regiment of the line, a battery of artillery and dozens of wagons that could belong to anyone.

  The far bank was much less crowded. Possibly because the foot soldiers were less keen on getting wet feet, the cavalry were in the majority there. There were units of chasseurs, lancers and more dragoons having staked their claims to enough ground to let their hobbled mounts graze on whatever dry vegetation could still be found this late in the hot season.

  MacKay hadn’t anticipated quite such a concentration of soldiers, when he had welcomed the idea of having ten of the guerrilleros join the Hornets for the venture. He was entirely confident that his own men could pass through the enemy unseen and unheard, but doubted whether the Spaniards were yet ready.

  He used his telescope to study the ground more closely. The road to the east ran almost straight alongside the nearest bank of the river. The river itself was now running through a much wider valley, which allowed it to meander slightly and create a series of promontories, each one swarming with troops. It was natural to take advantage of the proximity of fresh water to flat areas on which to bivouac, together with a plentiful scattering of trees along the river for firewood. Alders and willows did not make good burning wood when newly cut, but for lack of any others they were being hacked to pieces with great rapidity.

  On the other side of the river, opposite one of the promontories, was the camp chosen by the dragoons they were targeting. Quite possibly it had been selected for the comfort of the substantial farmhouse that nestled close to a stand of beech trees, a hundred yards back from the river. MacKay couldn’t imagine Colonel Roussillon being too concerned about the comfort of the farmer and his family if there were beds available under a roof for himself and his officers.

  He studied the soldiers occupying the small promontory opposite the farmhouse and grunted with satisfaction. It was the battery of Napoleon’s daughters, as the eight and twelve pounders of the Imperial Artillery were known to the French. There were six of the sinister looking barrels in view, together with carriages and caissons of powder and shot. At full strength there would be up to fifty gunners and drivers in such a unit. In Soult’s ‘outpost’ army it was likely that wastage had brought that down nearer to forty.

  It was time to speak to his allies. “Buenos tardes, Señor. Have you chosen your ten men?” “Si, Señor Teniente. I have chosen my best nine men and I myself will be the tenth. I also have fifty handbills, which we can put up wherever you choose.”

  “That is excellent, Señor. I have to confess that up to a few minutes ago I had grave fears that I could not use your men at all. There are far more French soldiers than I dreamed there would be, but I think I have found a way to use an additional twenty and another ten to sneak along the road and pin up the handbills. This is what I propose….”

  Before it was fully dark, MacKay held an inspection of the forty guerrilleros, ruthlessly eliminating any bright metal or light coloured clothing from their dress. He ejected one man from the band for stupidity- he was still wearing jingling spurs on his heels. The next step was to emphasise the need for invisibility. The Hornets moved among them with liberal quantities of burnt cork and soon there was not a glimpse of light skin to be seen.

  The guerrilleros accepted all this with murmurs of wonder. The legend of the Avispónes reached new heights from that one simple action. The last check was on their muskets. All traces of priming powder were removed from the priming pans. This was not going to be a fight with muskets. If they had to use firearms before they had succeeded in their aims, the whole venture was a failure from that point.

  The moon was not due to rise before three o’clock in the morning and although the night was clear, the stars provided the only light other than the campfires of the enemy. MacKay and El Martillo led the way down from the hills, with each of the selected nine partisans paired up with a Hornet. Ryan and Thuner led the two groups of ten partisans in the steps of the main party and the men detailed to put up the posters were left to sneak along the road, but not until after midnight.

  Although many of the enemy units were camped between the road and the hills, it was not such a popular bivouac site, being much farther from any source of fresh water. MacKay had marked two possible routes down between different camps and the men split up into smaller groups, carrying brush and branches innocently for firewood or canvas buckets as if making the journey to the river for water.

  They were almost entirely unseen and the only two sentinels they spotted must have assumed that; safe in the middle of an army; the shadowy figures were foragers and scavengers from the next regiment along.

  Still in threes and fours, the leading group moved east when they reached the road, drifting along casually parallel to the highway, towards the area where the gunners were camped. Just at the point where the river swung away around the gunners promontory, there was a path, almost like a slipway, down to the river, which most of the adjacent forces had used when filling their water carriers.

  MacKay and El Martillo led their men down the slipway and gradually spread themselves along the river. They waded where necessary through the shallows of the summer meanderings, but always slowly and silently, watching and waiting for the change of vedettes that would give them two full hours to deal with the picquets and then, hopefully, the sleeping camp.

  Ryan and Thuner had held back their small squads of guerrilleros on the way down to the road. They filtered down from the hills in ones and twos and gathered together on the highway well after the first body had left. They were all wearing captured shakos and formed up in two straggling files. It was confidently expected that in the dark, they w
ould appear like a typical awkward squad, returning from or embarking on a spell of fatigues. They marched slowly along the road towards the gunner’s camp.

  The guns were lined up in two rows of three with their carriages and caissons in the centre of the two acres, enclosed on three sides by the river. The officer in command had decided that there was no danger in the midst of a sleeping army and had set only four sentries, one at each corner of the artillery park. Only two tents were pitched for the officers. The night was warm and the rest of the men were wrapped in their blankets around the two fires or sleeping under the shelter of the gun carriages and caissons.

  Everyone appeared to have retired for the night, save for the vedettes. The men detailed to deal with them crept closer and waited for the distraction. The awkward squad arrived on time, shuffling past and drawing the attention of all four men, even the two on the far side of the guns.

  These two were dealt with first. Ryan had trained the Hornets well. A figure rose behind each sentry. An arm went round each neck to ensure silence and a knife blade was slid quickly between the ribs.

  As soon as they fell, the other two were dealt with in the same manner and the rest of the Hornets and the guerrilleros closed in silently and lethally on the sleepers. It was an unsavoury business, but the gunners had to be silenced and put out of action before any attempt could be made against the dragoons.

  There was no way for them to take prisoners and so the silent massacre continued to the end and the few dying screams were muffled without raising any interest from the surrounding army.

  The primary target was now exposed, although Colonel Roussillon and his officers were inside a stoutly built farmhouse, no doubt guarded and surrounded by a hundred or more dragoons. Their horses were grazing quietly on the land by the river and the glowing remains of up to a dozen campfires could still be seen clustered round the farm buildings.