A Mild Case of Indigestion

by Geoffrey Watson

  Unfortunately, scandal had forced his resignation and the Hornets were once more entirely under Admiralty control, though Admiral Harrison was still fighting their cause with great vigour and enthusiasm.

  Their second visit to Spain had been conceived as support and encouragement for the new bands of guerrilla fighters, known to be forming in the hills and mountains within easy reach of ports and harbours.

  At that time, nobody had considered that a relatively obscure sepoy general would take control of a pitifully small British army and throw the French out of Portugal, after beating them at Oporto. Even less that he would then beat them again in the heart of Spain, all within a space of barely three months.

  The irony was that Captain Welbeloved R.N. had taken his naval force well away from control by the Admiralty, in support of a brilliant general, who was even now hurrying back towards the coast to claim the supplies and support carried to him by ships of the Royal Navy.

  Logically, the most sensible and probably only legitimate course would be to move back toward the coast, either following the army or striking north to Galicia and Daphne, his supply ship.

  Sir Arthur had been emphatic in his wish for him to remain and nurture the guerrilleros, to provide him with intelligence about the enemy that he could get in no other way. All well and good, but Sir Arthur had himself admitted that he couldn’t know whether he would ever return to Spain. If one considered that there were presently ten times as many soldiers in the French armies in Spain, as in the combined British and Portuguese force that had just left; surely only an idiot would consider returning to face such odds.

  Was it an idiot then, who had smashed Marshal Soult out of Oporto with a raw and outnumbered army and with insignificant casualties? Welbeloved was as certain as he could be that Wellesley would be back, in spite of all the odds.

  His attention was distracted by unusual activity below him. There was a stirring in the Spanish encampment that was almost unnatural, only an hour or two before their daily siesta. He reached into a pocket for his small brass telescope and followed three troops of gaudy hussars across the Portina stream and away to the east, following the track taken by the retreating French.

  The encampment settled down again but remained disturbed, not unlike an ant’s nest slowly returning to normal after being kicked. Welbeloved strode back to camp with a faint feeling of relief that he could postpone thinking about the larger issue. Sergeant-Major Atkins and two Hornets saddled up and rode east to find out what the Spanish considered so disturbing. Sergeant Hickson deserted his bride and took ten men to find out how the guerrilleros in the hills to the north had fared with their harvesting of muskets and equipment.

  Welbeloved and Mercedes rode down from the Medellin and presented themselves at General Cuesta’s headquarters. Until this moment; having had fair notice of Cuesta’s autocratic incompetence and intolerance of everything other than his own views on how military campaigns should be conducted; the Hornets had remained discretely beyond his horizon.

  Mercedes particularly, felt this decision was justified, when forty of the terrified conscripts who had fled on the first day of the battle, were marched out and shot. Cuesta had been determined to decimate them, in line with the old Roman practice of killing one in ten. Wellesley had pleaded for their lives and in honour of the victory, the number to be shot had been reduced from two hundred. However, as a sort of macabre celebration, the unfortunate forty had been made to dress in white penitent’s shifts when they were lined up in front of the firing squads.

  The Adjutant General came hurrying out to greet them. His ancestors had originated in Ireland, as was evident from his name. Because he had acted as interpreter for the two generals, Wellesley had a great deal of respect for his diplomatic skills.

  General Odonoju was honoured to meet the Condesa and had, of course, heard of and admired the exploits of the famous Avispónes, but he regretted that General Cuesta was quite indisposed and was unable to leave his massive coach/caravan.

  Welbeloved smiled warmly. “My dear General, I would be the last person to wish to disturb an old man’s rest, particularly when Sir Arthur told me of the valuable advice he was always able to obtain from yor good self.”

  Odonoju’s eyes crinkled. “Señor el Conde, in spite of my name I am truly Spanish, as is your wife, in spite of the territorial aspects of her title.” He inclined his head gravely to Mercedes. “I do, nevertheless, remember some of the legends of my old homeland and have to ask whether you have made the pilgrimage to Blarney and kissed the stone?”

  Mercedes missed the reference completely, but Welbeloved laughed out loud. “As Sir Arthur’s family has estates in Ireland, perhaps it should be made obligatory for all his associates. But no, General, I have never set foot in the country and know little more of England. I would probably still be in America if my pa had had the good sense to have picked the right side to fight on. But then, we would not be allies in the fight to liberate our adopted homeland.”

  It was a wry smile on Odonoju’s face. “Even if you are American, one of your ancestors must have come from Ireland. Please just tell me what it is you want to know?”

  Welbeloved studied Odonoju’s face and made up his mind to be brutally blunt. “I want to know everything yew know about Joseph’s army. Are they returning to do battle again and if they are, what does General Cuesta intend to do?”

  “You have observed that we have sent out reconnaissance patrols?” Welbeloved nodded. “I though so. We sent them because a report came in, suggesting that a French force is approaching from the east. If that is confirmed, my General–,” He laid heavy stress on the word. “–my General will pack up and go running to try and catch General Wellesley, hoping that he will fight another battle for us.” He sounded bitter. “Of course, he will not do so. I have seen his eyes when he looked at our army and he has no confidence in us.

  And he is right. Half our men are untrained peasants. When they run, Cuesta shoots one in ten and thinks that is the answer. Most of our men are brave, but so were the barbarians facing Rome’s legions and the result is almost always the same.” He shrugged. “You now have more answers than you had questions, Señor Coronel.”

  “I have one more, General. Will yew take the wounded with yew if yew go?”

  “Of course not, Señor. How could we? If we had wagons to spare, they could have gone with their comrades. Or at least, those that could survive such a journey. We did capture a few wagons when the French retreated. I can find you enough to carry fifty men if you are prepared to escort them.”

  Welbeloved’s mind was working at top speed. The French had such overwhelming strength that they were sure to be coming back sooner or later. They would push and probe and discover that the British had gone and then come in force. They wouldn’t find Cuesta, because at the first glimpse of a French uniform, he would be up and running. All the wounded would be prisoners of the French.

  This could happen tomorrow or next week and Odonoju had just offered the means to move some of them. “I accept yor kind offer, General. How soon can yew get the wagons to where the casualties are being tended?”

  Odonoju was not accustomed to reacting so quickly, but he took a deep breath and called an aide, to whom he gave rapid instructions, which quite disconcerted the man. The tone of the orders was urgent however and he rushed away, calling a subordinate for support.

  Welbeloved turned and took Mercedes’s arm, speaking quietly in her ear. “I want yew to ride back to camp, my dear. Tell Dodds to bring all the men and spare horses to the casualty station. Take an escort and ride to find Hickson. The partisans were using wagons to collect French muskets. Yew have to persuade them to loan us as many as they can. We’ll use them to move as many of our wounded as possible to temporary safety and I’m wagering that we haven’t got a deal of time left to do it.”

  Odonoju was left gaping as Mercedes galloped away and Welbeloved thanked him sincerely for his support before riding off to find the collecti
on of buildings where the wounded were lying.

  The temporary hospital was a large farmhouse with several barns and outbuildings on the outskirts of the town. It was almost totally inadequate as a place to house wounded and sick, less than half of whom could lie within the walls, crammed together side by side on straw pallets if they were lucky; bare earth if not.

  Four army surgeons were doing what they could with the casualties, which was not a great deal. Three days after the battle and every casualty had now been treated; limbs amputated, bones set and assorted pieces of projectile dug out of mutilated bodies.

  A few mounds of earth showed where some of them had already been buried, but it would be the next two weeks that thinned out the numbers, as mortification developed in many of the wounds. It was a kind of lottery, with life and death being the prizes. A near mortal wound could heal quickly and the patient make a full recovery and a mere scratch could go from purple to black so fast that even an amputation of the limb could not save the life.

  In the crowded and insanitary conditions, the amputees had a very poor chance of survival, so Welbeloved was impressed that the major in command had moved as many as possible outside into the fresh air and shade provided by a stand of gnarled old olive trees.

  Major Bell was resting. He had personally cut off over ninety limbs in the days since the battle and was wearing his last clean shirt. His servant was leaving with a pile of blood-soaked garments, on the way to the river to wash them. His face showed the strain of the last few days, but he was still very much alert.

  He looked at Welbeloved’s unconventional outfit with interest. “If you’re looking for any wounded dressed like you, you’re going to be disappointed, Colonel. We’ve had all sorts of colours here, including Frogs in blue and Portogees in brown, but nothing as distinguished as that.”

  Welbeloved replied in the same vein. “Search yor memory, Major. We dress this way so that people don’t notice us. Yew could have a dozen men like me in yor care and missed them all among yor fancy reds and blues.”

  “Believe me, Colonel. After the first hour carving people up, it’s the red I don’t notice any more.” He waved towards his departing, bloodstained laundry. “You obviously have business of a different nature, if it keeps you from following the army away from this hell hole.” He held out his hand. “Name is Bell, Colonel. Surgeon-Major Bell and you must be Welbeloved. Even here we have heard a little about your exploits. Delighted to meet you!”

  “As am I, Major. Though it’s hardly a propitious time. I need yor counsel and thereafter, hopefully yor close co-operation. In brief, Cuesta will be leaving yew to the French within the next few days. Maybe even as soon as tomorrow. I would like to move all yor wounded, but it ain’t possible.

  What I can do is take small groups to safety in the hills to the north, but I need yor agreement first. Then I need yor judgement on who is fit to travel from the volunteers who are prepared to go.

  First and most important. Will yew help?”

  Surgeon-Major Bell did not reply for some time, then. “That is not an easy question to answer and any reply has to be qualified in so many ways. Let me say first that I am willing to co-operate in any way that is in the best interest of my charges. Having said that, look carefully at the existing situation.

  The very best I can expect of the fifteen hundred men in my care is that, God willing, a thousand will survive if we are not disturbed in the coming month.

  If our army had been able to find transport and take us with them, only five hundred would live to see Portugal again and I couldn’t attempt a guess at which five hundred it would be.

  The French armies have done more fighting than we have in the last fifteen years and their medical services are more advanced than ours. Their record for treating wounded prisoners is generally good and any that recover, but are no longer fit to fight, are normally repatriated.

  I will therefore help you to move only those who volunteer and who have a chance of recovering sufficiently to rejoin their regiments. Is that enough for you?”

  “Nobody, in all honesty, could expect more, Major. I am indebted to yew for yor plain good sense. I have been promised five wagons from our allies and they look to be arriving now. My men are coming shortly and they might have borrowed some more from the partisans. Shall we talk to the wounded and discover how many volunteers are likely to be suitable?”

  ***

  Although the road from Talavera, north into the mountains towards Segurilla, had been fought over, furrowed by cannon fire and lain under piles of bodies during the battle, it was now clear of obstructions like that.

  It remained the only practical route to take if they wanted any of the wounded to be alive at the end of the journey. There had been no rain for many weeks and the horses that had been put into the shafts had no difficulty hauling the cumbersome wagons over ruts that had been beaten down from their normal winter dimensions.

  There was, however, no cushion between the wheels, the axles and the bare boards in the bed of the wagons. Even expensive coaches had little more concession to comfort. Inevitably, the passengers suffered agonies to their lacerated bodies, no matter how slowly and carefully the drivers directed their teams.

  The hills they were driving into were really part of the Sierra de Gredos, a range of mountains that was bounded in the north, east and south by the river Alberche, which swept round in an enormous arc until it joined the Tajo near Talavera. Two rivers, running from east to west and joining with the Tajo after seventy miles had split off the southern ridges of these mountains. They were travelling toward Segurilla in the hills of the southernmost of the two ridges.

  The guerrilleros, together with the Condesa and Hickson, met the small convoy after five miles. It was only a small band of under thirty men, but they had scavenged well after the battle. They had hundreds of muskets, with powder and shot, but of more immediate value, they also had large numbers of blankets and knapsacks, which were used to make the journey a little less uncomfortable for the fifty wounded crowded into the five wagons.

  Hickson and the partisans with their six wagons left to spend the night on the Medellin. Welbeloved intended to take the wounded as far as the first sizeable village and leave them in the care of the locals. When they all got together in the morning and returned to the casualty station, there would be eleven wagons and enough Hornets to discourage any of the Spanish soldiers who might cast an acquisitive eye on their transport.

  It was perhaps as well that they denied them the temptation. At dawn, when they met as agreed at their old campsite, they found that Cuesta and his army were leaving. Atkins had returned during the night having shadowed the Spanish patrols all day. He described how they had run into reconnoitring French cavalry which could have been the advance guard of an army, but as the Spaniards had spurred back to report as soon as they had seen the first Frenchman, he could only report the contact as inconclusive.

  It was glaringly obvious that Cuesta was not going to wait to find out for certain. The first regiments were already out of sight in a cloud of dust and there was no point in waiting any longer. Atkins took ten men and went back to look for the French. Welbeloved gave the order and the whole party went down to collect more of the wounded.

  Major Bell was surprised to see them and amazed that they were driving so many wagons. “When I saw the Spaniards moving out this morning, Welbeloved, I assumed that the French were almost here and didn’t expect to see you again. As it is, I have about a hundred and fifty men who are anxious to go with you, but about a third of them are really too ill to be moved today.

  As I can’t see that you’ll get more than a hundred packed onto those wagons, perhaps it will work out for the best. I also have a good young surgeon who has volunteered to go with you. Lieutenant Grainger is still learning his trade, but God knows he’s been getting enough practice recently. I’d take it kindly if you’ll try and deliver him back to the army in Lisbon when you don’t need him any more.”

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nbsp; The two men shook hands and the wagons started to fill. Most of the casualties were able to help themselves to some extent and could sit instead of lying helpless. Those with leg wounds were propped up on blankets in the bed of the wagons. The men worked out a way of fitting in as many stretcher cases as possible and then filling up with those who were more mobile. As each wagon was filled, it started for the hills with a couple of Hornets as escorts and one of the partisans driving.

  MacKay and his party rode up just as the last wagon was leaving and were immediately allocated as extra guards, while the girls were marshalled by Juanita, one to a wagon, to do their best to make the journey more bearable for each man. They took over the duties of the Spanish attendants that Bell had hired from the town. With the Condesa and Isabella in the first two wagons, it was a happy coincidence that provided one girl for each wagon.

  Atkins returned and caught up with them in the afternoon as they were moving up into the hills. He was leading a dozen new horses, wearing saddles and shabraques in the trappings of the chasseurs à cheval. It was patently obvious when he reported, that he was copying the nonchalant style that Vere always used. Much to Welbeloved’s amusement he described the events following a meeting with a troop of about thirty chasseurs.

  It was a stand-off situation at a distance of half-a-mile, until the chasseurs decided that they had the moral superiority and the advantage of numbers. They had started off strictly by the drill book through the stages leading to a full-blown charge, intending to send these nonentities about their business.

  Atkins copied Vere’s tactics and the chasseurs found that their despised opponents had almost disappeared into the dry brown scrub and long grass and were steadily shooting them out of their saddles from across the prone bodies of their mounts.

  When the troop had been reduced to ten men, the surviving sergeant decided he didn’t much like this new style of fighting and took the rest of his men away as quickly as they could ride.