That day and the following night, Marty noticed the convoy maintained a much better shape than before. Marty had the Formidiable drop back beside the Signet to hailing range and called across to Rochester.
“Captain, I would be obliged if you would take over the navigation from here to Gothenburg and lead us in. I will move the Formidiable out to the East.”
Rochester shouted his understanding through a speaking trumpet and knew that Marty wanted to get earlier warning if they were approached from that side.
Marty put up a general signal of “HOLD STATION” then swung out beyond the Eastern column by around a mile.
The next three days passed without further contacts except for the odd merchant ship, which stayed well clear of the convoy, and they pulled into Gothenburg on time. The Baltic fleet were in port, and they saluted the flag, which ran up a signal with their number and ‘Captain report on board.’
Admiral Keats received Marty in his cabin and introduced Don Pedro Caro y Soreda, Marquis de la Romana and Commander of the Spanish forces, and James Robinson, the British agent who organised the rebellion.
“I was sent by Mr. Canning, on the recommendation of Arthur Wellesley, to contact Don Pedro and arrange for his men to be picked up. Wellesley also recommended that you be put in charge of the convoy to take them to Spain.”
“Did he, bedamned!” Marty exclaimed.
“Yes, he holds you in some esteem it seems,” Robinson continued.
Admiral Keats hurumphed and interjected,
“we brought all nine-thousand off of Langeland by warship, but we need you to take them down to Santander. They made a mess of my ships just getting here.”
Marty smiled sympathetically,
“Yes, I can imagine. I was at the evacuation of Toulon and it took weeks to get the ships straight after we dropped off the refugees.”
He then turned to Don Pedro and said in Spanish,
“I am Captain Sir Martin Stockley, Baron of Candor, and am very pleased to meet you. I would like to offer you the comfort of my ship for the journey to Santander.”
The Admiral and Robinson looked surprised and Robinson whispered a quick translation in his ear.
“Thank you, Sir Martin, I would be most grateful,” the Don replied and bowed.
Marty bowed in reply then turned to Robinson.
“Will you be travelling down with us or will you stay here?”
“I will come with you; I was planning to be your interpreter, but I see that isn’t required.”
“An extra Spanish speaker is always welcome. It will be a slow journey down and something is bound to come up.”
“We will embark the Spanish troops as soon as possible. Are all the ships provisioned?” Keats asked.
“Yes sir, they provisioned in England as they couldn’t be sure there would be sufficient available here in Sweden,” Marty confirmed then asked, “Can I ask if there are any cavalry?”
“There are but they’ve left their horses behind, thankfully,” Keats replied.
Marty was more sympathetic; he knew the relationship that developed between a cavalryman and his horses and knew it must have been hard for them to leave them behind.
“Don Pedro, we will start embarking your men immediately, if you would accompany me to my ship, we can coordinate the operation from there.”
They took their leave of a relieved Admiral Keats and returned to the Formidiable.
“She is Spanish built?” Don Pedro asked as the barge approached.
“Yes, she was captured in the Caribbean during the war,” Marty replied, keeping a straight face.
Robinson looked concerned as he knew the story of how the Formidiable was captured - he was in England when it was announced in the Gazette. But Marty just carried on chatting to the Don and the subject soon passed.
Once aboard, the Don asked that messengers be sent to his officer cadre to summon them to a conference on the Formidiable. Midshipman Williams was summoned and put at the Don’s disposal as liaison. He had a fair hand and wrote, as well as spoke, Spanish.
Three hours later, Marty’s dining room had turned into a command centre and was the hub of the organisation for the transfer of the Spanish force. His boats were kept busy ferrying officers back and forth to the warships of the Baltic fleet, where many of the troops were still being accommodated, and in turn, their boats were employed to transfer the troops to the waiting transports.
It was a logistical nightmare in Marty’s eyes and in his opinion, the Spanish could have made it easier, but in the end, all nine thousand were accommodated and they were ready to sail. Keats called Marty aboard the flagship one last time.
“I would like to congratulate you, Captain, on a job well done!” He toasted Marty over a glass of port, “The Spanish were driving me insane; I have to admit. They are damn difficult and touchy to deal with.”
Marty smiled sympathetically,
“I have a secret weapon,” he confided, “a midshipman with a Spanish mother who took over the role of liaison officer. He smoothed over almost all the wrinkles and what he couldn’t deal with, I did.”
“And your title helped no end, what!” guffawed the highly amused Admiral.
Marty let that pass, the Admiral would think what he thought, and nothing he said would change it.
“You are a might under strength for an escort of such a big convoy. I will send the Thalia along with you, she’s a thirty-six, captained by Arnold St. James. He’s a fellow Dorset man, so you should get on famously.”
They set sail on the next tide and slipped out of the Baltic back into the North Sea. Contrary to Admiral Keats expectation, Marty found St. James a cold fish. He was a few months junior to him on the list and came from a wealthy Bridport family. He had him to dinner one evening, and the conversation was stilted, strained, and boring.
The trip back was slower as they reduced sail every night to let the troops rest. So it was that they finally disembarked the troops on the eleventh of October, said goodbye to the transports and the Thalia and headed back to Gibraltar.
Chapter 9. Mongat
Marty got home in good time to organise the celebration of Caroline’s birthday. He organised a ball with the cooperation of the new Governor, James Drummond, who saw the opportunity to lighten the mood as the war in the peninsula wasn’t going that well for the allies.
Drummond replaced Dalrymple, who was recalled to England after the disastrous Convention of Cintra that allowed Juno to leave Portugal with all his troops on ships provided by the British. The Dowager, as he was being called, had not impressed the British and Portuguese governments and certainly not Arthur Wellesley, who he had overruled to sign the treaty. Napoleon was now heading into Spain with two hundred thousand seasoned veterans and would be hard to displace.
The Ball was held at the Governor’s mansion and all the Flotilla’s officers and senior warrants were invited. The tailors on the peninsula did a good trade in new suits and uniforms and the suppliers of food and wine profited enormously.
Security was tight and supplied by la Pierre’s marines, two of the biggest of which acted as doormen and checked that everyone who entered had a genuine invitation. A wealthy merchant who left his invitation at home tried in vain to gain entry only to have to return to his home and find it before he was allowed in.
It was, to all accounts, a comical encounter as the marine was around six feet, four inches tall and went by the nickname of Lofty while the merchant was five feet, one and had the unfortunate surname of Smallbone. The merchant had resorted to shouting at Lofty, who stood at parade rest, looking down his nose at the unfortunate man as immovable as the rock he stood on.
Marty presented Caroline with her sword before the ball and she was stunned, overjoyed, and speechless. She made her appreciation clear when they finally got to bed, where he got to practice his own ‘swordsmanship’ extensively!
The winter passed quietly. The Flotilla kept busy using hit and run tactics along the coast of Sp
ain and Southern France. Ridgley informed Marty that a group of rebel guerrillas in the Catalonia region sent word that there was a fortification near the coastal town of Mongat, which could cut the road from Girona to Barcelona, and thereby, hold up any French attempt at moving an army into the region.
Marty immediately sent the Eagle to find the leader of the guerrillas and set up a meeting. He followed as soon as possible with the Formidiable and Hornfleur. The weather gods smiled on them and they had reasonable winds all the way, making the trip in just under four days.
They rendezvoused just North of Barcelona and the Eagle’s boat rowed over to the Formidiable. The man who accompanied Ryan up the side was not at all what Marty expected.
He was sharp-faced with close-cropped hair which exposed on old scar that ran across the top of his head from front to back. A second scar ran from the left side of his hooked nose to the corner of his jaw. He had gold rings in his ears and brown eyes that were so dark they looked almost black. He was dressed in a loose shirt with a bandana tied around his throat, tight trousers, a sash around his waist and knee-length boots. There were a pair of pistols pushed into the waist sash and a rapier on his left hip. As he stepped on the deck, Marty noticed a knife in the top of one of his boots. He posed rather than stood while Ryan made the introductions,
“General Junqueras, may I present Captain Stockley. Captain, it is my pleasure to present General Juan Junqueras, leader of the local guerrilla force.”
Marty took note that he called himself General as he looked more like a brigand and from the pose, wanted to be noticed and probably admired.
“General, it is a pleasure to meet you,” Marty gave him his best wolf smile and held out his hand.
Junqueras had to shake hands or risk offending the officer in front of him. He looked carefully at the surprisingly young man and noted the well-made uniform that was functional rather than flashy, the way the jacket hung and the glimpse of a pistol butt inside it, the short sword with a well-worn hilt, and the callouses and scars on his hands that were from handling weapons not hauling on ropes. Junqueras decided this young man was to be respected and would watch him very carefully.
Junqueras led his men because he was the meanest son-of-a-bitch in the band and no one would challenge him. He knew as he looked at the Captain, he might have met his match.
The Captain led him down into a spacious cabin and he was invited to sit in a comfortable chair. A servant served him a glass of brandy. A big black man came in with a large dog and stood near the door, the dog lay in front of him and just watched. He recognised another fighter in the black man and decided he wouldn’t want to face the dog either.
The Captain took off his jacket and tossed it onto an open chest full of weapons- long guns strapped to the lid, pistols and blades laid out in compartments in the body- all of which looked well cared for. He looked back at the Captain and could see he had not one, but two double-barrelled pistols clipped to a leather harness around his upper body as well as a sword on his left hip with a large knife balancing it on the right. He removed the pistols and sword, placing them on the desk before sitting in the other comfortable chair.
“General,” Marty started the meeting after Captain la Pierre joined them, “Our intelligence officer has informed us that you have identified a way to hold up the advance of the French towards Barcelona.”
Junqueras straightened a little at the use of the title,
“Yes Captain, there is a fortification that commands the road from Girona to Barcelona which the French have to pass to move into this part of Catalonia.”
Ryan stepped over and handed Marty a map he had made after a short reconnaissance. It showed the fortification was about half a mile inshore and commanded the road. Notes, made by Ryan on the map, told him the terrain was very hilly and it would be difficult, if not impossible, to flank the position.
“Who holds this now?” Marty asked.
“Regular Spanish militia loyal to the Government,” Ryan informed him.
“Traitors to Spain and toadies to the French,” spat Junqueras. “They will pay the price!”
Marty knew how brutal the guerrillas could be when making their enemies ‘pay the price’ and knew that to keep the rebels on side, he would probably have to ignore whatever happened. He didn’t like it, but necessity was a hard mistress.
“How many?” la Pierre asked, keeping the conversation on track.
“A reinforced platoon. They have a pair of small field pieces as well,” Ryan replied and translated for the General.
“Does it have its own water source?” Marty asked, wondering whether a siege would work.
“I am told they have a well”
“Then we have to take it by assault,” Marty concluded.
They moved to the dining table, where they could all see the map, and discussed the plan.
“Can’t you just use your guns and blow them out of there?” asked Junqueras.
“We could, but that wouldn’t leave you much of a fortification to defend,” Marty answered with a smile.
“I think we can take this another way, what do you think Paul?”
The next morning about two hours before dawn, the Hornfleur’s four whale boats slid up onto the beach with barely a sound. Marines scrambled over the side, dressed in dark clothes and faces blacked. Pathfinders set off while the rest formed up in squads and started inland.
Marty and the Shadows were landed around an hour before and in position just outside the perimeter wall of the fort. It was a half-moon, and by its light, they were watching the sentries walking the wall. The faintest of scuffs alerted them that the marines had arrived.
Marty persuaded Junqueras to leave the initial night assault to his men, once the wall had been taken the guerrillas could move in.
A shadow approached the wall and resolved into the shape of two men. One stood with his back against the wall while the other stepped into the cup then onto his shoulders. The climber waited until there was a low whistle, then reaching up and grabbing the top of the wall, silently pulled himself up and rolled over the top onto the shadowy walkway on the inside. Further down the wall, another figure slid over the top into the shadow under the parapet.
The sentries turned and walked back toward each other, their eyes on the ground outside the wall. Neither saw the dark shapes rise up behind them, garrottes in hand. They died silently.
The first two lowered ropes, and the rest of the Shadows shimmied up. Next were the marines and right behind them, the guerrillas. The combined force spread out. The first up were already dealing with the sentries further around the perimeter wall.
A militiaman left the barracks for a late-night piss and came face to face with a young guerrilla, which was unfortunate as unlike a marine, the guerrilla hesitated.
“ALARM, ALARM, INTRUDERS,” the militiaman screamed, which turned into a wet gurgle as a broad- bladed spear emerged from the centre of his chest. Sam placed his foot on the dead man’s back and pulled the spear free as he looked at the immobile, young Spaniard. He shook his head. The Spaniard was only a kid. Sam turned away leaving the boy looking down at the dead man.
All hell broke loose as the militia woke and grabbed their weapons. What should have been a relatively simple operation dissolved into a messy hand-to-hand fight. Marty swore and turned toward the door of the barracks, pistols in hand as men came boiling out.
He fired both barrels of his guns then switched to his blades. Blaez was suddenly beside him. Marty had no time to wonder where the hell he came from as they both threw themselves in to the fight.
Junqueras stood back and watched as Marty, Sam, and Blaez took the fight, at the head of a wave of marines, directly to the barracks. Yes, my friend, I am right to be wary of you, he thought then ran through a wounded militiaman, who staggered toward him, hands over a gaping wound in his stomach.
The sun came up over a fortress strewn with bodies. Fortunately, none of them British, but the guerrillas lost several me
n and all the militia were slaughtered.
Sam walked amongst the bodies and came to the young guerrilla. He had been bayonetted in the stomach and lay in a pool of his own blood. Sam went to a knee beside him. He was still alive and conscious. The boy tried to say something and raise his head. Sam propped him up against his knee and bent his head to listen to him. Junqueras appeared beside them and looked down on the dying boy dispassionately.
“Mi madre dijo que nunca sería un luchador,” the boy whispered. Sam looked at Junqueras for a translation, but he just shrugged and walked away.
“He said, ‘my mother said I would never be a fighter,” translated midshipman Williams, who had come up unseen behind Sam.
Sam looked back down at the boy to tell him he had fought well, but his eyes were vacant and staring at the sky.
The guerrillas disposed of the bodies of the dead by throwing them in a cave and collapsing the entrance. They looted everything that was reusable or of value, leaving the corpses mostly naked.
Marty focused his men on improving the defences.
“We will need to close the road with something,” Paul suggested to Marty, “a barricade that we can put some men behind preferably.”
They looked at the layout of the fortress. There was a tower and curtain wall on one side of the road and a fortified building on the other. The Spanish militia had only manned the tower side, but they would man both as they had more men.
“What if we were to build a drystone wall, leaving a gap in the middle that can be blocked with a cart full of stone?” Sergeant Bright suggested.
“If we make the wall angled to form a funnel, we can rain fire down on them for longer and with more guns,” George Fairbrother suggested.
Paul grinned at his lieutenant in pride, the boy is coming good!
Work teams were organised, and soon the walls were growing, narrowing the road to just over a cart width. A four-wheeled cart was found by the marines and filled with the stone that wasn’t any good for the walls. A few of the Spaniards started to help, but many just sat and watched, causing a few of the marines to question why they were bothering to help the idle bastards.
The Trojan Horse Page 9