A Despite of Hornets

by Geoffrey Watson

  Welbeloved was startled. It was an interesting outburst. He had rarely heard Vere expressing derogatory opinions about anyone. His outward approach to life, other than in matters of discipline, was one of bored tolerance that refused to be surprised at anything. Perhaps he was feeling protective towards the tall, blonde, lively young woman. It wouldn’t be surprising if they were attracted towards one another. Both were young, titled, good looking and used to all the privileges that rank and title brought with them. they had many things in common and no doubt would quickly establish an easy relationship.

  He was surprised that the matter bothered him. Ever since he had been a boy, he had been forced to come to terms with the use of privilege and position. As a Colonial it often seemed that he was regarded as somewhat less than human by highly placed officials and officers, whose purchased rank, they assumed, gave them the right to condescend to those they considered below them.

  Normally easy going, he was always especially ready to react to such abuses of privilege and had made more than one enemy among senior naval officers by his forthright and far from servile manner. One of the reasons that he had embraced his present project with such enthusiasm was the independence it gave him from people of that kidney. He would of course, have enormous independence as a captain of a ship-of-war, but the very system of privilege against which he had always stood, was the system that would fight in its own way to deprive him of any such appointment. He would need many more supporters like Admiral Harrison before he became an acceptable candidate.

  If he were honest with himself, he would admit that he had been much more severe with Lieutenant Lord George Vere than was strictly justified in the first month or so, solely because he was a member of that elite. Vere had to prove himself to be competent and then more than competent before Welbeloved was prepared to give him his full confidence and support.

  Now he was entrusted with the onerous duty of guarding two important and well-connected members of that elite, one of whom had already shown in full measure, that disdainful and condescending attitude which so incensed him. And the other; no doubt most attractive and pleasant; had been brought up from childhood to expect instant obedience and deference as of right. Who would probably be patronising and overbearing by the very nature of her training and upbringing, without even realising that she was acting in any way other than normal.

  By the next morning he had managed to convince himself that he would not allow either of his charges any opportunity to humiliate him, and Vere was astonished at the cool, distant and correctly polite Welbeloved that had replaced his normal easygoing character.

  Whether the Condesa noticed or not was not evident. She had organised her carriage and packing as she had promised and was ready at dawn, with herself and her maid installed and the coachman ready to drive off.

  Such efficiency made the delay before Vere appeared with the Marqués, all the more unfortunate. The two large trunks that accompanied them had to be lashed behind the carriage and the Marqués himself looked as though he had been awakened and dragged out of bed to keep the appointment. He was unshaven and hastily dressed, and the strong smell of perfume made Welbeloved suspect that he had drenched himself to hide the fact that he hadn’t washed either. Vere confirmed later that this was indeed the case.

  Welbeloved’s resolve to be aloof was as nothing compared to the icy politeness with which the Condesa greeted Don Pedro. The atmosphere was frigid; colder perhaps than the temperature in the street where all the puddles of the previous night were frozen solid. The breath of the horses and men steamed as final adjustments were made and the cavalcade at last moved off, heading north towards the Somosierra Pass through the Guadarrama Mountains, forty miles on the way to Burgos.

  CHAPTER 7

  Once clear of the city and on the road to the distant mountains, Welbeloved made his dispositions. Corporal Atkins and Rifleman O’Malley were sent on well ahead to scout for any possible danger and he himself rode with half-a-dozen more, some half mile in front of the coach and its escort of eight men and Vere. Sergeant MacKay and another four men made up the rearguard, another half-mile farther back.

  In spite of their drab uniform the mounted men were an imposing sight on their captured horses, with their sheepskins and the dragoon’s green shabraques edged with white. Welbeloved was secretly delighted that the men had made use of their spare time, such as it had been, to pick the French embroidered regimental numbers from the shabraques and saddle rolls, and to replace them with the badge that they themselves had adopted unofficially. This was an admiralty anchor crossed with a military sabre, which had been picked out in white on the dark green background of the shabraques. He made a mental note to try and have this symbol recognised officially. The men were obviously proud to belong to such a special unit and this was one of the ways they were able to demonstrate the fact.

  The weather got worse as they moved into the foothills and they were all grateful to the dead dragoons, whose cloaks were a welcome protection against the wet sleet and soggy snow which drove horizontally and stingingly into their faces.

  After five hours he called a halt in a clearing in the trees through which they were passing. Guards were posted and the horses rested and fed, being watered at a small stream running through the rocks. The men quickly had a couple of generous fires going and those not on duty gathered round to warm themselves, while kettles of soup were set to heat.

  Both the Condesa and the Marqués left the coach to warm themselves at the fires, and both gratefully accepted large hunks of rough bread and bowls of steaming soup. It was noticeable however, that they warmed themselves at different fires and that the atmosphere between them was if anything, more chilly than it had been when they started.

  Vere was working hard to make himself pleasant and Welbeloved heard the Condesa’s musical laugh at some tale he was telling. As he strode away to check the sentries and the horses, he shrugged off an irrational feeling of irritation and mentally wished them both well.

  He allowed them two hours before they started again. There was a long, bitter climb in front of them before they could be through the pass and on the way down to the plain of Old Castile once more, and he wanted to make sure that the horses were as fresh as possible. The Marqués appeared reluctant to enter the carriage again, but the bitterness of the weather persuaded him, and the cavalcade formed up once more.

  Already, they must have covered about twenty-five or thirty miles, and the next fifteen would be the worst, both going up to the pass and down the other side, before they could seek shelter for the night at the first suitable town or village.

  His forebodings proved only too accurate. Men and horses struggled onwards and upwards into the teeth of a gale that brought rain, sleet and finally large driven flakes of snow that swirled and settled on all exposed surfaces. The horses hated it and had to be forced forward by cursing and struggling men.

  As they rose higher into the pass, the trees at the side of the road became scarcer and scarcer. Any exposed areas gave the capricious wind full opportunity to blow the snow into deep drifts, out of all proportion to the heaviness of the actual fall. One moment the coach would be on a surface swept free, and the next, straining axle-deep through drifts stretching right across the road.

  Extra horses were harnessed to help pull the load and Welbeloved abandoned his defensive formation and sent almost his entire force to trample the snow just ahead of the coach

  If the ascent to the pass was a nightmare, the first two hours of the descent were worse. The passengers lost count of the times they had to leave the coach while blaspheming men heaved on the wheel spokes and hauled on the harness to force the vehicle through waist-high drifts.

  Then suddenly, by some trick of the weather, they were clear of snow and the wind had dropped to a moderate breeze. Even the temperature had risen several degrees and within an hour they were clattering into a small town and knocking up the local innkeeper for food and shelter for the remainder of the n
ight.

  Welbeloved had them all up before sunrise ready to move off at dawn. The Marqués complained bitterly at being dragged out of bed. He looked even more unshaven and unkempt than the day before. Welbeloved was quite unsympathetic and he subsided into a fit of the sulks after the Condesa rounded on him with a few icy and contemptuous words.

  The party resumed the defensive formation of the morning before and set off through an intermittent, thin drizzle, which was almost pleasant compared with the conditions in the pass. It was much warmer now and the rain ceased after an hour or two, enabling the men to cast off the heavy cloaks, and allowing the breeze gradually to dry out the wet sheepskins and shabraques.

  A relaxed feeling gradually crept up on Welbeloved. After their strenuous efforts since leaving Madrid, they were now moving along freely and should be in Burgos by nightfall. Two more days after that and they would be embarking in Poppy at Santander, his mission all but complete and his men blooded triumphantly both at sea and on land. There ought to be some prize money to share out when they got back. It was almost certain that the Admiralty would buy in the Bonaventure and his men could celebrate in style on the proceeds.

  His reverie was interrupted by Vere riding up alongside. “Advance guard have reported Aranda in sight sir. We should reach there in thirty to forty minutes. Do you intend to stop there or carry on straight through?”

  Welbeloved glanced automatically at the sun before replying. “No reason to stop George. If we go straight through, we can make another hour and a half on the road to Burgos before we stop for an hour for a meal. I want to get there before dark and give the men a good night’s sleep. They deserve it after their efforts yesterday.”

  Vere saluted. “I’ll close the men up then to go through the town sir.” He shouted a command that sent a man galloping off to the rearguard and he himself set off at a canter towards the men posted well ahead. He came up with them more quickly than he had expected. They had paused on a slope that gave them a view towards the town about three miles distant, and were watching intently the activity on the road leading from there up to their present position.

  As he rode up they both saluted and Corporal Atkins pointed at the road running in a straight line, aimed directly arrow-straight at the spire of the distant church. “We was just about ter come an’ report sir. We’ve only passed two travellers all morning so far an’ now there’s a crowd of ‘em on the way up ‘ere an’ they look ter be in a ‘ell of a ‘urry.”

  Vere quickly fished out his spyglass and focussed on the now busy road leaving town. There were several carriages and one or two carts, all carrying a full load of passengers. In addition, several riders could be seen, some of them wearing what he took to be some kind of uniform of which yellow was the principal colour. All appeared to be in a hurry and he guessed that the first of them would be passing the spot where he stood within the next half-hour.

  He scribbled a quick note and sent O’Malley galloping back to Welbeloved, who appeared beside him five minutes later. They both studied the traffic in silence, trying to determine the identity of the group of twenty to thirty horsemen, now well ahead of the rest of the travellers. Vere ventured an opinion. “I would say they are Spanish sir. They’re almost certainly light cavalry and I don’t know any of the French regiments who wear yellow tunics.”

  Welbeloved nodded. “I’d come to the same conclusion myself George, but I haven’t your knowledge of Frog uniforms. I was basing my guess on the way they were moving. Any French cavalry unit would be mortified to be seen straggling along like that.”

  He continued to watch keenly. “I’m sure you’re right, but go back and get the coach off the road and into the trees. Leave half the men with it and bring the rest here at the gallop.” Vere saluted and galloped off. Welbeloved turned to Atkins. “When the men get here, ask Lieutenant Vere to take six of them and cover the road where I’ll be waiting to talk to these horsemen. The rest, including Hickson, will join me on the road. Understand?” Atkins nodded. “Aye sir, I’ll tell ‘im.” Welbeloved rode down to the road and positioned himself where he could be seen well in advance by the approaching horsemen, and where he would not obstruct the field of fire from his marksmen.

  He was joined by Atkins with Hickson and five others, just as the horsemen came up the slight slope towards them. When they had first been sighted, the troop had slowed while the leaders had conferred, and as his men joined him, they all halted so that two men could ride forward to investigate.

  As with all the Spanish troops they had met so far, they were poorly turned out, with faded and dirty uniforms and their metalwork and equipment looked unpolished and ill-maintained. Their horses too were underfed and hard used, all showing unmistakable signs of recent abuse, as if ridden mercilessly for many miles.

  The men were tired and unshaven, but the young officer who approached was alert enough to stare curiously at the identifiably French equipment on the horses, combined with the unusual, drab-coloured uniforms astride them.

  His curiosity was satisfied when Hickson introduced Welbeloved and explained who they were. In return, the lieutenant waved forward the rest of the troop and introduced his senior officer Capitano Pujol, who once having established that the waiting horsemen were of no danger to him, seemed anxious to press on rather than exchange courtesies and information.

  When Welbeloved persisted, Pujol became surly and the reason soon became obvious. His unit, part of the army of Estramadura, was the remnants of a squadron of light dragoons which had been cut to pieces by the French on the previous day, when Napoleon himself had all but destroyed the Conde de Belveder’s army at a village called Gamonal, just north of Burgos.

  Having also thrashed Blake and his army of Galicia, only a couple of days before, Napoleon was now in complete control and was known to be in Burgos and searching for any other resistance. The only thing now between the French and Madrid itself, was the system of trenches that the Condesa had been helping to build, and the mountain passes that Welbeloved had negotiated the day before. What is more, the whole French army was now between Welbeloved and Poppy in Santander.

  It was difficult to imagine a situation that could be worse for his plans and he was glumly reviewing his prospects when Hickson sidled up and muttered in his ear. “I’ve just overheard the lieutenant suggest that our horses are in much better condition than theirs sir. I think they might be getting the idea that they can take them for themselves.”

  Welbeloved grunted in annoyance and pulled out his whistle. “Let’s just discourage them a little then. Thankyew Hickson.” He blew two sharp blasts and smiled innocently at the Spanish captain as his men overlooking the scene stood up from cover and rested on their rifles. “Just a precaution Capitano, in case yew had just happened to be French, yew understand."”

  The captain evidently took the point as he barked a command and the squadron clattered away towards Madrid, leaving Welbeloved with a large problem. The French had, as expected, beaten the peasant armies arrayed against them, and all the fighting had been north and north-east of Burgos, which they must now be presumed to be occupying. It meant that a French army was now across the road that he had been hoping to take. But where would the enemy move next?

  It was understandable that Captain Pujol had been sullen and evasive. No-one likes to admit that their troops have been thoroughly thrashed. It was however, imperative that Welbeloved should obtain more information. He issued his instructions with some urgency and the men formed up, collected the coach and followed him at their best pace. He set spurs to his mount and galloped off towards Aranda and the bridge across the Duero with Hickson following close behind.

  By the time the main party was approaching the town, Welbeloved was waiting for them by the bridge. Aranda was alive with activity and packed with soldiers and Spaniards fleeing from the north. Three battles had been fought within two weeks; one by Marshal Ney and two by Napoleon. The Spanish armies of Galicia and Estramadura had been completely routed and the
French were confirmed as in occupation of Burgos to the north and were thought to be marching south-west towards Valladolid.

  The decision was made by the time the coach caught up. He had decided that they had to cross the Burgos –Valladolid road at Palencia before the French troops reached there. Otherwise he was cut off from the north and would have to retreat towards Madrid again, risking complete encirclement by the French.

  Palencia was about fifty miles from Burgos and only slightly less from Aranda. It would be a race, which he dare not lose, and one in which he would have no idea how quickly his opponents were moving.

  They forced their way through the town, causing much resentment and squabbling among frightened Spaniards. Several carts had to be cleared from the bridge to let the carriage pass, but finally they were clear and found the road to Palencia almost deserted. Nobody, it seemed, was willing to travel in a direction where the enemy was likely to be found.

  It was the one thing they could be thankful for. They were able to set a fast, but steady pace that ate up the miles, and there was no thought of pausing for a break. Welbeloved’s mind was in turmoil, considering this point and that fact. Had Napoleon occupied Burgos yesterday, and had he started his drive to Valladolid early this morning or after he had fully secured the town as his base?

  After a while he realised that the conjecture was getting him nowhere. If the French were across the road when he got there, he was trapped. If not, he would cross and drive up the valley of the river Carrión, when hopefully the only French troops he would be likely to encounter would be cavalry patrols. It was at this time he had cause to be grateful for the extra horses. Two or three changes of teams would ensure that the beasts pulling the coach could be kept as fresh as it was possible to be.