Progress was slow; quite apart from the gentle pace they set in order to make the journey less uncomfortable for Don Pedro. Welbeloved didn’t want to clash with any more French soldiers, and if any were to be found in this area, he was determined to avoid them. Scouts were sent ahead in pairs and every village was examined carefully for an enemy presence before they ventured through. Few sightings of any sort were reported, although a few villagers, braver or more foolhardy than the rest of their compatriots had started to venture abroad once more. All the rest remained prudently behind locked doors and shuttered windows.
It was still cold but the weather had relented. The sun shone intermittently from a sky dotted with cotton-wool clouds. Billows of steam from the animals and from drying clothes, rose gently from the column.
Now that the French were in control through most of north-east Spain, they had come to the unwilling conclusion that it was no longer possible to expect to meet Poppy at Santander. It was imperative that Don Pedro be given a chance to rest and recover, though Welbeloved would willingly risked a mere two-day journey to get him on board safely. The only options now available all involved many days travel, either to the west or the south, and the Marqués was in no condition to endure this. They would have to find a refuge where he could be nursed for a week or two, until he was fit enough to stand the rigours of a long, difficult journey through hostile forces and desolate terrain.
There were many religious houses dotted about Spain, with a tradition of hospitality and succour to travellers in distress, but revolutionary France had been particularly brutal to priests, monks and nuns. Under Napoleon, it is true, the Church had become re-established, but that had never been a bar to the conquering French armies, who energetically pillaged church and other treasures in every country unfortunate enough to fall under their domination.
It was unlikely therefore that there would be any comfort and safety in well established and wealthy monasteries within easy reach of the vengeful troops that would soon be in pursuit. Somewhere isolated and remote was more desirable, preferably somewhere where their presence would not quickly become common knowledge for miles around. The French also had a well-founded reputation for extracting information efficiently and brutally.
Once again it was the Condesa who happened to know of a small isolated House occupied by members of a contemplative order, far up in the southern foothills of the Cantabrian Sierras. It was the Condesa also who rode in the vanguard with Vere, searching for the road that would lead them in the right direction. By the time they made camp for the night, they had left all towns and villages behind and were following barely defined tracks in wild and hilly country, where even the trees were gnarled and stunted from their continual battle for survival in the harsh conditions.
Don Pedro was flushed and feverish when they finally unstrapped him and laid him in whatever shelter they could contrive. His leg was swollen and hot and he screamed when they eased the dressings and readjusted the splints. Welbeloved regarded him dispassionately and hoped that the swelling was the natural result of the injury and the restrictive strapping. It hadn’t the appearance of the ugly, red, shiny sheen that he had so often seen on limbs affected with gangrene, but the sooner they could get him under cover, and subject to more knowledgeable and expert ministrations, the better for his chances of recovery.
In spite of the opinion she had of him, the Condesa insisted on settling down beside him and spent the night tending him, wiping his flushed face with damp cloths and supervising one of the men in taking care of his normal bodily functions. It was demeaning work in Vere’s eyes. Work that was normally entrusted to the lowest and meanest of men in both the army and navy. She tackled the task as efficiently as she seemed to deal with all the problems that came her way; not because it gave her any satisfaction, but just because it was a task that she felt she could do better than anyone else. Once more it was brought home to Welbeloved, what an unusual, determined and forceful woman this was.
In the morning it rained. Black clouds and no wind to drive them away, presaged a thoroughly miserable day. They did what they could to wrap Don Pedro against the elements, but were aware that it was useless. Within half-an-hour of moving off, in spite of their cloaks, everyone was soaked to the skin and miserable. They knew they must head slightly west of north, but the curtain of rain limited visibility to no more than a hundred yards and they were forced into travelling on a compass bearing towards a destination that none of them was entirely certain existed at all.
The terrain, the weather and the need to give Don Pedro the easiest possible ride, all slowed the pace to a crawl. By the beginning of the afternoon, Welbeloved calculated that they had covered ten miles at the most. In all that time they had seen two isolated hovels but no occupants. Humanity, other than themselves, appeared to have deserted this god-forsaken region, and he couldn’t find it in his heart to blame it.
It was the two men of the advance guard that almost literally stumbled over the small herd of goats, watched over by a thin, half-starved looking lad of about thirteen. It really was difficult to establish the age of the small, undernourished creature, dressed in ragged, cut-down garments that had been handed down many times, possibly through several generations. The soggy sacking round his head and narrow shoulders, seemed to swamp the thin brown face, until only the large dark eyes were left, gazing apprehensively at the strange foreign figures that surrounded him.
He had tried to flee when he saw them, but had been intercepted without difficulty, while his charges scattered in all directions, but then remained at a distance, curiously watching the sudden intrusion into their desolate world.
He remained obstinately silent to all their questions until the Condesa dismounted and told the men to move back while she talked quietly and encouragingly. Slowly he began to respond and when she produced a large silver coin and indicated that she would like to buy some of his goats, his eyes seemed to get even larger. This did not stop him, young though he was, from settling down to haggle over the price for four of the scraggy looking beasts, which they welcomed as an addition to their rapidly diminishing food supply.
Most importantly, the lad knew of the sanctuary they were seeking and was able to direct them over a low col and two further valleys to the west, where they would find the shelter they sought.
The monastery itself was not large, but built solidly from the local stone and set back on a spur running out of the side of the sheltered valley, which it dominated. It was old and stout. Old enough perhaps to have needed the strength of its walls to defy the Moorish infidels who had been driven out of Spain almost four hundred years earlier.
Much of the fabric had now fallen into disrepair and when they had gained admittance the reasons became plain. Only twelve monks were now left to guard the establishment, that could have been home for four or five times that number. Father Ignacio, the leader of the small community, explained later that life was spartan so far from the nearest towns and villages. Recruits for a life of religious devotion had for many years been attracted to the larger and more prosperous monasteries, offering relative ease and comfort along with their devotions. Their youngest brother was nearly sixty and Father Ignacio himself was seventy-five years old.
The brothers immediately took charge of Don Pedro. Years of experience of dealing with illnesses and accidents in their small community had given them a rough and ready approach to such problems, but the competent way in which Father Ignacio examined the leg and nodded his approval over the treatment so far, set Welbeloved’s mind at rest. Don Pedro would get the best treatment available.
There was so much unused space that they were able to occupy quarters quite apart from the brothers. Laws of hospitality had to be observed, but the presence of so many heretics was unavoidably disturbing to their narrow and rigorous routine. Not that that prevented them accepting gratefully, a share of the slaughtered goats.
Having established a base where they could rest until the Marqués was fit to
be moved, half the men were immediately sent out to explore the area and produce a rough map showing the ways in and out of the valley. Welbeloved was certain that the French would be out in force looking for the Marqués and the treasure, and wanted to be prepared with a choice of escape routes, in case they were discovered. He also realised how important it was that they should locate sources of food and fodder which they could hope to purchase. In view of the scarcity of habitation on the way up to the monastery, there was no doubt that they would have to go a long way to find what they wanted.
Fodder for the horses represented a particular problem. There was little grazing available in the hills, and that of poor quality, only really fit for goats. A pack horse at its limit, could only carry enough fodder to sustain itself alone for five or six days. No wonder that constant replenishment of supplies was a continuing nightmare for quartermasters of all armies.
Sergeant MacKay however, had a nose for potential sources of food, drink and fodder, and was put in charge of the foraging party. Speed was essential. Once the French troops had been through the area, all food and fodder would be gone. The peasants might try to hide their winter supplies, but French armies were skilled at living off the countries they fought through, and a few peasants shot as an example, soon persuaded the rest to hand over their stores.
Welbeloved had a supply of gold and silver coins, which were a much more acceptable way of encouraging the Spaniards to produce what was available. Although MacKay had to cover a wide area, men and horses were unlikely to go hungry for many days to come. Supplies of liquor were another thing entirely. Easy availability meant that many of the men would be insensibly drunk just as soon as they could lay their hands on it. They may have been an elite band, but most of them were just as likely to forget the hardships of their life in a haze of alcohol, as the oldest of old sweats in the roughest of infantry regiments.
All the men were entitled to their daily ration of spirits, whenever it could be obtained. MacKay had managed to get his hands on some fiery brandy, locally distilled from grapes. When suitably watered down, as rum was on board all ships of the Royal Navy, it could be served out every midday as MacKay’s version of four-water grog.
By now the weather had settled down to be miserably unpleasant. Each day brought the same cold drizzle of sleet and rain with the occasional heavy snowfall, which lasted a few hours and then gradually disappeared under the assault of the cold rain. All were grateful for the shelter of the monastery buildings, even the unfortunates whose turn it was to mount the daily patrols. They were thankful for the opportunity to dry out and warm themselves when they returned.
Daily patrols covering all the roads and tracks on the approach to the monastery took up two-thirds of the available force, but the rest of the men were not allowed to be idle. Maintenance of equipment and care of the horses kept them busy and there was a welcome supply of ammunition and powder to be examined and sorted. The powder captured from the French was of poorer quality than the English powder they had started with. Much time was spent grading it to make sure that only the best was used for their Fergusons.
The use of a screw action to open the breech of their rifles was as efficient as could be contrived, but even the best quality powders eventually caused the threads to jam when the partially burnt deposits built up in the grooves. Frequent use of boiling water soon removed these deposits, but using poor powder meant that the threads were inclined to clog up far more frequently. Meticulous attention was needed to ensure that there was no risk of jamming occurring in the heat of action, when rapid fire was the only answer to overwhelming enemy numbers.
The calibre of the Ferguson was another way in which it varied from the standard British and French muskets. None of the captured balls was of the correct size, and all had to be collected and melted down, to be re-cast in their scissor moulds to the .68 calibre that they needed. The men were most particular about this operation, as the rifling of their barrels was precise and accurate, and the fine quality of the ball was essential for the deadly marksmanship to which they all aspired.
Now that the brothers were tending Don Pedro, the Condesa and her maid were no longer involved with him. Undoubtedly this was a great relief for the Condesa, who had borne his complaints and petulance with enormous patience. A patience even more remarkable considering the contempt she felt for him and which she made little attempt to hide.
It did however, mean that the two women found themselves with no particular tasks to do other than look after themselves. To be sure, for the first two days they occupied their talents transforming their uniforms to fit them more comfortably. Isabella was obviously a skilled needlewoman and her nimble fingers changed the drab and shapeless tunics and breeches into well-tailored garments, which added to, rather than detracted from their femininity.
Once that was completed however, the Condesa started to look around for other things that they could turn their hands to. The unfortunate maid was taken out each day for a riding lesson, which was torture for the first few days until she became more skilled and hardened to the saddle.
It was the rifle though that seemed to hold a fascination for her. She pestered Welbeloved until he agreed to teach them both how to load and fire the weapons. The routine of loading and priming was soon mastered, but after half-an-hour shooting at a large target only fifty paces away, they were unable to carry on, and practice had to be abandoned for the day.
Unlike the small fowling pieces with which the Condesa was familiar, the Ferguson, when fully charged, had a considerable kick. In a very short time the women’s shoulders were bruised black and blue and far too painful to continue, in spite of Welbeloved’s exhortations to hold the rifle butts firmly into their shoulders while squeezing the triggers.
The following day, in spite of the pain, she insisted on trying again. Welbeloved showed them how to half-charge the weapons to reduce the recoil and they persisted for nearly an hour, almost weeping with the pain, but determined not to be beaten.
By the end of the week they were finding that they could hit a man-sized target at a hundred paces and in spite of the agony in their shoulders, were gripping the weapons firmly and cushioning the recoil correctly. After two weeks, the Condesa, who had a naturally good eye, could guarantee to hit a man, nine times out of ten at up to a hundred paces, and Isabella could be considered a far better shot than most infantrymen, armed with the much less accurate muskets and carbines. They were back to using a fully charged rifle by this time. Although it would be a long time before their shoulders lost their bruises, if it came to an action they would no longer be mere passengers.
While instructing the women, other duties had not been neglected. There were two tracks giving access to the monastery. Welbeloved kept them constantly under observation, with two men permanently on watch where each trail led up into the valley. In addition to the regular foraging parties under MacKay, he and Vere took it in turns to lead a reconnaissance, twice a day, through the countryside for several miles around, always watchful for the first signs of the enemy.
Here again, the Condesa begged permission to take her turn in making up the numbers for this duty and Welbeloved began to look forward to those times when she would be riding alongside him. He himself never noticed, although Vere was quietly amused to discover that she contrived to make sure that she rode with Welbeloved at least twice as often as with Vere. Ever ready to try his fortune with the fair sex, Vere had very early on made his overtures to her and had been put in his place most firmly but very politely. He didn’t mind. He had shrugged and told himself that he preferred his women to be less forceful and more dependent and that he had never found any shortage of that type back in civilised society, willing to gaze adoringly into his eyes and hang breathless on every word he said.
He now prepared himself to watch and be amused at the evidence of the attraction the Condesa was beginning to feel for Welbeloved and in return, the quite unconscious reaction from a strangely unsophisticated Welbeloved
, who treated her more and more as a much respected, but far too high-spirited younger sister; to her well-suppressed, but considerable chagrin and irritation.
Apart from the miserable weather, it had been a relaxing time for them all, with the sole exception of Welbeloved. He was chafing with impatience to be moving, but the men were secure, dry, well fed and making the most of the period of relative inactivity. Only Don Pedro was thoroughly miserable. His leg was still painful, but responding to treatment and Father Ignacio was going to allow him to try and take a few steps in a day or so. Nevertheless he was constantly whining and complaining and had so far provoked Welbeloved during one of his duty visits to his bedside, that he had received a violent tongue lashing, dwelling heavily on his duplicity, treachery, cowardice, lack of honour, despicable character, moral turpitude and other unpleasant characteristics, until the wretched fellow cringed in fear and anger. After that, their relationship was even icier and Welbeloved’s daily duty visit was brief and frigidly polite.
Part of Welbeloved’s anger had been caused by his frustration. The Marqués might be able to stagger a few steps in the next few days, but it was likely to be several weeks before he was able to ride a horse, and there was no other way they were going to leave this wild country. They could walk or they could ride, and Don Pedro could do neither. They were trapped in this desolate valley until he was fully recovered, or until they could think of some other way of carrying him over hundreds of miles of snow-covered mountain trails.
CHAPTER 11
Welbeloved focussed his telescope and studied the chasseurs in the valley below. Small parties of cavalry had been appearing in the area for several days, but this was the largest group yet, some thirty or forty men in two troops, walking their horses up the valley. Contacts among the peasants had informed him that Marshall Soult, with several thousand men was now in control of the upper reaches of the river Carrion, and it was standard military practice to reconnoitre a sizeable area around the main force.
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