A Despite of Hornets

by Geoffrey Watson

  As the chasseurs rushed upon the bridge they split into three sections. The centre section dashed three abreast across the span. The flanks, slowing down, trampled their way across the river on either side of the arches.

  Welbeloved had already ordered bayonets fixed and he now growled. “Steady all! Front rank take the men on the bridge! Aim for the horses! Rear rank, hold yor fire for the party on the left. Fire when ready!”

  Four rifles cracked out and the rush across the bridge stopped in utter chaos as the leading horses all went down abruptly, blocking the narrow span and bringing down those following in their wake, hurling several men and horses over the low parapet into the river below.

  Welbeloved, the Condesa, and the three Hornets in the rear rank, concentrated on the group struggling up the bank to the left, emptying several saddles and breaking the momentum of the surge across the river.

  The party on the right had meanwhile gained the river bank on the nearer side and were urging their mounts forward, just as the rest of the Hornets joined the action from the shelter of the trees, picking off any target that presented itself.

  Once more Welbeloved snapped an order and his small party commenced backing slowly uphill towards the shelter of the trees, firing as they went, half the party loading as the other half sought out targets and fired.

  Bodies of both horses and men now strewed the bridge and the riverbank, but there were far too many to stop. A tight group of seven or eight, who had already gained a foothold on the near bank, formed up and charged towards them, sabres extended. Welbeloved only had time to shout a warning. “Aim at the horses! Kill the horses!”

  Only four rifles were loaded and ready at that moment, and they all crashed out together, bringing the leading beasts down in a tangle of legs and bodies, with riders flying off and being trampled by the horses behind. Shots from the trees also concentrated on this violent action, accounting for one or two more, but a couple of the riders were far enough to the rear to be able to avoid the pile-up. They skirted the fallen horses and spurred straight at the Hornets, yelling at the top of their voices.

  Welbeloved dropped his rifle and dragged out his sword, swinging it with all his force at the head of the nearest horse, causing it to rear and scream as the steel bit into its face. The rider struggled desperately to control it, but had to take his attention away from the Hornets to do so. Rifleman Trelawney ran forward and thrust his bayonet into the chasseur’s ribs, forcing him out of the saddle, but going down himself from a reflex slash of the sabre, which laid his face open to the bone.

  The Condesa, meanwhile, had calmly finished loading her rifle as all this had been going on. As the second horseman drove his mount against the bristling bayonets of the front rank, she presented the rifle point blank and shot him out of the saddle. The horse collided heavily with the small group, bringing down all except Welbeloved, before bolting out of control.

  Meanwhile, the fire from the trees had persuaded the rest of the chasseurs to dismount and seek whatever cover they could find, from where they were starting to return the fire. Not surprisingly, their violent exertions had not been helpful to their marksmanship and their shooting, thankfully, was wild.

  Welbeloved staggered over to the pile of bodies and was relieved to see that they were picking themselves up, battered and bruised, but still active, with the exception of the Condesa and Trelawney, who lay still. Two of the men picked up Trelawney and staggered up the slope into the cover of the trees, as Welbeloved knelt by the Condesa, gently feeling for a pulse and checking for broken limbs.

  She was breathing heavily and the only damage he could see was a livid bruise stretching from temple to chin. He gathered her in his arms and walked as carefully as he could up the hill into the trees, where he laid her on the softest spot he could find, before again turning his attention to the actions of the enemy.

  From a vantage point behind the bole of a substantial pine tree, he surveyed the ground before him. The Hornets had lit their fires in a tiny valley at right angles to the river bank, and with a small stream running through it to join the main flow about three to four hundred yards upstream of the bridge. The horses and mules were safe, farther up this valley, but could only leave by the way they had gone in. Unless the Hornets were prepared to abandon the horses and mules, together with all their supplies and the treasure, they were trapped as if in a bottle, with the chasseurs acting as the stopper.

  He was grateful that all his training and practice had ensured that his men instinctively chose a defensible position whenever they stopped; even if only for a short break, as in this case. He doubted that the French could overwhelm them, even though they still had three times as many men. But that wasn’t really the problem. All they had to do was to keep his men bottled up until reinforcements could be called up. It was certain that by this time a messenger would be galloping back for help.

  He blamed himself for their predicament. The French had already been delayed by three broken bridges. As a matter of routine, Tasselot would despatch a cavalry force well to his front, to try and stop the same thing happening again. It was unfortunate that they had caught up with them at the most inappropriate moment, but he would find it difficult to forgive himself for not anticipating it.

  Carefully studying the French dispositions, it did not appear that they were about to do anything to change the status quo. Quickly, he checked his own defensive line, had a brief word with MacKay and went back to the Condesa. She was breathing more easily and Isabella was by her side, holding her head and babbling nonsense, with the tears pouring down her cheeks.

  He checked her pulse once more and found her heart was beating strongly, but her face and hands were freezing cold. Shaking the maid roughly by the shoulder to bring her back to herself, he sent her to replenish the fire and warm some blankets, while he gently lifted the unconscious body and carried her back to the shelter he had had prepared for her privacy; how many hours ago did it seem?

  Isabella had pegged blankets round the flames to warm. He now called her over as he carefully laid the Condesa in the shelter. “Get all those wet clothes off as quickly as yew can, but be careful to look for any injury. We must check to make sure that there is no damage, other than what yew can see on her head. Then we’ll wrap her in warm blankets and rub her arms and legs to get her blood moving properly again. Come on girl! Don’t just sit there looking at her! Move!”

  She opened her mouth as if to protest, then saw the look in his eyes and started to fumble hastily with the buttons of the tunic and trousers, easing the garments away from her limbs as Welbeloved made a quick but thorough search for any other injury. He worked as quickly as he could and sighed with relief when the removal of the final cloth showed no visible signs of any other damage.

  Once more he lifted her in his arms, getting Isabella to snatch the hot blankets and swathe them, warmly and comfortably around her naked body. Placing her flat once more, he started to rub her arms and legs vigorously through the material, encouraging Isabella to do the same until he could see some colour returning to her face and feel the chill leaving her body.

  Only then did he leave Isabella to continue with a more gentle massage, while he yelled for assistance and commenced the same operation on Trelawney. He was also freezing cold and unconscious, but with a bone-deep gash from the sabre running from above the corner of his right eye, down his cheek to his chin.

  By the time they got him stripped off and wrapped in blankets, Isabella was crying out that the Condesa had opened her eyes. Welbeloved knelt down beside her, sending Isabella for more of the blankets that had been placed in front of the fire to warm. As he lifted her to allow the maid to wrap them over the others, her face was close to his and he heard her murmur softly. “As a lady’s maid, my Captain, I’m sure your intentions are of the best, but you are using me somewhat robustly, and my head is splitting in pieces.”

  He laid her down carefully, placing his hand against her cheek, which was now warm and silky. �
��Madam, yew have no idea how happy I am that yew are back with us. It distresses me to have had to treat yew like this, but yew would likely have suffered a mortal chill else. Yor clothes are now drying and Isabella can help yew dress as soon as yew are able. Now, if yew can forgive me, I must return to my men. The French are being more troublesome than usual and I must try and think of some way of discouraging them.”

  She tried to raise her head and winced with the pain, then lay back and glared at him. “Damn you sir! You are impossible! You strip me to the skin, wrap me in rough blankets and bully me back to life, then blush like a schoolboy and rush away when I try to tell you how grateful I am. Go away and shoot some more Frenchmen then! I will try and recover my modesty and tend to poor Trelawney. He is obviously in a far worse state than I am.” Welbeloved took one look at the tears streaming down her cheeks and fled in confusion. Trelawney, who had regained consciousness some minutes before, grinned with delight in spite of the blinding pain in his head.

  The enemy was still keeping up a desultory fire, but being very careful not to show any part of themselves. The first fifteen minutes had taught them the hard lesson that if any part of their body, no matter that it was small as a hand’s breadth, was likely to have a bullet through it, if left exposed for more than a few seconds. The action had reached a stalemate and the French were obviously merely keeping the cork in the bottle until more of their friends arrived.

  Slowly and meticulously he scanned the ground in front of their position, picking out the besiegers one by one, crouching or lying behind whatever cover they could find. Half the force had withdrawn beyond effective range and were busy treating their wounded, gathering sound horses together, shooting badly injured animals and collecting their dead for burial. He focussed his glass on the distant group of soldiers. A flash of sunlight reflected from a polished helmet drew his attention to a tall figure in the centre of a small group of chasseurs. Without realising it, his lips drew back in a snarl and the image blurred as his hands holding the glass trembled with emotion. Colonel Roussillon had caught up with him again. Once more, Welbeloved’s participation in this war was becoming personal.

  Roussillon was shaking his fist, as if to emphasise a point and the group around him broke up. A small number mounted and rode westwards. Welbeloved frowned and sent one of his men to explore the ground sloping up into the hills behind their camp. He had no desire at all to find hostile troopers across his emergency line of retreat.

  While he continued to watch, Roussillon took out his own telescope and studied the entrance to the valley and the trees hiding the Hornets. For a long moment, it seemed as though both men were staring straight at one another. Then the Frenchman put away his glass, pulled out his watch and looked at the sky, before mounting his horse, trotting over the bridge with an escort of six chasseurs, and cantering off the way he had come.

  Welbeloved also glanced at the sun. It was amazing how little time had elapsed since the horsemen had first charged down on them. It was early afternoon and he had no idea at all how he was going to escape from the predicament he now found himself in.

  He eased himself down with his back to the trunk of a tree and picked up his glass again. The chasseurs had lit their own fire and were preparing food. They must have absolute confidence that they had him completely trapped, and were relaxing while they waited for enough men to swamp his resistance.

  He sensed MacKay dropping down beside him. “Do you hear what I think I’m hearing sir? Is nae that the sound of a light infantry drum?” Welbeloved cocked his head on one side and concentrated. There had been a faint muttering, audible for the last minute or so, but he hadn’t connected it with anything in particular. Now he caught the quick, tapping rhythm of the light infantry quickstep and focussed his glass on the road from the hills.

  It was several minutes before he saw the head of the column appear over half-a-mile away, gradually winding into sight like an enormous centipede. A dark blue centipede with hundreds of legs moving in unison in quick time, with a pattern of small white crosses on its body, where the cross belts showed up against the dark tunics.

  He gave rapid instructions to MacKay and most of the men silently withdrew. It now seemed more than likely that they would have to abandon the horses and escape on foot into the hills. Everything they could possibly carry needed to be got ready. The passengers, who now included the Marqués, the Condesa and Trelawney, must be started off immediately, out of harm’s way.

  The speed of the voltigeurs was incredible. Only ten minutes had passed and they were already approaching the bridge. The sound of shouted commands came clearly and the column halted and stood at ease, while the officer in command conferred with Colonel Roussillon, who had ridden back with them.

  The conference over, more orders were shouted and they moved over the bridge in single file, reducing the size of the target they presented. As they passed across, they moved over towards the chasseurs and formed up in platoons, facing Welbeloved’s position. Roussillon trotted along the lines, briefly inspecting them. Over a hundred men were lined up in four ranks.

  Welbeloved called quietly to his men, who had now returned in force, finding their positions and waiting to see what the French would do.

  Normally the voltigeurs were sent out on the flanks of the army or in front of the main bodies, to harass and confuse the enemy. They worked very much as Welbeloved’s own men would work; in pairs, mutually supporting one another. If that was the way they intended to attack, the Hornets would leave everything they couldn’t carry and retire up the valley into the hills, where they could find shelter and use their superior skills and training to hold them off indefinitely.

  However, one of the standard tactics employed by the French, was a mass attack in column, which punched its way through the enemy like an irresistible force. The front of these columns took heavy casualties, but life had never been an important commodity to Bonaparte. Welbeloved waited to see whether Roussillon would decide on the first method or the second. It seemed to him that a mass attack would be more likely to appeal to the Colonel’s impatient and intolerant nature.

  And so it proved. He watched while orders were shouted and the men moved into a column six deep, with mounted chasseurs on both flanks. Another command and bayonets were fixed in one flashing movement. All designed to put fear into the hearts of their opponents. Then the drum started.

  Slowly at first as the column got under way and then increasing in tempo so that the whole body of men would be marching at a fast, pas de charge as it crashed into the opposition.

  This was opposition, though, the like of which they had never encountered before. The range of the Ferguson, compared with the standard musket, meant that the voltigeurs would be under accurate, killing fire, at more than twice the distance they would normally expect.

  Welbeloved glanced right and left. His men were spread out right across the entrance to the valley. He swore as he saw the Condesa and Isabella also waiting there, but it was too late to do anything about it.

  The column was stepping out towards them, sunlight glinting off the long blades of their bayonets. Welbeloved spoke loudly and clearly. “Stand firm men! Fire in volleys, six at a time, at the front of the column. As the first file falls, second volley at the second file. Commence firing at two hundred yards!”

  MacKay quickly amplified the order, detailing who was to fire first, second and third. They lay and watched the column gathering speed. No shouts of defiance yet, only the sound of the drum, urging them on.

  CHAPTER 17

  It was easy to understand, even at a distance of a quarter of a mile, how the very sight of the inexorable advance of these formidable soldiers had won so many battles. They terrified the enemy before a shot had been fired. Welbeloved glanced at his men, crouched or lying on either side of him. There seemed little evidence of fear on their faces. Perhaps a certain preoccupation with the setting of the sights of their rifles. Maybe a fidgety movement, making themselves more comforta
ble. They might have been spending a relaxed afternoon on the local firing range.

  He turned round, looking for the Condesa, and saw Don Pedro beside her, cocking the rifle that he had been allowed to practice with. Whether his skill was yet sufficiently honed or not, he was ready to fight. Bearing in mind that his leg would not allow him to run away, he was showing a great deal more courage than Welbeloved would have given him credit for.

  Raising his voice, he pointed at the area to their front, where there were still numbers of chasseurs occasionally sniping from concealed positions. “Condesa! Don Pedro! Isabella! As soon as we start firing on the column, those snipers are going to shoot back at us. When they do; aim at their powder smoke. Don’t worry if yew miss them. All I need is for yew to keep their heads down. Sergeant MacKay and I will be doing the same.” MacKay nodded his head to acknowledge that he had heard.

  As Welbeloved turned back to watch the column, he was calculating furiously. At light infantry pace, the French would advance ten yards every five seconds. His men could aim and fire accurately, without strain, every fifteen seconds, and they would be shooting in relays of three, so that every five seconds a volley of shots would hit the advancing column. Once every ten yards – ten volleys in the first hundred yards, all directed at the head of a column six men wide. If his men were as deadly as they had already proved to be, this advancing phalanx ought to be stopped in confusion well before they could come to grips. This would be the first full battle test of his faith in the Ferguson as an infantry weapon. If it didn’t justify his faith, it would in all probability be the last.

  The drum became insistent. The fighting fury of the soldiers would be building up to a screaming pitch. They would lose all individuality in the all-consuming need to smash their way through their enemies. MacKay’s voice rose sharply. “First volley ready! Fire!”