A Despite of Hornets

by Geoffrey Watson

  Anstruthers had worked wonders with his patchwork cavalry. As soon as he saw that the dragoons were finished as a fighting force, the bugle sounded to disengage, and the mass of Spanish horse reformed to attack the companies of foot. They were just too late. The French had closed up and three hundred muskets and bayonets faced outwards on all sides, for all the world like an enormous porcupine.

  Very sensibly he held his men back. A hail of musket fire would have torn them to pieces before they could come to grips. He had already agreed with Welbeloved that being outnumbered to such a degree, they could only ever afford to fight on their own terms; that is, whenever they could put the enemy at a substantial disadvantage. Welbeloved, anticipating Clausewitz by some years, had always considered this an essential duty of any fighting officer, but it was particularly relevant in the present circumstances.

  Motioning to his men to stay concealed, he rose to his feet and blew a loud blast on his whistle, causing consternation among the French as well as the Spaniards, suddenly to find him standing nonchalantly within a hundred and fifty yards of their private battle.

  Anstruthers came cantering across, face flushed with exertion and triumph. He grinned down at Welbeloved. “You do pop up in the most unexpected places sir. Did you see what my boys did to the dragoons? They’re completely routed and we’ve not lost more than two or three ourselves.”

  He was so delighted that Welbeloved had to smile back, but his words brought the soldier back to the business in hand. “We’ll congratulate them all when we’ve finished, Major. At the moment, there are three hundred Frogs standing at bay and yew’ll not crack them with yor Spaniards, unless yew’re prepared to lose half of yor men.”

  Anstruthers nodded agreement. “I was just trying to work out an answer to that problem sir. They’re all seasoned troops and they can retreat in that formation until they get back to their base, and there’s not a lot I can do to touch them. Unfortunately, any disciplined infantry can hold off cavalry until the crack of doom.”

  Welbeloved agreed. “I’ll accept that argument Major, but they have to stand on their feet while they’re out in the open. Keep yor men circling around and making feint attacks. It’ll be like shooting fish in a barrel, but we’re going to thin them out a bit. Be ready to take any opportunity that offers.”

  Anstruthers galloped off and thoughtfully divided his command into four squadrons. These circled the French warily. Suddenly one squadron broke into a full charge, only to wheel away as the men facing them presented their muskets and fired a volley. Taking the discharge of muskets as a signal, the squadron diametrically opposite also charged and wheeled away as the muskets crashed out.

  The French halted their cautious retreat to deal with the danger and the Hornets took advantage to crawl within easy range of their rifles, but beyond accurate reply from the French muskets. They spread out in a wide crescent and started shooting into the massed ranks in front of them.

  It wasn’t in any way sporting. For marksmen of their excellence it was impossible to miss, and they were spread wide enough to ensure that no two riflemen had the same target. Every shot brought down a man, either dead or seriously wounded. It was murderous. There was no target for the French muskets, other than the puffs of yellow-brown powder smoke, drifting low on the ground. They tried a volley; a hail of musket balls swept the area where they hoped the Hornets were lying.

  All to no avail. The deadly fire continued and men were falling like skittles. Suddenly, a group of about thirty men broke ranks and charged furiously across at their tormentors. Whether it was loss of discipline, or whether it had been ordered was immaterial. The Spanish horsemen had been praying for just such an opportunity. Two of the squadrons came in together from opposite sides. One took the charging men in the flank and rolled over them, cutting and hacking. The other drove at full gallop into the gap that had opened in the French ranks, charging straight through and into the back of the men on the other side, who were still facing outwards.

  One moment, there was a disciplined body of soldiers, back to back, facing the enemy with gleaming barriers of bayonets. In the next instant they broke and fled for their lives, pursued by screaming Spaniards, slashing and stabbing in an orgy of destruction and blood-lust, avenging in one bloody battle, all their previous bitter defeats.

  The French officers tried briefly to rally their men and two groups of twenty to thirty soldiers bunched together in mutual protection. Anstruthers had held a squadron apart during the earlier breakthrough, and he now loosed them onto one of those groups, riding over them as if they were standing corn. The rest threw down their muskets and raised their hands high in the air, before a similar fate could befall them.

  The bugler sounded the recall and kept on sounding it until all the battle-crazed horsemen responded; when they were set to rounding up all the fugitives they could find and herding them all together.

  It was a sorry looking group, standing amid the chaos of the brief but bitter battle. Less than a hundred unwounded, disconsolate men, sat in pathetic rows on the soggy ground, all exhausted, miserable and thoroughly cowed. They responded apathetically when Welbeloved put them to work to seek out their wounded and bring them together so that the extent of their injuries could be assessed.

  Close to four hundred men had marched or ridden from the gorge, out of the five hundred who had gone in. Maybe twenty or so riders had escaped and now a mere hundred and fifty were left alive to stagger back to their general, to make him realise that the force against him had to be taken more seriously than he would have believed possible. Every expedition mounted against the Hornets would delay the army just that little bit longer. Perhaps the return of these shattered remnants would now persuade him that the Hornets were enough of a danger to him that they would have to be eliminated before he could continue with his assault on La Coruña.

  As before, all the unwounded men were stripped down to their shirts and given the job of supporting or carrying the wounded with them on their way back to their camp. It was mid-afternoon before they started, a pathetic, straggling column that would be lucky if it reached safety before the following dawn. Welbeloved might have felt some sympathy for them if he hadn’t remembered the burning village. He left Anstruthers and his men to collect all the weapons and ammunition, round up the stray horses and bundle together all the clothing they could find.

  His men collected their horses and rode back to the still smoking ruins to search for their friends and comfort any survivors. Welbeloved was utterly weary and he had no doubt that all his men were just as exhausted. He couldn’t see any hope of a rest in the immediate future. There would be much to do in the village, and they would all have to be clear of the place as quickly as they could. As soon as the few escaped riders could reach their army, it was more than likely that more troops would be sent to try and rescue the infantry and endeavour to destroy this infuriating opposition.

  He had searched among the dead and prisoners after the battle, hoping to find the man he hated. In vain. Colonel Roussillon had once more shown his skill at saving his own skin. He must have been in the small party that had fled. Welbeloved hoped that he would be disgraced, having twice in succession lost most of the force under his command. Certainly, his reputation would have suffered, but he was one of Napoleon’s aides, and that fact alone would probably ensure that he would survive to continue his vendetta with the Hornets.

  CHAPTER 22

  Smoke was still rolling through the gorge as they trotted towards it, but it was nowhere as dense as before. They had to pick their way through the corpses of men and horses, brought down by the hail of rocks from above. He had expected to see more damage, but there were no more than a dozen bodies lying about, and several of these lay sprawled under the remains of one small avalanche, probably started by the first large boulder. None of the French was alive. The rocks had certainly not killed them all, but everyone had been sought out, presumably by vengeful villagers, and most showed gaping wounds where their
throats had been slashed open.

  The scene when they emerged into the village was one of devastation. All the houses had been fired and most were now mere glowing and smoking heaps of rubble. The large house where they had stayed was still standing, but burning fiercely, and while they watched, the roof finally gave way and smashed down, sweeping through the intervening floors as it went.

  The small square was the focus of much activity and Welbeloved breathed a sigh of relief, a great weight taken off his mind at the sight of the Condesa, busily directing the efforts of the remaining villagers. All were engaged in gathering together the pathetically few possessions that they had managed to salvage, tending the few who were injured and giving what comfort they could to the many who were bereaved.

  She saw them dismounting and came hurrying over. Beneath the smoke, grime and bruises, her expression was radiant with relief. She struggled to control her emotions, contenting herself with gripping his arms fiercely and gazing up at him possessively. “We all heard the shooting, Joshua. I couldn’t imagine how you wouldn’t all be killed. There were so many of them. Are they all gone away now?”

  He nodded gravely, gripping her warmly in return. “Aye, Mercedes, those that survived have gone away. Between my lads and Anstruthers’s new company, we’ve given them a lesson that they’ll never forget. The tragedy is that all these innocent villagers have had to suffer because of us; but what has happened to Trelawney and Don Pedro and the Spanish soldiers we left here?”

  Her shoulders slumped and she looked as though tears were very close. “I don’t know. They all rushed off as soon as they heard the sentries start shooting when the French arrived. They delayed them long enough for us, Isabella and me, to warn most of the villagers and get them away.” She wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “Some of them were too old or too slow and the French just killed them, as well as burning their houses.”

  She pointed out a row of bodies, laid out under a gaunt chestnut tree. “Those are just some of them. There must be many more who were left in the houses when they were burnt. She suddenly exploded. “Those French are beastly savages; there are women and children there as well.”

  Almost as an afterthought, she added. “Don Pedro was found in the gorge among the bodies there. He’s alive, but apparently they pulled him out from under a horse, and he might have broken some more ribs. He’s still unconscious, so we don’t know whether he was captured, or whether he joined the French again voluntarily. I still wouldn’t trust anything he says, but for what it’s worth, they were treating him as a prisoner. His hands were tied when he was found.”

  Anstruthers arrival with most of his men, interrupted them. Reluctantly, she left him and went about the business of restoring some sort of order from the chaos. All the men were dispersed to search for Trelawney and the missing Spanish infantrymen, and Welbeloved sent one of them to recover the Ferguson that had been used against them on the rim of the gorge.

  While this was going on he walked over to have a look at Don Pedro. He had just recovered consciousness and looked a mess. His face was one large livid bruise, battered as if he had fought for an hour against one of England’s foremost prizefighters. He saw Welbeloved approaching and struggled to sit up, clutching his ribs and wincing with pain. He spoke between puffed and broken lips, between which gaps could be seen where teeth had been knocked out.

  “Captain, we tried to stop them coming through the gorge, but there were too many of them. They just charged right over us, killed your rifleman and most of the others.” He shifted position gingerly and Welbeloved helped him to sit back, resting against the trunk of a tree. “I got knocked out in the fight and when I came round they were bayoneting the wounded and the other two taken prisoner. I thought they were going to kill me as well, but they wanted to ask questions and they thought I was one of your Hornets.

  When I told them who I was, they seemed disappointed and tried to make me tell them where you were.” He stuck his chin out defiantly. “They beat me a lot, but I am a Grandee of Spain and I told them to do their worst. I lost consciousness again after a while and when I woke up there was a lot of shooting. Soon after that they tied me to a horse and set the village on fire. I don’t remember any more until I woke up here.” Welbeloved heard him out and was inclined to believe him. All the bruises and abrasions that could be seen looked very much like the result of a vicious beating. It was sad to have his fears for Trelawney confirmed, but at least he seemed to have had a quick death, without the torture they inflicted on Don Pedro.

  He helped him to his feet and supported him, limping and wincing until he was able to stand unaided. There was no doubt but that he was in a lot of pain, but he declared himself fit to move if necessary. The change from the Don Pedro of old was so remarkable that Welbeloved actually felt himself warming to him.

  They found Trelawney and the Spanish defenders thrown into a gully. The rifleman had more than a dozen wounds on his body. He had obviously put up a fierce fight before they had overcome him. The Spanish soldiers were in very much the same condition, apart from three or four who had single bullet wounds that had disabled them, before they were bayoneted to death.

  All had been stripped of clothing, boots and all possessions and it was some time before they were able to identify one of the bodies, which was horribly mutilated, showing all the signs of prolonged and agonising torture. The face had been so disfigured that the features were unrecognisable at first, as the young officer who had been captured the previous night. Suddenly it became clear how Roussillon had found out where the Hornets and the Spaniards were camped. It was appalling ruthlessness that could brutally torture a sixteen year old boy and then casually kill him and dump his body where his friends could find him. Roussillon must have hoped that all those friends would also be dead, but he had made sure that the boy’s body was brought here to serve as a dreadful warning to any survivor.

  Whatever the reasons might have been, the effect on the Spaniards, perhaps surprisingly, was cold anger. They buried their comrades quietly, without too many expressions of grief, but their very quietness underscored the fury that was evident on all their faces. Without realising it, the French had changed these men irrevocably. Until now they had merely been a cavalry unit, fighting to regain their self-respect and to help expel the invaders from their country. Enthusiasm and patriotism had now been joined by hatred and a lust for revenge. The French could expect little mercy from them from now on.

  The men from the village had shown their own feelings in a brutal, but perhaps more extrovert way. They had sought out every wounded Frenchman in the gorge and on the slopes. Everyone they found, without exception, had had his throat cut. Weapons and equipment had been taken from the bodies and every able-bodied man in the village, together with many boys and women, was hung about with muskets, bayonets and swords.

  Many of the horses captured in the short fight after the ambush, were handed over to the surviving villagers. They would use them to prey on any Frenchman that strayed from the protection of the army. From now on, nothing that was French would be safe, unless protected by large numbers of armed men.

  ***

  They moved out as soon as they could. If the French were going to allow themselves to be stung into sending another force against them, Welbeloved wanted them to find the place deserted, the Hornets and the Wolves departed and the remaining villagers up in the hills, beyond the range of further retribution.

  Commendable caution, but in the event unnecessary. The French had moved on. Tasselot had resisted any lust for revenge and stuck stubbornly to his main purpose; the outflanking of the English by the advance on La Coruña.

  The little town they had raided the night before was empty of the enemy. They recovered the powder they had hidden and surveyed the rubble left by the explosion of the wagons. Extensive damage had been done to the house and surrounding walls, but the townspeople reported that only twenty or thirty casualties had been seen. Half-a-dozen bodies had been buried before
the enemy had moved on.

  In fact, much of the army had already moved on before the straggling remnants of the force defeated by Welbeloved’s men, came staggering into town. The inhabitants reported this event with great glee, despite the fact that the French had vented their wrath on many of them. Before they left they had looted whatever clothes and boots they could find and finally departed dressed in a miscellaneous collection of garments, mostly ill fitting and unmilitary.

  Welbeloved had debated with himself, whether he was ruthless enough, allowing all prisoners to rejoin the army. Short of killing them out of hand, he couldn’t see what other course was open to him. Now, he wondered whether it might after all have been the best thing to do. If he had managed to destroy all the spare powder last night, it might be that the other wagons were also destroyed in the explosion. It rather looked as though other stores; spare uniforms and muskets; might have been lost at the same time. Unarmed and poorly clad men would be more of an embarrassment to their comrades than if they had not returned at all.

  They left the town to its inhabitants. Food and wine was made available to them, but there was little of it. The French had stripped the place of everything they could find. Only the cunning of the Spanish peasants had enabled them to conceal some of their supplies, and many of them had fled to the hills before the army had arrived, driving livestock before them.

  Their camp that night was high in the foothills of the mountains, where they sloped steeply down to the sea. The coastal road was so narrow here that there was no easy way to get past the French once they had caught up with their rearguard. Welbeloved was bone weary and he knew that most of the men were in like condition. An early camp, a good night’s rest and the opportunity to replenish their ammunition, was now more important than another night harassing the enemy. It was also, as the Condesa reminded him, New Year’s Day in the year of our Lord, eighteen hundred and nine.