Swallowing Portugal Will Settle My Spanish Bellyache

by Geoffrey Watson

  When the French had invaded, they had left small garrisons at towns along their route. No more than five hundred men at each place. Enough, they thought, to maintain a series of defended bases along their route of march and to maintain communications with Spain. All they would have to contend with were bands of disorganised, armed peasants. All reinforcements and supply trains could use them as staging posts.

  They hadn’t been able to take into account then that all food would be removed or destroyed and that the garrisons would not be able to forage. Only regular convoys of supplies would enable them to maintain their bases. Such convoys would have to fight their way through and would need to be as strong as the garrisons themselves. In the three weeks after Buçaco, Welbeloved and the Hornets had dealt with each base in turn.

  They had found it necessary to be quite severe with the first garrison, based at São Martinho, now the site of Welbeloved’s winter quarters.

  Thereafter, diplomacy and tact had helped to convince the French of the hopelessness of their situation and each small garrison had been encouraged to withdraw bloodlessly to Celorico and Almeida, leaving the whole of the central mountains in the hands of the Ordenança, the Militia and the Hornets. Any attempt to send supplies, arms, reinforcements or despatches east or west, would need an escort of at least a thousand men.

  It was not what the French had expected, but they hadn’t planned on the nature of the country allied to the determination of its people. The peasants were not soldiers, but gradually, more and more of them were armed with British muskets or arms captured from the French. Such muskets were far from accurate and had a very short range, but fired from the slopes of a mountain pass or defile into a body of marching men, they could cause significant casualties. Casualties that had to be carried along with the army or suffer a grisly fate at the hands of revengeful peasants.

  Add two hundred trained killer Hornets to the equation and French communications were effectively severed. Not even large, armed patrols moved west of Celorico and no traffic at all from the Armée de Portugal was to be allowed east.

  This last prohibition could not be tolerated by the French. Masséna had to let his master Napoleon know what he was doing and scream for help. He was lost if he couldn’t get more food, ammunition and thousands of reinforcements.

  The first attempt was made some two weeks after the marshal first laid eyes on the incredible line of forts and defences protecting Lisbon.

  Welbeloved was warned by his allies, the Ordenança, that a force of light infantry with some cavalry had appeared south of Coimbra. Estimates of its strength varied but Welbeloved judged it to be about two thousand. That was substantial enough to indicate that it was an important mission of some kind.

  Any movement of major bodies of troops was of immediate interest and he set off to see for himself, taking Sergeant Major Thuner and his platoon of veteran Hornets from Captain Davison’s C Company. The rest of the men were put on the alert, but continued with the routine of exercises and patrols that their officers had devised.

  He arrived at the western foothills next day. From where his men were halted, south of Buçaco ridge and close to the confluence of the two brimming rivers, Mondego and Alva, he could look down across the river plain to Coimbra.

  This was the area that Wellington had originally marked for his confrontation with Masséna and the defences that he had built were still in place and just as effective.

  In the present circumstances that was largely irrelevant. They were meant to defend against an army coming from the east and would be useless against the large column of men approaching from the west; south of Coimbra.

  The direction from which they were coming told him a lot. His glass showed him at least two thousand men, with a modest cavalry screen out in front, guarding against surprises.

  He was aware that Trant’s militia forces had reoccupied Coimbra and had done much to strengthen the defences along the river that ran south of the town. Maybe he was being unkind to assume that the militia wouldn’t stand against a determined assault by a force such as this. There was no doubt that the road through Coimbra was by far the easiest option.

  It was evident that the column approaching had not been in action recently. This meant that, whoever was in command had decided that he didn’t want to waste time and his men’s lives. He was obviously charged with getting important despatches back to Spain and had been given a large enough escort to make sure that no one stopped him.

  Trant’s forces at Coimbra had therefore been ignored. Instead, this column was moving as quickly as it could along the southern bank of the Mondego, looking to follow the river valley all the way back to Celorico.

  Half-heartedly, he cursed the rain and wiped the lens of his small telescope before studying the columns of soldiers; taking his time and moving the glass from van to rear and back again. Visibility was not good and the men were wearing their greatcoats; anonymous garments at the best of times.

  If he had to make a guess, he would say that most of the marching men were voltigeurs or chasseurs à pied. In spite of the mud they seemed to be maintaining a brisk pace and were carrying a smaller load than many of the grenadiers or line infantry that he had observed before this.

  Even under their cloaks, the small group of officers riding in the middle of the column looked to be of higher rank than would normally be in command of a flying column like this. One only had to look at the baggage train to realise that these men were assembled for speed and defence rather than aggression.

  No soldier’s ‘wives’ or camp followers were to be seen trudging along behind, or cadging lifts on the small number of light baggage wagons, all horse-drawn, no mules or other draught animals in harness.

  There could be no doubt. This was how Masséna was letting Napoleon know that he was in a scrape and please could he have a lot more soldiers, food and ammunition to enable him to try and do what he had come here for?

  Whatever the message; and Welbeloved knew that he was looking at an escort whose only purpose was to get it through, together with a high ranking advocate to explain it.

  How were the Hornets going to react to this flying column?

  He thought about it as the column came closer and loomed larger in his glass. His Hornets were no longer a carefree band of marauders, charged with creating mayhem with the occupying French in Spain and with encouraging, nurturing and arming the guerrilla bands to increase that mayhem.

  He was now a general, no less, directing a brigade of a thousand men and determining how they could be used most effectively and to the greatest discomfort of the enemy.

  He was now almost certain that the approaching column had only one purpose and that was to get a message and its messenger through to Spain. Accepting that; he also had to accept that they had enough force to do so, no matter what the Hornets and the Ordenança attempted, in order to stop them.

  There could be no long-term gain in risking the lives of his men in a serious attempt to delay or damage the column. Therefore, he would let them proceed. He called Thuner over. “Are yew well enough acquainted with the leader of the Ordenança in this area, Sergeant Major?”

  Thuner grinned. “Ja Sir. He is a man who does not like the foreigners, not even the British who are helping, but I think he does not look at me as a foreigner because we both understand the mountains. He will do whatever you want him to.”

  Welbeloved smiled back. “Very good, Johan. Tell him it is not worth trying to stop these French troops. They are trying to leave Portugal as fast as they can and we would lose men to no purpose if we tried to prevent that.”

  He studied Thuner’s face for any reaction to this negative attitude, but the Swiss remained impassive.

  “That does not mean that his men should gather to wave them farewell. I am sure that they will congregate in high, safe places within range of the road and hurry the column along on its way. If yew care to take yor platoon and guard the tracks that the French might use to interfere with yor fr
iends, then El Jefe might come to like us a little more.

  Don’t bother wasting ammunition otherwise, unless yew can bag someone very senior. Yor exercise is really only to keep on good terms with our allies and to emphasise to the French that they are not welcome, even though they are leaving.”

  Thuner was looking slightly happier, though it was difficult to be sure. Any excuse for killing Frenchmen was enough to make him welcome the chance to take his personal revenge for making his homeland a vassal state.

  Welbeloved hurried on. “Just keep an eye on them. If they take the road that will bring them past São Martinho, come and tell me. Otherwise, encourage and guard the Ordenança as best yew can.”

  CHAPTER 3

  The other one hundred and twenty men of the Hanover Hornets were also quite keen to make life miserable for the French. Major Günter Roffhack was leading 3 and 4 Platoons of E Company and 1 and 2 Troops of A Squadron. They were drifting eastwards from the coast with no particular objective in view, other than sustained and opportunistic aggression against groups of enemy foragers.

  Roffhack understood that there were other mills, repaired and operating again on the banks of the Tagus, but to get at them, he would have to pass through almost the entire French army. Colonel Lord Vere and the other half of Roffhack’s command were welcome to develop an expertise in mill wrecking, if their current expedition should prove worth while.

  The French must be getting hungrier. Most of them had not had a good meal since leaving Spain. They were starting to send out large foraging parties and these parties were having to move farther and farther from their bases to have any hope of finding unplundered areas.

  Two hundred foragers might start out, but by the time they had marched ten miles they would have split into four parties of fifty. Then, as the foraging parties were mostly led by sergeants, they would split again into squads of a dozen men, searching every small village they could find.

  Roffhack’s Hornets had already rounded up five such foraging parties and had encountered no opposition at all. It would, after all, have been futile for a dozen men to fight a hundred dragoons, unless those dragoons happened to be guerrilleros, in which case a quick death was preferable to capture.

  Questioning the men they captured, they found that they were supposed to return to their units within three days. Discipline was breaking down due to hunger, as most of them had already been away for longer than that and were not yet on the way back. If Lord Wellington were inclined to attack now, likely he would find half the French army dispersed and looking for food.

  The men they captured were stripped of weapons, greatcoats and tunics and turned loose. They could either return to their units and face the rest of the campaign waiting for dead men’s clothes and equipment, or walk south for ten miles and spend the rest of the war as relatively well fed prisoners. Roffhack never did find out how they chose, but he later discovered that thousands of men had decided to surrender and eat rather than remain loyal and starve.

  This morning, things had turned out somewhat differently. The Hornets were walking their horses, still eastwards, in two columns, when the scouts ahead came galloping back to report a foraging party that was not behaving true to type.

  They reported a column of more than a hundred; about company strength; marching along at an easy pace in disciplined files. They appeared reasonably well turned out in the standard grey greatcoats and tall shakos of the infantry of the line. A couple of light wagons indicated that they were hopeful of finding something to sustain themselves and their comrades back at their bivouac.

  They were about evenly matched for numbers with the Hornets, but Roffhack had absolute confidence that his men could subdue equal numbers of the enemy and deal with them in the same way as the other smaller parties of foragers.

  Nevertheless, a full company would not tamely surrender and that would mean casualties. The Hornets had superior weapons, but that was no guarantee that some of the casualties would not be his own men.

  His commanding officer, Brigadier General Welbeloved had emphasised on many occasions that although casualties were inevitable in war, the Hornets were all specialist soldiers, with specialist training and weapons.

  By his reckoning, if they killed all the men in the approaching company and lost one of their own, the French would have had the better of the exchange. The enemy had approaching half a million men in the Peninsular and the Hornets had about a thousand.

  He gave his orders. He would keep watch on this company. The Hornets were in no hurry and the enemy might decide to split up as so many of the foraging parties had already done. Welbeloved had once said to Lord Wellington that he was quite prepared to give the French a sporting chance once they were dead or prisoners.

  There was a village of a dozen deserted dwellings, that they had already come through along this road. The enemy would reach it in the next two hours and would undoubtedly stop and search for anything that might have been hidden. They might even decide to use the shelter for an overnight stop.

  His two troop commanders were to take their men back to the village and find themselves places of concealment in the trees and shrubs, orchards and vines around the place, particularly on any high ground from which they could observe what the foragers were doing.

  He and the two platoons would hide themselves on either side of the road to wait for the column to pass and follow it towards the village. He rode alongside Lieutenant Müller. “Number 4 Platoon will have the doubtful honour of my company!”

  Müller was young but game. He stiffened to attention in his saddle. “It will be an honour, Sir. No doubt about it.” Roffhack nodded gravely, looking at the grinning men. “So be it. Everyone move off now. I will find the rest of you later, if they stay in the village for the night.”

  Roffhack and Müller watched the column pass from the shelter of a stand of chestnut trees, thoroughly harvested in the recent past and still retaining many of their leaves.

  He studied the marching men carefully for a good five minutes before handing his small field telescope over to Müller. Look at them attentively and tell me what you think, Helmut. I always thought that the French infantry were taught a longer, slower step than that, but I could be wrong. Perhaps the damned rain is affecting them. It can’t be easy on that road. I’m surprised that they haven’t noticed the way our horses have churned up the mud.”

  Müller made no immediate reply. He was staring intently through the glass. Breaking off, he wiped the lens and stared again, although how he found anything dry enough under his cloak was a mystery to Roffhack.

  At length, he handed the glass back apologetically. “I cannot be certain under these conditions, Sir, but I think that the officer sitting by the driver in the first wagon is from Hanover. I know that there was a battalion of the Légion fighting with Ney’s corps at Buçaco. Perhaps this is one of their companies? They are certainly marching more like our men than the French.”

  Roffhack looked again. The damp glass did not seem any clearer after Müller’s ministrations. “I do hope you are right, my friend. The general told me to look out for the Légion Hanovrienne. General Craufurd’s rifles took a heavy toll of their officers at Buçaco.

  As your battalion came back to its true loyalty in Spain when it was given the opportunity, what do you think of the chances of getting those fellows to do the same?”

  “I think it would all depend on their colonel, Sir. None of us was happy to fight for the Corsican, but he demanded troops and our families are still at his mercy at home. Fortunately, our colonel thought as we did and here we are.

  I have heard that some of the other commanders felt that Napoleon was paying their wages and that they therefore owed loyalty to him, now that Hanover is no longer an independent Electorate.”

  “But Helmut! Surely that argument is specious? When you joined us, how long was it since any of you had been paid?”

  Müller grimaced ruefully. “Over six months, Sir. You are quite right, but
many of our senior officers considered it ungentlemanly to talk about money, whereas they were most strict about matters of honour. Our Elector was in England when the French came and those generals who remained either retired or were made to swear an oath to Napoleon. We Germans do tend to regard an oath, even given under duress, as unbreakable.”

  Roffhack sighed and gave him the glass again. “Perhaps we take life far too seriously in many ways, but do examine the column again and see if you can be any more certain.”

  Müller took the glass, but waved his sergeant over to where they were crouched and handed it to him. “It would be better if we let Sergeant Heller see if he can recognise any of the men, Sir. He was with the regiment that fought against the French, before I received my commission.”

  “Good idea, Helmut.” He pointed at the column. “See if you recognise any of the men over there, Heller. We have a suspicion they might be from Hanover originally, but we need to be sure.”

  “Jawohl, Sir. The shakos are right and the pace is faster than the French –” He paused while he adjusted the glass and peered through the eyepiece. “The shako plate is the right size and shape and their moustaches are the same as ours: not like the French at all.” He was talking to himself, itemising the similarities.

  He handed the glass back to Roffhack. “Can’t be sure, Sir, but they are not French. I must guess that they come from Prussia, Hanover or Switzerland and my wager would be on Hanover. We have hairier faces than even the Prussians.”

  Roffhack chuckled. “That is a terrible thing to boast about, Heller. I keep expecting to see walrus tusks under all that hair.”