Swallowing Portugal Will Settle My Spanish Bellyache

by Geoffrey Watson

  The entry to the roof of the keep from a spiral staircase had been carelessly left open. One of the men was set to guard it, with half a dozen of the Condesa’s grenades handy to drop down the stairs.

  By daybreak, there was a flat calm. Cockburn’s flotilla had made an approach to land during the night, but any agreed timetable was always subject to the wind in naval affairs and the approaching ships were becalmed ten miles out. MacKay’s telescope could make out all the ships’ boats being put in the water and loaded with redcoated figures. It was going to be a long, exhausting pull to shore.

  Fifteen miles away, where Captain Cholmondeley’s A Company was attacking another such fortress, the ships could be reefing their sails to slow down their approach, but the delay here actually suited MacKay.

  He hadn’t forgiven the Neapolitans for what he had found in the town and he was quite happy to let the defenders resist all they wanted if it offered an excuse to kill more of them.

  The last time he had caught the French raping Spanish girls he had hanged the officers who were doing it. As far as the French knew, the guerrilleros had caught them. If they had then been puzzled that nothing worse had happened to them, they had many more things to worry about at the time.

  If this garrison surrendered without fighting, there was no way he could hang the lot, however much he wanted to and it would be difficult to blame the guerrilleros if they were not part of the attacking party.

  He held this thought in mind for a while, then had a quiet word with Sergeant Green, one of the original Hornets. Green grinned mirthlessly and disappeared back down the wall and into the town.

  Down below in the courtyard in front of the keep, there was a relaxed air, with soldiers wandering about in a most unmilitary way. Nobody had been to check why the original guards had not returned. The sergeant in charge of the guard detail would have known that he had sent out the last of the sentries and had probably assumed that the men relieved had gone straight back to their beds.

  But for the gunners, no one would have noticed anything unusual until the night’s ticket-of-leave men returned to the gate after their night on the town. Even then, their non-return would likely be put down to sleeping off their excesses.

  The gunners were French and they were climbing up to check on their pieces and make sure that they were ready to serve when required.

  The entire half battery came strolling up the steps together and were greeted at the top by Lieutenant Colston and enough pointed firelocks to persuade them that they had no option but to surrender quietly and submit to having their hands and feet bound. Nobody down below was aware or interested, so casual were they.

  About two hours after dawn, a soldier trudged up to the roof of the keep with his arms full of flag. Whoever O’Malley had left there was not in a good mood after being kept waiting so long. He dispatched the man with his knife. No one was following and he returned to waiting impatiently for his next victim.

  It would be difficult to make out from the courtyard, whether a flag was flying or not. Nobody seemed bothered either way.

  Very shortly afterwards, the next guard detail was sent tramping up the steps to the battlements and a general gathering began to assemble within the walls, a kind of collective stretch after a long sleep.

  The sergeants began shouting to get the men into ranks and the climbing sentries paused to watch as half a dozen officers stepped out from the keep and strolled over to sort out their own platoons.

  There were only about a hundred men on parade, but they were carrying their muskets and were therefore armed. MacKay would have opened fire anyway, but it eased his conscience to a small degree when his targets were carrying weapons.

  O’Malley’s veterans started the massacre by shooting all the officers and sergeants. Lieutenant Colston’s new platoon of thirty Wasps followed on with their modified muskets. Two aimed volleys and MacKay whistled the cease-fire, somewhat sickened with the gratuitous slaughter.

  He made a quick check on the position of the approaching marines, released the gunners and sent them down with his terms.

  Half an hour later, all the survivors were out of the gate and marching towards Málaga as quickly as they could. They left without their weapons, but were in full uniform otherwise. The gunners reported back and would be taken into captivity by the marines. The Neapolitans fought for the French but they didn’t have to like them and had never invited them to share their pleasures.

  As MacKay suspected, Cockburn landed with the first of the marines. He brought his ship’s surgeon and firm friend, Dr. Andretti, brother to Welbeloved’s dead wife. He did what he could for the few wounded, though even he had difficulty understanding italian so different from his native genovese

  Cockburn’s curiosity finally got the better of him. He had inspected the scene of carnage at the brothel without much comment. MacKay had explained that somehow the abused women must have found their helpless tormentors while the Hornets were capturing the fort. What they had done to their rapists did not bear description and MacKay insisted that as prisoners they should have had his protection.

  He had been at fault, but he had atoned for it by releasing all the Neapolitan prisoners, unarmed and unharmed, to march back to their friends at Málaga.

  “It’s a shame, Sir Charles, but ye still hae twenty Frog gunners tae tak back wi’ ye, and the Neapolitans were a poor excuse for soldiers. More trouble tae the French, when returned, than if you’d put ‘em in the hold o’ Titan.”

  Cockburn wasn’t going to get any more information but he was still curious. “I think you said you had developed a relationship with the local guerrilla forces? It might be a good idea if they were to make contact with my marines here, for mutual support, say?”

  MacKay’s face was impassive but there seemed to be a gleam of humour in his eyes. “Believe me, Commodore, ye widnae want tae come within a cable o’ maest o’ the thieves and brigands in Andalusia. We hae been giving special training tae twa bands o’ thirty though. I’ll ask them tae look in on your marines, as and when they come this way.

  CHAPTER 11

  In Ramon Hickson’s opinion, Father Miguel was a fanatic. What is worse, he was a religious fanatic, or someone doing his best to convince his audience of his extreme piety and zeal. When that was added to his profession of unrelenting patriotism, any reasonable man surely had to see him as a charlatan, even assuming he was entitled to the clerical garb he wore.

  Hickson’s mother had done her best to bring him up in the true faith and his father had been away at sea far too much to have had any spiritual influence at all.

  What seemed obvious to him at a very early age was that whatever the priests told him about a benevolent and loving God, the only help he would ever get in the business of living his life, was what he earned by his own endeavours.

  He found it really disturbing then, that many of his young soldiers listened to the priest ranting on – literally - over the brief midday meal and appeared to accept everything he said as ‘God’s truth’ which was never to be questioned.

  It came as a great relief when he confided his misgivings to Manolo Lopez. He found that his Sergeant Major was even more certain than he was that the priest was not to be trusted, although he had gone out of his way to put him at his ease during the meal.

  Lopez it was who selected the men to follow Father Miguel when he left. They were all chosen from the veterans who had experience enough to know that nobody should be taken at face value, particularly those claiming a superior status to themselves. Hickson accepted the lesson this taught, though it did little to strengthen his fragile self esteem.

  Reports that came back from the stalkers confirmed that the priest was devious as well. The men were following on foot, moving from cover to cover as they had been trained to do. After little over half a mile, his donkey stopped and the man seemed to be gazing off to the right at a small outcrop of boulders. A few minutes later and he kicked the animal into a gentle amble and moved on. />
  The trackers observed this and moved in a very wide circle around the outcrop before they picked up their quarry again, leaving the armed lookout hiding there none the wiser.

  It was just as well that they had taken extra care to remain unseen both before and after that. Another lookout was perched in the rocks overlooking a small col providing the route to the descent into the next valley and he only became visible when he moved to report to the priest riding below him.

  This might be the end of the pursuit unless they could capture the lookouts. There was no easy way to get past the col unseen and by the time they succeeded, the priest would be long gone. They would have to be patient and follow the lookouts instead.

  Patience was not actually needed, entirely due to the lack of it among the priest’s men. The lookout on the col gesticulated energetically as soon as Father Miguel passed him and his companion cantered to join him. When the Hornets climbed the col, the two horses and the donkey were far into the next valley, just about to ford the frothing stream above a small village.

  When the rest of the Hornets caught up, Lopez was examining the village through Hickson’s spyglass. Their chase had ridden straight through and was heading towards another pass into the next valley.

  Lopez handed the telescope back and waved in the direction of the village. “There are only a dozen poor houses to be seen, but no villagers visible, Señor Teniente. That is strange enough in the middle of the afternoon, but stranger still for the end of November is that no smoke is rising from any of the houses. I think that we may have found another Santa Cruz.”

  Hickson grunted and swept the glass until he found his quarry. The small group was trotting up towards the second pass and would be out of sight in ten minutes. “Did the priest pause at all when he went through that village, Sergeant Major?”

  “Only at the ford, Señor Teniente. They all stopped to let their mounts drink, but the village might not exist for all the attention they paid. I am wondering if the priest is the man of God that he says he is. Once I met an officer of the Holy Inquisition and he frightened me.” He crossed himself vigorously. “He must have been holy, but I only saw the fires of hell in his eyes.”

  Hickson snapped his telescope shut and Lopez wriggled in embarrassment. “I saw the same look in the eyes of this priest, Jefe and he didn’t seem holy at all.”

  Hickson dropped all formality. “I saw the same thing, Manolo. I very much doubt that he is a priest at all, but many of our young men seemed very impressionable. They seemed to be hanging on his every word when we ate together. I would not wish to have a conflict of loyalty if we need to move against the man.”

  Lopez had a troubled look that gradually changed to amusement as he realised what was bothering his friend. “If you had watched me while the priest was preaching at us, Jefe, you would have seen a very devout listener, anxious to assure him how deeply we believe.

  You have not been taught by priests, but all our recruits have been practising dumb devotion for years. Many of them are indeed devout in a practical sort of way, but remember that we recruited them as much for their ability to think as for their physical abilities.

  They know that priests are human and have all the same vices. They know that they live by taxing their flock and that we are the sheep that have to pay. They also know that the Church is so powerful that it is wiser to nod and agree and then do what they want to anyway.

  Why don’t you ask the men what they thought of him? You might be surprised. Better still, let me ask. They might just tell you what they think you want to hear.”

  Hickson was surprised. The men had been giving the priest what he had been looking for. Piety and devotion spread thick, like soft cheese. Blessings accepted meekly and gratefully and an almost universal assessment that he was not entirely genuine; not necessarily as a priest, for there were some strange ones about, but in being something other than he would have them believe.

  They also went up in Hickson’s estimation when it became obvious that they were mostly aware of his own suspicions and were waiting patiently for him to get on with the job. His relationship with them changed at that moment. In future he would know that, for the most part, they all thought alike.

  He led them down to the deserted village where they rested for a few hours until dark. Then, leaving the horses, they set out on foot to see whether there were any answers on the other side of the col over which the priest had passed in the late afternoon.

  It took them two hours to discover that the col was not guarded. After endless patient searching for lookouts or sentries in the rocks overlooking the pass, they found that they were able to look down, by the light of a well-risen half moon, into a steep sided valley with no signs to be seen in the darkness.

  The reason for a lack of sentries might be the lack of a village or a town. It could also be because the track over the col hugged the side of the ridge where it must have been widened over the tears, from an original goat track with a steep rise on one side and a drop nearly as steep on the other.

  It disappeared round a bend after a couple of hundred yards and the simplest of defence structures anywhere along its length, would serve to stop a whole army from entering the valley. It reminded Hickson of the track up to the guerrilla camp, to which Lopez had guided the Hornets in Asturias, a couple of years ago.

  Lopez obviously remembered too. He gestured to the road. “If there is a town in this valley, it will be built at the head of it, behind this ridge and with the road going through and round to another col and another valley on the other side. Any fields will be terraced and perhaps go all the way down into the valley.”

  Hickson agreed. The valley was steep and fertile. It positively cried out for a thriving little town at its head and broad terraces for crops, olive and fruit trees and grazing animals.

  Lopez led a small team along the road and round the bend in the spur to where the whole of the steep valley was laid out in the moonlight. He was back, reporting formally, within thirty minutes.

  “It is exactly as it should be, Señor Teniente. The road rises to the town at the head of the valley and is defended at the point where the ridge is steepest. I could not see any guards in the darkness, but a few men could hold off a hundred.

  It has to be possible to climb through the terraces to the town, but I wouldn’t like to climb down to the valley floor anywhere this side of their roadblock. We would certainly arrive there, but not in the same condition we started out in.”

  “What you are saying, Sergeant Major, is that we can’t use the road and we can’t go down to the valley. Perhaps we should have asked the priest to pray for wings and fly over the ridge?”

  Both men chuckled at the idea, but looked up at the ridge and nodded. “It was Señor Thuner who said he would never climb down an unknown cliff in the dark, but going up was possible if you could see the sky and could feel for your handholds. Give the word, Jefe, and we will go as far as we can. When the sun comes up we can try and climb over the town to where we can look down into it.”

  Hickson’s teeth flashed in the moonlight. “The idea is good but reckless, Sergeant Major. Send six men back to fetch the horses. They can be hobbled and hidden in that gully over there and we can rest here until it’s light enough for Johnnie Thuner. If it can be climbed we shall be able to find a good viewpoint before the villagers are up and about to see us.”

  It was a good decision. Climbing on to the ridge from the col was not easy, even for men who had been raised in the mountains. In the dark it would have been hazardous in the extreme, but in the early dawn all the men had reached the top of the ridge and were negotiating a rough and rocky slope over the valley. Below them, the houses of the little town crowded about the small plateau at the very head of the valley.

  Especially in the shorter days of winter, the towns and villages in Spain rose and retired with the sun. The Hornets moved warily until they occupied all the high ground and could look down onto the little town and over it to the
built- up terraces that went all the way down to the valley floor, expanding sideways as the valley opened out.

  Occasional small farm buildings occupied some of the terraces, but the town itself was clustered round the church and three or four substantial buildings on the plateau. The rest of the houses fought each other for a foothold on the slopes above and below the church.

  Hickson and his men settled down for a long wait while they observed the daily routine of the township. All they had to go on at the moment was deep suspicion of the priest, but they still couldn’t say for certain that he had even stopped here. It was possible after all that he had ridden through and over the col into the next valley. The manned defences on the roads in and out could easily be explained as measures to stop French foraging parties.

  The first odd note came during the first service of the day at the church. The entire congregation was made up of women. They came pouring out of the houses and there were enough of them to fill the church to overflowing. The other strange thing was that normally a crowd of women would be chattering away as only women could, but these might have been going to the funeral of their best friend.

  The men did not appear until all the women were in church and then these were relatively few who were acting as warders or guards to sixty or more convicts. Ragged and ill-kempt prisoners in leg irons who were driven, shambling off towards the fields of the lower terraces.

  This was most unusual. There were enough prisoners to include the entire criminal element of a town, two or three times the size of this one and none of the buildings gave the impression of being a specially built prison.

  The women’s service lasted half-an-hour and was followed immediately by another for the men. Less than a quarter of the numbers, they nevertheless came out of the same houses and every man carried a flintlock musket of some type. It wasn’t the sort of equipment one would normally associate with attendance at mass, but these were not normal times.