Swallowing Portugal Will Settle My Spanish Bellyache

by Geoffrey Watson

  Judging by the chaos and confusion among the chasseurs, an engagement this close to their camp was the last thing they were expecting. A concert of bugle calls gave orders, counter-orders and complete disorder. The troopers, at least, made up their own minds. Not knowing what they were supposed to do; and in the case of the leading troops whose officers and sergeants were the first to fall; they chose unanimously to move away from the deadly hail of lead.

  Briefly, it increased the confusion as the vanguard collided with those coming behind. The squadron commanders quickly reasserted their authority and a mass of chasseurs milled about on all three roads, a respectable distance back from the scattering of bodies and riderless horses that testified to the accuracy of the opening shots.

  There must have been two regiments of chasseurs, because one of the colonels was now taking charge. Without a visible target to engage, he had to believe that his enemy had divided his force to cover all three roads. Therefore he would concentrate his men and charge in overwhelming force along one of them. If he chose the middle one, his chasseurs could go straight through, turning right and left to take the brown devils on the other roads in the rear.

  It was such basic cavalry thinking that Gonçalves and Hagen looked at each other and grinned. Then Hagen signalled his two reserve troops to dismount and reinforce the Hornets on the middle road. Sixty more men went to ground behind the men already in position. If any chasseurs got through the first screen, they would make certain that, at point blank range, they didn’t get through the second.

  Dodds was in the middle of his platoon on the middle road. He had called a cease-fire as soon as the French began to fall back. Number One Platoon had the breech-loading Bakers and their rifled barrels could hit a man, not necessarily fatally at over four hundred yards. Sergeant Santos and three others of his veterans were better-than-average marksmen and there in front of them and only four hundred yards away was a French colonel organising a mass charge at his men.

  He directed the attention of his chosen marksmen at the lace festooned uniform of the colonel and the almost equally decorative figure of the squadron bugler beside him.

  Getting squadrons of horsemen into position to charge was not something that could be done casually or quickly. As with companies of infantry, they had to conform to the drills that they had all practised and the bugled orders that they had all committed to memory.

  The colonel had them lined up in three squadron blocks, each about four deep and thirty men across the sixty or seventy yard front. They were all ready to go; four hundred horsemen with a further squadron ready to move in behind as the first three were committed.

  Dodds watched intently as the order was given and the leading squadron drew its sabres. The colonel turned in his saddle to order the bugler to sound the advance. Dodds let out a bellow. His marksmen shot the colonel and the bugler. Fifty riflemen in both platoons selected their targets and settled down to deliver alternate volleys at the mass of horsemen lined up before them.

  In the French ranks, confusion reigned for many vital seconds. No bugle had sounded and any set drill was ruined, with men and horses falling in the forward lines. Instinct took over. They were lined up to charge and they were under fire. The first squadron surged forward in a scattered mass. Other buglers set the second and third squadrons moving.

  They could see where their target was, if only by the scattered clouds of powder smoke. Indeed the clouds were well scattered, as it was only the riflemen who were in action until the range grew shorter. It didn’t matter to the cavalry as they knew that when they got close enough, those clouds of smoke would turn into fleeing men and they would have an orgy of sabring and exult in revenge for all the misfortunes they had suffered in the mountains.

  The aimed fire of the rifles quickly became erratically continuous and the leading squadron no longer existed by the time Gonçalves blew a piercing blast on his whistle. The charging men were now within killing range of the carbines and the rate of fire more than doubled.

  The chasseurs were mad with excitement and blood lust. In a battle, they would probably have charged to extinction, but the horsemen in the third squadron had only just prepared to gallop and the two squadrons in front of them were no longer there.

  Before them were dozens of riderless horses and in addition to all else they had to concentrate on avoiding collision with them and the bodies of dozens of men and horses, lying or thrashing about in their path.

  The clouds of powder smoke were now too numerous to count and gave the impression of vast numbers of enemy skirmishers, far more than they had any chance of beating.

  The leading riders could not retreat because of the press of the men in the squadron behind, but they could and did swerve right and left. Anywhere would do as long as it was away from that terrible hail of death.

  The last squadron suddenly found itself alone in the field and its commander was sensible enough to sound the retreat before the Hornets had started to target them seriously. It was a reprieve for them and a relief for Gonçalves and Hagen. There was little enough wind to clear the powder smoke away and aiming was beginning to become a serious problem for the sharpshooters.

  Had the last hundred chasseurs pressed their attack, it is quite possible that they could have reached their target and caused some casualties. As it was, the Hornets were thoroughly soaked from their long period on the wet ground, but otherwise without harm.

  They left the field to the French, having seen the thousand or so voltigeurs in the distance, racing out from the town in a belated attempt to help their cavalry. Hagen was briefly tempted to get his men remounted and get among them, but there were still several squadrons of chasseurs who had not been engaged and who would have welcomed the chance to spill a little blood on their own account. They contented themselves with rounding up many of the riderless horses and moving back a few miles to rest.

  ***

  The French did not venture out next day, other than to bury their dead and salvage saddles, harness and meat from the dead animals. Observers from the Hornets watched from a distance, but made no attempt to interfere or even to advertise their presence.

  Pom and his platoon returned by the afternoon. They were not in the least bit pleased to learn of the successes of their comrades; indeed, they were furious that they had been away on a fruitless exercise, while their friends had had all the excitement.

  As far as they could tell, from questioning one or two peasants they had found, ones who had refused to flee to Lisbon, the rumoured pontoon bridge was only a rumour. The bridge over the Zézere on the road from Abrantes to the Lisbon peninsular was destroyed, although the summer ford was still passable to a daring and agile man, willing to leap from rock to rock across the torrential winter currents.

  That was how the six deserters that he had collected had managed to cross. They confirmed that it was quite impassable to any form of transport and would be until March or April.

  The six were, in fact, double deserters. They had been part of the garrison of Almeida when it surrendered to the French. Offered a choice between being a prisoner of war and joining the French army, they had opted for service with the enemy until they could desert again and rejoin their own forces. They were refreshingly honest and admitted quite openly that if the French had looked like winning, they would be well placed if they stayed with them.

  Buçaco had disabused them of that idea and it had taken until Masséna had moved to Santarém before they had the chance to get away. They were pathetically grateful for the rations that the Hornets shared with them. The French had little food left and an unwillingness to share with any non-Frenchman. They were skinny creatures at the best of times, but a few weeks on a starvation diet had their uniforms hanging off them.

  Reasonably handsome uniforms too. They had kept the chestnut brown, Portuguese standard colour, but the French had added scarlet collar, cuffs and facings, together with red around the shako. Even damp and faded, it looked in better condition t
han most of the bleached blue of the French veterans.

  The six were trying to make their way back towards Almeida when they met Pom and his patrol. They were more than happy to stay with the Hornets if they could continue to share their food, but neither Gonçalves nor Hagen could accept passengers, even though there were plenty of spare horses to ride.

  Pom was fidgeting. Dodds thought he was still angry that he and his men had missed the fight and was ribbing him unmercifully; although with ill concealed pride; for being a fire-eating young ruffian.

  Pom shrugged the raillery away. “I do think you could have used thirty extra Bakers against that number of cavalry, but I see that the company has managed to survive without us.

  What troubles me is that we have reached a stalemate. We can only irritate them until they start their search again with the whole of their strength. They don’t know which way to go but I am sure they know that Abrantes is south of them on the Tagus. What happens if they decide to attack it? They’ve got enough men to start a siege and Masséna would hear about it very quickly and come looking for his supplies. He’s already desperate for food and ammunition and such a meeting could keep him going for weeks longer.”

  Dodds scratched his head. “Listen to me, young Li. You’ve just given me a shortened version of what I’ve been discussing with Captain Gonçalves and Major Hagen, almost word for word. Now, if you’ve found some wonderful way of changing the situation, we would all like to know. Otherwise, go and point out the direction of Almeida to these six friends of yours, give them enough food for a couple of days and put a boot in their backsides.”

  Pom actually wriggled with embarrassment. “The thing is, Sir, I do have a notion that I think might work, but I don’t know if Captain Gonçalves will think it stupid. I’m sure he thinks I’m only a boy, but then, that’s all he would be losing if I’m wrong.”

  ***

  Early in the morning, an alert sentry at the French camp, spotted six figures wearing French greatcoats and red swathed shakos, sneaking towards the town over the muddy fields to the south. He reported this curious fact to his sergeant, who looked for himself and turned out the guard to greet the six with levelled muskets as they stumbled from the fields with many a backward, furtive glance and made for the shelter of the buildings.

  The corporal who was in charge of the small unit seemed incredibly young, but unlike the rest of the men he spoke very good french and was rushed in front of General Gardanne. Any information that could be extracted from these men could be more valuable than gold dust.

  In his turn, the corporal refused to say a word until he and his men were given food. He claimed that they had been surviving on nothing but roots and grass for over a week and if they hadn’t found this friendly army they would have starved to death.

  Gardanne, frankly, could not have cared if they lived or died as long as they told him something to help him. He gave orders that the men should be fed and indulged the corporal by seating him in his own quarters, so that he could question him while he ate. He placed no importance on the strikingly oriental cast to his features. The one thing he did know about the Portuguese was that they traded with everyone in the world and that most of them had some trace of Moorish blood in their family. Why not eastern liaisons then?

  “You have admitted, Corporal, that you came with the Armée de Portugal from Almeida. Now you are on your own and the army does not appear to be within fifty miles. Is it not possible that you and your men have deserted and are trying to join the English?”

  The corporal looked up from his food. “How can it appear that way, Mon Général, when we have spent the whole night trying to make our way to you through hundreds of horsemen, who, I suspect, are German mercenaries fighting for the English?”

  He made himself appear reluctant, then shrugged resignedly. “The truth is, Sir, that your army is starving. The English have removed or destroyed all food between Coimbra and Lisbon and the small amount that has been found is being given only to Frenchmen.

  We had eaten little for three weeks and when there was fighting and we got separated from our unit, we decided to cross the river and hope that there was food still to be found in this area. Unfortunately, we could find none until we met you.”

  Gardanne pounced. “You have come across the river? Which river?”

  The corporal looked amazed. “We call it the Zézere, Sir. We nearly drowned getting across because the bridge has been destroyed and the river is in flood. It will be Spring before it can be forded safely.”

  It was not the information that Gardanne wanted. He sounded a little plaintive. “How then am I to take my men across?”

  The corporal looked even more astounded. “But you have an army here! Can your engineers not build a bridge? Your engineers at Santarém were building one over the Tagus until the English sent an army up on the other bank. I heard that the English general Hill was also bringing supplies across the Tagus bridge into Abrantes for the garrison there. That is only twenty miles south of here if you wanted to attack it, but I suppose the English would then attack you. I’m glad I’m not a general. You have too many impossible decisions to make. Is there any more of this cheese? It is nearly as good as the cheese that the peasants make in the mountains when people have stopped fighting.”

  Gardanne gave much thought to what he had been told. He decided that this was one of those occasions when he was not glad he was a general.

  How much of what the corporal said was accurate? He could believe that Masséna was short of food. His own men had found almost nothing since they entered Portugal and were themselves on short rations. His convoy had brought replacement arms, ammunition and military supplies, but only enough food to feed themselves.

  He couldn’t believe that Masséna wouldn’t have invested Abrantes if he could have got at it. If he couldn’t get at it, Gardanne couldn’t get at him and even if he could, there would be another five thousand mouths to feed and apparently nothing to feed them with.

  Lastly, if General Hill and possibly a division of Wellington’s army were sitting in Abrantes, he could not fight them without artillery and cavalry. He had no guns and his cavalry was so badly mauled that they were virtually useless.

  The only sensible conclusion was that those thrice damned Frelons were holding him here until Hill and his army could come and capture him. That could not be tolerated.

  ***

  Corporal; now once more Acting Lieutenant; Pom and his five men walked into the Hornets’ camp next morning. Gardanne was damned if he was going to waste rations on deserters, even if they had been helpful and had a very believable excuse.

  They had been turned loose in the early hours, as the last of the wagons had left the town in a panicky rush back to Spain. If and when they got there, they could collect food and ammunition and try again, but not soon and not by this route.

  Pom’s head was beginning to swell with all the praise that was heaped on him. Both Gonçalves and Hagen agreed that he was to lose the ‘Acting’ part of his rank immediately and they would insist that this be confirmed at the earliest opportunity. What they were able to do was raise him from Wasp to Hornet status without further ado.

  Gonçalves offered to accept the six ‘deserters’ for assessment as Wasps, but all they wanted to do was find their way home and disappear into the countryside. They were provided with food and a written safe conduct to protect them from the Ordenança and left half a day behind the convoy, to follow it until they were safely across the river to the north.

  F Company and H Squadron waited another day to make sure that the French convoy really was in full retreat. Then they returned to São Martinho. The Portuguese would resume their guardianship of the mountains and the Germans would ride south to join Wellington. Their cavalry training had not been put to the best use against Gardanne.

  It would be interesting to see if they could be integrated into the army as an independent force without upsetting too many senior commanders.

&nbs
p; CHAPTER 18

  When MacKay had suggested putting garrisons into towns along the coast of Andalucia, he had hoped that it would attract troops away from the French army that had gathered to combat Freire’s Spanish army approaching from Murcia.

  Any distraction would do if it reduced the numbers available to the French and enabled the Spanish forces to hold their own against Sebastiani’s men. As he had explained to Commodore Sir Charles Cockburn, any pinprick was useful if it denied troops to Soult for whatever attempt he should make to drive across Southern Portugal to aid Masséna.

  The theory was sound. The forts and castles were captured and occupied. Nearly two thousand troops were detached to invest the two towns farthest west. Everything was going to plan until the Spaniards were routed by French cavalry and the survivors fled back into the mountains of Murcia.

  Sebastiani then had the chance to turn five thousand men loose on each castle. Against those numbers, the marines would have to have been withdrawn.

  Instead and almost with disdain, they lifted their siege of the farthest fort and put the men engaged, together with a few guns, to try and avenge MacKay’s destruction of Colonel Girard’s command. They must have assumed that a few hundred marines were not likely to venture too far away from their ships.

  The rest of their army marched away towards Seville, where Marshal Soult was said to be gathering his army and looking to the north and west: Badajoz and Lisbon.

  MacKay left Sergeant Major O’Malley and twenty Hornets with Major Jameson. He took the rest of A and B Companies and followed the French army. Word had come through that Brigadier General Welbeloved was at Ronda with C and D Companies and would like MacKay to join him.

  It was a fascinating proposition. What MacKay always thought of as the British Hornets; the first four companies, being composed almost entirely of English, Scottish, Irish and Welsh marines and sailors; had never worked together as a single unit.