Swallowing Portugal Will Settle My Spanish Bellyache

by Geoffrey Watson

  On the coastal road, the French cavalry were loose and Spanish infantry were flying in all directions to escape the slashing sabres.

  MacKay could see that the danger on his right was that the cavalry would drive right past the ridge and outflank him. There seemed little chance that the Spanish column would offer any resistance. He must find a way of slowing the regiment of dragoons that was causing all the panic.

  B Company grinned at him as he trotted over to look straight down the slope at the panic among the fleeing Spaniards. “Captain Addenbrooke!”

  “Sir?” It was always formal with Addenbrooke. He was that sort of character. MacKay didn’t even know his christian name. “The road intae the town is within range o’ your riflemen. Shall you hae a dozen o’ them ready tae discourage those dragoons when they come level wi’ us? Man or horse shall do at this range. It don’t signify as long as they realise the road ain’t healthy for them. We must show them that this ridge is held in strength and has tae be cleared before they move past us.”

  “Aye, aye, Sir. We risk hitting our allies as well. It is likely there shall be confusion when the dragoons get among them.”

  “Dinnae fash yourself, Captain! A mounted dragoon is much more o’ a target and we shall undoubtedly save more Spanish lives than shall be lost tae the French. Another thing! Get all the men, not shooting at dragoons, ontae their feet. The Frogs must see us and know that we mean business.

  He trotted back to A Company, pausing to talk to Sergeant Major O’Malley. “I’m sure your lads hae one or twa o’ the Condesa’s grenades about them, Mr. O’Malley. Half a dozen lobbed down the slope when we shoot the dragoons shall tell them that we are here and awaiting the pleasure o’ their company.” Or even their battalion, he muttered to himself.

  He made A Company get to their feet as well. It would let the British rearguard know, as well as the French, that they had a strong point on their flank and increase their determination to stop the enemy breaking through.

  His recently acquired Dolland glass was trained on the two squadrons of dragoons. The superb quality of the lenses gave him a clear view, even down to the braid on their green tunics. They were much less energetic with their sabres now than they had been at the start of their assault. Several pounds of sharp blade quickly became blunt in combat and in MacKay’s experience seemed to double in weight for every five minutes fighting.

  Their commander must have realised that their initial impetus was blunted. The bugle sounded and they moved into individual troops that trotted sedately forward, still with sabres drawn and confident that no one was going to face them in direct confrontation.

  They had the town of Barrosa in their sights, perhaps even thoughts of plunder in their minds. They may have seen some of the Hornets standing up on the ridge, but would know that they were in no danger from them at that distance.

  They remained convinced until six men of the leading troop were brought down, quickly followed by another six and another until the few left at the rear fled back towards the rest of the squadron, on which the Hornets turned their rifles until they too galloped back down the road, leaving up to thirty riderless horses or horseless riders, either running for their lives or sprawled on the ground.

  Half a dozen simultaneous explosions from lobbed grenades sounded enough like small artillery pieces to put doubts into the commander’s mind. Messengers went back to their general to report, while the squadron lingered, watching, just out of range.

  Or so they thought. It was certainly a quarter of a mile, but Addenbrooke had two more grenades lobbed together and all twelve of the rifles fired at the same time, aiming at the small group of mounted officers.

  It was like a blast of grapeshot from a cannon, but more effective, as a whole group of riders went down and the rest pulled back another quarter of a mile.

  The foot soldiers must have been close on the heels of the dragoons. The first columns of light infantry appeared very quickly, with regiments of line infantry and grenadiers just behind.

  MacKay realised that his plan had worked when he saw them deploying to assault the heights. Whoever was in charge knew his business. The speed of the deployment and the direction of the attack showed that this division at least, was filled with experienced, knowledgeable and veteran soldiers.

  The only thing the commander didn’t know was the numbers he faced on top of the ridge. The dragoons had reported unacceptable losses and men had been seen standing on the skyline, but the hill looked quite bare from where the attack was gathering. The nagging thought was there. Stories had circulated about how Wellington loved to hide his strength on a reverse slope.

  MacKay was torn between hoping that his opponent would assume the hill was held by a scratch force; most logical; or that the British had somehow found the regiments to use it as the pivot for a counter attack. The next ten minutes would tell: a probing attack or an all out assault?

  A battalion of tirailleurs; specialist skirmishers; was the answer. This French commander wanted to know what he was fighting before sending in his heavy infantry.

  He could sense the anticipation among his men. Skirmishing was one of their specialities and tirailleurs were the best that the enemy could send against them. This would be more of a contest although the Hornets had most of the advantages.

  He called out to both companies. He desired the carbines to hold their fire until the enemy reached a hundred yards and the rifles to open fire at a hundred and fifty. By all means, let them climb halfway to the top before engaging them. The climb should tire them, but getting so close might make them far less cautious.

  The tirailleurs went into skirmish order before they reached the foot of the climb. Three or four hundred men in a wide swarm, all wearing sun-bleached uniforms and tall black shakos. The colour of the tunics might once have been a grey-tan with yellow facings. The sun had changed it into something similar to the pre-Revolutionary white; a dirty white and another disadvantage for skirmishers who would themselves be shooting at shadows.

  The swarm split in two, choosing the gentler climbs on both bulges of the slope. MacKay, lying in the centre, saw that the outcome of this phase had passed out of his hands. Cholmondeley and Addenbrooke would soon be fighting separate battles of their own. As he had complete confidence in their abilities, he relaxed and concentrated his glass on the deployment of the infantry waiting to follow the skirmishers.

  Most of the French division was spread out in company or battalion blocks; thousands of men who could assault the hill or simply engulf it by pouring round each side. That choice was something he could do nothing more to influence now.

  He fished out his watch and was amazed at how slowly time was passing. It felt as though Graham’s reinforcements should be climbing into position by now, but the dial told him that realistically the Hornets were by themselves for at least another half-hour. He held it to his ear, convinced that it had stopped. The tick was loud and steady and he turned his attention back to his front as the rifles on either side of him shocked and horrified the leading tirailleurs, who were beginning to believe that their enemy had fled.

  Dozens of them went rolling back down the slopes and all of a sudden, any tuft of grass, small shrub or protruding rock became the most desirable object in the world. There were not all that many available and two or three tirailleurs sometimes tried for the same shelter at the same time.

  The Hornets were specialist veterans and had made their own assessment of this assault. It wasn’t that they had disobeyed MacKay’s instructions, it was more a question of interpretation. The rifles had opened fire when the tirailleurs passed a hundred and fifty yards on each slope. To a man they had understood that their colonel was referring to the rear of the advancing swarms. Now, even the carbines in the two companies had the enemy within easy killing range.

  The whole thing lasted less than thirty seconds and was more devastating because of it. Big shakos, light coloured tunics, inadequate cover and fiendishly quick and accurate sh
ooting wiped out two-thirds of the tirailleurs. The corpses and survivors alike went rushing and tumbling to the foot of the slope. The survivors alone carried on running to the questionable safety of their waiting comrades.

  In the silence that followed, MacKay stared through his glass. The drifting powder smoke was soon blown away and he watched the French assembling into broad columns; four of them; all pointing directly at the slope. He let his breath out slowly. He had succeeded in concentrating their minds on the ridge. For the present, all thought of enveloping the heights round either side was forgotten.

  The very width of the columns meant that the assault would come at them from the front and sides at the same time. Unless Graham could get a brigade of infantry onto the heights in the next ten minutes, the firepower of the Hornets alone would not be enough to halt the French.

  The French drums started and four columns in two pairs wound towards the hill, reached the bottom and marked time while the outer two moved round the arc to commence climbing at the same time. Every man had a long bayonet gleaming on the muzzle of a long musket. This assault was to be accomplished without pause for musketry. The French wanted immediate control of the summit, whatever the cost.

  MacKay’s men were spread thin. Each man was three or four paces from his comrade, to cover a front of over half a mile. The target was large enough though; wide files of men tramping doggedly up the slope, practically shoulder to shoulder. It was like a replay, in miniature, of Buçaco. Bayonets were gleaming like spines on a porcupine, bristling out in front of a blue-clad mass of men.

  At maximum range, the Hornets started firing into the mass as soon as it started to climb. Men were falling, but the only response was an increase in the beat of the drums.

  When they were half way up, MacKay withdrew all the rifles to the back of the plateau, while the carbines, with their slightly quicker rate of fire, continued to spray lead into the heads of the columns until they were less than fifty feet away.

  Everyone left at that point and raced across behind the riflemen, who treated the infantry coming over the top, to three or four volleys before following their colleagues down the slope to find cover on the bottom half.

  MacKay reached the foot at the same time as Colonel Browne and five hundred miscellaneous light infantry. These were the first troops that General Graham had got together to try and slow down the French until he could get his line battalions deployed.

  Browne had been present at Welbeloved’s presentation and was inclined to be defensive regarding the abilities of his own men, as if he had something to prove. “I have heard a lot of musketry on my way here, Colonel. May I take it that your men have been involved? Shall you tell me where they and the enemy are at this time?”

  MacKay looked faintly puzzled and turned to look at the slope where the Hornets were scattered. Although they blended in with the dead grass and brown earth, they were lying facing up the slope and their full bodies could be seen from below, even if the French would only be able to see their heads.

  “I am delighted tae see you, Sir. If you care tae study the slope before us, my men are in skirmish order, scattered across, about half way up. The enemy has been persuaded tae storm the heights wi’ considerable loss o’ life. After consolidating their position on the plateau, I anticipate that they shall line the rim wi’ muskets before sending their columns down at us.”

  “How many men do they have on the heights?”

  “Best part of a division, Colonel. We saw off their skirmishers, then took three or four hundred off the front o’ their four columns. Round it up tae four thousand men that we hae tae stop until our battalions get here.”

  Browne’s look of disbelief at his figures was changed in a flash as the half-mile of skyline at the top of the slope, filled with men standing almost shoulder to shoulder; a double line of about a thousand men, in pairs, one behind the other.

  The effect on Browne was startling. From a potential dispute about numbers, he changed to issuing orders to anyone in sight. The light infantry column he had led this far had spread out behind him and now broke ranks into skirmishing order and swarmed straight up the hill in a way that reminded MacKay of the tirailleurs that the Hornets had shattered.

  Browne started off as well, to shepherd his men up the slope. His voice floated back. “Join us when you see fit, Colonel, we won’t begrudge you your share of the action!”

  MacKay was about to shout a suggestion that they stopped level with the Hornet skirmish line to await the inevitable attack by columns. He saw that he would be wasting his breath. Instead, he shrugged fatalistically and sprinted after them until he could find suitable cover in the centre of the scattered Hornets.

  They had been occupying their time by sniping at the heads and torsos that they could see against the skyline, but the men coming up behind needed to be within range of the lines of men above them. They scrambled past, quite blocking the Hornets’ view and giving instant relief to the French.

  The French were relieved, but not grateful. They used the respite to order their line and with the advantage of height, put two quick volleys into the climbing light infantry without reply, as shooting uphill at that range was a waste of shot, with their muzzle-loading muskets.

  The effect on Browne’s skirmishers was nearly as devastating as the Hornets had been on the tirailleurs. MacKay could see nearly half of them smashed down, to lie sprawled or to tumble back down the slope. It was hard to be certain as they all dived for cover at the same time.

  The rifles among the hornets started sniping again and were joined by some of the unwounded riflemen in front of them. The French replied spasmodically, even without a target, by spraying the slope with occasional volleys. They were not aimed, but the law of averages dictated that several hundred musket balls fired into a small area were bound to find some target and the survivors among Browne’s skirmishers were closest.

  It was almost a stand-off. Time wasted for the French was the time needed to deploy troops against them. They really could not allow it to continue.

  The line of troops above MacKay moved sideways in places to make gaps. These were where the French would come storming over the rim of the plateau in column, to smash their way through all opposition.

  His voice bellowed out to his men to be ready. At the same time, he heard other voices shouting orders behind him. With a feeling of great relief, he looked down to see a column of hundreds of British redcoats had moved across his rear and were busy deploying into lines that marched in rigid order to the base of the slope.

  He regarded them with mixed feelings. Whether or not any more were on the way, there was no more than a brigade on view; a thousand men; maybe a few more. The French were likely to put twice that number into their columns and still have the same number in reserve if they needed to try again.

  There was no more time for speculation. The Hornets had started to shoot and the volume of noise told him what he would see when he turned round and looked up the hill. There were two columns streaming off the plateau, close together and each with a front of twenty men.

  Cholmondeley and Addenbrooke had agreed by hand signals without bothering him. Four times forty or more Hornets were taking it in turns to fire rapid volleys into the front of the columns. Done properly, it meant that every six or seven seconds, the front files – forty men – were blown away.

  The captains, lieutenants, sergeants major and MacKay fired at will, seeking out any officer or sergeant marching with the columns. This left forty or fifty riflemen free to continue sniping into the figures on the skyline and encourage the survivors of Browne’s men to shoot into the sides of the column with every chance of doing further damage.

  The columns were indeed suffering. The leading files were being peeled away remorselessly, but not quickly enough, even though every skirmisher on the slope was firing into them. They were already a hundred yards down the slope and many of Browne’s men were running back down to new positions in among the Hornets, where t
hey ought to have stopped in the first place.

  Shooting from the rim was slackening, largely from fear of hitting their own columns and the columns themselves were all glittering bayonets moving downhill at speed and almost ready to move into the pas de charge.

  Their target was not to be the infuriating skirmishers though. It was the line of regiments that had climbed steadily upward behind the skirmish line, with the stentorian voices of officers and sergeants that halted them just before they marched all over MacKay’s men.

  He heard the final orders bellowed and blew a persistent series of blasts on his whistle. It wasn’t in their training drill, but his men all knew what it meant and tried to make themselves part of the hillside as the British redcoats, including the Guards and battalions of the 67th, fired rapid volleys over their heads of up to five hundred rounds from the front and sides, into the front of the columns of French grenadiers.

  The heads of the columns quite literally dissolved under the weight of the shot. They still outnumbered the British line, but had been delayed long enough to stop them punching through them and it was far too late to attempt to deploy into line to get on more equal terms.

  The firepower against them, line against column, was five hundred to forty and they recoiled from it. The line climbed steadily after them and even the remnants of the French line were not prepared to stand and argue. MacKay watched the redcoats disappear onto the plateau and began to take stock of his command, just as Welbeloved and the other two companies cantered up to help.

  CHAPTER 25

  Marshal Victor should have been a worried man. He must wonder whether his name was appropriate. He was still a marshal, but in both his first and second battles against British troops he could not be called a victor.

  It was instructive to compare the similarities between Talavera and this battle, which was almost certain to be named after the little town of Barrosa.