“Rather more than scouts, George. It is changeover time. B Squadron left here two hours ago to relieve Müller and his men. We have an old watchtower or fort, thirty miles south. It makes a good base for a squadron and they can keep patrols out watching for Soult.
The other two squadrons are doing three-day sweeps to the southwest. Changeover should have been tomorrow, but in view of Pom’s despatch that came in yesterday, I sent D Squadron out a day early to warn Hans Weiss to be extra vigilant. They shall then continue the sweep in reverse.
In view of your news, Hagen and I shall go and warn the two of them that have just left. Do you think I may prevail on Dodds to detach a couple of his platoons to come with us? I have no doubt that our people shall see any Frenchman before they are seen themselves, but they shall not be prepared for the numbers that d’Erlon may bring and the direction from which they are coming.”
“It is without doubt that Dodds shall wish to go himself, with his whole company. It were better, though, to take just the two platoons. They can return when they have delivered you safely. I confide that the French shall complete their westward move by tomorrow and then start to move south.
Why do you not concentrate your battalion around this fort that you mentioned? I can get Gonçalves to bring the Vespãos south on a ten mile front. If you were to bring the Hornissen slowly northwards, I declare it shall be fascinating to see what we may find between us.”
Roffhack’s eyes gleamed appreciatively. “We have certainly had a long period of waiting, George. Kindly make that an order and you shall see how two battalions of Hornets can really frighten the French, when they work together.”
* * *
The derelict fort that Captain Helmut Müller and C Squadron were occupying was several hundred years old. He couldn’t tell exactly how many hundreds, but guessed it was Moorish in origin.
Close to a crossing of highways that were very likely of greater significance in those days than they were now, it would have been strong enough to resist nearly any siege attempt before gunpowder came into general use.
Water was still available, but not from the ruins of the original well that had been hacked out of the rock within the walls to find an underground spring. Now, a small winter torrent rushed past the remains of the walls and hurled itself several hundred feet down into the plain. Müller had no way of telling if it dried up in the summer.
He didn’t care very much as his squadron would not be here for much longer. He didn’t like the place very much. It was a temporary expedient, for want of anything better within twenty miles. It was good enough for a base for a single troop, while the other three were out watching and waiting for a French presence to the south.
It just about fulfilled the conditions laid down for the Hornets, in that it was good defensively, it was difficult of access and there were two ways of getting in and out. Müller was uneasy, but not overly concerned that the escape route from this antique strong point was quite unsuitable for horses. There was excellent grazing for the time of year in the mountain meadow, half a mile up the trail, but only a mountain goat or an unencumbered Hornet could climb out of that bowl.
It shouldn’t be of any great importance. He had three troops out to the south and that was the only way that Soult could bring his army. Only then should it be necessary for his whole squadron to fade away into the hills and report back to Colonel Roffhack.
Most decidedly, the French were not to come through the pass to the northeast! That was the direction that Otto Fischer would come, later today, when B Squadron arrived to relieve him.
Instead, that was the direction from which a regiment of chasseurs-à-cheval appeared and began to move eastwards along the valley as soon as they reached level ground. Worse was to follow, when a battalion of voltigeurs and chasseurs-à-pied came marching after them.
It was late afternoon and they headed directly for the base of his hill to make camp where there were enough trees for firewood and ample water cascading down from the torrent rushing by the fort.
At this point, Helmut Müller became quite certain why he did not like the position of this fort and was grateful that the horses were all in the meadow farther up and unlikely to attract any attention from below. The question now was; could anything else arouse sufficient curiosity in the breasts of the Crapauds to warrant exploration? Hopefully not! It was just an old ruin with a long, steep track rising many hundreds of feet up to it. Not even vines planted on the sides of the hill below it.
After a full day’s march, there was nothing up here worth the effort of a long climb. Or so Müller told himself, while making sure that nobody showed more than a pair of eyes and moved not a muscle.
His other three troops, waiting for Soult to the south, would be very aware of the French, even though they had appeared from a totally unexpected direction. They were due back here almost now and B Squadron was meant to take over from tomorrow morning. They also would discover the presence of the French and would be waiting to see what they were going to do.
The only sensible course at this moment was thoughtful inactivity. Wait for the enemy to move and react as expediently as he could. If they did not suspect he was here, they might just move on in the morning and be none the wiser. Watch and wait was all he could do.
* * *
Some miles to the north, Günther Roffhack was of the same opinion. He had caught up with B Squadron well before noon and sent the platoon of Vespãos back to Dodds. He was mildly surprised to find no sign of the French spearhead that Vere had reported, but moved forward slowly until he could discover whether the enemy had changed direction or merely slowed down.
The later discovery that what he took to be the point of the enemy spearhead, was just about to take the road through to the plain where Müller was established, was irritating; but it was obvious when he called to mind the more difficult, hilly route they would have encountered, had they continued due west.
It would seem to have put paid to Vere’s excellent idea of catching the French between the two battalions of Hornets. All the Hornets were north of this spearhead, except possibly two or three troops of C Squadron who had probably been unable to rejoin Müller before the enemy arrived.
But had it? The spearhead that he had been watching looked more like a self contained detachment. The cavalry squadron and the supply wagons that were following the infantry, did appear more like a rearguard. What he had seen could easily be a light infantry brigade looking for Soult. They had more than a thousand infantrymen and less than a thousand cavalry. Maybe two thousand men altogether and they were not going to travel much farther today; possibly make their bivouac right under Müller’s nose.
He called to Fischer. “I am going to take a gamble, Otto. I need a couple of men to race back to bring Colonel Vere and the Vespãos here. I shall write a despatch to tell him what we shall try to do.
Shall you please ask Ernst Bruch to take his troop and discover if any more French are coming, or if this is an independent detachment. He should have that information when the Vespãos get here.
The rest of us shall hurry west to find Heinz Hagen and the other two squadrons. I want us to strike south across the front of this brigade and catch them between us as George originally planned. I confide that odds of two to one shall not deter him for a moment. I do so yearn to make these arrogant Französisch fear us, as George has been suggesting.”
CHAPTER 14
In the last ten days, the situation of the French Armée de Portugal had gone beyond farce. Everybody, who had reason to think about it, had come to assume that the purpose of their drive to the west was to panic Wellington into rushing back from Badajoz to save the gains that he had made in the north.
Welbeloved had come to accept that this must be the purpose, but he had many doubts because there seemed to be no reasonable strategic thinking behind it. It was less than a year ago that Wellington had quite ignored a similar threat. Marmont had then been forced to follow him to Badajoz in order
to join with Soult and d’Erlon and cause him to abandon the siege.
It would have been more believable if Marmont had kept his army around Ciudad Rodrigo. The damage to the fortifications was still not fully repaired and the garrison was only three thousand Spanish reserve troops. Wellington might just have been persuaded to come back in the face of a determined siege.
But no, only a single division of five thousand men had been left to surround the town and the rest of the army had moved into Portugal to investigate Almeida, the other fortress town.
Welbeloved could almost sympathise with the commander of that holding division. He had no heavy guns to batter a breach, he had only slightly greater numbers of soldiers than the Spanish defenders and he had Hamish MacKay and five hundred Spanish Hornets, the Avispónes, in the town, waiting to make trouble for him. It was, perhaps, better for his peace of mind that he was unaware of the Hornets.
One only had to know Hamish MacKay to realise that placidly sitting and waiting for the French was not in his nature. Welbeloved had no idea what MacKay would do. He had trained him over the last ten years and he was not predictable. The only certainty was that the French would not like it.
It did make some kind of sense that Marmont should take his other three divisions and go and have a look at Almeida. The citadel was as strong as Rodrigo, if not more so and any army thinking of invading Portugal had to have possession of both towns. It was unthinkable that strong and angry enemy garrisons should be left in the towns; free to cut off all French communications with Spain.
Apparently it was not unthinkable to Marmont. He took a long hard look at Almeida and ignored it, moving off into Portugal with all three of his remaining divisions.
Welbeloved could not believe it. It made not one shred of sense. He had watched the Army of Portugal since it had left Salamanca. His officers had counted the numbers and they had paid particular attention to the size of the baggage train. The number of men was easy to assess. The amount of food and fodder carried in the baggage train, far less so. The number of wagons could well have been greater than normal for an army this size, but the draught animals had to pull their own feed. No matter how many wagons were used, none of them could carry fodder for more than a set number of days without replenishment.
Now, at the beginning of April, there was no food to be found in the mountains of Portugal. Some of the peasants had returned to their land and planted crops, but they could not be harvested for months yet.
Spring grass was starting to grow in some of the meadows, but a troop of cavalry would spend most of a day simply trying to find enough to feed their mounts. There were three thousand cavalry horses with Marmont’s army and at least an equal number of draught animals.
A week after they entered Portugal, the animals would be hungry. After two weeks, many would be starving and the army would come to a stumbling halt. At that stage, only a rush back to Spain could save them, but over half the animals would be dead before they got back.
The Hornets didn’t understand it, but if the French chose this method of self-destruction, the least they could do was to shorten the agony for them.
They followed the enemy like a cloud of vultures, but far less visible than vultures; attacking wagon trains and destroying or purloining any supplies of fodder that they could find. They had always been unwilling to kill the animals gratuitously. Perhaps it was some sentimental streak in their make up.
Now, they were able to justify their attitude. An animal left alive had to be fed, which used up any remaining stocks of fodder that were being hauled.
The French were less sentimental, or more pragmatic. Any wagon that became empty was abandoned. The animals that had been pulling it became part of their rations.
After a week, with their own supplies becoming dangerously depleted and with the French encamped at Sabugal, Welbeloved satisfied himself that there was absolutely nothing important that Marmont could hope to achieve. He withdrew the Hornets to Almeida and found his own supply wagons that had been unable to keep track of him.
Watered and fed, the First Battalion moved back to Ciudad Rodrigo to find out how Hamish MacKay and the Third Battalion were faring.
* * *
After the swift riposte to the half-hearted attempt to use their twelve pounders on the town, the French appeared to have accepted that all they could be expected to do was to surround Rodrigo and prevent anyone going in or leaving.
They had learned that the garrison had plenty of powder and shot for the guns emplaced all around the walls and did their best to give the defenders no excuse to use it. They even abandoned the convent ruins after Juanita MacKay persuaded her husband to let her take command of the mortars that the Condesa had requisitioned from the arsenal.
Only the Spanish battalion was able to practice, of course, but with no shortage of powder and shells, everyone in the battalion was given the chance to practice to their hearts content and make life miserable for any Frenchman within half a mile of the walls.
Colonel MacKay was still not pleased with the situation. He felt that the French were treating their opponents, the garrison, with contempt. A single division of five thousand men, abandoned here quite casually to contain a garrison of three thousand was not a compliment to the garrison, who ought to have kept their besiegers at their wits end, with forays and night attacks at very little cost to themselves.
General de España knew his garrison however. If the French wanted to sit in a circle all round him and enjoy the view, he was more than content to sit inside the circle and look back at them.
He had no ambition to do anything or go anywhere else and had much more food and drink than the besiegers. More important, he wasn’t risking his reputation by pitting his conscripts against seasoned French veterans.
Under the tutelage of MacKay’s Avispónes, there were now over a hundred of his garrison troops who were capable of hitting a Frenchman at a hundred yards with the standard muskets that the Avispónes had demonstrated how to improve and adjust.
Doña MacKay had organised her mortars so that it was presently difficult to see a Frenchman within half a mile. What then was the point of getting hot and bothered? There was always mañana, when Lord Wellington would come back and drive them all away.
MacKay argued that it should not be necessary to wait for relief. The French ought to be running out of food by now. It had been reported to him that foraging parties had been seen leaving the division and setting out north.
That made sense. There was no chance at all of them finding any sort of sustenance in the other directions, whereas the land to the northwest was the area between Rodrigo and Salamanca, was more fertile than elsewhere and had been left relatively untouched.
Added to that, MacKay had a shrewd suspicion that some convoys of supplies were coming from Salamanca. They would be few in number, but substantial and well guarded. The guerrilleros in the hills to the east would prey on any convoy with less than two or three hundred escorts.
If that then was the lifeline for the besiegers, the best way to upset their comfortable existence was to stop the convoys and make it impossible to forage to the north.
He couldn’t do that if he was cooped up in Rodrigo, but he had been asked to stay and support the garrison. Well then! He had been supporting the garrison more than they had been supporting him and there were now over two hundred of them; the size of two companies; who could do nearly as much damage, face to face with the enemy, as two companies of Avispónes. Behind the defences, they could take their places quite adequately.
Just after dawn, after a night without the rain that had become increasingly frequent, A and C Companies, led by Major Addenbrooke, burst out of the northern gate of the town and spread out in skirmish order on either side of the Salamanca road. They moved toward the still ruined buildings of the San Francisco suburb, where the French had a number of defensive positions.
Following them came the two hundred new Spanish marksmen, who formed up in a double l
ine and waited patiently for some French reaction to this challenge.
After a very short period of shocked surprise at the audacity of the garrison, bugles began to sound and gaps between the buildings to fill with blue uniforms. Activity to both sides of the suburb gave evidence that troops were being pulled in to meet the challenge of the Spanish line.
Careful observation beforehand had noted that this area of the French cordon was held by predominantly line regiments. This was important as they normally left such things as skirmishing to voltigeurs and tirailleurs. They had seen that skirmishers were in front of this line, but they always ignored skirmishers and let them do their worst. All they really took into account was the thin line of Spanish soldiers, as they stepped from cover and began to form a line of their own, so that they could blast the Spanish from the face of the earth.
The Spaniards ignored them, but solemnly went through the drill of loading their muskets, to encourage the French into believing that all was normal.
This they obviously did as they deployed outwards until they matched the length of the Spanish line, but with four ranks that held about twice as many men.
Addenbrooke gave no signal and the Avispónes held their fire. With two hundred yards between the opposing lines, the French knew that they would have to get closer and they ostentatiously fixed bayonets with a flourish, straight out of the drill book. That should make the Spanish upstarts quake in their boots!
Orders were shouted and the Spanish line replied in kind, though without quite the same precision and elan.
Bugles sounded and the French moved forward, almost as one man. Addenbrooke blew his whistle and two companies of Avispónes began their split volleys, every man of them being in cover, well within the killing range of their carbines.
No man fired more than two shots and the whole fusillade lasted no more than twenty seconds before relative silence descended and a cloud of powder smoke drifted between the unbroken Spanish line and less than a hundred French survivors, rushing back to any cover that they could find in the San Francisco ruins. The bodies of their friends, who had not been so fortunate, could be seen, still in their ranks, but stretched out on the ground.
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