The women were found cowering in the two main rooms. All were naked. All had been raped repeatedly. Their ages ranged from a child of ten to a bewildered and quite frail old woman of over sixty.
God only knew what had become of their clothes. They were not to be found anywhere. The men were set to stripping the dragoon corpses for anything that could be used, while the women were guided over to the stream by the bridge.
Mercedes and Isabella had arrived and taken charge. Realising immediately what had happened they shooed the men away and instructed the women to sit in the stream and help each other to wash themselves as thoroughly as possible, both inside and out. It was all they could think of to try and prevent any pregnancies occurring. It would be a month or more before they knew if they had been successful.
Only two of the dragoons were left alive. Somehow, the tall señorita had found a knife and the three vengeful women had used the time while the Hornets were storming the house. The two bound and stripped dragoons had had their genitals hacked away and been left to bleed to death in agony.
Even Welbeloved had to agree that they couldn’t accept the survivors as prisoners of war. He had them hanged from the gables of the big house with a notice scrawled on the wall saying: “Rapists and murderers” in French. The bodies of all the rest were laid out below them.
Their regiment would probably send someone to find out why they hadn’t returned. It was doubtful whether they would change their behaviour as a result of their discovery. The village would be deserted and they would hardly be interested enough to sift through the ashes of the church to find the charred bones of the whole of the male population and any of the female too young or too old to satisfy the lusts of the dragoons. It was more than likely that all the women would have suffered the same fate when the dragoons were done with them.
The old woman never recovered from the shock and grief and was buried before they left. Her granddaughter, Juanita, the tall, vengeful, dark girl, mourned her briefly then went back to help Mercedes tend those of the other victims who were not so resilient.
Apparently, the soldiers had come early in the morning, looking for food. As their crops were not yet ripe, the villagers had barely enough to feed themselves. When the parish priest tried to intervene in an effort to prevent the torturing of the peasants to find where they had hidden their stores, the officer had completely lost his temper. He had him taken and crucified on the altar table, then packed the church with everyone except the chosen women, and set fire to it.
As the conflict dragged on, atrocity seemed to feed on atrocity. Any Frenchman now captured by partisans knew he was going to die an agonising and demeaning death. This only served to make them determined to surpass themselves in brutality.
It was now early evening and Welbeloved was itching to put some distance between himself and the village before dark. They couldn’t leave the women to fend for themselves, so they had to take them back to the camp. After what had happened to them, riding the dragoons’ horses would not be a pleasant experience, but there was no alternative.
The looting had been very thorough. Anything not stolen had been vandalised. The advantage to this was that anything valuable, portable or eatable was already in a heap in the meadow and only needed lashing onto the horses.
The one thing; and perhaps the most surprising; that the French hadn’t found, was the wine cellar under a trap door in the house that they had been using for their brothel. The supplies of spirits that the Hornets had brought with them were very low by now and Welbeloved was grateful to Juanita; the owner of the house now that her grandmother was dead; for locating and donating the considerable stock of wine and brandy contained therein.
They only managed five miles at the walking pace imposed upon them by the abused state of the women. They found a small valley with a narrow entrance that was defensible. A goatherd with forty or more animals was only too willing to move farther up. Even more willing to accept their generous offer of silver coins for six of his flock. They butchered them on the spot to provide a good substantial meal to help the women recover from their so recent abuse and distress.
Mercedes shepherded them all to a convenient place by the little stream and made them bathe themselves meticulously once more. She wasn’t convinced that it would do any good, but it heartened the women and a few squeals at the temperature of the water and occasional bawdy remark indicated that some of them were over the worst of their trauma.
They were back with El Martillo before noon the next day. The Spaniards listened to the story of the destruction of the village and gave a cautious welcome to the refugees. Caution mixed with pragmatism, because there was no room for unproductive hands in their band. The women would have to justify their presence by working to keep the camp going and/or by pairing up with any unattached men in the band.
Juanita and half-a-dozen of the younger girls would have nothing to do with this arrangement and insisted on setting up camp in the upper meadow alongside the Hornets. Welbeloved just wished the whole problem would go away and let Mercedes have her way when she agreed to let them have four of the little tents as a temporary home.
CHAPTER 8
Lieutenant Hamish MacKay was being extra careful and doubly vigilant. On many adventures in the past he had led small parties on operations against the enemy. His success rate had been impressive with very few inconclusive forays and nothing that anyone could mark down as a failure.
That was before today. Today was the first time that he had led out a patrol of Hornets in his new rank as a Lieutenant, a Commission Officer. Whatever happened during the next day or so would forever be imprinted on his memory.
Even ten years ago, in the days following the repulse of Bonaparte at the siege of Acre, it did not give him the same degree of pride and satisfaction. He could well remember being made Sergeant of the complement of Marines in Captain Cockburn’s frigate Falcon. That was the time when the Captain had presented Welbeloved with the first six Fergusons, copies of his own, which he had secretly had commissioned from the Nock Company in London.
That also was when the idea for the Hornets had really been born. They had even scandalised the marines by introducing the first buckskin coloured uniform for the lucky six marines for use on special duties. The fertile imaginations of Cockburn and Welbeloved had ensured that there were plenty of those.
Now they were setting off to annoy the French again. MacKay, nine Hornets and Lopez, the probationary Hornet, who for the moment would stick close to MacKay in whatever actions they could conjure up.
Way out ahead of the party, he had sent Willie Peterkin, a countryman of his from high up on the coast, north past Aberdeen. Peterkin had probably the keenest pair of eyes in the Hornets and if trouble was lying in wait ahead, his eyes and his experience were most likely to discover it in good time. MacKay would dearly love to have him as an N.C.O. but the man steadfastly refused to accept the responsibility. Never at any time had he been in a situation where he didn’t know what to do, but he always clung to the reassurance of someone senior to whom he could look for orders.
They were approaching a small village or hamlet of ten to a dozen dwellings and there was Peterkin signalling that he had checked and found it safe. The moment his signal was acknowledged he trotted on to resume his search for danger.
The village seemed deserted, but not uninhabited. MacKay guessed that eyes were watching from behind the closed doors. The furniture on the horses was military and a Spanish peasant couldn’t be expected to know who was friend or foe. That wouldn’t help them at all if the French came looking for food, but the whole place had a poverty-stricken look that was probably a better protection than anything else.
The area was certainly fertile enough to feed the inhabitants of villages such as this. There were fruit and olive trees in evidence and the south-facing slopes had patches of vines with maturing grapes only weeks away from harvesting. The meadows, higher up the valleys ought to have flocks of goats and sheep gra
zing as far away from French foragers as possible.
If the Hornets were going to stay in this area, MacKay would have to come and talk to the people in this and other villages. They had brought a goodly supply of silver coins, which would persuade the peasants to part with their surplus produce on a friendlier and more reliable basis than any amount of French depredations.
They trotted on down through the narrow valley. Some miles ahead was the main road to Orense from the east. The road from the heartlands of Spain and one of the principal routes along which the military supplies from France had to travel to reach the armies of Marshals Ney and Soult, if they were to recover from the beating and loss of equipment they had suffered in Portugal.
Soult was also said to have lost several thousand of his men in that thrashing, but those numbers could well have been made up from the troops that Marshal Ney was known to have withdrawn from their occupation of Galicia and the Asturias.
It was also one of the roads the French would have to use if they were to sally forth from the north-western mountains into the plains of New Castille, where one of the last of the Spanish armies was supposed to be causing mild concern to Napoleon’s brother’s army around Madrid.
There were so many imponderables that Welbeloved had to consider and so little reliable information available that MacKay was relieved that all he had to worry about was causing as much havoc on the French supply route as he possibly could. Anything at all to deprive the enemy of supplies and cause them to chase the irritating midges who were making so much trouble and preventing them from attending to their primary duties.
If he should be fortunate enough to interrupt their communications as well, that would be a major bonus. The capture of a messenger could tell them what the enemy intended and, more importantly, what was happening in the war that Sir Arthur Wellesley was reported to have entered so unceremoniously.
The narrow road wound down through a series of zigzag bends to a river bridge. On the far side of the river, the main road to east and west ran through a small town and followed the river bank, dotted with clumps and lines of willows and alders.
On the near side, the river pressed closely into the hills with the banks rising steeply. It was difficult for a man on foot to follow the line of the stream on this side. It was impossible for a horse, but at this time of year the river was low enough to ford along most of its length.
MacKay halted the men before they could begin the descent. The moment they moved onto the lower bends they would be in full view of anyone looking from the town and there were many uniforms to be seen on the streets and military traffic was using the through road.
A few minutes with his pocket telescope convinced him that there was no way down this road before dark, if they wanted to remain unseen by the French. Another ten minutes observation showed that the town itself was being used as a way station; a probable overnight stop and staging post, where fresh mounts would be available for couriers and other important travellers.
The number of infantry uniforms to be seen suggested that a battalion, at least, was quartered there. That was rather more than MacKay would care to confront with only ten Hornets unless he was in an ideal ambush, such as the camp he had just left. Even then, battalion strength was rather ambitious.
He called to Lopez in his primitive Anglo-Spanish. “Hola Luis! Tell me if the track I saw back at that little pueblo goes down to join that road over there and can we take the horses?”
Fortunately, Lopez had picked up a lot of English in the time he had been guiding the Hornets and was able to assure El Señor Teniente that there was a mule track from the village which wound down to the main road, following the bed cut by the inevitable mountain stream. He hadn’t used it himself, but if donkeys and mules could manage it, horses could too, even if they had to be led much of the way.
Half-an-hour later they were back in the village to find a small crowd gathered. Lopez had gone on ahead to allay their suspicions and the welcome was cautious but warm. French soldiers had not as yet discovered their location and they would be delighted to sell some of the sheep and goats that were up in the hills, also wine and brandy if the price was right.
MacKay made due note and promised to return, having been assured that, but for a twenty yard stretch, the horses could be ridden all the way down to the ford across the river Sil, close by the bridge spanning a bigger stream, joining the river from the hills to the north, across the river valley.
It wasn’t quite as easy as the villagers made out, but then, donkeys and mules were supposed to be more sure-footed than horses and the local animals were probably accustomed to the steep climb.
The bottom of the descent had the advantage of arriving on level ground where the cliff forced a bend in the stream and was hidden from view of any traffic that was passing along the road.
About three hundred feet from the bottom, the track passed a small ledge that made an ideal viewing platform. MacKay was able to study the road up and down the valley for about a mile in either direction.
He calculated that the town he had been studying was about five miles farther up the river and any troops or wagons that had stopped there overnight would be well on their way to Orense by now. The only soldiers in sight were travelling east. A small squadron of chasseurs-à-cheval with green uniforms and shabraques, trotting gently into the distance, most likely detailed for escort duty and travelling to meet with their convoys before they entered the mountains from the plains of León and Old Castille.
Now would be a good time to go and have a look at the bridge where the road narrowed to cross over the small tributary that joined the Sil only fifty yards downstream from the stream they had followed down from the village. Leaving Peterkin on the ledge as lookout, clutching his telescope and whistle, MacKay led the others out of cover and across the shallow ford to inspect the bridge from below.
A brief inspection was enough to tell him that the bridge would need more gunpowder than they were carrying in order to destroy it. It was well built in the Roman style and the Condesa would have enjoyed herself enormously blowing it to pieces, but MacKay had neither the time nor the powder.
The possibilities for ambushing a convoy of wagons were much more interesting. The bridge was old and narrow, with only sufficient width for one wagon to pass over at a time.
The stream passing under the bridge, now only a trickle, would be a torrent in the winter and as such had carved a bed that could conceal a regiment. From twenty-five yards above the bridge it was overlooking the road in a most satisfactory manner. Moreover, the stream had cut so deeply that the cover was equally effective from the east and the west.
To the east of the bridge, the rising ground was sufficiently broken on the northern side of the road, to provide cover for two dozen rifles, well within fifty yards of the highway. MacKay only had eleven Fergusons and would have to be selective about the size and composition of his target. Any more than ten wagons with escort would probably prove an unreasonable risk.
Of course, they could always come back another day with the rest of the Hornets, but ten years of fighting had taught him that chances had to be taken when they occurred. Welbeloved’s Goddess of fortune could be very disdainful of second chances.
He was given no more time for reflection because Peterkin blew his whistle long and loud. Quickly, he explained what he intended if all went well and sent them to find suitable cover. Once he reached Peterkin, another whistle blast would tell them that the target was unsuitable and they would abandon their positions and wait for something more tempting.
The target was tempting but not what he was hoping for. He would really have liked a dozen fat wagons with twenty or so cavalry escort. What was offered, now coming into full view in the distance, was a troop of gunners with half-a-dozen cannon and a couple of wagons. The cavalry escort was about two dozen strong and the colour of the uniforms suggested that they were probably mounted gunners.
They were moving at walking pace, which g
ave him ten minutes to make up his mind whether to attack or let them pass unmolested. He sent Peterkin to join the rest of the men and to warn them to be ready to spring the trap when he gave the command. Two blasts on his whistle meant they would wait for something more interesting while he continued to watch the road.
He concentrated on the teams pulling the guns. There were only two pairs of horses pulling each limber, gun and ammunition caisson. That meant that the guns themselves would not be the eight or twelve pounders; so beloved of Bonaparte; but much lighter weapons. A three-pound ball could still make a bloody mess of an infantry square and the gun could move about the battlefield in difficult country, so much more easily than the bigger and heavier twelve-pound monsters.
Their caissons would still be carrying enough gunpowder to keep the Condesa happy for weeks and as there were no other troops in sight in either direction, he shrugged his shoulders and made his way back to his men.
Five of them were lying concealed on the rising ground, spread alongside the road for thirty or so yards. He sent Peterkin to find a position another ten yards along with instructions to shoot the two lead horses of the last wagon to block the way back, as soon as the men in the gully had stopped the leading gun on the bridge.
The cavalcade approached the bridge without a care in the world. An officer and half-a-dozen riders trotted on in front and passed across, leading the way for the first of the gun teams. MacKay gave the command just as the gun itself moved onto the span. The poor beasts were still only walking and at such a short range, a head shot dropped them dead, with the gun and the caisson completely blocking the bridge.
A couple of leisurely shots at the rear of the column, brought down the leaders of the team pulling the last wagon and the whole column had nowhere to go except off the road and into the river. The third gun in line tried it and smashed the carriage wheels before finishing upside down in two feet of water.
A Mild Case of Indigestion Page 8
