Welbeloved glanced back and twenty yards behind him saw a whole section of the front file cut down; all the ones closest to him. Sergeant Atkins had seen the problem and instead of passing through the ranks of the newly arrived 48th., as the fleeing Guards and King’s Germans had done, he had made the Hornets lie prone in front of the lines of Redcoats. They were now systematically killing any Frenchman within twenty yards of the fugitives.
They splashed and stumbled through the stream and Welbeloved called for a supreme effort up the slope. It was fifty yards to the lines and the whole area was the killing ground for the British volleys, once the French had crossed over.
They struggled on with Welbeloved staring intently at the ranks in front of him. Quite rightly, the waiting Redcoats were ignoring them. They had ten thousand Frenchmen to stop. As soon as he saw the long lines of muskets rise to the ‘aim’, they threw themselves flat while over a thousand musket balls flew over their heads, into the fronts of the two columns just starting up from the stream.
Then they were back on their feet and along with the rest of the Hornets, passing through the lines, while the next line of Redcoats stepped forward and delivered the second devastating volley.
Where Sir Arthur had found the men to plug the gap was a mystery to Welbeloved. He could see that the men around him were from the 48th. Regiment, which had been up on the Medellin hill. They must have been moving down before the Condesa had ridden in with Wellesley’s orders. Now, with other regiments moved in, in support and the Guards and the King’s Germans back through the lines and reformed, the battle was not yet won, but the best chance that the French had had, was now denied them.
Climbing back to their camp with the wounded Evans, they could see the enemy columns recoiling and retiring from the slaughter of the British volleys. It was then that they realised that two of their comrades had not returned with them and must still be lying among the piles of corpses out on the battlefield.
Welbeloved couldn’t even guess whether they had succeeded in buying a little of the time that Sir Arthur had needed, although the impenetrable lines of Redcoats showed that the immediate danger had been averted.
What the Hornets could take credit for, was removing the French cannon from the equation. Allowing the allied artillery free reign must have contributed something to the success of the defence, but the loss of two, perhaps three men from such a small, specialised unit was a high price to pay.
They got Evans back to the camp and stripped off his coat and shirt. The good news was that he had recovered consciousness and was almost as voluble as normal. Indeed, he and O’Malley appeared to be having one of their usual altercations.
Welbeloved probed into the gaping hole in his back and quickly prised out a large, flattened piece of lead, together with various pieces of bloodied cloth. He looked at it curiously. “The Goddess was looking out for yew, Dai Evans. This ball was flattened by something before it hit yew. It has made a big hole and hit yew a hell of a crack, but it hadn’t enough power left and was stopped by yor shoulder blade. I should put yew on extra duties for being so damned careless. Instead, yew qualify for my special remedy.”
He poured a liberal amount of brandy onto the wound, causing Evans to give a thin scream and faint. He then glared at O’Malley. “I’m sure that he would rather have taken that through his mouth, but it always seems to help more this way.” He dared him to say a word and told him to get his friend bandaged and into his blankets.
***
The Condesa was now on the other side of the Medellin. Sir Arthur had seen another French division, supported by cavalry, advancing towards the hill from the northern plain. His aides had ridden to order Anson’s light cavalry brigade to attack them and Mercedes was invited to ‘request’ Vere to follow them and be ready to cover their retreat should they get into a scrape.
What no one realised at the time was that the general had watched with admiration when Welbeloved had completely eliminated the close quarters artillery threat, during the battle for the gap. Before that, he would never have dreamed that the combination of weapon and training could be so effective. He certainly would never have sent out so few men to support his notoriously erratic cavalry in an attack.
Thankful at having been called on at last, Vere saw the Condesa on her way back and led his men down to follow on the heels of the light brigade and in particular, the regiment closest to him, the 23rd. Light Dragoons.
He watched them move off and wondered if Wellesley was prescient in requesting the Hornets to act as nannies. He had seen the French cavalry in action on many occasions and had noticed that although they always showed their eclat in the charge, they were disciplined enough to walk and canter before they came to close quarters.
His amazement was overwhelming as the whole regiment started off; more than four hundred of them; as if the enemy was little over a stone’s throw away. From the lower slopes of the Segurilla, where the Hornets had been waiting, the only blue uniforms that Vere had seen had been over a mile away. Even from here and standing in his stirrups, he couldn’t see them at all.
His little troop cantered in their wake, through clouds of dust that they had raised and which was now blowing back in his face. His own caution was amply rewarded, but only just in time, when he shrieked out an order to halt. They all hauled their mounts to a quivering stop in front of a shallow ravine, a fifteen foot split in the earth’s surface, with dozens of horses and men writhing below them, with broken legs and arms, or lying inert with broken necks.
The greater part of the regiment must have managed to clear the obstacle and then just carried on galloping into the unknown. As he was charged with trailing them, he followed the rim of the fissure for a hundred yards until his men could cross more easily and take up the pursuit again.
The rest of the brigade had not had to contend with the hidden ravine and were now far ahead, attempting to do what Sir Arthur had ordered.
The French infantry were indeed moving on the northern plain. They had even been heading for the north slopes of the Medellin until they had seen the Light Brigade approaching at speed. Now they were halted and had just completed a leisurely manoeuvre into a defensive square, bristling with bayonets.
The British horsemen could only gallop aimlessly round this impenetrable obstacle until they were counter attacked by a regiment of French Hussars. The infantry watched a general mêlée develop all around the safe haven of their square.
In contrast, the reckless assault by the light dragoons had the same impetuous lack of discipline as that of the Guards and the KGL, but without any redeeming feature.
From a distance of nearly half a mile, Vere watched the conclusion of their mad gallop. Those of the regiment, who had managed to cross the ravine unscathed, had obviously rushed straight on without bothering to regroup.
The straggling mass of men never even had the opportunity of closing with the infantry square. A full regiment of Polish lancers swept in close order around the side of the square and smashed into the disorganised dragoons, who had no answer at all to the long and deadly, steel-tipped shafts. The only reason it wasn’t a complete massacre was the delay in withdrawing the lance once it had made a strike.
The surviving dragoons split into two groups and rode for their lives. Half of them headed north for the mountains and half galloped back the way they had come. Squadrons of lancers intent on destroying such foolish and impertinent challengers chased both groups.
The Hornets could do nothing about the men fleeing towards the mountains, but the other group was heading directly towards them and there was a compact mass of lancers not very far behind. These lancers, with their strange diamond shaped crowns on their helmets had the additional advantage of lively mounts that had not already galloped flat out for over a mile. The future prospects for the dragoons looked decidedly bleak.
Although Welbeloved’s original concept for the Hornets had always been based on his own experiences as a scout in America: he envisaged
a small deadly unit of marines that could strike at targets within range of the beaches on which they could be landed: the need for horses to cover long distances in a country such as Spain, had caused a great deal of fresh thinking over the past year.
The outcome of such thinking and subsequent training was now brought into play. Vere rapped out commands and the men spread out, dismounted quickly and pulled their horses to the ground. The animals responded as they had been taught and each man had a ready-made barrier across which he could rest his rifle.
The lancers were riding in groups, which made the task a little easier. A group presented a bigger target at long range and the Hornets had to shoot in the gaps between the escaping dragoons.
They opened fire at a thousand yards. Even for the Fergusons, this was a speculative distance, but the target was large enough. The first ten marksmen had the satisfaction of seeing four of the leading horses fall and bring down a couple of the following ones. This did not mean that the other six shots had missed. Horses were incredibly tough and Vere had known of mortally wounded animals that continued to run for over a hundred yards after being shot.
By the time the lancers were within half a mile, they had received two more ragged volleys and a dozen more casualties. A strident bugle sounded and they quickly spread out into a line, but not before losing several more horses.
It must have been an infuriating puzzle for the commander of the Poles. He could see that his men were under fire, but the telltale powder smoke was mostly hidden by the quarry he was chasing. In any case, he couldn’t see the Hornets, crouching behind their prone mounts.
The fleeing dragoons were a tempting prize, but well before the quarter mile mark, he must have suspected that he was riding into a trap. His bugles rang out again, splitting the lancers into a wide circling movement in both directions that finished with them cantering back the way they had come. Several riderless horses followed both troops in their retreat, showing that shots from the Hornets had accounted for men as well as mounts.
When the final bugle call sounded and the lancers gave up, the first of the fugitive dragoons passed around or through the Hornet’s position. What they had made of the clouds of powder smoke directly in their path, it was impossible to say. Perhaps they had been too busy trying to save their skins to have paid much attention.
They did know their bugle calls however, friendly or enemy, and when the lancers retired, the Hornets found themselves surrounded by sweating and exhausted horses and no less exhausted dragoons, in their gaudy uniforms and furry Tarleton helmets.
Not being so knowledgeable about the language of trumpets, Vere made certain that the lancers were indeed retreating before blowing his whistle loudly. The men and their mounts got to their feet and set about inspecting and cleaning their Fergusons, preparing them for instant use once more.
The senior surviving officer, a major, barked out a few orders mainly concerning the welfare of the horses and came walking stiffly over to where Vere was also clearing burnt powder deposits from the breech of his rifle.
Perhaps it was the Hornet’s preoccupation with their weapons that caused him irritation. Maybe, deep down, he was on the defensive at having been caught in the middle of a desperate flight, but his opening remarks were abrasive rather than grateful.
“I don’t know who you Johnnies are, or what the deuce you’re up to, stuck out here on your own. It’s a bloody good job that we met when we did, to make those Polish fellers realise they’d bitten off more than was good for them. I say! Whoever you are, do pay attention when I’m talking to you.”
Very carefully, Vere blew stray powder grains from the pan of his Ferguson and screwed the breech shut with a snap. He stared coldly at the major. “And I say, whoever you are, that if you can’t recognise that we have just saved your worthless skins, you would be well advised to take your pretty excuses for soldiers and get on the first ship back to England. We will try and make sure that we are not around when you get yourselves into your next stupid scrape.”
The major literally gobbled. “Why you upstart little whippersnapper, I’ll have you court-martialed for insubordination. I would call you out if I thought you were a gentleman, but you will call me Sir when you speak to me.”
Vere looked bored. “Major, my men and I have been following you for the last hour and I can honestly say that I have never witnessed such an inept display by cavalrymen of any country in the world. If there is any court-martial, I suggest it will be your colonel or yourself, for criminal incompetence.
Now, please take these popinjays out of my sight. If you wish to complain to Sir Arthur, you may tell him that Viscount Vere has upset you and you may address me as My Lord in future.”
The major compressed his lips into a thin line and turned on his heel. He barked out orders and his men mounted and rode slowly away. The Hornets also mounted and rode towards the enemy square, in time to see the rest of the British light cavalry division streaming away and the square changed into a column, now moving away eastwards to the north of the Cascajal hill.
Vere reined in. “That’ll have to do for today, lads. Let’s go back and see if the Count and Countess of Alba are pleased to see us. Nobody else seems to be.”
They set off back to camp, grinning all over their faces.
CHAPTER 18
Night fell. The enemy had been beaten back or had been forced to retire on all fronts. The army settled down; hungry and exhausted; still in their positions, still watching the French camp fires gradually flicker and fade as the night wore on.
Each man tried to prepare himself for the morning and the renewal of the conflict. They knew that; in spite of the piles of enemy bodies filling the valley and blocking the Portina stream; the British had also lost thousands of men and the French still outnumbered them by two to one.
The brush fire that had swept across the Medellin towards dusk was still smouldering in places. Started by powder sparks, it was fierce for a time. Dead and wounded and dead horses in its path were badly scorched and the revolting stench of burnt flesh drifted westward on the light wind.
The Hornets were fortunate to be on the edges of it and cleared away all inflammables in front of their camp. Having been forced to acquire a taste for horse meat in the last month or so, they had managed to scavenge a goodly portion of one of the dead beasts, which they cooked over a fire composed of much of the material they had cleared.
They were united again when Vere and his men came riding into camp to recount the tale of other’s misfortunes and their own part in it. They were looking for a degree of sympathy but received very little. Their friends were mourning the loss of two of their own and Vere’s escapade seemed like a picnic in comparison.
There were no more attacks by the French at dawn. The French had had quite enough of the merciless slaughter in front of the British muskets, thank you very much. King Joseph had taken his two marshals and all his soldiers away with him in the night and would let one of the other marshals deal with the upstart little British army. He left his dead and many of his wounded and sent out orders to other French armies in Spain for reinforcements to replace the seven and a half thousand men he had lost.
Wellesley’s men licked their wounds, buried their dead and gathered their fifteen hundred wounded into makeshift shelters. The few army surgeons would do what they could for them and perhaps as many as half would live.
The Hornets recovered their two comrades before the scavengers could strip them of everything valuable. Booth was shot through the head but Harvey was still alive, having taken a ball in the back just as he was preparing to retreat. He died before they could get him back to camp and they were buried together on the south slope of the Medellin, sewn up in their blankets in a proper seamanlike fashion. Both had been promising new recruits. Both had been unlucky.
During the day, Craufurd’s light brigade marched in, to bring the army almost back to its original strength again. They had force-marched sixty miles in two days to try and jo
in in time for the battle. It was a superb effort, but they were now only several thousand more mouths to feed.
Hickson, along with Garrett and Isabella, came in on the following day. Having listened to his news, Welbeloved took him straight along to Sir Arthur. The General was far from being a happy man, considering that for the second time in as many months his little army had defeated a much larger enemy. He did pay great attention to all that Hickson had to say and accepted the captured despatches as if they were bags of gold, before thanking him gravely and allowing him to leave.
He regarded Welbeloved thoughtfully. “I am forced to admit, Welbeloved, that I have always spoken out against enthusiastic irregular forces such as yours. I remain to be convinced of their value within the framework of an army, in spite of the extraordinary display you gave, in helping me correct the mistakes of my over enthusiastic regulars.
Outside of that framework, I am now revising my opinion completely. You have already provided me with what I need most in order to enable me to wage a successful campaign. Now you have given me really crucial information. It has forced me to decide what next I have to do.
I would like to repeat my invitation to you and the Countess to dine with me this evening. If you can persuade Lord Vere to come as well, it will be convenient to discuss my thoughts about out future working relationship, as well as allowing me to enjoy the company of a most remarkable lady.”
The town of Talavera was small and it was provincial. It had been occupied by French, Spanish and British soldiers and there was very little available in the way of food for its citizens, after the demands of the military. It still boasted competent dressmakers however and the Condesa was determined that her admiration for Sir Arthur should be reflected in her dress. She would attend his dinner as the Condesa de Alba and not as an attachment to the Hornets, however skilled and competent.
A Mild Case of Indigestion Page 20
