by Iain Gale
‘Yes, sir.’
Ross began to scour the modest shelves and presses of the mill house and within a matter of minutes had made a pile in the centre of the room. Boots, blankets, old shirts, wine flasks, a few surprisingly full, knives and forks; anything that might come in useful on campaign made its way into the pile.
Keane in the meantime had walked outside and was offering Pereira his wisdom on the best way to demolish a house. ‘We need to take it down from the base. So if we remove the doorways it should fall in on itself.’
Heredia spoke up. ‘Sir, surely all that we need to do here is remove the wooden paddles from the wheel. Without those, the mill cannot function. It is useless.’
‘Of course, but what if the French manage to construct a replacement. To do the job well, we should take down the house.’
‘But, sir. Surely we do not expect the French to sit in this country for months? We expect to meet them in battle. We are hardly going to leave them in possession of half of Portugal.’
Keane, knowing about the defensive lines being constructed by the duke, was fully aware that this was precisely what he expected the French to do. Marshal Massena would be given battle. But after that, as Grant had told him, the duke intended to retreat with the people of Portugal behind his lines and leave the French to the land, a land from which they could not possibly live. That was why the job had to be done properly. So that the French engineers would have no hope of salvaging the ruined mills. But of course for the present all of this had to remain a secret.
‘It may seem the easier option, Heredia, but my orders are to demolish the mills, not merely the blades or the sails. So that is what we are to do. However long it might take.’
He thought of Leech, still recovering in Celorico. How he missed his skill with explosives. The man could have had this mill destroyed with powder in an hour. Now they were reduced to breaking it by brute force. Garland took the first blow, wielding a two-handed sledgehammer they had brought down from the camp. He smashed the head into the keystone with little effect. But on the second blow the stone seemed to shift and on his third strike it moved back.
Keane stopped him. ‘Wait. The place might come down.’ He looked at the wall and tried to estimate where the rubble might fall. ‘All of you, move back. Stand away.’
Dominguez shouted at the Ordenanza, who scurried away from the mill.
Keane moved back a few paces with the others and called to Garland, ‘One more hit, then run like hell.’
Garland turned and grinned, then, having spat on his huge hands, took up the hammer again. Raising it above his head, he smashed it against the keystone which flew away and into the house, leaving the doorway with a yawning gap. For a few moments nothing happened, and in that instant Garland turned and ran towards them. Then, as they all watched, the sides of the doorway began to move inwards and down, and as they did so the wall above them slipped down. Instinctively they all moved back again. Further now, and it was just as well. For the wall was falling now, stones slipping away from each other as it plummeted earthwards. It hit the ground with an ear-splitting crash, sending up a huge cloud of white dust. They covered their eyes and turned away from the flying rubble. Then all was silence. Peering through the dust, Keane attempted to make out what was left of the mill. Gradually the air began to clear and they could see that while the front wall had collapsed completely, the other three still stood, although that on the left, closest to the apparatus, was leaning in as if it might easily fall at any moment.
‘That was well done, Garland. Show them how it’s done. Now, all of you, lay in there and get the rest of it down. And take care. Well done. That’s a good start.’
Taking Ross with him, he rode back up to San Pedro. The place was quiet and there was no sign of Sanchez. A mist had begun to descend upon the hillside and the air had turned almost tropically humid. It reminded him of evenings in Egypt when the cloth stuck to your back and the neck rag clung to you like a stranglehold. A few of the guerrillas were sitting around a table at the old posada and the remaining half-company of Ordenanza were being drilled by Pereira. He found Gabriella, Martin and Silver in their part of the encampment engaged in the everyday drudgery that went with being on campaign. Silver was sewing up a tear in a pair of overall trousers while Gabriella sat cooking and singing what sounded like a lullaby. It crossed his mind that she might be pregnant, but he dismissed it. Silver would not be so stupid. Martin was picking lice from his hair with a bone comb he had bought from one of the guerrillas.
Keane did not stay for long. He was impatient to hear whether there had been any word from the forward observers. He had sensed for some time that Massena would make his move soon and had sent word of his fears back to Almeida and Celorico via the telegraph network. He rode fast through the misty afternoon up to the hill station near Nava d’Aver, which as usual was being manned by Archer. Dismounting, he wasted no time.
‘Make a signal to the forward station at Alameda. I need a report from them.’
‘I have, sir, but there has been no reply. Not for an hour or more. And now this mist’s come down, I can’t really see.’
Keane put the telescope to his eye and looked towards the distant signal tower, through the haze. For some minutes it seemed he was searching in vain, so thick was the mist. Then, though, there was a gap in the greyness and the tower came into view. But it was no longer there. He could see the pieces of wooden post, lying around the summit, broken up, and by training his glass down the hill and into the valley, he caught sight of three men on horseback, the tower garrison, riding as fast as they were able. Behind them a dust cloud showed pursuers, lots of them, and as he looked the sun’s rays struck through the mist and glinted off bronzed helmets.
‘Christ. The French. Send a signal to Craufurd’s post. I’ll give you the numbers.’
He felt in his pocket for the code book, recently retrieved from Archer and, opening it, found the numbers. ‘French advancing. About to abandon station. Will ride to join you.’
Archer began to make the signal and within a few minutes it was done. Then, as they had been ordered, Keane and he took down the apparatus and broke the posts in half with the axe provided, before riding away down the hillside. They did not look back and arrived in San Pedro, breathless on sweating horses, just as Don Sanchez was coming in from a routine patrol.
The colonel looked at Keane. ‘You look worried, captain.’
‘The French are coming. We have to leave.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘They’re right behind us, colonel. Dragoons.’
‘Captain, are you certain? Did we have a signal?’
‘We did not need one. I saw the station destroyed, the garrison chased off. They’re probably dead by now. Didn’t have a chance. We’re pulling back.’
‘Pulling back?’
‘Unless you want to be slaughtered where you stand. There’s at least a regiment of dragoons riding for here, and I dare say the rest of Massena’s army not far behind them.’
Without waiting for another word from Sanchez, and still mounted, he found Ross. ‘Sarn’t Ross, we’re pulling out. Have the men bring what they can. Are the others back from the mill?’
‘No, sir, haven’t seen them.’
‘Then I’ll go for them.’ He glimpsed Sanchez and his patrol. ‘Colonel.’
Don Sanchez turned.
‘Can you spare those lancers?’
‘Yes, of course, but why?’
‘The Ordenanza are down in the valley at the mill, directly in the line of the French.’
He turned his horse and, followed by twenty of Sanchez’s lancers, made off down the hill. By the time they reached the valley, Heredia and the Portuguese were on the move. Heredia was leading the Ordenanza on foot up the hill from the mill, with Martin and the hussars providing a mounted rearguard, their carbines at the ready. Keane signalled the sergeant of lancers to take his men to join the Germans and sought out Heredia.
‘You
saw them?’
‘Yes. I had a picket posted to watch the road. Just in case. He saw you and Archer and then a crowd of horsemen.’
‘You did well.’
‘Do you think we’ll make it before they catch us?’
‘It may be better to stand here. Form square.’
Heredia looked doubtful. ‘What? Do you really think we can do it, sir? With these men?’
‘What choice do we have. If they catch us on the run, we’re done for. It’s our best hope.’
Keane surveyed the ground. The mill was some four hundred yards below them now and they were struggling in loose formation up the open side of a gentle hill. There was light cover on the ground, of no use against cavalry. But away to the left at about thirty yards stood a coppice of trees.
Keane shouted to the cornet of the German hussars who was standing with his men further down the slope. ‘Mister von Cramm, to me.’ The young officer trotted up. ‘Sir?’
‘Lieutenant, I want you to take your men with those lancers over there and hide them in that wood. Stay close to the edge.’
‘Sir?’
‘We’re going to make a stand. Here. Right here. We’ll drive off the French and then get back to the camp as if the devil were on our tail. The infantry will form a square, and once we’ve let off a couple of volleys and they come to a halt, you will come out of the trees and have at them. That should send them running.’
Von Cramm smiled, confident in Keane’s experience, and rode off, and Keane watched as he ordered the hussars and dragoons to wheel away and up the hill towards the little wood.
He rode down to Pereira, who was with the Ordenanza. ‘Lieutenant, have your men form square. Do you think you can do it?’
Pereira nodded. ‘We have practised it in drill, sir. We will do our best.’
‘It had better be your best, lieutenant. You won’t have another chance.’
He watched as Pereira shouted the command in Portuguese to form square. Aided and prodded by Dominguez and Heredia, the militia began to form what looked like a line, two deep and thirty-five men wide. Dominguez took position eight men in from the left while Heredia walked in to the sixteenth man from the right. Pereira gave another command and pushed by each of the sergentes, the man facing each of them turned, one to the left, one to the right, followed, somewhat haphazardly by his comrades until two sides of what would be the square stood at right angle to a third. Finally, Heredia came round to the halfway point of the longest side and directed the man there to walk to their rear. Keane was impressed. They had completed the square and it had not taken as long as he had expected. Of course on a field of battle it would have been a different story and they would not have stood a chance, but here they had managed it. He trotted across and, creating a gap, walked his horse through to the centre to find Pereira and the others.
‘Well done. Not quite parade-ground stuff, but well done all the same. Right, have them fix bayonets.’
‘Sir, some of them have no bayonets.’
‘Well, have them use whatever edged weapon they have. The front rank at least can manage it.’
Within a few minutes each of the front ranks of the four sides of the tiny square presented something of an obstacle of steel. From bayonets to pikes and the occasional sword, all manner of sharp weapons projected beyond the wall of men.
Keane gave the order to load. And it was taken up by Pereira and his two sergentes. The men fumbled into cartridge boxes, haversacks and pockets and, bringing out cartridges, bit off the ends and poured ball and powder into their barrels before ramming them home. They primed their pans and stood ready to receive the enemy. Well, thought Keane, as ready as they might ever be. He wondered if they would stand when the assault came. He did not have long to wait. They heard the dragoons first. They came with a great rumble in the earth and then a jingle of harness and the whinnying of horses. Commands in French drifted across the stillness and then they were in sight. A ragged, galloping mass of green-coated horsemen, emerging on the opposite ridge and sweeping down towards the abandoned mill. Keane tried to count them and reckoned there must be two squadrons. The Portuguese were hopelessly outnumbered and he hoped that a bloody nose from the Ordenanza, followed by the surprise of the hussars and lancers in the wood, might be enough to drive off the dragoons and buy time for their escape.
The French galloped up from the mill, huzzaing and whirling their sabres as they saw the tiny Portuguese square. Keane could almost smell the elation and disbelief in their minds as they increased their pace, eager to destroy this ludicrous enemy.
But they had not counted on the new fire in the spirit of the militiamen.
Dominguez and Heredia gave the order. ‘Present. Make ready.’
Keane growled in Portuguese from inside the square. ‘Wait for it. Hold your fire. Wait… wait.’
The dragoons were close now, too close perhaps.
‘Fire!’
The first volley brought down four. It was not enough to stop them, thought Keane, but it slowed the onslaught.
‘Fire!’
The second rank fired and more of the French fell. This time the front rank of dragoons reared up, the horses reluctant to attack the wall of bayonets and spikes. They wheeled and turned, for the most part slashing in vain, too far away from the men in square. Two of the dragoons managed to make contact, and three of the Portuguese fell with sabre cuts to their heads. But then, as the dragoons stood and it seemed for a moment as if they might break into the square while the second rank fumbled to reload, there was a yell from the left and the hussars and the lancers broke their cover and poured out on to the hillside and into the right flank of the milling dragoons. The lancers came first, driving their weapons into the French, pig-sticking one man after another before dropping their lances to leave them hanging and drawing their swords. The hussars slashed down, cutting deep into flesh and severing limbs. And the French were unable to respond. Turning, trying to pull round, they seemed to Keane to be floating in maelstrom of carnage in front of the Portuguese lines. Heredia called out, ‘Steady. Don’t move. Steady.’ And the Ordenanza did not move. Most of them. One youngster threw down his pike and ran back into the square, but Keane stopped him with his hand and grabbed the front of his tunic.
‘Don’t run now, boy. One gap in the ranks and they’ll come through. Stay with your friends. They need you.’
He looked up at Keane with wild eyes and then, seeing that there was no way out, turned and found his weapon.
The cavalry carried on, pushing the French along the line of the square and back down the hill. They gave no quarter, but the French fought back and Keane saw two hussars go down as well as a number of Sanchez’s men. Then, as fast as they had come, the dragoons had turned and were fleeing back into the valley and away up the hill. Von Cramm gave the order not to pursue and his men stopped where they were. The only cavalry, thought Keane, that he had ever seen do so. As the duke always said, once their blood was up there was generally no stopping them.
Led by Pereira, the Portuguese gave a cheer while the lancers walked across the French dead and wounded, sticking their lance points into the side or chest of any man they could see was still alive. It was not as Keane would have wished, but this time he thought it best to let it go. Besides, the last thing they wanted was wounded prisoners.
He turned to Pereira. ‘Well done. You managed that better than I could have hoped.’
‘Me also, sir, if the truth be known. It was you, sir. You inspire the men. They would not have done it but for you.’
Keane laughed and wondered if it had been his brawl with Foote that had endeared him to them so much.
He watched as some of the Portuguese walked out of the line to gather up a souvenir from one of the dead dragoons. One man took a helmet, another an enamel cross pinned to an officer’s coat. All of them were grinning and seemed almost in disbelief at what they had done. Bt Keane knew that this was no time for trophy hunting.
He turned to Per
eira. ‘Those would only have been the advance guard. There will be more where they came from, and worse. And their blood’ll be up now, when they hear about this. Come on. We need to move fast.’
With no great regard for formation, with the lancers to their front and the hussars once again forming a makeshift rearguard, the four of them herded the Ordenanza further up the hill and on towards the village. Don Sanchez had not been idle.
‘I heard the firing. We thought you must be killed.’
‘No. I don’t die that easily, and nor do these men, it seems.’
10
They went as quickly as they could away from San Pedro, in the direction of Almeida, hoping to find Craufurd’s force as they went. Keane presumed that they would have abandoned the position at Fort Concepcion and be making for the river.
There was no time to harness carts that would only delay them and so, much to Keane’s shame, there was no alternative but to leave behind a dozen or so men too badly wounded or sick to march or ride. They left supplies for those who might live and notes attesting to the fact that they were soldiers, not guerrillas, and deserved to be treated according to the articles of war. Keane very much doubted, though, whether such rhetoric would make any difference to their chances of not being shot, which he rated low.
They formed up as a column of march, with Keane and the guides at their head, accompanied by Don Sanchez. Von Krokenburgh and a half-troop of the hussars came next, and then the Ordenanza in two half-companies. Behind them came Sanchez’s infantry, whose ability to form column of march made the Portuguese look, in Keane’s eyes, like professional soldiers. The rearguard was found by another half-troop of hussars, under cornet von Cramm. Sanchez’s cavalry provided the flanking screen, moving alongside the column but at some fifty yards distant, keeping an active watch through the mist for the enemy.
They went by the road, snaking down from the hilltop to the plain and then on towards Almeida.
With every step Keane thought they must be caught, but there was no sight of their pursuers and at length, after an hour’s march, one of the outriders approached him.
