A Despite of Hornets

by Geoffrey Watson

  Welbeloved had taken his time recruiting his men. Admiral Harrison had introduced him to Lord George Vere whose father, in despair at his wildness, had managed to get together enough money to buy him a commission in a line regiment, where he had got himself into so many scrapes that he was in imminent danger of being cashiered. A discreet transfer was arranged and Welbeloved personally took him into the Scottish mountains and made him survive and climb, march and climb for a long, long month before he accepted him unreservedly as his second-in-command.

  For the rest, he had looked more to the navy and the marines than the army. The ubiquitous press gathered men from all walks of life, and the assizes yielded up ex-poachers and wildfowlers who had chosen to serve in the navy as an alternative to prison or deportation. His senior N.C.O. Sergeant MacKay was a six-foot highlander, son of a crofter, who had joined the marines and served with Welbeloved in the Mediterranean. He had lost none of the skills he had acquired years ago, stalking deer and rabbits among his native gorse and heather.

  There was also quite a mixture of nationalities. In addition to the home grown English, Scottish, Irish and Welsh, there was a Greek, a half-Spanish half-English fifteen stone mountain man, a half-mad Swede and a Swiss who had fought the French in his own homeland and now had no desire except to continue fighting them whenever and wherever he could.

  ***

  Welbeloved was thinking about his men as he waited for Admiral Harrison. On the whole he was well satisfied. He gave an involuntary smile as he remembered the successful capture of Colonel Forsythe’s stronghold. His training had paid off then, but the opposition was after all, only made up of garrison troops and he needed to test his men against fighting soldiers before he could convince himself they were up to the standard he required.

  His reverie was halted when eventually he was shown into the small untidy office where Harrison had always seemed to be seated from the first time he had met him. On reflection, he mused, the office was probably not all that small, but filled to capacity by Harrison, who must have tipped the scales at more than twenty stones, and appeared to overflow even the massive chair that groaned under him. The desk itself was cut away at the front to accommodate his enormous paunch.

  Nevertheless, there was little wrong with the mind that looked out at Welbeloved through bright, intelligent eyes. He waved him to the only other chair and questioned him closely about the training and state of readiness of his men.

  Welbeloved’s answers appeared to satisfy him and he rummaged in one of his drawers and produced a pile of papers, which he pushed in Welbeloved’s direction. His high tenor voice seemed oddly out of place in such a large man.

  “I don’t know how well you have been able to keep up with the news while you’ve been up in those wild mountains. No doubt you know that a great deal has been happening in Spain since Napoleon engineered the usurpation of the Spanish throne, deposing both Carlos IV and his son Ferdinand, and replacing them with his own brother, Joseph Bonaparte.

  Welbeloved waited expectantly as the Admiral looked at him keenly and continued. Completely contrary to expectations, the Spanish people were so angry that they took up arms spontaneously against the French in their thousands, and the whole country is in a turmoil. Some of their representatives have been to England and appealed to us for help, and we have sent troops both from Ireland and from Gibraltar to Portugal, to support them in any way possible. The trouble is that the opposition to the French is fragmented. Some of them still support the French. Each region is controlled by a Junta, and each Junta has raised its own army. What is more, you’d get the impression that they would rather squabble among themselves than combine to fight the common enemy.”

  The Admiral shrugged, a massive quivering of the shoulders. “However, it’s up to us to do all we can to encourage them. Anything that demonstrates that people are still willing to resist the tyrant will sow seeds of doubt elsewhere in Europe and will stretch Bonaparte’s resources just that little bit further. There must be a limit eventually to how far he can go.”

  He stopped speaking and stared thoughtfully at Welbeloved for some time, then resumed. “This is where I think we can use you and your men for the first time. The whole of Spain and Portugal is in a state of chaos. The French are fighting to crush the rebellion. The Juntas are fighting the French and obstructing each other. A British army of 13,000 men has landed north of Lisbon and there are two people now in Madrid that we need to get out of Spain.

  Not only that, but for your personal information only, they will have baggage containing certain special items from King Carlos’ royal treasure and regalia that so far have been kept from falling into Joseph Bonaparte’s hands. Priceless items of royal legitimacy that must, on no account, be allowed to be captured by the French.

  The two people who will accompany this treasure are the Marqués de San Palo, who is a relative – cousin or something – of the Spanish King, and the other is the Condesa de Alba y Hachenburg, who has connections through her mother’s family to our own king. You can see therefore that it would be disastrous if they were to be detained by the French. That’s why it has been decided to send you to Madrid to ensure that it doesn’t happen. They are there waiting for you at the moment, under the protection of our Minister in Madrid, Mr. Hookham Frere, who has himself only recently returned there to assist and encourage the Spaniards. Personally I think he’ll have his work cut out, but they’ve surprised us once and I’ll reserve my judgement.”

  Welbeloved had his own views on the sort of resistance to be expected from the Spanish. He had seen individual acts of fanatical courage, but had also seen many, many instances of cowardice and cruelty. Not just thoughtless cruelty caused by arrogance and disdain; although there was plenty of that; but sadistic cruelty for the pleasure of inflicting pain.

  He didn’t think they would stand up to Bonaparte’s seasoned troops, other than in isolated instances. Going to Madrid and back was likely to be difficult and dangerous. On the one hand he would have to avoid the French, who had armies all over the country. On the other hand, he would have to exercise the utmost tact and diplomacy with any Spanish forces he might encounter. Even though they were now allied and both fighting the French, they had no love for the heretic English and were proud and haughty enough to resent having to ask for help.

  The Admiral might have been reading his thoughts. He smiled dryly. “There are three safe conducts with your orders, signed by the Juntas of Asturias, Seville and Galicia. It is doubtful whether they will be of great help to you even though they request and require all Spanish citizens to give you whatever help they can. I can’t imagine the authorities in Old Castille or Madrid paying too much attention, but you have enough force to make any of them think twice about crossing you and enough brains to think your way out of possible trouble.

  There is also a letter from the Horse Guards. The Duke of York has authorised you to demand help from any of our own forces you may meet. Probably useless too. They’ll be too busy keeping a foothold in Portugal to come anywhere near you.”

  The Admiral then asked for questions and answered all that Welbeloved could think of, as well as he was able. He wished him well and Welbeloved spent a thoughtful night in town, catching the early stage the following morning and being in Southsea in time to sail with the evening tide.

  There had been much to think about. He had read the reports about the initial British landing in Portugal and the splendid victory by Sir Arthur Wellesley over the French Generals Delaborde at Roliça and Junot at Vimeiro. He could not understand why the French had been allowed to leave Portugal after their defeat, under the terms of the Convention of Cintra. Certainly, the two senior generals Burrard and Dalrymple had been recalled and were in very bad odour because of it, as was Wellesley in spite of his victory. Unfortunately for him, he had felt obliged to add his signature when required to do so by his superiors, and was thus included in England’s displeasure and the Government’s censure.

  Sir John Moo
re was now in command in Lisbon. Welbeloved greatly admired what Sir John had done in training the Rifle Corps which was later to become the 95th. Regiment, the Green Jackets. When this was followed by the 43rd. and 52nd. Regiments, the British army was at last able to boast skirmishers, some armed with rifles, who could meet the French tirailleurs and voltigeurs on equal terms. Welbeloved had used the experience of the rifle regiments as the basis of his own small experiment with specially trained forces.

  Sir John’s reputation was such that Welbeloved was sure that he would not be content to sit in Lisbon and wait for the French armies to be sent against him. It was not in character. He would want to be taking the initiative and attempting to support the armies of Galicia and those raised by the other Juntas. It was now seven weeks since the French had negotiated their withdrawal after Vimeiro. It was possible that Sir John was already on the move. If he was advancing, Bonaparte would not be long in challenging him, and all this action was likely to be happening on exactly the same ground where Welbeloved and his small force would be escorting to safety, priceless items of royal treasure and two minor royals.

  He had been forbidden to mention the treasure to anyone, but gave all the rest of the information to Vere and MacKay, who passed it on to the corporals and riflemen. He was a firm believer in keeping his men as fully informed as possible. All their training had emphasised initiative and self-reliance, and in the event of himself and Vere being killed, which God forbid, he was confident that the survivors would do their utmost to complete the mission.

  CHAPTER 4

  The weather in the Bay of Biscay was again living up to its reputation. The wind direction was unhelpful to say the least, and the small schooner had to claw to windward through driving squalls and heavy seas. It made no difference to the Royal Navy of course. Their blockade of French ports was maintained whether the weather was fair or foul and Poppy had been challenged several times by vigilant sloops and frigates during her long beat down channel and around Ushant, south into the bay.

  Now they were well into the bay on course for Santander, where the army of Galicia was reported to be in control and where Welbeloved hoped to land safely and acquire horses for the direct journey south through Burgos to Madrid.

  So complete had England’s domination of the sea been since Trafalgar that even here, almost within sight of the enemy coast, Welbeloved was not overly concerned about the possibility of an encounter with French ships of war. Poppy was so lightly armed that almost any other naval vessel could be guaranteed to be more powerful. It was her speed that was her advantage and it should be enough to keep her clear of trouble, always assuming that she had room to manoeuvre.

  The French coast was a lee shore only a few miles to the east and the sail that had been reported only minutes ago was dead to windward. The probability was that it was another British blockade ship searching for small coastal vessels dashing from one port to the next. He gave orders to Lieutenant Parsons to inform him as soon as there was a chance of identifying the stranger and in the meantime to alter course to the southeast.

  Almost immediately the lookout reported that the stranger had also altered course to intercept. That settled the question about whether she was a merchantman or warship. Only an armed vessel would be curious enough and have time enough to satisfy her curiosity.

  This was not an area where one would expect to find a ship of war. It was away from the crowded shipping routes and there were few coastal vessels that would be risking the quick dash from one safe anchorage to another. It was hardly a profitable hunting ground for a British captain looking for prize money.

  On the other hand, there were many British captains currently escorting troop and supply convoys to Lisbon and one of them might have decided to see what he could pick up by making a diversion on his way home.

  The flash of white sail could now be seen from the deck. With the wind in her skirts she would be closing rapidly. The masthead lookout hailed that she was a two-masted vessel, either a brig or a snow, and significantly, that the cut of her sails looked French. Again this was not conclusive. Welbeloved himself had served in three ships that had once belonged to the French. He had in fact been involved in the capture of two of them.

  He called for a telescope and hauled himself up into the shrouds, balancing easily among so many hand and footholds, and trying to keep the telescope steady against the quite violent motion of the schooner. The ship flashed across the lens and he adjusted his aim, bringing the image into the glass and steadying as best he could. The stranger was probably a brig. Certainly square rigged on two masts and moving very quickly through the water if the ‘large bone in her teeth’ was anything to judge by. She had reefs in her topgallants, but even so was growing larger in his glass while he was watching.

  His main emotion was of mild irritation. Poppy ought to be handy enough to avoid action in normal circumstances; very probably had the legs of the brig in any contest sailing into the wind; but the stranger was rushing down from windward, and with the French coast to leeward there was no way of avoiding exchanging a few shots if she should indeed prove to be French.

  Parsons had come to the same conclusion. He touched his hat to Welbeloved. “With your permission sir, I would like to clear for action.” Welbeloved nodded. “Seems like a good idea, Edward. She looks more like a Frog every minute.”

  Even as he spoke there was a flash of colour as the French tricolour broke from the gaff, followed by a puff of smoke from the bows which was instantly blown away by the strong wind. The universal signal to heave-to.

  Welbeloved could see the details clearly now and ticked off the points in his mind as he watched. Smallish brig, sixteen guns, probably six-pounders, more than three times the weight of metal that Poppy could throw. Eighty to one hundred men to handle her and serve the guns. There was a certain freshness about her that hinted that she hadn’t long been out of port. None of the weathered and battered appearance of a ship with many months at sea. Very possibly a private ship sailing under Letter of Marque, trying to keep the owners solvent by preying on English merchant shipping while they were unable to use her for trade due to the blockade.

  He looked round Poppy’s deck. The crew was at quarters gazing expectantly towards the stern, waiting for the next move. He grinned at Parsons. “Let’s go to meet ‘em Edward. Likely, that’s not what they’d expect.” He called Vere towards him. “George, put six or eight of the best shots as high in the rigging as they can comfortably manage. Targets for everyone will be quartermasters, guncrews and officers, in that order. Create as much confusion as yew can with her steering and maybe we can leave her while she sorts herself out. Spread the rest of the men out where yew think they’ll do the most good.”

  Vere saluted and started shouting his orders as Welbeloved turned again to Parsons. “Well young Ed’ard, Poppy is yor ship and this is yor first action in command. I’ll try not to interfere, but I suggest yew go straight at ‘em until they veer to give us a broadside. If yew’re nippy, then yew might have the chance to tack across her bows or stern to rake her, while my lads tickle her up a bit as we pass.”

  Parsons nodded awkwardly. “Aye aye sir.” He lifted his speaking trumpet and yelled his orders. Men swarmed aloft and Poppy was quickly stripped down to both gaff sails, main and fore, and two jibs, holding her bow as close to the wind as possible.

  The brig was less than a mile distant, fine on the larboard bow. At their combined speeds they would be up to each other in under five minutes. Welbeloved forced himself to remain silent, waiting to see what the French captain would do and willing Parsons to react positively to it.

  Both men stood with telescopes glued to their eyes as the brig appeared to leap towards them. She was close enough now to see the decks swarming with men. Putting himself into the French captain’s shoes, Welbeloved would have gradually altered course to larboard, so that both ships were sailing towards a point where they would meet bow to bow. Their opponent had other ideas however and if t
hey both held to their present courses they would pass each other in almost opposing directions with time for one broadside at the most.

  Only two cables separated them now. He watched her sails suddenly shivering as she started her swing to larboard to present her broadside and attempt to match courses with Poppy. Parsons reacted instantly, rapping out his orders. The helm was put down and she went sweetly onto the opposite tack, heading to cross the Frenchman’s stern, now less than a cable’s length away.

  At this very moment the brig fired her broadside. Her side vanished, erupting into clouds of smoke and there was an eerie moaning overhead only yards to starboard. Poppy’s sudden tack had caused the enemy gunners to miss – but only just.

  Welbeloved grunted. “Usual French trick. Chain shot fired high to disable our rigging. Watch it Ed’ard, she’s wearing!” He clamped his mouth shut and swore silently. Parsons could see what was happening just as well as he. He was only distracting him.

  The brig was swinging back as they approached her stern. Poppy’s three little starboard guns cracked out, double shotted. They saw part of the brig’s rail disappear in a cloud of splinters. At the same time Welbeloved heard the rapid and unmistakable shots of the Fergusons as his riflemen started to pick their targets. At less than fifty yards they were wreaking havoc. He could see men falling everywhere he looked and the steersmen must have been among the first to go down because the brig was yawing wildly and being blown straight towards Poppy.

  Parsons bellowed for the helm to be put over and the schooner responded like a thoroughbred, but too late. There was a shuddering crunch as the brig ran down on Poppy’s stern just when an unlucky chainshot from the Frenchman sheared away the mainsail gaff and draped it over both vessels, effectively binding them together.

  There was utter confusion for about half a minute, during which time Welbeloved grabbed Parsons’ elbow and shouted in his ear. “Get your men together and follow mine. We’re going to board her!”