A Despite of Hornets

by Geoffrey Watson

  He ran forward calling to Vere and MacKay. “Rally those on deck and follow me. Leave the men who are aloft and tell ‘em to concentrate on any groups of resistance. Come on!”

  Quick as he was to scramble across the fallen gaff and mainsail, he was overtaken by several of his men – usually so silent in action – now howling defiance and scrambling agilely onto the enemy deck brandishing a lethal variety of vicious weapons. The very strangeness of this horde of sombre-clad figures was an advantage in itself, causing the waiting enemy to recoil in surprise.

  Taking immediate advantage, Welbeloved and his men hurled themselves at the French, hacking and stabbing. They were followed by Parsons and a crowd of sailors, carrying cutlasses and boarding axes and screaming like banshees.

  The French were given no time to rally. Every time a group formed itself away from the fury of the attack, preparing to join the fray, there were the cracks from the sharpshooters in the schooner’s rigging, firing down onto the deck of the brig with deadly effect.

  Welbeloved’s impression was that the fight had hardly begun when the enemy in front of him threw down their arms and screamed for quarter. His men, working together as a ruthless and disciplined unit had cowed and defeated far larger numbers in a swift and vicious encounter.

  The enemy survivors were quickly disarmed and herded together in the waist. A slash at the halyards and the French colours came down. Welbeloved paused and looked around him. Nobody in authority had as yet come forward to surrender the ship and he looked for an officer. He couldn’t find one. His men and the sailors spread out to round up any isolated Frenchmen and anyone who might have run below to hide and he strode aft to find a scene like something from a slaughterhouse. Bodies were everywhere, some still groaning in agony, but most of them quite dead: victims of the murderous and deadly fire from his trained marksmen at short range.

  He shuddered as he gazed around him, appalled at the terrible, overwhelming effectiveness of the weapon he had created, then he stood aside while Parsons and Vere began to organise parties to take the wounded for treatment and lay the dead out for burial.

  Poppy had no surgeon of her own. The hand detailed as surgeon’s mate went down to the brig’s orlop to help the French surgeon and his assistants. Not that there was much to do for the Poppys. Two seamen and one of the sharpshooters were dead and there were perhaps a dozen nasty slashes to be sewn up, otherwise there was not one injury that could be described as dangerous.

  The brig, the Bonaventure, had carried a crew of nearly one hundred men, of whom fifty-six, including all the officers had been mown down by a combination of the Ferguson’s concentrated fire and the disciplined attack of Welbeloved’s men. It was no wonder that the resistance to the boarding had been ineffective. The enemy had no-one left to lead them and must have been stunned by the carnage they could see all around them.

  For the rest of that evening and all through the night the two vessels lay hove-to while the damage was repaired and the wounded were treated. Five more died during the night and early in the morning Parsons conducted a short ceremony and consigned the canvas wrapped bodies to the sea. Those of the brig’s crew who were fit enough to attend, lined the rail to witness the burial, their white faces and deeply shocked expressions bearing mute evidence to the trauma they would probably carry with them for the rest of their lives.

  There was no major damage to the two vessels. Poppy’s carpenter purloined a suitable spar from Bonaventure to replace the shattered mainsail gaff. They made sail again by mid-morning, raising the mountains of northern Spain by early afternoon and heaving-to for the night within easy distance of Santander.

  Mindful that the few men comprising the crew of the Poppy were now reduced to twenty-eight, Welbeloved had decided against sending the brig back to England under a small prize crew. He preferred instead that they sail in consort and when his men were landed, the two vessels could return home together to give each other mutual support. Even bearing in mind the heavy French casualties, the survivors still outnumbered the crew of the Poppy, and Parsons would get little sleep guarding them, until he could bring both vessels safe into an English harbour.

  At first light in the morning both vessels approached the harbour, watchful for any signs that the French might be in occupation. Their presence was quickly noted and a pinnace approached in short order. A large red and gold Spanish flag flew from the stern and flashes of gold braid could be seen as soon as they cleared the breakwater.

  As they came nearer there was much gesticulating and comment between the two splendidly uniformed figures, with many curious and puzzled stares at the diminutive schooner and much larger brig, with the Union Flag flying proudly over the Tricolor.

  The pinnace was directed to the side of the schooner and Parsons manned the side as the first of the visitors climbed aboard.

  CHAPTER 5

  As the shrill wailing of the boatswain’s pipes commenced, the first object that came into view was a bicorn hat with a deal of gold braid, a large red cockade and a great red plume. When its owner stepped onto the deck it was swept off a silver-haired head, which proceeded to look keenly around at the spotless decks and waiting officers.

  The small body directly attached to the head was festooned in more gold braid on a navy blue frock coat with scarlet collar and waistcoat. A silk sash of the same colour restrained a portly stomach and supported white breeches and stockings. Welbeloved recognised the colourful uniform of a Spanish flag officer, without being too sure of his exact status.

  The second visitor wore a more subdued version of the same dress, but with the gold epaulettes and hussar boots of the Marine Corps.

  Parsons received them, but having no knowledge of any language save his own, quickly ushered the two Spaniards over to Welbeloved who had a working knowledge of Spanish, consisting of much Italian with enough Spanish words and phrases to make himself understood. He had however, thoughtfully told Ramon Hickson, the half-Spanish, half-English rifleman to stand by to translate.

  The senior of the two Spaniards strutted forward and introduced himself as Brigadier – equivalent of commodore, Welbeloved noted – Don Julio Montalban and his companion as Lieutenant-Colonel Carlos Ruiz Acebedo of the marines.

  As soon as the immediate formalities were over he burst into a torrent of excitable Spanish, which Hickson struggled to translate. He welcomed Spain’s new and most esteemed allies to the Spanish soil of Santander and proceeded in the same vein for some time, until his curiosity finally got the better of him and he bombarded them with questions about the captured brig. Welbeloved capitulated and gave a brief account of the bloody battle and capture of the Frenchman.

  He made the story as short as possible and as factual as he was able. As he told it he realised suddenly that his listeners, while being as polite as only Spanish officers can, were finding the greatest possible difficulty in believing his claims about the deadly effectiveness of the concentrated rifle fire. They were nevertheless effusive with their congratulations on their successful capture, before diplomatically changing the subject and asking if they could discuss the business that had brought them to Poppy.

  Welbeloved agreed gravely and led the way to his cabin. He couldn’t help feeling piqued at the scarcely concealed doubt displayed, but kept his face composed and cool. His pride in the performance of his men needed vindication he felt, and he had a quiet word with Vere before going below.

  Don Julio was strangely reticent once they were seated, but slowly it emerged that he was entrusted by the Junta in Madrid with a mission to the British government in London and was to have taken ship from Bilbao. Unfortunately; and this explained his embarrassment; the French had raided the harbour and burned the two frigates anchored there, leaving the Brigadier with no means of transport.

  He was loud in condemnation of French treachery and was furious at having to admit to Spanish humiliation at their hands, but the arrival of Poppy had looked to be a heaven-sent answer to his problem. Was there any
possibility that she would be returning to England and could take him as a passenger?

  The situation was farcical and Welbeloved contained his amusement with an effort. He could imagine the confusion and the sheer incompetence that must have contributed to the Spanish disaster and the French success, but he held his peace and murmured his condolences while agreeing to arrange for Parsons to receive Don Julio aboard and carry him back to England. In return he asked the Spaniards to use their influence to clear his path in all ways possible, to enable him to disembark his men and start them on their way to Madrid.

  Colonel Acebedo looked glum at the question as to the availability of horses, but the Brigadier, now that he was assured of being able to complete his mission, was all affability and waved away any doubts with a curt order to arrange everything.

  The meeting broke up cordially and Welbeloved led the way on deck again, chatting casually as they went. “We have to keep our men in training even when we are at sea, Señor. It is necessary yew understand, that my men maintain their accuracy with constant practice.” He waited while Hickson translated in detail and continued. “I had some targets made for this purpose and while we have been talking they have been set up in our longboat at about a hundred paces. Five targets, each the size of a man and about the same shape.” He pointed out to sea and they could see the ship’s boat anchored half a cable away with five figures erected along its length.

  He smiled at the Brigadier. “At this distance, Señor, how many hits would yew guess twenty soldiers would make in sixty seconds?”

  Don Julio looked thoughtful. “If they were well trained soldiers, Captain, they should be able to fire three shots in the time, four if their muskets were loaded to start with.” He squinted at the targets. “At that distance, with sixty shots I would expect every target to be hit maybe two or three times, certainly not more.”

  Welbeloved nodded. “Watch carefully, Señor. All my men will commence with their rifles unloaded. Perhaps yew will act as timekeeper and give the signal to start? Stop them after one minute.”

  The Brigadier nodded happily and pulled out an ornate gold pocket watch. He lifted his arm while keeping his eye on the second hand. The men lined the rail, making themselves comfortable wherever they could find a suitable position and waited for the signal. The arm flashed down and every man swept open the breech plug, rolling the ball into position and charging the piece from a powder horn in almost the same movement.

  The trigger guards were returned to normal and the pan primed and cocked. Twenty rifles were raised and sighted almost as one and a ragged volley rang out. Immediately, the whole process began again and this time one or two marksmen were rather quicker and the volley was even more ragged. The last of the four rounds was a continuous crackle of shots and every man had his rifle at rest, seconds before the Brigadier cried “Halt!” and looked up to see them all relaxed, grinning openly and with their rifles grounded.

  He turned to Welbeloved and cried out admiringly. “That was a magnificent display of shooting Captain. The rate of fire must have been nearly twice what I would expect from a musket. It was so quick in fact, that I don’t see how they could have had time to aim properly. I’ll wager there are no more than four or five hits on each target.”

  Welbeloved merely smiled and was showing him the mechanism of one of the rifles as the targets were towed back and hoisted aboard, where they were lined up against the rail. He then led them over for an inspection and both Spaniards gaped with amazement. Welbeloved murmured. “Perhaps Colonel Acebedo would care to try and count the number of holes? It may be difficult as many of the shots are so close together, but it will certainly give yew a good estimate.”

  The chest area of each target was a splintered mass of holes, a few towards the edge of the body outline but most within a radius of the centre that would certainly have proved fatal to a real human target. Both the Dons however, were staring in fascination at the heads of the targets. A single shot showed centrally in the head of all five targets and Welbeloved hastened to explain. “That, Señores, is the work of Rifleman Evans, our best shot and a natural marksman. All the others were allowed only four shots each, but he got away five in the same time and yew can see the accuracy he maintains.”

  The Spaniards were still staring at the targets and talking volubly and far too rapidly for Welbeloved to follow. They seemed more fascinated by the single shots to the head than in the shattered torsos of the targets. Don Julio gestured to Welbeloved. “When you told us how you captured the French ship I did not, I could not understand what you meant. I was puzzled that you managed to capture a much bigger vessel armed with more and heavier guns, with so little damage to your own little ship. I now realise that perhaps they were not so well armed as you.” He paused and reflected. “And with only twenty men as well. I think that the Colonel here must talk to the Junta. We would find it invaluable to have companies of men armed like that. It would mean that we could face even the unbeaten French in battle and expect to beat them.”

  His eyes lit up at the thought. “When I get to England, will you please tell me who it is that I must see? Something must be done soon. The French are already marching into my country again and I fear that patriotism, bravery and enthusiasm may not be enough. They have after all beaten every army that has been brought against them by every country in Europe.”

  “Yew forget though, that they were well beaten in Portugal.” Welbeloved broke in, “and that was only two months ago. Remember that there is now a British army in control in Lisbon, ready to support Spain in her fight against the tyrant. Nevertheless I will be happy to give yew a letter of introduction to Admiral Harrison, who will be able to help yew if anyone can.”

  ***

  In the early afternoon, Welbeloved disembarked with his men and was met on the quay by Colonel Acebedo and his aide who conducted them to the quarters to which they had been assigned for the night. It was a large barn of a building with straw pallets lining the walls, and showed all the signs of very recent occupation. He could imagine some wretched Spanish peasant soldiers being turfed out to accommodate his own men.

  He had changed into the same uniform as his men. He and Vere were only distinguishable by the officer’s sashes and swords they wore. Even in this respect, Welbeloved had abjured the traditional red sash of the British army and opted for dark green, which would blend in with the rest of the uniform and not stand out to an enemy marksman.

  The sword he carried was a fine, strong, but richly decorated blade, which had been a gift, many years ago, from a Russian officer whose life he had saved during the Russo-Turkish fight to wrest the Ionian Islands from the French.

  Brigadier Montalban had embarked at the same time and both vessels had sailed immediately with Welbeloved’s reports and with instructions to Parsons to return in three to four weeks and await contact. Welbeloved reckoned that the journey to Madrid and back would take at least that long, making allowance for the time necessary to escort a coach over mountain roads, avoiding French patrols and other hazards.

  Having settled in for the night, he now wondered whether his estimate was long enough. Colonel Acebedo had huffed and puffed, gone red in the face with embarrassment and avoided Welbeloved’s eye, but had been quite unable to find a single horse for them.

  Shortage of horses and mules had become critical ever since the fighting had started and was so bad here in the north that one cavalry regiment had already been dismounted and the troopers taught the rudiments of infantry warfare.

  Welbeloved shrugged philosophically, and at dawn the following day, formed the men up and marched southwards out of town, heading for the Cantabrian Mountains and the road to Burgos.

  All morning they marched in two squads through a verdant, forested countryside. Signs of military activity showed everywhere and they looked with amazement at the Spanish soldiers that they passed. These were the troops raised by the Junta of Estramadura, the army commanded by the young Conde de Belveder. Welbeloved and V
ere stared at them and shivered with apprehension. The arms they carried seemed old and badly maintained. Very few of them were wearing matching uniforms, in fact there were some of them sporting tunics that Vere recognised as being old British army issue.

  Their feet were covered with a variety of footwear from shoes, boots, sandals and even soles of wood or leather strapped in place with anything that came to hand. They shambled along in bunches behind scarecrows beating time on a drum in the fond hope that this rabble would keep in step. Some of the cavalry looked better fitted out, but their horses were ill-fed and in poor condition.

  When, after a few miles, they came across the outposts of the army of the Junta of Galicia, commanded by General Joachim Blake, they found the same hastily assembled and sorry band of peasant soldiers, the like of which had so dismayed them around Santander.

  It seemed to Welbeloved that the chances of these ragged peasants standing up to Napoleon’s veterans must be virtually nil. And yet he mused, it had been men just like these under the command of General Castaños and the army of the Junta of Andalusia, that had forced the French General Dupont to surrender at Bailen only a few short weeks ago. Admittedly they had caught the French by surprise and shown amazing courage and fortitude. Now the French were no longer surprised and would be determined to have their revenge. He hoped that Sir John Moore would exercise some caution in any effort he made to support his new Spanish allies.

  ***

  They camped for the night in an idyllic glade on the wooded slopes overlooking a large lake that was the source of the river Ebro. They were in sight of a small Spanish village, whose initially suspicious and surly inhabitants had greeted them with barely disguised hostility, until the sight of the silver that Welbeloved had shown them produced a chicken and a small, stunted pig. It was roasted over the campfire and helped to disguise the taste of the rough wine they had also bought.