A Despite of Hornets

by Geoffrey Watson

  They had climbed three or four thousand feet since leaving Santander and the temperature dropped sharply with the setting of the sun. There had been no signs of military activity for the last ten miles and Vere contented himself with setting only two sentries and banking earth over the embers of the fire. Everyone rolled themselves in their blankets and settled down for the night.

  His eyes had hardly closed, or so it seemed, when Welbeloved came awake suddenly. A hand was shaking his shoulder and a voice whispered in his ear. He recognised the lilt of the Welshman Evans, one of the men who had been given the first spell of sentry duty. “Sir, sir! Wake you up sir. There’s a whole lot of horsemen just arrived down in the village, an’ it’s French they are, I’m certain sure.”

  He was out of his blankets immediately, feeling the cold air biting his face. All around, silent figures were rising and groping for their arms. Vere came up, already fully equipped and together they hurried to the vantage point in the screen of trees from where they could look down on the village. There was a confused mass of men and horses in the one narrow street, with orders being shouted in French, and hammering on doors being answered in frightened Spanish as the soldiers forced their way into the cottages.

  This was followed a short time later by shouts of rage and women’s screams of terror, punctuated by half a dozen pistol shots and wails of alarm. The French were obviously taking over the village in order to sleep under cover for the night, and any of the Spanish peasants who objected were being dealt with summarily, in the manner with which the French were accustomed to enforce their will. The very sort of brutality which had encouraged the Spanish people to rise against them in the first place.

  The night was clear and starry, but the moon was only a sliver in its final phase. Welbeloved strained his eyes to estimate how many there were in the troop. Certainly more than he had, but in the dark it was impossible to judge. It could have been thirty; it could have been sixty.

  The noise below them was dying away as the cowed villagers accepted their fate and the soldiers organised themselves and their horses to settle down for the night. Welbeloved spoke quietly to Vere. “There yew are George. We wanted horses and the Frogs have obliged us by bringing us some. I reckon there’s enough down there to give us each a mount, with a few pack animals and reserves as well. Now yew go and get the men ready for a spot of mischief and send Sergeant MacKay to me. We’ll go down together and have a look. Wait here for us until I can decide what’s best for us to do.”

  Sergeant MacKay appeared like a shadow beside him and Welbeloved pointed to the village. “I want to know what they are, how many of them there are, how many horses and how they are tethered, how many sentries and where posted. That clear?” MacKay nodded. “Aye sir.” Welbeloved grinned. A man of very few words was MacKay.

  “Yew take the left half of the village, I’ll take the right. We’ll go down this slope to the middle and meet again after, by that rock that we passed on the path up here with the pig.” MacKay nodded and grunted another reluctant “aye sir” and they both crept down towards the now relatively quiet village.

  The houses of this little town were scattered on either side of the single road passing through; only about twenty shacks and hovels in all. There was one larger building in the middle, having lean-tos and sheds at the back for pigs, chickens and the stabling of horses for any traveller foolish enough to wish to stay there for the night.

  They reached the back of the houses at the foot of the slope and separated. MacKay faded into the shadows, lightly and amazingly silently for someone of his bulk. Welbeloved nodded his approval before slipping, equally quietly, around the side of the nearest cottage and squatting down to observe the street.

  Now that the villagers had been cowed or beaten into submission, no-one was moving in the street, although noises to the rear of the main building across the way, indicated that at least some of the horses were there. He waited patiently, watching and listening. A faint clink of metal against metal directed his attention to the shadows at the side of the main building. He searched and frowned at the sight of some unidentified creature, about three feet high and looking as though it was standing on or behind a low wall some eighteen inches tall.

  He couldn’t remember any low walls in the village, and continued to watch until he caught a glimpse of a faint reflection on the polished brass of a helmet. He realised with amused surprise that he had been watching a light-coloured pair of breeches, which stood out in the dim light, from the dark tunic and black knee-length boots above and below them. The sentry had been posted intelligently in the shadows of the building, to guard the horse lines. It had to be assumed that another man or men would be at the back of the same building, closer to the beasts.

  He rose carefully and made his way noiselessly towards the end of the village and searched for another pair of breeches at the entrance to the village street. Seeing and hearing nothing, he moved cautiously across the road and around the back of the hovels, making for the rear of the main building.

  Quiet snorting and stamping signalled the presence of the horses before he could see them and he crept towards the sounds, picking up the position of two other guards. While he watched there was a bustle of activity and murmured greetings as the guard was changed and the new man settled down. The relieved sentries went off to find their blankets.

  Welbeloved had seen enough and moved back the way he had come, arriving at the rendezvous only scant minutes before MacKay appeared as silently as a ghost. He gestured for him to follow and stole off back to the camp.

  Once there, he called an immediate council of war with Vere, Sergeant MacKay and the two corporals, Atkins and Dodds. They quickly grasped the situation in the village and noted the positions of the sentries, and Welbeloved was able to continue. “Sentries are changed every two hours and I want to move in and eliminate all three, shortly after they have been posted for the pre-dawn spell. That’ll be near enough eight bells. That’s yor job Sergeant! Yew’d better take Dodds here, and O’Malley, but make sure there’s no noise.”

  With the exception of Sergeant MacKay, Dodds and O’Malley were the tallest men in the party. Both over six foot but otherwise completely different. Dodds was broad and strong with a quiet and gentle manner and the blonde hair of the Saxons. He had been a shepherd in Lakeland and part-time poacher with infinite patience and an unshakeable calm. Welbeloved had never discovered what the ginger-haired Irishman O’Malley had been before he recruited him, but he valued his talents. Lean, wiry, argumentative, fiery and rebellious, but a born fighter and able to move across country more quietly than a breath of wind.

  Welbeloved looked at Vere. “George, I want yew to give Corporal Atkins here, six men who are good with animals. As soon as the sentries have been silenced, they will be responsible for taking all the horses and leading them away well out of sight. Leave two men to guard them and then return to join us. The rest of us will be in position around the village at sunrise. That should be when they find the horses missing and start to get excited. Wait on me. I will fire the first shot. The men can select their targets, but pick out the officers first. With any luck they’ll strike their colours after a couple of rounds. Now we might as well get a couple of hours in our blankets before the fun starts.”

  By four o’clock they had broken camp and the first party picked its way down the slope and into position to watch and wait for the sentries to be changed. MacKay contented himself with pointing out the posts of the two men guarding the horses. He intended to deal with the guard at the house himself. He watched Dodds and O’Malley fade into the half-light of the pre-dawn, just as the tramp of feet announced the approach of the relief. A junior non-commissioned officer was leading them and the whole operation took less than five minutes, then he was leading the relieved men back to their billet.

  MacKay could hear the new man shuffling his feet and yawning. He could imagine him knuckling the sleep out of his eyes to wake himself thoroughly as he started his
stint. He had been close enough when they had passed him to recognise the typical brass helmet of the dragoons, with its long horsehair tail. It meant that he would have to change his method of attack. Normally he would have just used his strength to throttle his victim silently, but the helmet gave a lot of protection to the neck and might allow the man some chance to cry out before he was despatched. He slid his dirk out of its sheath and eased himself, inch by inch along the wall.

  That soldier of the Emperor never knew how he died. The dirk slipped between his ribs at the same time as a hand was clamped over his mouth to still any outcry. MacKay lowered him gently to the ground and stole to the rear of the building to support Dodds and O’Malley should they need it.

  They didn’t! He was just in time to hear a muffled clatter of a dropped musket and to see a brief flurry as the other sentry whirled round to see what had happened and Dodds rose up behind him and appeared to envelope him. He lowered him to the ground and wiped his knife thoughtfully on his victim’s tunic.

  MacKay strode over to the second body. “O’Malley!” he hissed, “you useless ginger lump of bog-trotting Irish trash. You’ve made enough noise to raise the devil himself. Now get back quietly and tell the horse handlers they have a clear field.”

  O’Malley was unabashed. MacKay could see the flash of teeth as he grinned. “Whisht Sergeant dear, ‘twas the Froggie who was the careless one, droppin’ his bondook loike that. A proper soldier would not have done that, now would he?”

  He stalked off still complaining quietly and soon MacKay saw dim figures moving among the horses, speaking quietly and soothingly as they started to lead them away.

  Welbeloved had eased himself into a position on the slope above the village, from where he could see most of the street, when MacKay dropped down beside him and reported that the horses were clear. He sent him to report to Vere and settled back to await sunrise. Already there was a faint lightening of the eastern sky and he anticipated that the French would be out and about early to tend their horses.

  He was right. The eastern horizon was glowing, heralding the approach of another new day, when a dozen troopers left the cottages with leather buckets and headed for the well. He could hear the exchange of greetings and a jeering laugh, possibly at some coarse remark. They filled their buckets and trudged down the side of the building. Welbeloved lay still as the first yell of alarm reached him and watched silently as they came running back and dashed to report to their officer.

  The scene that followed was reminiscent of an ant’s nest that had been kicked over. Men appeared, running from all the cottages, dashing in all directions. A tall officer ran out of the main building, struggling into his green tunic, with an orderly running behind with his sword and helmet. He bellowed out orders and the anthill began to take on a semblance of discipline.

  Parties of men ran into the cottages and dragged out any villagers still inside, lining them up against the wall of the large house while the officer yelled questions at them. It looked very much as if he was holding them to blame for the loss of his mounts and he was clearly going to have some answers from the way he was urging his men to beat his victims with the butts of their carbines.

  Without doubt, the answers he was getting were unsatisfactory. How could they be otherwise? Welbeloved shook his head as he watched. Then he saw they had rounded up a dozen or so young children and lined them up against the limewashed wall of the next house. At a command, a file of men formed up in front of them with carbines held across their chests. The officer drew his sword and once more turned to the villagers, many of whom were now on their knees, begging for mercy.

  The officer turned from them with a gesture of frustration and barked a command at his men, who raised their carbines, aiming at the children. His sword gestured violently at the villagers, who by now were screaming at him to spare the children. Welbeloved could see clearly, the look of fury on his face as he once more faced the firing squad. He watched his chest inflate ready to shout the fatal command, and his finger squeezed the trigger, shooting him coldly through the heart and seeing him hurled to the ground.

  Immediately, from vantage points all round the village, there came the crack of rifles. The men’s feelings overrode their orders, as the important target was the firing squad, which fell almost as one man. By this time Welbeloved had reloaded and picked off a sergeant who was attempting to restore order. The villagers also had seized their opportunity, grabbed the children and fled for cover.

  Suddenly, the street was empty apart from some twenty bodies lying in the abandoned attitudes of death. There was a sudden cloud of smoke as a musket discharged, followed as if in echo by the distinctive crack of a Ferguson and a dragoon staggered and fell from cover, his carbine falling in the dust beside him.

  Welbeloved cursed fluently. He could count over twenty bodies and knew that there had been fifty horses led away. There must still be more than twenty dragoons scattered among the cottages and hovels. It could well be a costly business winkling all of them out. He considered what orders he should issue.

  While he was still debating the best course of action he was amazed to see a good dozen men rushing from cover, making for the bodies of the dragoons lying out in the street. They were not soldiers but ragged villagers seizing muskets and swords. Two rifle shots rang out and Welbeloved looked anxiously to find their targets. He breathed a sigh of relief. Two more green-clad figures staggered and fell. His men had realised what was happening and were giving what covering fire they could.

  Then came an example of sheer fury-inspired courage. The ragged, bruised and in many cases bloody villagers; bearing visible evidence of the beatings they had suffered; rushed at the nearest cottage, hurling themselves at the door, which gave way with a rending of timber. A shot rang out and one peasant fell back in agony, but the rest crowded past waving swords and muskets, while still another group made for the cottage next door and battered their way in.

  The French had made the fatal mistake of scattering for cover in small numbers, and although armed, they stood no chance against the weight of numbers and furious, reckless courage that the villagers were showing. A few of the dragoons smashed holes in the thin walls and tried to fire at the mob which advanced inexorably from one house to the next. Welbeloved’s men killed three who attempted this, and suddenly the last five or six survivors burst out into the open and fled for their lives with a dozen peasants in hot pursuit.

  Welbeloved stepped out of cover and walked into the village street, blowing two blasts on his whistle. His men quickly joined him and he sent them on a rapid search of the remaining dwellings in case there were still any of the enemy unaccounted for.

  They found no Frenchmen alive, but Vere came out of the main building with his face as white as chalk and mutely signalled Welbeloved to go and have a look. As he walked through the door he had a premonition of what he was going to find. It took him back not very long ago, when he had stumbled across the ravaged corpses of his wife and small daughter.

  All the young village women had been penned inside the building and had been systematically raped and murdered. He stared in horror at the body of a child of no more than ten or eleven, with contorted and bloody limbs and an expression of terror still stamped on her dead face.

  He knew his own face must have been as white as Vere’s, even though he had experienced similar atrocities before. He was aware that this sort of thing happened wherever Napoleon’s armies marched. He had suffered from it himself and was convinced that it would contribute greatly to the ever growing resistance and the determination of the Spanish people and other subject nations, to do away with the tyranny, which had oppressed them for so long. It was no wonder that the men of the village had seized their opportunity when it was presented to them, and hunted down like rats, all the surviving dragoons.

  None of his men had been injured and he set them to collecting and laying out the bodies of the dead peasants. There were rumblings of anger as they carried out the bodie
s of the women and young girls. The bodies of the dragoons were left where they lay, having first been stripped of weapons and ammunition. No doubt the villagers would raid them later for their clothes and boots.

  He was pleased to find a good quantity of cartridges and balls. It was opportune to be able to replace the powder they had expended, and they would be able to melt the balls down and re-cast them with their scissor moulds to the .68 calibre of the Ferguson.

  The saddles and other horse furniture were stacked together and each man selected his own saddle, shabraque and sheepskin. There was also a holster, which would carry their rifles, and as an additional item, every man chose and attached one of the long cavalry sabres.

  Thirty of the best horses were taken, both for mounts and for pack carrying. All the rest, together with saddles, equipment and fifty carbine muskets were handed over to the peasants, who had now returned to the mournful task of burying their dead, after hunting and killing without mercy, the last of the dragoons.

  They told Welbeloved that they had had a meeting and that all the able-bodied men intended to go north to try and join one of the armies, ready to fight the French. The horses and arms would go with them and be a welcome addition to the rag-tag collection of weapons that the peasant armies were carrying.

  It had been hoped that they could capture one or two of the dragoons alive and question them about the movements of the French armies. However, every Frenchman, wounded or otherwise, had had his throat cut before he could intervene. After seeing the pitiful scenes in the rooms of the large house, he had neither the heart nor the inclination to restrain the Spaniards from exacting their revenge.

  In the early afternoon they rode away in much greater comfort, with cries of farewell and gratitude still ringing in their ears. It was bitterly cold and the first flurries of snow beat into their faces. All were glad of the cloaks, which they had thoughtfully acquired, as they left the valley of the Ebro and climbed the final hills before the descent to Burgos and the plains of Old Castile.