A Despite of Hornets

by Geoffrey Watson

  It was conceivable that this band of horsemen was doing nothing more than that. It was also possible that they were searching for his own whereabouts, hoping to recapture the Marqués and the regalia. Napoleon must have been informed by now and would almost certainly have issued orders for their apprehension as quickly as possible.

  The chasseurs were in no hurry; just a quiet exploration of the valley and the countryside around, with an interrogation of any Spaniards they might find. Welbeloved had watched several such forays in the last few days, none of which had come closer than fifteen miles to the monastery. These were the closest so far, still a long way away, but as they explored more and more, the time would come, and not in the distant future, when his party would have to move on, whether the Marqués was fully fit or not.

  The Condesa’s hand on his arm alerted him to another development. She pointed up the valley to a spot not yet in sight of the French and Welbeloved stared in disbelief. A horseman was picking his way slowly down the valley in the direction of the chasseurs; a horseman on a magnificent beast; that much could be seen from where they were lying. The feature that caused Welbeloved to grunt in astonishment as he centred his glass on him, was his uniform.

  It was the magnificent blue uniform of a hussar, and a British hussar at that, but so massively gold braided on dolman and pelisse that the man positively glittered as he rode unconcernedly towards the French. As if all that decoration wasn’t enough, his pelisse could be seen to be trimmed with white fur and his head was adorned with a tall, white-crowned, scarlet shako. His appearance in such drab surroundings was like a gorgeous bird of paradise. What he was doing in the middle of enemy-held country was anybody’s guess, but he certainly wasn’t incognito, and Welbeloved wasted no time in speculation.

  About a mile back up the valley, as he remembered it, the steep side was split where a stream had broken through to the valley floor. It was not an easy climb, but a good horse could manage to scramble up, and a couple of men hidden nearby could hold off many times their own number of pursuers.

  He rapped out concise commands and four of his men ran back to where their horses were tethered and galloped away to cover the area. That left Welbeloved himself, the Condesa and rifleman Evans to watch the drama enfold below.

  The hussar was still concealed from the French, but as soon as they should come round the bend in the valley floor, they would be within a hundred yards of each other. By the time both sides had got over their surprise and the hussar had turned his horse to flee, they would be upon him. Capture looked certain and in spite of his reluctance to reveal his presence to the enemy, it was time for Welbeloved to take a hand.

  Concealment now served no further purpose and all three stood up, unslinging their rifles, loading and priming with practised precision. Even the Condesa was loaded and ready nearly as quickly as her more experienced companions. Welbeloved paused for a quiet word of advice to her. “Take yor time, steady yor breathing and aim a mite high at this distance. If yew aim at the rider’s head yew’ll probably hit the horse.”

  Their sudden movement against the skyline had been noted, both by the French and the hussar. They all paused to see what they were about. Their weapons must have been clearly visible, yet the French ignored them. At six or seven hundred yards they had a contempt for small arms fire. No musket could do much harm to them at that distance and they were not about to give satisfaction to what they assumed to be merely armed Spanish peasants; or to use the new expression ‘guerrilleros’, that would be gaining recognition over the next few years. Fighters in the guerrilla, or little war that would harry the French lines of communication, overrun and kill isolated units and generally tie down large numbers of French soldiers that Bonaparte would be needing desperately elsewhere.

  Welbeloved rested his rifle against a spur of rock. He could see two of the officers sitting together with telescopes to their eyes and he concentrated on them, allowing for the fall of the shot, the distance and the effect of the breeze blowing down the valley. He squeezed the trigger and heard Evans’s rifle fire at the same time, followed quickly by the Condesa’s.

  The effect on the French was immediate. In spite of the range, two of the shots had been successful. One of the horses was thrashing about on the ground and one of the officers was lying across his horse’s neck, while others fought to control the beast. Welbeloved and Evans fired again, but the chasseurs had scattered and no fresh targets were found.

  The hussar meanwhile, had seen that the firing was not directed at him and had had the sense to realise that whoever was on the receiving end was not likely to be friendly. He had turned his horse and was cantering back up the valley when the first of the chasseurs came round the bend and raised the alarm. The chase was on immediately, though by now the hussar had three or four hundred yards start and was easily maintaining his lead.

  Taking up the chase brought the chasseurs directly below Welbeloved’s position and much closer to the Fergusons. Three more shots rang out and two more riders at the head of the chase were on the ground, together with their mounts. The resulting confusion gained another fifty yards for the hussar, who was now almost out of sight, and according to Welbeloved’s calculations, ought to be nearing the gully that he would be able to use as an escape route.

  It was time to join the others and Welbeloved signalled a withdrawal to the horses. They arrived at the head of the gully just in time to cover the retreat of Corporal Atkins. He had scrambled down to guide the hussar and now came panting up behind the rider, while the concentrated fire of six rifles emptied more saddles, scattered the survivors and sent them back in precipitate retreat.

  Once he was sure that there was no more danger from the French, they gathered round the hussar, who was quietly sitting his horse and soothing the animal after his hectic scramble up the gully. He was a tall man with black hair and an enormous black moustache, one end of which he was twisting thoughtfully as he surveyed the small group of soldiers, who returned his curious stare with interest.

  The magnificence of his uniform made the rest of them look like a set of ragamuffins, particularly as their faces were now smudged and grimy from powder smoke, which billowed from the pans at every discharge of their weapons. He eventually picked out Welbeloved as an officer by his sash and sword, and swung down from his horse, handing his reins to the Condesa with a brusque, “Hold onto these, m’lad.” The resulting laughter from the men and the impassive expressions on the faces of the Condesa and Welbeloved told him that he had done something to cause amusement, but before he could determine what, Welbeloved stepped forward with his hand outstretched.

  “A somewhat unexpected encounter sir, but perhaps fortunate for yew that we were watching the Frogs. Joshua Welbeloved at yor service sir.”

  The hussar gave a stiff half-bow and took Welbeloved’s hand. “Deuced obliged to you Welbeloved. That could have been a tricky situation. Wouldn’t have done at all to have been grabbed by Soult’s fellers. Allow me to name myself. Anstruthers, sir, Major of the 10th. Hussars and in your debt.”

  Welbeloved nodded. “I reckon yew are that, Major. We were quite keen that the French shouldn’t know that we were about here. I fear that they are now only too aware. I would therefore like to move away as quickly as possible. Perhaps yew would care to accompany us? I can offer yew accommodation of sorts for the night.”

  His eyes twinkled. “First though, I am neglecting my duty. Perhaps yew will permit me to name yew to the Condesa de Alba y Hachenburg?”

  Anstruthers stared at him as if he had taken leave of his senses and then his face went almost as red as his shako, as the Condesa stepped forward, still holding the reins of his horse, and proffered her hand. “These are strange and difficult times, Major. As you can see, appearances can be deceptive. Please do not take it amiss that you were misled by my dress.”

  The Major regained his composure with a struggle, but then showing much gallantry, swept off his shako and bent over her hand. “I am mortified
Madam. I can only plead in exoneration that your disguise is the most deuced effective, and I have to admit that I thought you were a demned good lookin’ boy. In my regiment, I am reckoned to have an eye for the ladies. Now, when this becomes known, I’m afraid I’ll become a laughing stock.”

  “Do not tell them then, Major. I’m sure no-one else will. However, I fear we must now attend to other matters. Captain Welbeloved and his men grow impatient to be moving before the French can recover and pick up our trail.”

  Welbeloved was ultra-cautious on the return journey to the monastery. He made a detour of many miles round in case there were any among the French with skill at following the tracks of horses. Whenever the track permitted, Anstruthers rode alongside, giving details of his own duties and satisfying his own curiosity about their reason for being there.

  He explained that he was attached to Sir John Moore’s staff and was on a lone reconnaissance, trying to discover the strength and deployment of the forces under Marshal Soult. Sir John himself had advanced from Lisbon to support the Spanish armies and was now in Salamanca with a small British army of twenty-five thousand men, trying to find a Spanish army that had not already been destroyed, to which he could lend his strength against the enemy.

  Napoleon had left Valladolid and marched on Madrid. By now, the strength of the fortifications that the Condesa had been helping to build, and the fortitude and bravery of its citizens would have been put to the test. Cynically, Welbeloved wondered how the residents of the capital were coming to terms with the occupying forces. Don Pedro would no doubt wish that he had never left.

  Anstruthers was very bitter about the lack of co-operation Sir John was getting from the juntas. Napoleon had destroyed every Spanish army that had been raised against him, and the juntas were now taking the totally unrealistic view that the small supporting British army should throw itself recklessly against four or five times its own numbers of the French.

  Sir John’s unwillingness to sacrifice his troops to no purpose changed the whole mood of co-operation offered by the Spanish. Supplies were denied and reinforcements waiting to disembark at La Coruña and Vigo were kept on board ship for several days while the Junta of Galicia debated whether to let them land at all. “They expect us to fight for them,” the Major commented resignedly, “whether we can win or not, whether we are by ourselves or not and no matter how we are outnumbered. If we were to succeed, they would take all the credit, but if we were to fail, they would abandon us here without a second thought.

  The most we can do is to find one of the French armies near to our own size, beat them quickly before they can get support and then run like mad for the coast.

  What is more,” he added with feeling, “that Minister of ours in Madrid is so blind to their faults that he takes exactly the same line as they do and supports them against us on every issue. I really believe he would rather see our whole army destroyed, rather than retreat from Spain safely without achieving anything. I hope he’s now running for his life from Madrid, away from the French troops that have thrashed his beloved Spaniards.”

  Welbeloved smiled wryly at this description of Hookham Frere. His own brief encounter with the man had made him instinctively sympathetic to Anstruthers opinion. Having to cope with Spanish intransigence, supported quite blatantly and unashamedly by ones own minister in Spain, must be an intolerable burden on the Commander-in-Chief.

  As a result of intelligence from Moore’s army and the information he himself had gathered on his travels, the Major was able to confirm that French armies were in control of most of east and central Spain. Remnants of the Spanish peasant armies were reported to be regrouping in various places, but no credibility could be attached to these reports, or even on the ability of such regrouped forces to resist further attacks by the enemy.

  None of this information really helped Welbeloved with his main problem of getting both the Marqués and the Condesa back to England. His route to the north coast was blocked by the mountains, which would soon be almost impassable until the spring. He could of course cross them if he went east first, but that area was swarming with French forces and thus highly risky.

  Marshal Soult and his army were encamped to the south and west, where there seemed some likelihood of fighting between the French and British forces, if they were to advance from La Coruña, Vigo and Salamanca. Whichever way he could try was fraught with difficulty and danger, but by now the French would have realised that he was somewhere, still hiding in this area, and their efforts to find him would be intensified. He made a mental note to get the Marqués mobile again, one way or another. The whole unit must be ready to move out at a moment’s notice.

  The Major stayed with them overnight and then left to seek out Sir John and make his report. His own careful exploration, combined with the information contributed by Welbeloved and his men, had given him a good estimate of the numbers of Marshal Soult’s forces in this area. He estimated his strength at somewhat less than twenty thousand men, all busily engaged in consolidating their position along the banks of the Carrion and apparently under no orders to move elsewhere at the present.

  Welbeloved meanwhile had set Vere the task of constructing a harness that could be strapped to a horse in place of a saddle. It should, in effect, produce a padded chair in which the Marqués could sit with his injured leg supported, while the animal was led and controlled by another rider. The ex-seamen among them turned to with a will, and after several trials, a throne-like structure was produced, padded with blankets and sheepskins and raised to support his back, while his injured leg could be rested, unbent, on a cushioned channel.

  Don Pedro flatly refused to co-operate until Welbeloved threatened, as an alternative, to strap him to an ordinary saddle. He then gave way, surly and complaining, but found that he was able to be carried with very little discomfort to his leg. Indeed his limb had recovered sufficiently by now for him to be able to hobble about fairly easily with the aid of two stout sticks. Having grudgingly admitted that he could use the contraption, Corporal Atkins and two men were detailed to ensure that he practised until he could undertake a long journey.

  Two days later, after long discussions with Vere and the Condesa, they moved out of the monastery and headed south-west, using goat tracks whenever possible, and with the intention of keeping away from towns and main roads. Father Ignacio seemed to be sorry to see them go. Most of them were not of his faith and Don Pedro had not been a happy or co-operative patient, but a mutual respect had developed between the priest and Welbeloved, and he and the brothers gathered to see them depart with many good wishes on either side.

  Major Anstruthers had indicated that Sir John Moore and his army had been at Salamanca since the middle of November. Salamanca was a hundred and fifty miles away, but if they could reach there they would have the safety and protection of friendly forces and could make their way by easy stages to Lisbon and a ship for England. In addition, Anstruthers had said that there was a possibility that Moore might be advancing towards them on his way towards Valladolid and Burgos. There was therefore a chance that they could meet up with them and find safety, well before Salamanca.

  Progress was slow. Scouts were out well in front and pauses were frequent, while they checked for an enemy presence before waving them on. Several times they halted in the cover of the trees, while troops of French cavalry passed. Marshal Soult had a whole division of cavalry under Franceski at his disposal. Four regiments altogether, and he was certainly making sure they were not idle. Detachments of dragoons, hussars and chasseurs were seen, and by the time they made camp for the night they had covered less than fifteen miles and were being driven into hiding more and more frequently.

  By midday the next day, Welbeloved realised that they were almost certain to be discovered if they continued. Without the Marqués, the Condesa and her maid, he would have considered leaving the horses and slipping through the enemy on foot, but Don Pedro could not yet walk well enough and would in any case be too unskil
led and untrained to be expected to get through unseen. The same could be said about the two women, although they had picked up so many of the skills of his men that he might have been prepared to risk it with them.

  Reluctantly he made his decision and they turned back, camping in the same place as on the previous night. The return journey to the monastery on the third day was made in gloomy silence. French patrols seemed much more numerous, even within five miles of the valley itself, and it was becoming dark as they finally came in sight of the grim, forbidding buildings.

  In the half-light it seemed to Welbeloved that the place was strangely unfamiliar. There was a different air about it; almost as if it had been torn down and rebuilt while they were away, and in the rebuilding had somehow subtly changed its shape. He signalled the men to approach cautiously and stopped and sniffed. What wind there was, was blowing from the direction of the monastery and carried a sharp, bitter tang of burning. Not the aromatic, pleasant smells of fresh wood on a campfire, but the sour, rank smell of charred fabric and hot dust.

  He spread the men out and advanced, searching for signs of life and praying that his suspicions would be unfounded. In vain. Most of the building was gone. The stout walls were still there, but the roof had fallen in and the stench of burning was now overpowering, including in it the ghastly smell of scorched flesh. The French had found and pillaged the place in their absence.

  CHAPTER 12

  They made shelter for the night in a corner of one of the buildings that had escaped the worst of the fire. In the morning, the full horror of the destruction became visible and they had to set themselves the melancholy and arduous task of clearing some of the debris in a search to determine what had become of the brothers.