Welbeloved studied their faces while Torreblanco was talking. They looked earnest and determined young men. He guessed they were all of good family and would have received their rank, as in the British army, due to family influence rather than any merit of their own. They would be amateur soldiers, even if the men they led were veterans.
He shrugged mentally. He needed these men and would have to make the best he could with what was available. He consoled himself with the thought that whatever country he happened to be in, he would have found exactly the same situation, given similar circumstances. Of all the European armies, only the French were promoted on merit, and they had beaten nearly every army that had opposed them.
He cleared his throat and selected his words carefully, pausing frequently to let Anstruthers translate. “Gentlemen, we have a common purpose. We are here to fight and defeat the Corsican Tyrant, who has deposed yor King and has sent his armies into Spain to put his own brother on yor Throne in his place.”
There were growls of anger and agreement and he continued. “This man has created a vast army, and has won so many battles that people are saying that he can’t be beaten.” He paused to let Anstruthers catch up and then rapped out, word by word. “This – is – not – true! Your own General Castaños won a great victory at Bailen. Only six months ago, the British army beat the French Army of Portugal at Vimeiro. The French can be beaten! Yew can beat them! Few as yew are, but – yew have to fight them as I will teach yew to fight. Hit them where they are weak. Where they don’t expect yew. Then disappear and hit them somewhere else, while they are still trying to find yew at the first place. Are yew willing to follow me and fight the invaders my way?”
He watched their young faces as Anstruthers translated, wondering how they would react to his rhetoric. Well before he had finished he could read the answer. The appeal to their pride and patriotism had won their unconditional support. They vied with each other, shouting their acclaim. Torreblanco at last silenced them and said simply. “Just tell us what to do Captain. Show us how to sting like the Brown Hornets.”
Now that he had aroused their enthusiasm, he had to control it. He sat on a saddle that had been left close to the fire and waved them to be seated as well. He resumed when they were settled, speaking slowly and gravely. “It has taken nearly a year to teach my Hornets how to sting, and I personally selected every man myself.” He noted the disappointment showing on their faces. “I won’t teach yew how to be Brown Hornets, but I will show yew how to kill Frenchmen like Spanish Wolves.”
He could see the excitement showing once more. Now was the time to get them organised. “I want yew to become an elite squadron, working together and supporting each other. At the moment yew are soldiers from many different regiments, all with different traditions and yor own way of doing things. From now on we start a new tradition. Yew are one regiment; a small one but deadly; and Major Anstruthers will be yor new commanding officer.”
Anstruthers looked startled and hesitated with his translation, then squared his shoulders and finished the explanation. They accepted their new commander without opposition, but with a quick buzz of comment. Anstruthers himself looked thoughtful.
Welbeloved left no time for discussion. That would come later. “The first priority is to find a mount for every man, and full equipment; muskets, sabres, saddles and everything needed to make an efficient regiment. I calculate yew need another seventy horses and forty or so sets of furniture, muskets and sabres.” He waited while there was another rapid exchange and Anstruthers’s confirmation that they agreed with his estimate.
He gave a wide grin. “Yew don’t have them, but the French do. We’re going to have to help ourselves. We need them more than they do.”
They didn’t question how. He had told them that they would take what they needed from the French and they accepted his statement with blind faith. Soon they would have guns and horses for each man.
One final instruction he gave before sending them back to speak to their men. “There are more colours in yor uniforms than Joseph had in his coat. That is no problem. Call yorselves Joseph’s Wolves if yew like, but let us have one item that is common to all. Many of yor men are wearing shakos and we took enough extra from the French to have everyone wearing one. There were also enough green tunics to provide material for a small green sash around every shako. Let every man get himself a shako wound round with green. We will now be able to recognise a friend in a fight and the French will learn to be terrified of Joseph’s Wolves in green shakos.”
The young officers returned to their men in tearing good spirits and Welbeloved turned to Anstruthers. “Sorry to throw this at yew so suddenly Major, but we didn’t have much time for discussion beforehand, and I gathered from Vere that Sir John sent yew along with the idea of giving us all possible aid and assistance.”
Anstruthers looked embarrassed. “Very true Welbeloved, he did indeed, but it’s put us in a deuced awkward situation don’t y’see?” Welbeloved looked blank. “No Major, I don’t see. If yew have a problem, why not just bring it out and let us have a look at it?”
He hesitated and scratched his head. “M’dear fellow, it’s true that Sir John ordered me to come and help, but as you’re only a captain, he assumed that as senior officer, I would be directing your operations. Not,” he added hastily, “taking over your command; just giving overall guidance, d’y’see?”
Now your idea that I should take over this new regiment is brilliant and I intend to do so, but in the circumstances, you and your men should also place yourselves under my general command – What in heaven’s name are you laughing at sir?”
Welbeloved smothered his amusement. “I do pray that yew accept my apology Major. It’s just that since we first met, yew’ve been jumping to conclusions, which I now see were inevitable when yew consider what a strange outfit we are. Strange uniforms; women dressed as men; not really military at all, wouldn’t yew say?” Anstruthers made no comment, but was struggling to control his expression at this reminder of his gaffe over the Condesa.
“The thing is Major, even the Horse Guards and the Admiralty haven’t made up their minds what we are, but this is my command, and as a Post Captain in the Royal Navy, I suspect that my equivalent rank from a military point of view would be Colonel. I regret that yew have been misled all this time, but does that information resolve any problems that yew have?”
Anstruthers was silent for a long time, and in a flash of insight, Welbeloved suddenly realised how co-operative and forbearing he had been up to now, with somebody he had every reason to regard as his subordinate. Even now, he was obviously reconsidering and re-examining the situation dispassionately, with a detached intelligence unusual, in Welbeloved’s experience, in an officer of purchased rank, in a select cavalry regiment.
Anstruthers stood up. “No man is happy to be made to look a fool sir. Even less so, when it happens twice. I apologise profoundly, but would like you to know that I was never happy with the role I thought I had to play. You so obviously knew exactly what you were doing, far better than I, but thinking I was senior, there was no question but that it was my ultimate responsibility. I would now like to accept the command you have proposed sir, and place myself under your orders, if you will have me?”
“Have yew Major?” Welbeloved was on his feet, hand outstretched. “Why sir, I would consider it an honour and a privilege. Now, let us put our heads together and see what devilment we can dream up for the Frogs. There’re a couple of ideas I’d like to explore…?
***
In the morning it was raining again. It was cold enough for snow, but the salt-laden wind from the Bay of Biscay always kept the coastal area, north of the mountains, kinder and more temperate. Peering up through the veil of rain and mist at the snow-covered peaks, Welbeloved could imagine the bleak, frigid land on the other side. Desolate and snow-filled mountain passes through which Sir John would be fighting to bring his army to the transports that he hoped would be assembling a
t La Coruña. There would be constant rearguard actions against the harassing French; but the weather, the blizzards and the mile after mile of harsh terrain, would be by far the biggest threat.
Far into the night, he and Anstruthers had been talking and planning, and now they were moving. He had been unhappy about the position of their camp as soon as he had seen it. A pleasant enough spot, with everything they needed for comfort close at hand, but a poor position to defend and only a couple of miles from the line of the French advance. Scouting riders from Tasselot’s cavalry had a better than even chance of discovering them.
Anstruthers agreed, and they started moving up into the hills soon after dawn. Torreblanco knew of a small town straddling the road leading to a pass across the mountains. It was a pass that was only accessible after the snows had cleared in the Spring. It was unlikely that the French would have the time or the inclination to search so far off their route, but if they did, the ingoing tracks were easy to watch and to defend.
The Condesa, with Don Pedro assisting, was put in charge of all the dismounted troopers. With the Hornet’s pack animals and mules, she was left to organise the move, while Welbeloved, Anstruthers and Torreblanco allocated the mounted men into troops and started to put them through drills and manoeuvres to see how they could perform. Ragged and multi-hued though they were, they made a brave show, and all of them had contrived to acquire a shako, around which a thick band of green cloth was draped. Even Anstruthers had swathed his gorgeous headgear in a green sash, provoking a ragged cheer when he rode out to inspect them.
The Hornets had been sent out on reconnaissance, split into two units under Vere and MacKay. One was to check the passage of the French vanguard over the bridge they had destroyed yesterday, and the other, with one of the young Spanish cornets as guide, was to make their way back through the hills by the alternative route, and observe the progress of the rearguard.
In the meantime, Anstruthers was enjoying himself. The Spanish cavalry, in spite of their tattered appearance, were all regular soldiers, and not militia or volunteers. They were trained men, accustomed to discipline and to the drills and manoeuvres that moulded them into a fighting force. Of course, being an amalgam of light, medium and heavy cavalry, they had different ways of doing things. The general idea was there nevertheless, and Anstruthers settled down to weld them into a single unit, the individual members of which would all react together to recognised commands and drills.
Welbeloved became bored after a while and rode off into the hills, looking for a vantage point from where he might overlook the plain, and hopefully the enemy column and outriders. He was feeling irritable. His attacks on the enemy, his destruction of the guns and of the bridges in his path had been highly commendable, and successful out of all proportion to the number of men he had available. They had delayed the French troops by three days? Possibly two days? More likely only one. His efforts had been an annoyance, a small pack of dogs snarling at the heels of a vast herd of buffalo. They knew he was there and wished he wasn’t, but they were not going to let him stop them doing what they had been ordered to do. They would swat him like troublesome fly if they could, but not if it took much effort away from their main purpose.
The coastal plain lay before them. La Coruña was two hundred miles to the west. Two hundred easy miles, with no natural barriers to slow them down, and no opposition other than twenty Hornets and two hundred apprentice Wolves. He needed to think of some way to make them believe that they were in such danger that they must stop and combat it. The trouble was, he was quite bereft of ideas. He swore loudly and senselessly in sheer frustration.
Nobody replied to his invective and his horse continued to climb steadily while he wrestled with his problem. He found himself on a sparsely wooded slope, from which he was able to catch glimpses of the sea through the trees. Turning a bend in the track, his horse’s hooves clattered on the beginning of a ridge of stone that had pushed clear of the soil and formed a shelf projecting from the flank of the hill for forty or fifty yards.
No trees had been able to get a purchase on such barren ground, and he tethered his mount and scrambled along to discover a panoramic view of several miles of coastline, and all the countryside leading down to it. He snapped open his telescope and started to sweep the area exposed before him.
Far to the right he could see the river below the bridge where they had fought Roussillon. Even though intermittent curtains of rain made visibility uncertain, he could see light reflected from helmets and equipment of men marching and riding along the road that crossed his front, five or six miles away. Infantry and cavalry only. Perhaps the damage to the bridges had delayed the wagons and ox-drawn carts that were an essential part of any military movement. He studied them carefully for half-an-hour, then slipped his telescope back into its case and made his way back to his horse. By the time he found his way back to the men, they had taken a break and he joined them in a meal, strolling from fire to fire, chatting in his broken Spanish.
It took a long time to put them at their ease. At first, they treated him with exaggerated deference, an enormous respect, as if he was some kind of superior being, a kind of pagan deity paying a brief visit to his worshipping followers. Maybe it was his unselfconscious efforts to communicate in his voluble, but desperately fractured Italian-Spanish that broke the ice, but inside half-an-hour, they were crowding round him as he went from one group to another, asking innumerable questions and laughing or looking thoughtful at his answers.
What came strongly through to him was the sincere but almost pathetic eagerness to convince him that they were still able to fight, in spite of the crushing defeat they had suffered at the hands of the French. Not that he needed convincing of that after watching their headlong assault on the troops at the bridge.
He was standing chatting to Anstruthers, who was agreeing wholeheartedly with his observations, when there was a sudden commotion and Corporal Atkins came galloping into view, reining in as soon as he could see them and trotting decorously towards them. Knowing he was the centre of all eyes, he embellished his role, dismounting some yards away and marching, ramrod-straight to Welbeloved, halting with a stamp of his foot and delivering a salute which would have satisfied a Sergeant-Major of Foot Guards.
Although Welbeloved recognised the need for formal and rigid drill among the line regiments, it was not something he viewed with great favour in the training of his own men. He returned the salute casually and growled. “Very pretty indeed Atkins! Now, if yew’ve got something urgent yew want to tell me, get on with it man!”
Atkins kept his face expressionless. “Aye aye sir. Compliments of Lord Vere sir. Company of Frog ‘ussars, abart fifty of ‘em, ‘eading this way. ‘e said ‘e’d give me fifteen minutes start, then ‘e was agoin’ to let ‘em see ‘im, and chase ‘im right acrorse your front sir.”
Welbeloved glanced at Anstruthers who had been listening to every word. “I reckon Major, that yew’ve got exactly five minutes to get yor men mounted and lined up behind that ridge, without using yor bugles. Atkins and I will be on the other side of the valley in those trees. We’ll open fire as they pass and draw their attention while yor boys come down and hit them.”
Anstruthers wasted no words; running off, shouting to Torreblanco. Welbeloved yelled “come on!” to Atkins, and they both vaulted into their saddles and galloped hard for the clump of trees, a quarter of a mile away across the shallow valley.
The trees were a dozen or so scrub oaks standing on a slight hill, more a swelling in the even floor of the valley. All the leaves had fallen and they offered minimal cover and protection. Nevertheless, the decision had been made and they galloped round the copse, tethering their horses and pushing through to positions where they could command a view in the direction from which they could expect Vere to come.
The only sound in the damp atmosphere was their heavy breathing, resulting from their exertions. Welbeloved had time for the horrid thought that perhaps they had chosen the wrong
place: that Vere would be fleeing from the hussars in quite a different direction.
Grimacing at the state of the soggy ground, he used a trick that he had seen the Indians employ in his youth. He pressed his ear firmly into the damp, leaf-covered ground and concentrated. To his relief, there was a faint vibration, gradually becoming more pronounced. He rose to his feet, scraping wet leaves and mud from his face. “They’ll be in sight any time now. Take the leaders or the officers. Don’t shoot the horses, we’re going to need them.”
They both primed their pans and snapped them shut, sheltering them from the persistent drizzle. Then the small band of Hornets was in sight, galloping swiftly towards them. Vere had cut it very fine. The straggling mass of French cavalry was less than fifty yards behind, with three or four riders on faster horses, ten to fifteen yards in front of them. “Yew take the leader Atkins! Sights at one hundred, then free for all.”
Atkins murmured “aye aye sir” and made himself comfortable, leaning against the trunk of a tree, his rifle supported by a low branch. Welbeloved also eased himself into a position where he could swing his rifle easily and concentrated on the riders. At one hundred yards it would be very difficult indeed to hit a speeding man crouched over his horse’s neck, and there would only be time to load and get off one more shot before the riders were close enough to attack.
Thoughtfully he shifted his own target to the rider lying fourth in the chase. He was riding on the nearer flank of the pursuit and other riders behind would be in his line of fire if his first shot missed its target. He heard the crack of Atkin’s rifle as he gently swung his own and squeezed the trigger, then went immediately into the practised routine of loading while watching to see the results.
A Despite of Hornets Page 20
