It was almost exactly ten years since he had allowed himself to be talked into joining the freshly promoted Captain Cockburn, as First Lieutenant of the brig Hirondelle. Together, they had captured her from the French, during their mission to help the Russians and the Turks throw the enemy out of Corfu.
Nelson himself had granted his commission, which had been confirmed by the then Commander-in-Chief and the Admiralty, after a certain reluctance. The Royal Navy was very set in its ways, and expected its officers to mature over many years, starting as midshipmen, some of whom served at sea from the age of twelve.
Welbeloved’s entry into the Navy had been as unconventional as the rest of his life. As a boy, he had accompanied his father, who was an American loyalist scout for Captain Harry Ferguson in the War of Independence. After his father was killed, he continued to serve, having by then inherited his father’s Ferguson rifle.
At the end of the war he was not welcome in the land of his birth and joined the crew of a small trading schooner, very quickly rising to command her. That period came to an end when she was sunk by Greek pirates and he found himself stranded in Turkey, as the involuntary guest of one of their top generals, before meeting with Cockburn in Rhodes, soon after Nelson’s shattering victory at the Nile.
Hardly the sort of background to satisfy the traditionalists in the Royal Navy. Because of it, he had made a lot of enemies over the last ten years. Maybe his own uncompromising attitude and unconventional outlook had played their part, but without his captain’s wholehearted support and an almost unbroken record of success in everything they had attempted, he would have been on the beach, relegated to the oblivion of half-pay, many years ago.
To be fair, most of the officers who disliked him, were the hidebound senior men, whose outlook was as rigid as the discipline they had enforced, unchallenged over many years. There were also many, many fellow officers he was delighted to call friend, and whose support and friendship he valued highly. These tended to be the ones who accepted and built upon the Nelson tradition. Those who sought ways to improve the service they loved and to reform some of the unjust and brutal practices that were still all too common.
Nevertheless, those who opposed his advancement were in high and powerful positions and would be only too happy to see his downfall. In the present circumstances he was using his own initiative in doing all he could to foil the French plans and further the interests of his adopted country, but of necessity, he was not following to the letter, the orders that had been given him. Whether he was successful or not was unimportant. There would be voices raised, demanding an accounting for his disobedience. Many would be satisfied with nothing less than his court martial.
He realised that he had been daydreaming, and came back to the present to see the Condesa smiling at him. He struggled to recall what she had said. Something about soup? That was it. Fish soup! They’d made some fish soup. “It sounds delicious Mercedes. Where did yew get it?”
She laughed delightedly. “You were in a world of your own, Joshua, and yes, I was talking about soup, but that was about ten minutes ago. We managed to buy a lot of fish in the town. The boats came into the little port this morning and the catch was delivered into the town after the French had left, otherwise we wouldn’t have got any.
What I was asking you though, was if you will keep your men away from the small waterfall that they’ve just found, for the next half-hour? Isabella and I want to have a thorough wash and bathe, and it’s a marvellous place for it.”
He smiled fondly at her and strode away to give instructions for a sentry to be placed at the head of the path leading to the stream, while the women made the most of their opportunity. They appeared a short time later, looking clean and fresh, with glowing cheeks and wet hair that they took turns in brushing until it dried.
Welbeloved settled close to the fire, where three or four of the Hornets had a metal pot suspended. This was no meal they were preparing though. The battle with the French had used up most of their supply of shot. Nobody had more than three or four rounds left, and it had become an urgent requirement to replenish their pouches. Powder was no problem. They had enough captured kegs of black and priming powder to fill all the horns several times over. They also had loads of shot of different calibres, but none of it of a size that they could use in their Fergusons. This was what the pot was for. They were melting all the captured shot and remoulding it to the .68 calibre required for their rifles. Every man carried a scissor-mould and a set of tools for cutting the sprue and finishing the balls once they had set and been ejected.
Welbeloved applied himself to the task of making his own. He was very particular about the preparation of his bullets. He had long ago lost count of the number of times he had done this. His personal rifle was the original Ferguson, handed down from his father. Over forty years old now, it was still years in advance of any modern military issue firearm, both in speed and accuracy. The only possible improvement he could think of, was the conversion of the trusty Nock flintlock mechanism to the new percussion cap that was more reliable in wet weather. He was now relieved he had resisted the innovation.
Powder and shot could be captured to replace the amount expended. There was no chance however, in Spain, of replacing the fulminate-of-mercury caps, once they had all been used up.
When he had finished, he had fifty, shining new balls and he sat with his back against a log, eating his second helping of fish stew and gazing into the glowing embers of the fire. Conversations were going on all round him. The Condesa had moved as if to come and chat, but noting how preoccupied he was, she left him to his thoughts and instead, started to draw out Anstruthers about his life and experiences in the army.
Welbeloved was pondering on the problem that had been occupying his thoughts, ever since he had first read the orders from Napoleon to Tasselot. He had to stop or delay the French advance. Moore’s men would be retreating in terrible conditions through the mountains, with Soult’s army chasing them all the way. If these soldiers of Tasselot’s were allowed to get behind them, it could be the last straw and they would probably have to surrender.
He had whittled away at them very successfully. More than five hundred of their original five thousand were out of action, together with their guns. That was one in ten. According to the old classical definition of the Roman Legions, they had been decimated, but with four and a half thousand left, his efforts had been ineffective. The French had still more than enough men to do the job and their advance was moving inexorably westwards.
Now he was behind the enemy and the narrow passage between the mountains and the sea prevented him from bypassing them to get himself into the most advantageous position to wreak further mischief. There was something at the back of his mind that was tantalisingly close, but which was stubbornly refusing to come forward and reveal itself. He had the feeling that it was connected with something someone had said earlier, but the more he tried to think, the more elusive it became.
He finished his bowl of stew. It really had been excellent and he looked for the Condesa, whose idea it had been, in order to compliment her. From there, it was a natural train of thought that brought the idea to the forefront of his brain. It had been there all along, but needed a nudge to push itself forward. He knew now what he could do. He called to Vere and MacKay, together with Anstruthers and the Condesa and began to outline his plan.
CHAPTER 23
The rest and relaxation had done them all good. They broke camp early in the morning and set off in a buoyant mood, each man fully replenished with powder and shot, and ready for whatever the day should bring.
There were half-a-dozen boats in the little fishing port, all busily unloading the night’s catch and packing it onto handcarts, ready to trundle it up the hill to the town in time for the morning market.
The arrival of so many armed and mounted men caused consternation at first, but not for long. Selling their fish was an uncertain business at the best of times and nothing must delay
their arrival at the market. As soon as they were reassured that the riders were not unfriendly, the frantic activity recommenced.
Welbeloved and the Condesa dismounted and walked along the jetty, examining the boats. Most were small, two or three-man open boats with a single sail, suitable only for inshore fishing, but two were much more substantial, ketch-rigged and half-decked. They were stoutly built and capable of sailing much farther afield in pursuit of the deep-sea shoals.
They seemed ideal for what Welbeloved had in mind, and they sought and found the masters of both vessels. They were quite prepared to commandeer them if necessary, but the Condesa talked enthusiastically and animatedly to the two men, appealing to their patriotism and their pockets. First of all she made a generous offer for the whole of the night’s catch, which would be more than welcome to feed Anstruthers’s Wolves that evening.
She also capitalised on the legend that had grown up around the Hornets. In very short order she had the two fishermen believing that they had volunteered to lease their boats for the next few days. The fact that they would be well paid, and would be able to continue fishing and selling their catch at the same time, helped considerably with the negotiations. Nevertheless, both men were tough, uncompromising old salts, who were quietly patriotic and willing to go to great lengths to help in the resistance to the hated French.
The Hornets collected all their equipment and left their horses with Anstruthers’s men. The Wolves intended to follow the French until an opportunity presented itself to get ahead of the army once more. They agreed to rendezvous in three day’s time at the latest, in Gijon if all should go well. In the meantime they would continue to harass the enemy wherever and whenever the chance arose.
Welbeloved had intended that the Condesa should ride with them. He considered that she would be in far less danger, riding with two hundred armed men, than embarking on the hazardous course he had planned for the Hornets.
He should have been suspicious when she didn’t come forward to wish them well before the Wolves rode away. Once the two vessels had been prepared for sea and Anstruthers had departed, he split his party in two and allocated half to each vessel. With the Spanish crew in addition, the boats were pretty crowded. Even more so when the Condesa and Isabella were discovered, sitting innocently in the cockpit of Welbeloved’s boat after they had cast off.
When he discovered her, she looked mildly apprehensive but defiant, and he realised immediately that she had outmanoeuvred him, and that there was not a lot he could do about it. His admiration for her courage and determination, moderated the severity of his lecture on disobedience and insubordination. Not that she listened to a word after the first two or three, when she realised from his tone that she had won, and was going to have her own way.
Half-an-hour later, when the boats were thrusting their bows into a lively sea; rolling and pitching in a quite alarming manner, she had cause to wonder whether she had been quite as clever as she had thought. The unfamiliar motion of the boat, combined with the revolting stench of rotten fish that oozed from every seam of the deckboards, turned her white and then a deathly pale green.
In normal circumstances, Welbeloved might have been more sympathetic, but a strong feeling that this was a form of retribution, moderated his natural instinct. He contented himself with helping her to the lee rail and supporting her while she emptied her stomach, over and over again, until she was reduced to a heaving, dry retching, and a firm conviction that she was dying; a thought she almost welcomed after the first half-hour of unrelieved misery.
By this time she was willing to try anything, and Welbeloved made her drink three or four mouthfuls of seawater, which she immediately brought up again. Perhaps it had some effect on her stomach, perhaps it had already heaved enough, but she stopped her violent retching and was bundled up in a blanket and wedged in a corner of the open deck. The very thought of the fishy stench below deck was enough to make her queasy all over again. She drifted into a comatose sleep for an hour or so, to awake in the afternoon feeling weak and shaky, but with her stomach no longer protesting at every pitch and surge.
While she slept, the two boats had spread their nets and with the Hornets helping out, had hauled in several respectable catches of sea bream, mixed with hake and the occasional shoal of pilchards. The fishing was so good in fact, that the Spaniards were still anxious to continue casting when Welbeloved judged that he had enough for his purpose and had all the gear hauled in and the boats tacking into the westerly wind, following the coast in the direction taken by the French.
The wind was still brisk and gusty, but the sea had settled down a lot since the morning. There was patchy cloud, particularly over the snow-capped peaks to the south, forming such a magnificent backdrop to the steep, rising coastal strip, dotted with picturesque towns and fishing villages. Even the Condesa began to forget her wretched condition, enough to appreciate the beauty of the scene, as they cruised briskly along with the wind blowing the smell of the fish to leeward.
Distances were now Welbeloved’s preoccupation. He guessed that Tasselot would want to move along as quickly as he could, but without pushing his men to exhaustion by forced marches. He tossed a mental coin and came up with the mental figure of forty miles as the distance he would aim at if he were in command. That would put the marching men somewhere to the east of Oviedo, which city they would expect to reach by this time tomorrow.
The fishing boats had been moving steadily westwards, even while they were fishing. He focussed his glass on the land, picking up occasional glimpses of the coastal road, winding its way along, hugging the contours whenever possible, but rising and falling from the cliffs to the valleys, where the mountain streams cut through to the sea.
After an hour, he grunted with satisfaction. There was the glitter of harness in the sunlight, flashes from the helmets of a troop of cavalry walking steadily along, following the road where it traversed a steep slope and descended smoothly towards the sea. Shortly afterwards, the infantry of the rearguard came into view; hundreds of legs moving as one, the blur of white faces turned seawards, watching the two small vessels riding so effortlessly past them. A welcome sight perhaps, to relieve the boredom of their daily march.
He strolled over to the captain of the boat, who was standing by the rail close to the man at the tiller, occasionally muttering terse commands and casually eyeing the set of the sails. He was a small wiry man of about fifty, with hair that had once been jet black. Now grizzled with many white hairs, it was still abundant and crowned a thin, unshaven, weather-beaten face, with a mouthful of black and rotting teeth. Not a very imposing figure, but Welbeloved had noted that the crew jumped to it whenever he had anything to say.
He nodded to him and practised his Spanish, which by now was becoming much more fluent. “The rear of the French army is passing along that road to the south of us, señor. It is likely that they will stop for the night at the next town of any size. Where would that be, do you think?”
The Spaniard considered this question as if he was trying to understand what had been said. Eventually, he hawked and spat accurately over the rail. “As you say, señor, those pigs will certainly stop at the next town big enough to have food and wine worth stealing.” He pointed to larboard. “That estuary they’ve just crossed is the river Sella. About ten miles farther along the coastal road that they appear to be taking, is the town of Colunga. I don’t doubt but that they will sleep there tonight.”
Welbeloved nodded gravely. My thoughts exactly, señor, and no doubt their General would appreciate some of this excellent fish for his supper? I would consider it my duty to take some to him. The buildings he would occupy are probably not far from the harbour, is it not so?”
The captain looked at him as if he couldn’t believe his ears, then suddenly showed his teeth in a ghastly grin. “You would take him other things than fish, I think, eh, Capitano. But no. We would have to put in at Lastres, which is a small fishing harbour a few miles from Colunga. From Lastre
s it is a steep climb, but there are donkey carts to carry your gifts.”
“That would be very helpful.” Welbeloved allowed himself a conspiratorial smile. “However, they might misunderstand our intentions if we walked up to deliver our present looking like soldiers. Is it possible, do you think, that the patriotic citizens of Lastres will be able to lend us some clothes that will turn us into honest fishermen, trying to sell our catch to the generous French visitors?”
The fisherman entered into the spirit of the conversation. “I think they will do all they can to encourage such initiative, señor, but I myself will make doubly certain. I am well connected by marriage to several of my wife’s family living in Lastres. On my honour, your men will look like fishermen. Whether they will look honest or not, is not a matter for my judgement.”
The westerly wind had piled thick masses of cloud over the mountain peaks by the time they nosed into the tiny harbour. There would be heavy falls of snow covering the summits and passes by morning. Down in the port, sheltered somewhat by the high cliffs, it was merely raining.
For once Welbeloved welcomed the rain. He had been uneasy about discarding his uniform and those of his men for this adventure. In spite of his unconventional early life and upbringing, or maybe because of it, he tended to be very conventional in his attitude to many things. If they attacked the French disguised as fishermen and were captured; the French were quite within their rights to shoot them out of hand. They would be treated as spies, and spying was not an activity that a gentleman would lend himself to.
Confusing the enemy by showing false colours, or making oneself appear other than one was, had no stigma attached, provided that the true colours were shown, or the proper uniform was displayed before the attack commenced. These were legitimate ruses de guerre and should be respected by both sides. Now, this persistent rain would enable them to don the rough brown cloaks and wide brimmed hats of the Spanish peasant, hiding their uniforms beneath the anonymous cover they provided.
A Despite of Hornets Page 25
