A Despite of Hornets

by Geoffrey Watson

  It was developing into a race for the safety of the boats. Roussillon would quickly rouse out a squadron of cavalry, in addition to the soldiers from the guard. It would take no time at all for the horsemen to overhaul them unless discouraged. Welbeloved whistled piercingly and was answered by Vere, who loomed out of the darkness just as the road started to dip down the first of the steep slopes.

  He fell in alongside Welbeloved who was trotting beside the cart. “We got them George, but Roussillon turned up just as we’d left, and half the French army will be around our necks any minute. Did yew bring the rope?”

  He saw a flash of teeth in the darkness. “Aye sir, two or three lengths of it. You’ve just walked over one. O’Malley and Evans are stretching it across the road now. It’s about fifty yards from the top of the hill, so they should be moving at a fair lick when they hit it. All those that get past will have a couple of hundred yards to get their confidence back, then they’ll hit the next one, which is just past this hairpin bend. The rest of the men are under cover at the side of the road, preparing to engage them when they arrive. We shall be able to withdraw straight downhill, where the horses can’t follow. They’ll have to follow the road around – those that are left,” he added smugly.

  “Well done George, but don’t linger too long. Their infantry will be following at the double and they’ll have no difficulty following yew downhill. There’ll also be a lot of them and this rain and darkness will be to their advantage. Shoot and withdraw quickly. I’ll send the cart on and we’ll set up another ambush where the road winds through the woods. Let me have the other length of rope. We’ll use it when we get there, although they’ll probably be more cautious by then.”

  Vere faded into the darkness and Welbeloved trotted on with his party, through the series of bends, down to the head of a small valley with trees pressing closely on either side for several hundred yards. The four men on the lines restrained the headlong rush only marginally, until they halted to unload one of the kegs of powder.

  MacKay and two men were then sent on with the cart to make the best time they could, while Welbeloved set his men to work excavating a hole in the bank at the side of the road, underneath the roots of a large pine tree. Many years of rain had already washed much of the soil away, so that a great deal of its root system was exposed, proud of the bank.

  He had intended to put the powder keg beneath it and blast it down, but the frantic attentions of the three of them completed the work that nature had begun. After a few minutes, the sound of ominous cracking noises sent them running clear, just as the rest of the roots tore free from the ground and the whole bulk of it crashed across the road.

  Back on the hill, the rope stretched between two trees had caught the cantering legs of the first troop of cavalry, bringing them down in a tangle of limbs and a torrent of oaths, curses and screams. The riders behind blundered into them and many were unseated, but the sheer weight of horseflesh snapped the rope like a piece of rotten string. Those riding on the flanks flowed round the tangle and thundered on down the road.

  The second rope had been stretched across at the steepest place, just where the hairpin bend doubled back on itself. The troopers had slowed to a trot to negotiate the bend and the steeper slope and when the leading horses went down, those behind were on too much of an incline to stop, and too awkwardly placed to avoid the confusion in front of them. The resulting tangle was of mammoth proportions and the chaos was increased by the hail of shots, directed at both men and horses, milling about at the rear of the turmoil.

  Vere allowed them two volleys only before blowing his whistle to signal their withdrawal and leading them down the steep hill as quickly as he could. His ears had caught the sound of hundreds of feet moving urgently in double time. The Hornets had managed to ruin the effectiveness of the cavalry, but now there was a horde of furious infantrymen, charging recklessly down the hill after them. Fortunately the French let their enthusiasm overcome their good sense. It was very dark and it was still raining heavily. The direct route down the hill was steep, muddy and treacherous. In the headlong rush, many of them lost their footing and tumbled down the vertical incline, crashing into their comrades and bringing them down as well.

  The rest of them learned caution, but caution slowed them down. Although close, they were not close enough to be seen when the last of the Hornets reached the temporary sanctuary of the wood and took cover, allowing Welbeloved and his small party to fire into the darkness over the fallen tree, in the direction of the sounds made by the advancing French. Seconds later, the newcomers had loaded and joined in the fusillade, sending all but a few of the enemy diving for cover.

  The clatter of hooves warned of the approach of more horsemen; those few who had successfully negotiated the two scenes of chaos farther back. Yells of alarm from the infantry, warned them of the fallen tree, which they approached cautiously; but discovering it to be nothing more ominous than a large log across their path, put their mounts to it and cleared it in a body. They then came crashing down over the third rope, which Welbeloved had stretched across the road at the exact spot where they would hit it, just as they took their first step after landing from their jump over the tree.

  Following on behind, the infantry were caught in a volley as they climbed over the obstacle. Once again there was a scene of confusion, but the Hornets didn’t wait to see. As soon as the volley was delivered they slipped away, trotting steadily downhill, but not forgetting to light the fuse on the keg of powder as they went. Having thoughtfully placed it against the roots of another tree, the resulting explosion and crash of further trunk across the road, caused the pursuing French to halt completely for minutes, until their officers could pull them together and drive them all forward again.

  The Hornets took full advantage of the delay. They had caught up with the cart and were moving rapidly down through the hairpin bends into the little port, before the sounds of pursuit could once more be heard. They sprinted for the cover of the houses and the low dry-stone walls that enclosed the small plots attached to them.

  Only the fittest of the French could be pounding along this last few hundred yards. They would have been trotting in double time for the last two miles, and the sound of their approaching feet had a decidedly ragged beat to it. As soon as he judged that they were within easy range, Welbeloved blew a blast on his whistle and a fusillade sent most of them scrambling for cover once more.

  Half-a-dozen, braver than the rest, or filled with a lust for battle, charged straight on into the volleys. Two fell, shot down as they reached the houses. Four more ran past the first line of Hornets, without realising they were there, quite disoriented by the race downhill and the inky darkness. As they blundered into the deeper night between the houses, they were faintly silhouetted against the relatively lighter darkness of the sky, and silent shapes rose and cut them down with whatever personal weapons they favoured.

  Welbeloved blew another blast on his whistle and half the men fired a blind volley into the area where the French ought to be, then immediately retired and sought further cover fifty yards farther back. Vere helped him wrestle with the remaining keg of powder. They jammed it into the corner of the wall and piled flat stones on top, to concentrate the explosion and to keep as much rain off as possible.

  He blew another blast on his whistle and sent Vere off as the rest of the party reacted to the signal and quietly withdrew past those men already in position to cover them. As soon as Vere had left, he fumbled with his tinderbox, striking and trying to get the sparks to take in the damp conditions. It was practically impossible, and he could hear the tramp of feet as the French started their assault on the forbidding darkness between the houses. Any second now and they would be swarming past him, cutting off his retreat to the boats.

  In desperation, he slashed the end of the fuse; spreading the nitre-impregnated fibres and striking sparks directly onto them. To his enormous relief, he saw them take with a stutter of smoke. The fuse was still cut for
thirty seconds, less whatever his knife had removed.

  The soldiers were within yards, looming out of the night, when he scrambled to his feet and ran for his life. Immediately there was a howl of triumph and a rush of feet, hard on his heels. Fortunately perhaps, his pursuers wouldn’t be able to fire their muskets. Even the highly trained Hornets couldn’t hope to keep their powder dry, while actually on the move in a downpour like this. They needed to be settled where they could protect their locks as they triggered their flints.

  His own men would be settled by now, but there was no way they could distinguish between him and the French, charging down on them in the dark. He silently offered up thanks for his foresight in training them for just such an occasion as this. Running easily, but with the hot breath of his pursuers already on his neck in his imagination, he blew three long, evenly spaced blasts on his whistle and threw himself flat in the muddy road as the third blast sounded.

  He thought he felt the wind of the bullets as they swept over his prone body and smashed into the dark mass of his pursuers. There was no chance to pick individual targets, but the screams that erupted showed that very few of the shots were wasted. He spat evil-tasting mud and blew another blast, scrambling to his feet again to join the next stage of the retreat. At that moment, the keg of powder exploded with a shattering roar, momentarily lighting up the night.

  It was not an enormous explosion, but he and his men stumbled as the shock wave hit them. Any of the French who might have been passing, would have been caught in the eruption of flying rocks. Any pursuit had been stopped dead for sure. He called out quiet commands and the Hornets left cover and fell into their normal travelling routine, slipping along both sides of the road, unhurriedly, like shadows, but quietly and quickly covering the ground.

  Down below on the jetty, they scrambled on board the two fishing boats, which immediately cast off and were poled out into the harbour, just as a troop of horsemen came clattering down the steep cobbled slope. No doubt they were the reorganised survivors of the last pile-up on the hill, too late to stop their escape, but capable and determined to get some of their carbines to fire at the two vessels, which were now under sweeps and moving slowly towards the open sea, hoping to pick up enough of a breeze to give them steerage way.

  Even when the foot soldiers arrived to add their fire power to that of the cavalry, their marksmanship was ineffective. The two boats themselves could hardly make out where they were steering, so those soldiers on the quay who had managed to keep their powder dry enough to ignite, had only the vaguest idea where to aim. Welbeloved forbade the Hornets to return fire. He saw no reason to advertise their position by flashes from their rifles.

  The sweeps carried them out of range with no damage done after fifteen minutes of hard labour, after which they relaxed and picked up an easy stroke to take them clear of the land, finding just enough wind to catch the sails and make the water chuckle under the bows. They set course westwards and settled down to take stock of their success.

  Apart from the General himself, they had his aide-de-camp, a Major of Hussars, and two subordinate commanders, Colonels of Voltigeurs and Grenadiers. All his senior commanders in fact, save Roussillon, who had been late for their meeting, or he too would have been sitting disconsolately below, in the stinking little hutch that passed for occasional sleeping quarters for the fishermen.

  Welbeloved could hardly believe they he had got away so lightly. The only casualty was the Irishman, O’Malley, who had slipped in the mud when tackling a charging grenadier. His partner, Evans, had killed the man, but not before O’Malley had taken a bayonet to the chest that had broken a rib, but had been turned aside in so doing, and ripped a spectacular foot-long gash, which could only be inspected more carefully in the daylight. He was getting very little sympathy; the consensus being that it was a very small penalty for being such a clumsy oaf.

  Everyone was soaked to the skin of course. None more so than Welbeloved, who was caked from head to foot in evil smelling mud, mixed with generations of horse and mule droppings, from his spectacular dive in the village street. The Condesa had hurried forward to greet him on his return, only to recoil in horror, when she realised what a filthy, smelly creature he had become.

  The Hornets were highly amused but suppressed their mirth. He was too exhausted to care. He stripped off his foul-smelling uniform, wrapped himself in a blanket, rolled himself into a tarpaulin in a corner of the deck and slept like a log.

  CHAPTER 25

  He woke with the dawn and cocked one bleary eye automatically at the sails and the tiller; silently absorbing all the information about the wind, the weather, the course and all the other trivia which his seaman’s instinct demanded without any conscious thought.

  The stubbled face and black-toothed grin of the Spanish skipper peered down at him and a callused thumb jerked towards the larboard bow. “We’ll tie up at Gijon in two hours, Captain, if this wind holds. Fine weather now for maybe two days.”

  Welbeloved grunted and scratched himself. He was damp and smelly and his chin felt rough enough to smooth down a wooden plank. He glanced round to try and locate the Condesa and decided that she was probably one of the canvas wrapped bundles still scattered about the boat, wedged in convenient corners.

  His discarded uniform was nowhere to be seen, but as he sat up, it appeared like magic in the arms of Bennett, who doubled as his servant. It was still damp, but had been lovingly sponged and rubbed until all the mud and ordure had disappeared. Even the smell was hardly noticeable. He glanced at the sleeping bundle that was the Condesa and quickly stripped off his damp shirt, while Bennett, anticipating his orders, threw a bucket over the side on a long line and pulled it back inboard brimming with icy cold seawater. Welbeloved winced and capered while the man poured it over him, and threw it back for a refill.

  The second bucket didn’t seem nearly as cold, just refreshing and invigorating. He dried himself off and accepted a clean, dry shirt. His uniform was clammy when he put it on, but the fresh breeze would dry it out in no time at all. By the time the two boats tacked into the pleasant old port of Gijon, everything was clean and very nearly dry. Welbeloved paid off the second boat, but got the Condesa to haggle to retain the first one. Once he could see the colour of more gold, the captain was quite happy to take his ease; a pleasant rest from the constant grind of fishing in all weathers.

  The men all disembarked. Welbeloved cast an eye over them as they lined up on the quay. After many weeks of strenuous campaigning, their uniforms were faded, stained and patched. The men themselves though, were clean, shaved and alertly relaxed. There was an air of quiet confidence about them, a sure confidence in their ability and talents; a kind of watchful menace that Tasselot observed thoughtfully when he and his officers were released from their confinement and paraded between the ranks, ready to march up into the town.

  Being an experienced soldier, he looked beyond the shabby uniforms to the lovingly maintained flintlocks and carefully tended equipment and harness. As he walked between them he realised that the discipline that was evident was not the strict, rigid discipline of the elite units with which he was familiar, but a regimen that was largely self imposed, and one in which they took great pride.

  The strange procession, winding up into the town, quickly attracted a crowd of curious onlookers. Rumours started to fly and cries of “Los Avispónes Morenos” brought more citizens to swell the ranks. When they reached the inn which had been selected as their base for the day, there were several hundred people crowding round, with shouts of, “Viva los Ingleses! Viva los Avispónes!” together with loud and vituperative insults directed at the prisoners, who walked, stony-faced, eyes straight to their fronts, completely ignoring the taunts and cat-calls.

  They were all relieved to get into the inn and off the street, away from the mob, who all eventually drifted away for lack of anything to see. By that time, Vere had organised the landlord and his staff. No-one had eaten since half way through the previous
day, and the prisoners had been abducted before they had had chance to sit down to their supper. An enormous breakfast was prepared. Tasselot accepted Welbeloved’s invitation to eat with them and formally introduced his subordinates: Colonel Leclerque of the Grenadiers, Colonel Dumas of the Voltigeurs and Major Deschampsneuf of the Hussars. All acknowledged their introduction with frigid politeness. Welbeloved ignored the coldness and introduced the Condesa and Vere, provoking gasps of startled amazement from the three subordinates, when they realised who the young man really was.

  Tasselot was not in the least put out however. He bent low over her hand. “I have read despatches, Madame, which suggested that you had associated yourself with these people. I find it a matter of regret that you should choose to do so.”

  The Condesa was more than equal to this. Speaking in excellent French, she rounded on him. “These people, as you call them, Monsieur, have come to the assistance of my countrymen in the fight against the tyranny that you and your master are trying to impose upon us.” She warmed to her subject. “You talk about associating myself with them! I tell you sir, I would associate myself with the Devil himself, if it would guarantee that your armies were thrown back across the Pyrenees.”

  Tasselot was obviously not accustomed to such spirited responses. He looked taken aback but returned to the attack. “I can understand your feelings of patriotism Madame, however misplaced in this case; but to attach yourself to men who act like bandits and robbers, and sneak about like jackals, is hardly the act of a patriotic Spanish lady.”

  There were spots of colour in the Condesa’s cheeks and her eyes were flashing dangerously. Her voice was icy. “I will be the judge, Monsieur, of whether my conduct is that of a patriot or a lady, but it passes all reason for you to complain about how my gallant friends conduct the war against you. In the weeks that I have been with them, they have fought untiringly and successfully against your vastly superior numbers of men, but not once Monsieur, not once have I seen them commit one act of rape, wholesale slaughter of innocent villagers, burning alive of helpless monks, or the sadistic torturing to death of a sixteen year old officer. All of these have been perpetrated during this time by the savages under your command.