By the middle of the afternoon, Welbeloved had addressed as many of the men as he could and his words had been relayed to the others. The redcoats had been split up into five groups of forty men and interspersed with similar numbers of Spanish infantry. Then the march began again. The column marched to within sight of the French positions and deployed to the left and right, moving into cover of the scattered woods or behind dead ground.
Once out of sight, they doubled back to join the rear of the column and then repeated the manoeuvre. After two hours, Anstruthers spotted a group of French officers watching closely. He galloped over to the gunners and pointed out their target, at the same time ordering a squadron of his Wolves to move ostentatiously into a position to attack.
The cannon was loaded with grape and the second shot persuaded the staff officers to move quickly to seek a less exposed vantage point. From then on, until nightfall, cannon balls were dropped on the French position at regular, leisurely intervals. Welbeloved wished to make the point that there was no shortage of powder and shot
The squadrons of Wolves made feint attacks at the same time, wheeling away at the last moment from the bristling wall of bayonets that rose to greet them, but giving the gunners a target they could exploit. Charges of grape cut swathes in the French ranks until they once more retreated to cover as the cavalry retired.
Tasselot’s men were holding a strong defensive position, but it quickly became apparent that they could not be provoked into firing at the Wolves when they ventured too close. They relied instead on the threat of massed ranks of men with a hedge of glittering steel before them. It was of course sensible to conserve whatever ammunition they had left. They all speculated on how critical the shortage had become.
That night, Welbeloved sat with Anstruthers, the Condesa, Don Pedro and the Spanish officers around a blazing fire. It was accepted that the final act in the drama was coming to its close. The Spanish infantry and cavalrymen had had their spirit and pride restored and would be quite happy to fight ferociously against almost any odds.
Their officers however had thought rather more deeply about the situation. The Marqués was a changed man. The young Spaniards had accepted his connection with the Hornets and his lofty rank as setting him apart and above them. They had looked to him for leadership and he had responded magnificently. Even the Condesa acknowledged his metamorphosis and treated him with friendly comradeship.
He spoke for the others when he pointed out that Welbeloved and his men, together with the redcoats and marines, would soon be marching back to embark once more for England, leaving the Wolves and five hundred Spanish infantrymen to cope as best they could with the entire army of Marshal Soult. If Sir John escaped, or even if he didn’t, there would be eighty thousand French soldiers trampling all over Galicia. He drew their attention, respectfully, to the difficulties of survival against odds of over a hundred to one.
It was a predicament that Welbeloved had already considered. He had taken the opportunity of leaving a detailed report with Cooke in La Coruña, to be passed on to the senior officer commanding the naval forces arriving to evacuate the troops. If his suggestion, backed by Cooke’s enthusiastic recommendation, was followed, there would be a ship waiting with Daphne and Hermes, to pick them all up and take them, either to England, or preferably to Cadiz. Spanish forces there were still holding the French at bay, and seven hundred experienced horse and foot soldiers would be received with open arms.
Just how much their uncertain future was worrying them was shown by their smiles and expressions of relief when they received this information. Don Pedro sent the young Spanish officers away to pass on the news and bursts of cheering came clearly to them on the night air. The cheers, Welbeloved reflected, would also have carried to the French lines, giving notice of the tearing good spirits of their opponents and causing them to speculate on whether the reason for such celebration was some other unpleasant surprise being made ready for them.
An hour before dawn, the men roused, wolfed down their meagre rations and stood-to, moving into position all the way across the valley. Welbeloved had spoken to the officers at great length the night before. They all understood what they had to do and he had insisted that they went back and talked to their men, so that the lowliest private soldier was as informed as his leaders.
The red coats of the British were again split into four groups, with companies of Spaniards in between. The silhouettes of the mountain peaks stood out against the eastern sky as bugles sounded all across the valley. Lines of men formed up and moved forward with bayonets fixed. The lone cannon recommenced its bombardment and four squadrons of Wolves trotted in the gaps between the companies of advancing men.
Welbeloved and Anstruthers both sat their horses in the centre of the advance and stared ahead as visibility increased, searching for the first signs of the enemy. The men marched forward at a steady pace, keeping their lines as if on parade, with sergeants on the flanks regulating the dressing and bawling at anyone not rigidly in place.
At two hundred yards, formations of blue-clad French infantry moved smartly into position all across the front and faced the marching men with muskets at the ready and bayonets fixed. Once more the drill of the parade ground came into its own. On command, the whole of the advancing front halted. It was long musket range, but the front rank presented their firelocks and discharged a volley without provoking a reply.
The next three ranks marched smartly through the front rank for a dozen paces, halted, and the new front rank fired a volley. The manoeuvre was repeated with each rank, and as each musket was discharged, the men reloaded and took their place in rank at the rear of the formation, ready to advance past their comrades and fire again.
The French ranks were taking casualties but making no reply. They would be saving their powder and shot until they could shoot at point blank range. They couldn’t afford to waste a single shot. The advance continued remorselessly, volley after volley, with the cannon adding its own deadly contribution from the flank. The French stayed immobile, like the veterans they were, closing ranks as musket balls and grape smashed gaps in their lines. One had to admire the discipline and courage of the men who remained steady under such an onslaught.
Suddenly, commands were shouted and muskets were raised all along the line. Anstruthers’s men were about to receive a taste of what they had been dealing out. Welbeloved cocked his ear and glanced at Anstruthers. In the silence between the volleys of shots, and before the French could fire, there was the unmistakable sound of the Fergusons, firing from somewhere behind the French lines.
He couldn’t see where the shots were coming from and it wasn’t possible to observe what damage they were doing, but it had disturbed the rhythm of the French drill. Some commands were given and musket fire erupted in an erratic manner from different parts of the front, all very ragged and not at all effective.
The Fergusons were now firing as quickly as they could be loaded and there was noticeable confusion among the French defenders, who were under fire from both front and rear. Welbeloved judged the moment and reacted quickly, shouting loudly and clearly. “Now’s yor chance Major! Send in the Wolves while they’re confused!” He dragged out his sword and Anstruthers followed suit, grinning fiendishly. Both men set spurs to their horses and charged towards the French lines, yelling at the tops of their voices for the Wolves to follow.
The Spaniards needed no urging. Within seconds, all four squadrons were charging at breakneck speed, crashing into the confused and uncertain French and scattering them in all directions. Waves of infantry, fighting mad, with bayonets thrust in front of them, were only seconds behind. Suddenly, there was no-one left to fight.
The enemy lines had broken and men were fleeing or surrendering everywhere one looked. It was now obvious that this was not the full army, only perhaps five or six hundred men.
Welbeloved had hacked ineffectually at two or three heads as his horse carried him through the lines and he now reined in, looking
for some sign of Vere and his men, whose entry into the fight at a critical juncture, had swiftly turned it into a rout.
Dun coloured figures rose from cover over a wide area and converged on him, looking mightily pleased with themselves. Vere came trotting up and saluted smartly. “It took us so long to find a way behind them sir, that I didn’t have time to send someone back to tell you that the rest of them have run. We took some prisoners and they hadn’t a pinch of powder between them. Every last scraping was handed over to these fellows, who were supposed to delay you for a couple of days while the rest of them joined up with Soult, somewhere near Lugo. As it is, I’ll hazard a guess that they’re twenty miles away from here by now.”
Welbeloved dismounted, realised he was still holding his sword, and hastily sheathed it as Anstruthers came trotting up. He looked up at him with satisfaction. Every bluff he had made had been successful and his destruction of the French supplies had effectively disarmed the whole force. They were no longer a threat to the retreating British. He could gather up his men and go home. He felt impatient with the officers who were crowding round and heaping congratulations on him. Suddenly, he felt unutterably weary.
“Let’s get back to the ships Major. I’ve had enough of these damned mountains. Strip the prisoners down to breeches, shirts and boots and turn them loose. They can look after their own wounded and make their way back to their own people if they can. They’re no longer any concern of ours.”
CHAPTER 32
There was a warmer, soothing breeze blowing in from the west as the men stepped out on the road to Ribadeo and the ships. It would be a long march, but the column of men had a jaunty look and the multifarious colours of the Spanish uniforms, interspersed with solid red blocks of the British, gave the scene a carnival atmosphere, with the occasional tinsel gleam of brass buckles or polished steel fittings.
The horse soldiers rode in front and behind, with outriders on the flanks. They were relaxed. The enemy had been beaten convincingly. They had buried the few unfortunate dead, but the casualties had been so light that there was little grief, more a feeling of exhilaration at their success and a great relief that they had once more faced death and survived. Those unlucky enough to be wounded had been dealt with on the spot by the surgeons who had accompanied the force. One was a Spaniard who had attached himself to the Wolves from the beginning. The other was the surgeon from the Hermes, on loan from Thoroughgood.
Half-a-dozen carts carried the survivors of their joint attentions, in as much comfort as possible given the poor state of the roads and the unsprung wheels of the heavy carts. Death would claim nearly one hundred percent of those with serious wounds to the body, while over half the amputees would succumb to shock, gangrene or fever brought on by their condition.
Welbeloved, the Condesa, Isabella and the Hornets, waited until they were all on their way, then struck out across country to collect the mounts which had been left hobbled at the foot of the ridge that Vere and his men had climbed. The small river had escaped from the confines of the marsh higher up the valley, and was running at a gentle pace through the middle of a wide depression in the hills.
Light scrub and occasional stands of trees grew out of the broad, mountain meadow. The three horses had outdistanced the rest of the men who were tramping steadily along in their own way and at their own pace. They crossed the stream where the slope flattened out into a rocky table, over which the water ran, only two or three inches deep over a wide area, tumbling into a placid pool bounded by alders on both sides.
All three dismounted and led the horses to the pool to drink, while they waited for the men on foot to catch up with them. The afternoon sun shone down onto the surface of the water through the branches of the trees; still bare of leaves, but beginning to show the first traces of fresh green, as the tight buds reacted to the warmer winds and their freedom from the biting cold.
It was a beautiful spot, with crystal-clear water, and the Condesa knelt by the water’s edge to cup it in her hands and splash it over her face. Isabella pulled a cloth from her saddlebag and offered it to dry her cheeks, before kneeling in her turn and swilling her own face. Welbeloved watched them both fondly. The setting was idyllic; the only sound was the gentle trickle of water over the stones and a distant, faint rumble, perhaps of thunder in the hills.
He came out of his reverie with startled suddenness. The weather was too fresh for thunder and this was getting louder and more regular. He swore and ran for the horses, yelling to the two women. He had broken one of his own rules and relaxed his guard, just because the enemy had appeared to be routed and scattered.
He wrenched his rifle from the saddle holster, shouting to the girls to get theirs and run for the cover of the trees by the pool. The routine of loading and priming was second nature to him, and lightning quick. He cocked and raised the Ferguson just as the women reached the trees and a troop of dragoons burst into view only two hundred yards away.
The Hornets had reacted more quickly than he, and were firing into the flank of the attackers as he took aim. They were, however, some four or five hundred away and firing at a moving target. Few horses or riders fell, but the main body had been distracted. Perhaps they had only seen the three riders heading for the stream, and had missed the well-camouflaged men on foot. Now, most of them swung away to meet the new challenge, leaving five or six only, charging down on Welbeloved
He squeezed the trigger and commenced his reloading action without pausing. The leading horse went down as if poleaxed, causing the others to swerve round it. He was almost reloaded when two shots rang out from the trees. His training had borne fruit. They had chosen the larger targets and aimed for the horses. Both shots went home and brought down a third horse with them.
Only two riders were left and he primed, cocked and aimed point blank at the nearest, blowing him out of his saddle with the force of the heavy ball, and causing his horse to shy away.
The remaining rider jinked past with sabre raised, and Welbeloved had a fraction of a second to recognise the furious, snarling face of Roussillon, before he instinctively parried the downward cut, and his arm and shoulder dissolved into an excruciating flame of agony.
Through red mists of pain, he was still aware of Roussillon wheeling his horse around and returning for the kill. He tried to concentrate, but all he could see was the man’s flashing white teeth as he screamed in triumph, and the gleaming steel blade which he tried, weakly to block with his rifle, held one-handed. His last recollection was of an explosion and the sabre appearing to fly towards him of its own volition. Another searing pain in his ribs coincided with a ridiculous desire to laugh hysterically, before everything went dark.
***
The river was cascading over the ledge and falling in feathery veils into the small, sunlit pool. He lay in the warm shallows watching Mercedes swimming and wading towards him. Her magnificent body gleamed with water and she was laughing as she bent and splashed his face. He grabbed her and they rolled over with his face pressed to her breasts. She twisted her head and started to bite large pieces of flesh from his body. The pain was intolerable and he struggled violently, but was pinned under a fallen mast and the storm was blowing spray in his face.
He cursed and swore at the French frigate that had dismasted him and driven him onto the rocks, where men with axes were chopping his ribs away to clear the wreckage.
A cool, wet cloth wiped his face and pressed gently on the source of the pain in his splitting head. He opened his eyes and peered up at Mercedes’s anxious face, only inches away, tears trickling unchecked and dripping off her chin, adding to the moisture on the cloth she was using to sponge his head.
He twisted his neck and tried to squint away from the sunlight. The movement made his head burst and he winced with the agony, but persevered, with the Condesa supporting him. He was stripped to the waist and there was a circle of concerned faces around him, Vere and MacKay to the fore. MacKay raised bloody hands in a gesture of apology. “Just a w
ee bittie tailoring I’ve been doing, sir. Stitched you together again, good as new, just as you showed me yourself.”
The pain was now a bone-aching throb and he examined his wounds curiously. He remembered the sabre cut and his attempt to parry it. His arm must have been bent at the time because the long, neatly stitched gashes extended from his shoulder, down his upper arm and across to his forearm as far as the wrist. There was also a jagged gash across his ribs, which he couldn’t account for, and a monstrous lump on his head.
Isabella had managed to find some strips of cloth and he was helped to sit up while his wounds were covered and his arm strapped, immobile to his body. They dressed him in his best uniform, with the empty sleeve pinned up, and helped him to his feet. The Condesa had his arm over her shoulders and struggled to hold him steady when his legs refused to support him.
The blow on his head must have had more effect on him than his other wounds. His eyesight was blurred and he felt giddy and sick. He made no protest when Vere made the decision to make camp and rest there overnight. Lying back on the mattress they had contrived for him, he went to sleep almost immediately.
It was a troubled sleep. He dreamt, but the dreams were formless; they had no substance, just a terrifying feeling of drifting out of control in many directions at once, expanding and contracting.
He thought he was awake several times. These times were best because cool hands were sponging his fevered face and throbbing head, but each time he drifted away again.
It seemed to go on forever, but it was still dark when he opened his eyes and the unreality had gone. The light from a shaded lantern glowed dimly in the canvas shelter in which the Condesa and Isabella usually slept. His head ached dully and his arm and chest throbbed. He eased his neck to try and relieve the pain and immediately, gentle hands pressed a cool cloth to his forehead, and soothing words were whispered in his ear.
A Despite of Hornets Page 33
