The major blinked a little at the accent. “Good day to you too, Dodds. Major Parsons. I recognised your uniform, as some of your lads came around yesterday. I can’t think who sent for reinforcements. As you say, the French are not being serious, but if Craufurd is on his way, they’ve probably achieved what they intended before they attack elsewhere.
I’m damned curious though, about what your lads are doing, going up that hill. From the top, the nearest enemy is quarter of a mile away.”
“Aye, Major Parsons, I know, but the men I’ve sent up the ‘ill, all ‘ave modified Baker rifles an’ I’ve got my trusty Ferguson. After we’ve killed all the gun crews, Lieutenant Figueredo is going ter dash out and try and bring the guns back. If you ‘ave a couple of spare platoons ‘oo can go hafter ‘im and ‘elp, I reckon as we can get ‘em all.
Now, if you’ll pardon me, I ‘as ter go and kill a few Frogs.” He paused after a dozen steps and called back. “I’d be obliged if yer can get a message ter our own guns not ter shoot when we get acrorse the river.” Then he was gone, racing up the slope.
Major Parsons closed his mouth with an audible snap, then started bellowing orders. Runners went to deliver the messages to the gun batteries and two young lieutenants brought their platoons to wait behind the mounted Vespas, listening for the three whistle blasts to signal the start of their unexpected adventure.
Dodds reached the top and eased himself over the skyline, searching for the positions of the guns across the river and also determining where all his Vespãos were perched.
The guns were easily seen, but the slope at the top over the river was smooth and rounded and he had to crawl forward and down before he was able to see the entire hillside.
His earlier calculation of the range was right on the lethal limit of the Bakers, but everyone was looking down into the French gun emplacements and with nearly twenty rifles aiming at each gun, their crews were going to be either killed or badly wounded very quickly.
Lieutenant da Silva had been watching out for him and showed the flat palm of his hand to acknowledge his arrival. Dodds returned the signal and fished out his spyglass to check on the enemy batteries.
Satisfied, he blew a single blast on his whistle and lined up the figure of an officer by one of the guns. He swore a mild oath as one of his men beat him to it and searched around for another target.
He couldn’t find one! The Vespãos had fired their usual split volley. He had held his fire after being beaten to the first one and in the time taken to try and find another target, each man’s partner had loosed his own shot.
Two or three more shots rang out to account for gunners who had escaped the sudden massacre, but Dodds was not quick enough to spot any of them. He consoled himself with the thought that he had trained these men and that most of them were about ten years younger than he was. Then he blew three loud blasts on his whistle and settled down with his men, to watch the Vespas in action and cover them from any interference by the French infantry.
Major Parsons had acted quickly. He was on horseback, leading a couple of platoons of red-coated infantry across the river and up to where the Vespas were already dismounted and readying the guns for limbering up and hauling away.
They were foot artillery units and each battery had led its horses away to safety once the guns were in position. They were soon located and brought back, to be put to work in charge of the redcoats, who started them off down to the crossing.
By this time, the French infantry had realised that all was not as it should be. Bugles were sounding and blue uniforms were showing at intervals, where the path wound down to the river. Dodds did not interfere, as he could see and hear da Silva alerting the Vespãos to the danger.
The guns, by now were starting to cross the river and Lieutenant Figueredo had halted the Vespas. They were now dismounted and in a broken line, prone on the ground.
Several hundred French soldiers burst into the open and the Vespas opened fire from less than a hundred yards. Lieutenant da Silva gave the order from his position high on the opposite slope and his Vespãos joined in from under four hundred.
The French were massed on the track, unable to spread out. The front of the unformed column was transformed into a piled mass of bodies and the horror-stricken survivors turned and ran.
Dodds got to his feet and blew continuous blasts on his whistle that Figueredo realised was the signal intended for him to disengage and get his men remounted to follow the redcoats. The last gun was being heaved and pushed up the near bank and the redcoats paused to cheer the Vespas as they rode past, waving happily. Somehow, the Portuguese had learned that it was a British naval tradition to cheer back and they duly obliged as they disappeared up the track.
The departure of the Vespas had been noted by the French, who were now urged to rush down to the river, presumably to deliver a valedictory volley. Dodds restrained the Vespãos and as he expected, the red-coated skirmishers and the British gunners raked them with musket balls and grapeshot until they ran for cover once more.
All in all, a most satisfactory outcome, where the Hornets had initiated the action and acted as catalysts, so that the men of the Sixth Division felt that they had played a full part in the small triumph. Dodds even left them the guns as trophies.
Gonçalves had dealt with a very similar situation, half a mile to the north. His men had silenced the guns and inflicted casualties among the French infantry positioned around them. There was no opportunity this time, to go across and capture them and the French were allowed to rescue them unchallenged when they withdrew.
Farther north still, MacKay found that the enemy was marching and counter-marching to attract attention, but had no hope of getting across the river gorge. It was most evidently a demonstration in strength to distract Wellington from where the real assault was to take place.
The Light Division had arrived by now and General Craufurd agreed with MacKay that it had been a false alarm. He even went so far as to pour scornful contempt on the generals who had started the panic.
MacKay felt that he didn’t want to hear his superior officers indulging in a slanging session and gathered his men together to return to Fuentes. After all, they had only been sent to stop a gap until Craufurd could get here.
He promised to apprise Lord Wellington of the true position and let Craufurd know if he was to retrace his steps, being perfectly aware that Pom had probably informed his master by this time anyway.
The Hornets were back at Fuentes and reporting within the hour, to discover what the reason was for the excitement farther north. A simple demonstration to draw reserves away.
There was a full-scale attack in progress on the town of Fuentes de Oñoro. The river was narrow and shallow below the town and Masséna had sent his regiments storming across.
The Hornets were back in reserve. The French were committed to taking the straggling little town and fighting was raging backwards and forwards up and down the narrow streets and in the alleys and houses that clung to the slope from the river at the bottom to the church at the top.
Lord Wellington had three of his divisions massed behind the town and did not need MacKay’s men. MacKay was really quite grateful. Hand to hand combat was a skill that the Hornets encouraged and Welbeloved had insisted upon ever since his time in Palestine, where he had trained bands of Turks to fight the French invaders. Wrestling was a national passion in Turkey and when weapons were added to that passion, the French encampments were never safe from night-time raids and hand to hand combat with experts.
Face to face combat in a situation like Fuentes amounted to little more than a mass brawl in MacKay’s opinion. A brawl in which the better-trained Hornets would probably triumph, but at an inevitable cost in casualties that was quite unacceptable.
With all the time, effort and expense that went into training each Hornet, Welbeloved was known to have declared that the loss of ten Hornets for less than two hundred enemy soldiers was a victory for the French.
&
nbsp; Wellington understood this, but even those of his generals who could be called supporters of the Hornets, were a long, long way from being able to put such a value on the life of a single fighting man.
The brawl lasted until dark and the French retired to think again. The Anglo-Portuguese army had been surprising Masséna ever since Buçaco. Now, here they were again in a strong defensive position. The French had to beat them decisively or go back to Salamanca and leave Almeida to its fate.
Today’s inconclusive skirmish had inevitably produced some hundreds of casualties on both sides; more among the attackers than the entrenched defenders as was to be expected. It remained to be seen what Masséna would try tomorrow.
MacKay had been confident before the day started. He was now certain that Wellington’s genius had found a position strong enough to counter the greater numbers of the French.
CHAPTER 12
The next day was not a repetition of the brawl. Masséna was beginning to realise that his opponent was a general of exceptional talent and probably unequalled when it came to choosing to fight in the best defensive position available.
There was no assault on the allied position that day, but there was a great deal of cavalry activity, both north and south of Fuentes as he explored the defences. It was more than possible that he had no realistic idea about the number of men he was facing. Wellington had been careful to hold his reserves out of sight throughout the battle for the town, quietly feeding in reinforcements as necessary.
MacKay had reconnoitred the whole front before he brought the Hornets to join the army. He called up an image in his mind of the range of hills north and south of Fuentes and could understand why Masséna had attacked the town directly, after frightening Erskine enough to draw some reserves to the left wing.
Fuentes de Oñoro was the key to this fight. The French had to take it if they were to beat Wellington. They must have discovered yesterday that the allied left wing was almost impregnable due to the river gorge.
That left the town itself or the hilly country on the right wing. These hills were improbable country in which to fight a battle, but anticipating that Masséna might try another demonstration there, similar to the one against Erskine yesterday; during the night, Wellington moved the new Seventh Division to cover such a move.
They occupied the village of Pozo Velho, about two miles south of Fuentes, abutting an extensive plateau between the hills west of the river and the hills on the right of the allied position in the town.
One of the big problems with fighting a defensive battle when commanding a smaller and less experienced force, is that one has no option but to await the enemy attack before reacting to it. Wellington waited and Masséna attacked at dawn on the next day.
The attack was the same as two days ago against the British left wing. This time Wellington ignored it as the obvious distraction that it was.
All was quiet in front of Fuentes de Oñoro, when a second attack started on the far right wing, where the Seventh Division had been deployed in anticipation of just such a demonstration.
It soon became apparent that this attack was not just a demonstration. Masséna must have moved a couple of divisions and his cavalry south under cover of darkness and there was now a full-scale assault under way to try and shatter the fledgling Seventh Division and turn the right flank.
MacKay waited patiently for the Hornets to be let loose, but Wellington sent his cavalry reserve and Craufurd with the Light Division to support the Seventh. The Hornets were retained in his central reserve.
The sound of conflict rose and fell, but no one could doubt any longer that this was a serious attempt to smash the right wing and turn the whole of the allied flank.
By mid morning, with Wellington, hopefully distracted by the attack in the south, Masséna developed his main assault. Once more, the objective was the town of Fuentes and a full division drove forward and stormed across the shallow river into the lower part of the town.
The defending garrison was driven back with heavy casualties. Battalions from Picton’s Third Division rushed into the fray to push the French back again. The battle raged up and down the slope, back and forth, time and time again as each side in turn committed fresh troops to the struggle.
It had reached the stage where both generals had determined that possession of the town was vital to their success. In effect, Wellington had abandoned his Seventh and Light Divisions to their own devices in the fighting to the south. He had hinged his line with his First and Third Divisions in an L shape, facing west, contesting Fuentes and south, holding the hills between two rivers, the Dos Casas and the Tourões; two miles apart and both flowing north.
Around midday, Wellington himself cantered up to the Hornets, with Pom alongside. “I had hoped not to have to use you again, MacKay. However, Masséna has cut off the Seventh and Light Divisions with about twice their own force, about two miles south of here.
Houston and Craufurd are suffering, but holding their own by the skin of their teeth. I have had First Division swing back at right angles and there is now a gap of more than half a mile between them.
Masséna has now brought at least two thousand troops from his right wing. They are marching in two columns straight at that gap. Please take your men and delay them long enough for Lieutenant Pom to cross the plateau with orders for both divisions to retire north and rejoin. I am asking Craufurd to detach some of his troops to support you.”
The Hornets had seen Wellington coming and by the time he had finished talking, they were all mounted and waiting for orders.
MacKay asked two quick questions. “Are they across the river yet, My Lord?”
“Probably just crossing now, Colonel.”
“Any cavalry?”
“None seen. Mostly infantry of the line with a couple of companies of skirmishers.”
“Thank ye, My Lord. Come along Pom, we’ve all got work tae dae.”
The Hornets cantered briskly through the hills covering the right flank of Wellington’s new defensive line. The plateau between Fuentes de Oñoro and Pozo Velho was a plateau in the sense that it was a flatter area in the hills between the two rivers. Describing it as a flat plain would be akin to saying that the Alps were a few hills between Italy and the German States.
Nevertheless, the noise and smoke of massive conflict was little over a mile away to the south. If the approaching columns were allowed to scale the steep, but by no means difficult slope from the Dos Casas, they would be well placed to strike at the flanks of the separated and hard-pressed Light and Seventh Divisions, with potentially disastrous results.
MacKay called Gonçalves and all the captains to him and outlined the situation, then turned to Pom. “Ye understand what we shall try tae dae and ye hae Lord Wellington’s orders for yon twa generals?”
Pom nodded. “Yes Sir! They are to attempt to move closer to Fuentes de Oñoro and send whatever support they can spare to aid you in holding back this developing attack on their flank. I am on my way now, Sir.”
MacKay smiled. “That ye are, Li, but tarry a while.” He raised his voice. “Fernando! Can ye find a dozen men frae Pom’s old platoon? It is vital that he gets his message through and there look tae be far too many enemy horsemen in the way, tae gae wi’out an escort.”
Gonçalves agreed and Dodds detailed a dozen men from the platoon he himself was now commanding in addition to his company duties. They cantered away, under Pom’s command once more.
The Hornets dismounted. MacKay and Gonçalves moved together to look down the slope from a position between two springs that sent small streams down to join the Dos Casas, carving out shallow gullies in the process.
The French were across the river and starting to climb up to the plateau. Four companies of voltigeurs had formed an extended line and were climbing steadily along a front of five or six hundred yards, stretching between the two small streams and overlapping them by fifty or sixty yards at each end of their line.
The line infantr
y were just setting off behind them in four loose columns, two on either side of each stream. There were roughly ten men across the head of each column.
MacKay looked at them sourly. “I should like tae spread a’ oor men across the top o’ the slope, Fernando. That should stop them dead in their tracks.
The snag is, as soon as we engage, the noise and smoke shall attract the attention o’ some o’ those cavalrymen tae the south and they shall want tae poke their noses intae oor business.
Shall ye cover oor right flank wi’ Richter’s Company and protect the horses. Dodds can deploy beyond the far stream and Davison and Tonks shall take the rest. Place yourself on the rim o’ the plateau and ye can pull Dodds back if we draw more horsemen than Richter can handle.”
Gonçalves stared down the slope. “Shooting down the hill shall be a good test for Roberto’s new cartridges, Hamish. I warrant they shall carry four hundred yards accurately. The voltigeurs shall be in range any minute.”
He hurried back and deployed Richter’s men in a skirmish line sixty yards out from the rim of the plateau, with all the horses hobbled behind them; thus making an irresistible target and trophy for any wandering cavalry.
Dodds’s men and C and D Companies moved over the rim and made themselves as comfortable as they could on the bare slope. For most of them, the only concealment was the curve of the slope itself.
This in itself was of little account. Gonçalves had been right. The voltigeurs had been climbing happily enough until they had seen the Hornets loom over the skyline and settle into position. They were more wary now, but knew that there was no point in shooting their muskets until they were well within fifty yards. They knew the enemy was shooting downhill, but could not conceive that they were in any peril at a distance of four hundred yards.
It seemed too good an opportunity to miss. MacKay bellowed for all the rifles to hold their fire until the carbines had been able to practice their long-distance marksmanship.
Can No One Win Battles if I'm Not There Page 13
