Swallowing Portugal Will Settle My Spanish Bellyache

by Geoffrey Watson

  Heller’s chin moved enough so that Roffhack guessed he was grinning. “We have those, Sir, but Sergeant Major Ryan has shown us how to keep them in our sleeves.” His long fighting knife appeared in his hand like magic and disappeared just as quickly.

  “Most impressive, Sergeant. Does every man carry one of those tusks?”

  “Ja, Sir. Some of us have two and we practice throwing them, but no one is skilful like Herr Ryan.”

  Roffhack had one himself, but had never been able to acquire the skill to throw it accurately and lethally. Hand to hand combat with blunted practice blades however, had been another matter and Ryan himself had commended him.

  Unfortunately, it was not the sort of thing that a gentleman could admit to; not even a military gentleman. He therefore kept quiet about it, as a talent to be used only in a dire emergency.

  He came back to the problem at hand. “We agree then, gentlemen, that they are probably from Germany. I shall make my decision on that basis, hoping that they are Elector George’s subjects and not Prussians.

  I want you to send one of your platoon, Sergeant. He should canter past the column and find 1 and 2 Troops in the village. He is to keep well out of range of the marchers but it is no longer important to remain unseen.

  Lieutenants Weiss and Bruch will bring their men from the village and line them up as a threat to charge the column. I would like it to feel obliged to form square in order to meet that threat, preferably well out of musket range.

  Both our platoons will fall in behind the column and time our approach so that we have them between our ‘dragoons’ and us. Find some cloth to tie to your sword Müller. We will go forward together and have a chat with their commander.”

  Roffhack’s guess; he thought about it as inspired deduction; about what the opposing commander would do was expectedly accurate. As soon as the Hornet’s ‘Wölfe’ half squadron trotted into the open and spread themselves out in front of the marching column, orders were shouted and the whole company moved smartly and smoothly into square. Two files of fifteen men each side, facing outwards with bayonets bristling.

  Their commander must have been relieved and grateful that the cavalry had shown themselves too soon. If they had come bursting out of the village when the column was within two hundred yards, it could have been cut to pieces before having chance to manoeuvre.

  His relief and gratitude would have faded the instant another sixty horsemen appeared behind him and lined up, his square standing forlornly but neatly between both bodies. He would then have realised how neatly his formal drill had placed him in such a predicament, without being able to see what he could have done to improve his prospects.

  Roffhack and Müller rode forward to within a hundred yards and dismounted. “I can see now from the shako plates that they are indeed a company of the Légion Hanovrienne, Sir. I even half remember the officer coming to meet us. I think he was junior to me then and in another battalion.”

  “It looks as though he’s commanding the company now, Helmut. Maybe filling dead men’s shoes after Buçaco, do you think? I heard that the Rifles were particularly busy picking out officers wearing red coats on that day.”

  Two very young men came to a halt and touched their hands to their shakos, looking curiously at the soaking wet bonnets that the Hornets wore.

  The senior of the two stared hard at Müller, as if for confirmation before speaking in German. “I am Acting Captain Fischer of the Légion Hanovrienne and I am sure I recognise you as a lieutenant with the battalion that deserted to the enemy when in Spain.”

  Roffhack replied. “I am called Major Roffhack, Fischer and I command the Hanoverian Battalion of the British Naval Brigade, which might be known to you as the Hornissen. Lieutenant Müller was indeed with the Légion in Spain, but the Graf und Gräfin von Hachenburg were able to make his colonel agree that his true loyalty was to his Elector George, King of England.

  I am sure that similar thoughts have been discussed among your countrymen, still forced to serve the Corsican Usurper, unwillingly, I have no doubt.”

  There was an uncomfortable pause and Fischer glanced surreptitiously at his companion, who refused to meet his eye. He cleared his throat, clearly embarrassed.

  “I will admit that there have been things said between some of our junior officers and I have heard murmurings among the sergeants, but our seniors would not allow any talk about it. They have sworn an oath to serve the Emperor and were astounded when your colonel broke his word.”

  Roffhack noted a trace of equivocation in the lad’s voice. “I have heard it said, Captain Fischer, that the most pleasant alternative to swearing the oath, was dismissal from all employment. It doesn’t sound like a freely given oath, when you would see your family starve otherwise.”

  A sudden thought struck him and he continued by asking a question. “How many senior officers in your battalion have been made to swear the oath?”

  “Why everyone of the rank of captain and above, Major Roffhack. They may not have been happy about it, but honour will not permit them to admit they had no choice. They would never allow us…” His voice trailed away and he turned to his companion. “Why do you allow me to talk such rubbish, Ernst?” He turned back again and confirmed what Roffhack had only guessed at. “We have no senior officers left. All but two were killed at that damnable ridge by Buçaco. The two that were only wounded were left at Coimbra and we learned that the Portuguese took them.”

  He looked Roffhack in the eye. “We have no officer left who is bound by his oath. They have even given us a French commanding officer and promoted four of us to acting captains. Will you permit me to return to my men and talk to them? I believe they will agree to fight for Hanover once more, but if not we cannot surrender. We would then be quite without honour.”

  Roffhack stopped him. “Consider, Captain Fischer! If you had been a French company, most of you would now be dead. You cannot expect more than one in ten of your muskets to shoot in this rain, whereas I assure you that at least half of our special weapons would be effective. It is no dishonour to surrender when there is no hope. Use that as an argument if you must.”

  As the two men trudged back to their square and were enveloped by it, Roffack signalled for both parties of Hornets to dismount and take a break, ostentatiously tending to their horses, looking to their weapons and eating and drinking from their cold rations, a meal that had been delayed while they prepared to meet their countrymen.

  The Hanoverians took this as a sign of peaceful intentions and the square turned inwards to listen to Fischer. Several envious eyes were turned nevertheless on the Hornets busily demolishing their midday meal.

  After half an hour of noisy argument, Fischer walked out again alone. His face was chapfallen as if he had a great problem that offered no solution. He smiled weakly. “I have failed my men in that I was ignorant of the true feelings of almost all of them.”

  The statement was left hanging in the air, while he sought for words to explain. “It never occurred to me that they would all feel as disillusioned as I do, but this is the reason for the problem.

  The French have always treated us as second class soldiers, even in the beginning, when for a time many of us were proud to be part of the unbeatable Grande Armée. My men would willingly return to serve their Elector, but such is the spirit of comradeship, they will not consider doing so if it means deserting ther rest of the battalion. It looks as though you will either have to fight us or let us return to our comrades.”

  Roffhack smiled sympathetically. “Don’t look so glum, Captain Fischer. I find it gratifying that you and your men are so much in agreement and have so much loyalty to their comrades. It is that spirit of comradeship that is the bedrock of soldiering. Forget about Kings, Emperors and nations, it is his regiment and his comrades that a man fights and dies for.

  When an entire battalion joined us in Spain, my general charged me with trying to find the rest of you and then persuading you all to come back to your dut
y and so help to free Hanover from the conqueror.

  All I require of you is that your company; together with my Hornets; returns to your battalion and starts it marching towards Lisbon. You see, we are in entire agreement and I can guarantee that no Frenchman will dare to question the movement of your five hundred soldiers and my two hundred and fifty cavalrymen in the direction of the enemy.

  In three days you shall again be serving the Elector in the company of three or four thousand of your compatriots, either of the King’s German Legion or of the Hornets from Hanover. We have leave to recruit another two companies to our elite brigade and our own compatriots would naturally have precedence for selection, provided that they could meet our very strict standards.

  Should you like Lieutenant Müller and me to come and talk to your men? We can explain what we propose, after which, we can all retire to that village, share our rations, get to know each other again and make plans about how we achieve what we all want.”

  Ten minutes later there was a prolonged outburst of cheering and the square disintegrated. All the men swarmed across to meet their old comrades and the whole mass moved into the village, crowding into whatever shelter they could find.

  Roffhack made half his reserve of field rations available and was amazed at the rapidity with which it disappeared. The Légion had been on less than half rations for the last four weeks and even the normal ration for the French was less than generous. They fell on the food like a pack of ravening wolves.

  Thoughtfully, Roffhack sent Müller and his platoon speeding back to fetch Vere and the rest of the Hornets, with food for eight hundred men for five days. By the end of that time they should be behind the allied lines with enough potential recruits to double the Hanoverian contingent of Hornets. Or they would be fighting for their lives against most of the Armée de Portugal.

  CHAPTER 4

  Welbeloved left Sergeant Major Thuner and his veterans to irritate the French and their fleeing, flying column with the enthusiastic support of the local Ordenança. He hurried back to his base at São Martinho. The little town was close to one of the roads that the column could use for its dash back to Spain. It wasn’t the most direct road, but Wellington had built defences across the other one and a battalion of Portuguese Militia was still manning them.

  The more Welbeloved thought about it the more he was convinced that this was hardly a problem of the first magnitude to the French. The defences were built against the army coming from the east and the militia were in no condition to stand for long against the battle-hardened French veterans.

  It could delay them though and cause a few casualties. Welbeloved had a shrewd idea that they were in so much of a hurry that they would opt for the longer but safer road, rather than spend time clearing the militia from the strong points.

  If they did so, they would ignore São Martinho altogether and hurry on toward the frontier. There again, if their timing was right, they should think it suitable for one of their overnight stops, no doubt believing that their small garrison was still in occupation. The added attraction would be a night under cover that would allow them to dry out their sodden clothing.

  Welbeloved had become quite fond of the little town. There were enough houses for all his men to sleep in the dry and there was even stabling under cover for most of the horses. The French garrison had looted it, but not wrecked it. They had wanted to keep dry as much as the next man.

  The most sensible course for him, was to evacuate the base as soon as he was sure that they were coming this way. He could return once they had gone past.

  That, though, would be inconvenient and he did so dislike being inconvenienced by the enemy. In any case, rush or no rush, it was doubtful whether they could resist the temptation to search for loot in a deserted town. That would wreck the place and they were as likely as not to burn it to the ground when they left.

  Remembering the make up of the French force, he stopped and viewed the town from half a mile away on the road that the French would most likely use. The town was on higher ground and tucked into a shallow, open valley, with the hills rising quite steeply behind it.

  The garrison he had evicted had dug a trench in a part circle around the slope leading up to the lowest buildings. It was an obstacle; nothing more. Anyone using it now would be standing in water up to his knees and any half-competent cavalryman would put his horse across with no trouble at all.

  He was looking thoughtful as he rode along the narrow track that led into the town itself, waving casually to the sentry from D Company as he went by. Captain Tonks and his three remaining platoons were relaxing today while Davison and his three platoons undertook the daily reconnaissance.

  The biggest house in the town, probably the property of the local alcalde or town mayor, was now the officer’s mess. Tonks appeared as he was shaking out his soaking cloak and greeted him warmly. Welbeloved grinned back at him. “There is a flying column of a couple of hundred cavalry and a couple of thousand light infantry, likely to be passing by tomorrow or the day after. They are running back to Spain to get help and I am wagering that they’ll be in too much of a hurry to come calling.

  Now I could be wrong about that, so I want to make it very plain to them that we are not ‘at home’ to people of such low breeding. I think that is how the quality would express it in England. I’m afraid that yor men are going to have to turn out in the rain and get their hands dirty. We shall need a couple of hundred eight-foot stakes cut and as much spare canvas as yew can find.”

  Captain Davison’s three platoons returned well before dark and joined in the work. They were all soaking from a day in the saddle in the incessant rain and almost welcomed the exercise as a means to get them warm before dusk sent them back to the town to dry off.

  In the morning, everything was ready. All the horses had been whisked away and concealed in a small meadow, up in the hills. It was standard practice for the Hornets, wherever they camped, to have an escape route. There was a track behind the town that served this purpose. It led up into the hills, but was quite unsuitable for horses.

  The trench was still flooded, but had an additional row of sharpened stakes planted on the town side, pointing over the trench. It was a barrier that no cavalryman would attempt to cross.

  Every Hornet was allocated a position, either within the shelter of one of the houses, stables or cattlesheds, or on the slopes of the hills partially enveloping the town. Those of them with a position out in the open, attached lengths of canvas in the form of a short cape to the shoulders of their tunics. When lying prone, these could be pulled forward over the head and two sticks at the corners planted in the soil. It was a crude but effective canopy that protected the lock of their weapons from the pouring rain.

  Towards evening, Thuner and his veterans rode into town and everyone relaxed. The French were on their way, but were still several hours’ march distant and would have to camp for the night, well before they could reach São Martinho.

  Welbeloved was relieved. The one thing he had been dreading was the thought of two thousand Frenchmen arriving on his doorstep at dusk, in time to use the shelter of the town that they fondly imagined was garrisoned by friendly troops.

  The Hornets could, and would, inflict terrible damage on a massed assault during daylight hours. A night assault, however, with odds of ten to one, was an invitation to make for the hills; a tactical withdrawal in military terms. If you couldn’t see them you couldn’t kill them!

  Thuner left again at dawn to check that they were still on the move and came cantering back two hours later with the news that the advance guard of cavalry would be in sight within the hour. There was a troop of thirty walking their mounts about an hour ahead of the infantry columns. The rest of the leading squadron was between these two groups and the rearguard squadron followed after the small baggage train.

  Given that information, the Hornets could make a good guess about the sequence of events that would follow.

  The advance guard cam
e into sight and saw the town nestling into the hills on the slope rising from the level of the road. They should have been expecting to see a tricolore flying and a welcome from the small garrison that had been left here.

  Instead, all was quiet: no flag and a freshly sharpened line of stakes denying them entry other than by the ingoing track, which was blocked by a tangle of shrubs and trees that would have to be dragged away to clear the road.

  The Hornets were well hidden and the almost eerie silence would have raised more questions than answers in the mind of the young officer in command.

  He was a well-trained young man with a job to do and that didn’t include seeking the solution to an enigma when there might be an ambush planned, farther along the way.

  He sent half his troop on ahead to continue the patrol. A couple more went cantering back to report and the young commander waited down on the road while the rest of his men walked their horses around the perimeter, trying to discover what surprises lay behind the crude defences of the silent town.

  Twenty minutes later, the rest of his squadron of dragoons appeared and he reported to his captain. It was a short conversation, then the young man took his remaining men and set off after his trail breakers.

  The captain was quite aware what the duties of his squadron were. They were many, but his overwhelming charge was to prevent the column behind him being exposed to any unpleasant surprises. More messages were sent back before he allowed himself to explore the perimeter in the company of one of his troops. The others were already dismounted and had a fire going to make themselves a hot drink on this unscheduled, but welcome break.

  Time passed. The captain had ridden the length of the perimeter and had come back to the track in front of the tangle of trees and shrubs that was blocking the way. There was no movement from the town that could be seen and the poor fellow was getting more and more frustrated, imagining that he was making a complete fool of himself in front of his men, with no enemy within miles.