Swallowing Portugal Will Settle My Spanish Bellyache

by Geoffrey Watson

  The notes of his squadron bugler rang out in an attempt to get some kind of reaction. His next move would be to throw lines round the blockage and try to pull it out of the way. He wasn’t to know that half-a-dozen of the Condesa’s latest grenades were primed to explode in the tangle, should they be dislodged.

  Welbeloved had judged things well. The head of the marching column was well in sight and he would rather that any decision was made by whoever was in charge, not just a junior officer of the escort. He had made up his mind to let them go past without interference, but he certainly would not be averse to provoking them and giving them a bloody nose if he could distract them from their primary intention.

  He stepped out from the building, his cloak covering his uniform and shielding his Ferguson from the elements. It was less than a hundred yards to the barrier and he strode forward steadily but not quickly, stopping at the side of the tangle and touching his hand briefly to his bonnet, a gesture that was barely acknowledged by the thoroughly irritated dragoon.

  The captain eyed the cloaked figure in the shapeless brown hat with less than pleasure. He was obviously of little account, judging by his clothing, which the casual salute had revealed briefly to be the same colour as his unmilitary headgear. Possibly one of the damned peasant bandits that seemed to swarm everywhere?

  He disdained to use other than french. “Who the devil are you? One of the Portuguese desperados that we should shoot out of hand?”

  Welbeloved looked slightly pained but replied in his own version of the same language. “If we had been Portuguese, Sonny, we would have been unable to resist shooting you by now. Instead, we have watched a squadron of gallant Imperial Dragoons acting most remarkably shy.”

  He watched the colour and fury appear on the young man’s face and barked in his quarter deck voice. “Don’t do anything stupid, Son! Go and tell the officer you are escorting that we are prepared to allow him unchallenged passage out of the country. Should he desire to exchange pleasantries first, General Welbeloved of the British Frelons is willing to remain here for no more than twenty minutes in this miserable weather.”

  The battle between disbelief and the urge to do something was very evident on the captain’s face. He was galvanised into action only when Welbeloved ostentatiously fished out his watch and studied it. Snapping an order to his lieutenant that sounded like, “stay here and watch him!” he galloped off towards the middle of the column.

  There was no hesitation once he had delivered his message. Perhaps it was curiosity, but the young General Foy had very likely received his rapid promotion by making rapid decisions in all sorts of circumstances.

  Welbeloved recognised him immediately and removed his bonnet in salute. Foy responded in the same way and the two men weighed each other up. Welbeloved was the first to speak.

  “I am delighted to see you in apparent good health, General Foy. I saw you wounded at Buçaco and am pleased that it was not one of my men that was responsible. I doubt that you would be here if it had been.”

  Foy smiled mirthlessly. “I shall not attempt to pronounce your name, General. I do take note however that you mimic the tactics of your general-in-chief and hide your men away. This could be viewed as the actions of a coward, could it not?”

  View it as you will, Monsieur le Général, but consider: we always seem to have fewer men than you do and yet we do seem to get the better of our exchanges. It is charming to be gallant, but better when you win. Perhaps you do not think so?”

  Foy was unimpressed, but paused to consider the argument. “I prefer to win, of course, but it is better to do so in style. Can you give me any reason why I should not send my soldiers to clean out your troublesome Frelons?”

  Welbeloved laughed. “I am convinced that you are far too good a general to accept any advice from me.” He looked up at the sky. “In this rain, your men might be lucky enough to have one in ten of their muskets fire. On the other hand, my men are under cover and most excellent marksmen, as you have most likely been told. We would view such an attack as a forlorn hope. I suspect you know the meaning of the English expression? But do not let me dissuade you if you have the time and the appetite for such a diversion.”

  Foy shrugged. “I know what it means and I really regret that on this occasion I cannot spare the time to indulge you, as I do suspect you know only too well. Let us hope that we meet again when I return. I yearn to discover all the ways the perfidious English make war.”

  “Á bientôt then, General Foy, you will discover that we will certainly be more willing to shoot a Frenchman returning to the fight, than one riding away from it.”

  Foy recognised that for what it was; an attempt finally to needle him into making a rash decision. He raised his bicorn derisively and an hour later the last of his column disappeared into the curtain of falling rain.

  For a brief moment, Welbeloved had thought that the dashing young general might have been tempted to swat the annoying Hornets. Realistically, he knew that Foy would never have risen to his elevated position if he had been willing to throw his men away in an attack on an unknown number of men in a dangerous and unreconnoitred position. The parallel of Masséna and Buçaco ridge did however come to mind.

  They would probably meet again in the future. For now, the consequences of his escape to Spain had to be faced. Masséna needed help if he were to survive. His ambition was, of course, to do more than that. He still longed to beat Wellington and capture Lisbon.

  He needed men, ammunition and food. Foy would ensure that food and ammunition were sent as quickly as supplies could be assembled. Men would take much longer.

  There were hundreds of thousands of French soldiers in Spain. There were French armies all over the country, holding bases in the north, in the Asturias; in the east around Zaragoza and Barcelona; the whole of the Mediterranean coast down to Marshal Soult and his army besieging Cadiz; and of course, King Joseph Bonaparte, the intrusive king, or Uncle Joe as he was referred to, derisively; sitting in Madrid.

  Napoleon had made him king and he had his army, but all the other armies around Spain were commanded by Napoleon’s marshals who only took their orders from the Emperor himself.

  Not one of them would willingly release men for another foolish adventure into Portugal. It would be a long time before any reinforcements could be expected and it was doubtful whether they would be adequate.

  Food would be another problem. Few of the French in Spain were eating well. Assembling enough food to feed Masséna’s army would be a token effort at best.

  Great efforts would nevertheless be made and a convoy or convoys carrying food and ammunition should be expected within a fortnight of Foy reaching Ciudad Rodrigo. With only the ammunition it would carry it would of necessity be a massive convoy and well protected. All Welbeloved had to do was organise the Ordenança and deploy the Hornets to stop any relief effort in its tracks.

  So much for his idea of three or four months of relaxation and training! Seemingly, training for his Portuguese just might have to take place on the battlefield once they had achieved basic selection. He would have to send to Oporto and have the new company brought to São Martinho. Then there was Vere and the Germans. Would they be more effective fighting in the mountains or continuing with their efforts to starve the French north of Lisbon?

  CHAPTER 5

  Vere and the Germans knew nothing of Welbeloved’s problems. They had entirely enough problems of their own to worry about.

  Müller and his platoon arrived at the base as it was getting dark. The place was deserted and they had no idea which way their comrades had gone. They made themselves at home and settled down for the night. What to do next was a decision that Müller was quite happy to leave until daylight.

  His relief was palpable nevertheless, when Vere and Hagen turned up an hour or two later. There had been an unusual amount of activity by the French that day and prudence had delayed them. They had several laden wagons to shepherd and their mobility was not up to thei
r usual standard.

  It was for that reason that a couple of large foraging parties were ignored, even though they spotted them farther west than any had been seen before. Within the week they were likely to be seeing them on the coast and the security of both bases would be in question.

  The news that Müller brought pushed that particular problem into the background. With the prospect of rescuing an entire battalion of Hanoverians, the bases would have to be left to the foragers. Vere knew that the combined weight of all his Hornets would be needed.

  Sergeant Heller was sent off with Müller’s platoon to collect any stores and close the second base. Captain Hagen would do the same here and they would meet on the road back to find Roffhack.

  It was noon next day when they were guided into the village where Roffhack waited with a very relaxed company of Hanoverians. No Hornets were in evidence. They were five miles out, guarding all the roads into the village. Vere himself had been checked briefly on his way in. Lieutenant Werther and 3 Platoon were on guard and fully alert.

  The first action, almost before greetings were exchanged, was to cement the good relations already established. Four sacks of grain that they had brought from the mill were unloaded and handed over to the hungry men. Of course, it was not flour, but in no time at all it was boiling away in the light tin kettles with which all the French forces were issued. It would take about an hour to soften into a sort of porridge that would be just about palatable, but these men were ravenous and it would fill their bellies as a complement to some of the other basic rations that the Hornets were carrying.

  Having attended to that, Vere and Hagen were introduced to Captain Fischer’s officers. For the first time they realized what the Legion had suffered at Buçaco from the rifles of Craufurd’s Light Division.

  Fischer had told them that all the senior officers were missing; either killed or wounded. What he now admitted was that his battalion had been reduced to the strength of three companies, commanded by three acting captains. Two companies had four platoons and the other one had five, with a total of ten lieutenants and three acting lieutenants; the latter being boys of sixteen and seventeen who had been cornets before the battle.

  It could be said that the battalion strength was four companies. A dismounted squadron of German Dragoons had been added to it. A hundred and fifty extra men, but fish out of water. Marshal Ney had taken all their horses to make up for losses in his French squadrons.

  Cavalrymen with riding boots and long swords were a liability as infantry, but Ney took the view that if horses were in short supply, he would prefer that it was the Germans who were a liability rather than the French.

  They still had their complement of a captain and lieutenants, but they had lost their mounts and were in a mutinous frame of mind. Fischer was prepared to guarantee that they would all volunteer to join the allies at the first reasonable opportunity.

  Just to compound the difficulties they faced, they also had a French commanding officer imposed on them. A lieutenant colonel and his deputy, a major, neither of whom spoke german and both of whom seemed to have a deep distrust of anyone not speaking french.

  No wonder that Fischer and his men had needed so little persuasion to return to their true allegiance. They were miserable, wet, starving and treated like dirt by the people who had got them into that situation. Not for the first time Vere reflected on the French character, and the strange fact that for a country that had land borders with four or five other nations, the French were the most insular people he had yet met.

  From his point of view, it ought to make it easier to bring the rest of the battalion to its true duty, provided that he could neutralize their two commanders and get everyone away from the midst of enemy forces, without doubt camped all about them.

  Ideas were beginning to come together when there was a sudden interruption. A man from Lieutenant Meier’s troop; watching the road from the east; came bursting in with news of a small squadron of cavalry, probably chasseurs. At their present rate of progress they would be passing through the village in twenty minutes.

  It seemed almost the answer to a prayer. Vere started to give his orders, never for one moment doubting that Fischer and his men would obey. Roffhack translated and the Hanoverians rushed to do as bidden.

  Fickle Lady Luck had to be on their side today. Even the rain was holding back from an overcast sky and the men were without their drying greatcoats and in all the glory of their scarlet tunics.

  Of course, half the Hornets were away, posted around the town, but there were well over a hundred remaining to move the horses behind the houses of the village. They then concealed themselves on both sides of the road where it widened into a small square with an even smaller church occupying almost all of the one side.

  Two of the captured artillery wagons were parked casually, side by side, completely blocking the exit road and red-coated Hanoverians were fussing round them, making every effort to look as if they were loading or unloading supplies.

  One of the young acting lieutenants was with his platoon on picket duty at the entrance to the village. He was to challenge the horsemen, but make no attempt to detain them. Indeed, they had another wagon ready to push across the road once the chasseurs had passed into the village.

  Vere wanted the chasseurs to realize that the village was occupied, but to assume that it was just another group of foragers who had got there before them.

  They would struggle to believe that British soldiers would be this far from the lines, but the red coats of the Hanoverians would certainly argue for a cautious approach. Vere hoped that their guard would then be relaxed enough for his plan to work.

  A couple of chasseurs came into sight. The two pickets, as instructed, ignored this small vanguard that stopped and sent word back. As soon as the main body appeared, the pickets ‘woke up’ and called out the guard. The entire guard platoon doubled out and formed up in two ranks, an overt signal to intruders that the village was occupied.

  The chasseurs were probably only foraging, but they could not ignore the potential threat of the red coats. A small detachment moved forward and stopped, just out of range. An officer and a sergeant walked their horses up to the acting lieutenant and made the most perfunctory gesture in reply to his raised shako.

  The officer looked down disdainfully at the youthful redcoat, not bothering to introduce himself, but speaking in french. We are Imperial Chasseurs à Cheval. I see you are soldiers of the German Legion.”

  Roffhack, who was concealed within earshot, knew that the almost seventeen-year-old understood french quite well, but had been told not to admit it.

  He smiled back innocently and replied at length in german that they were the second platoon of the first company of the third battalion of the Légion Hanovrienne. He gave him a lot more useless information, but the Frenchman’s attention had wandered.

  His sergeant was ordered to signal the squadron to advance and then he interrupted the flow of german monologue. Roffhack metaphorically hugged himself with delight when he witnessed a performance that in a similar situation his English friends would have been proud of. The officer spoke slowly and very loudly in french, assuming that this young idiot would get his meaning from the noise level alone.

  The young man was getting his meaning very well indeed, but as he was being talked to as an idiot, his face assumed the look of one. Roffhack decided that the time had come for him to join the fun.

  He had been wearing a dragoon helmet for some time as a convenient disguise in the middle of the French army. He was still wearing his cloak, which hid his uniform and he was carrying a French carbine. The modifications to the weapon were not obvious when his hand covered them.

  He stepped forward and spoke in very competent french. “If you tried shouting louder, Lieutenant, I doubt that my young friend would be any more informed than he already is.

  However, I am sure you understood him to say that we are foraging in this village and convention would indicate tha
t, holding possession, we have prior rights.”

  The lieutenant was aghast. “If you were French, my major would claim equal rights, but as you are only foreign mercenaries, we will take every thing we find. Now tell those imitation rosbifs to make way before we ride over them.”

  Roffhack chuckled loudly. “I would strongly advise that you modify your attitude, but if you are determined to speak to my commander I will instruct the lieutenant to clear the way.”

  He turned to the young man again, speaking german. “March your men back to the wagon, son. Do it smartly, lots of swank. This French dog needs a lesson and you can be the beginning.”

  The boy saluted smartly, marched over to his sergeant and repeated the order. His platoon had overheard the instruction, but the sergeant played the game out as if on parade. He exchanged bristling salutes with the lieutenant and began roaring orders. The men entered into the spirit and gave a superb display. They put their muskets at half-cock, shouldered arms, moved into rigid files and marched off the road in parade order, forcing the horsemen to move out of the way or be pushed.

  Roffhack was observing the expressions on the faces of the rest of the squadron that had now ridden up. They ranged from disdain, to amusement at the discomfiture of their officer, to covert admiration of the discipline and drill of the Germans.

  He smiled seraphically at the chasseurs and gave a salute that was more a subtle insult. “Do, pray, ride on, Messieurs!”

  The lieutenant turned and shouted. “The way is clear!” He and the sergeant moved forward, followed by the rest of the squadron. Roffhack stepped back smartly to avoid the gobbets of mud thrown up by the horses’ hooves.

  He held his hand up to stop the men pushing the wagon across the road until the chasseurs had halted in the square and were talking to Vere, when his attention was distracted by a horseman approaching at speed. A glance showed him to be one of Meier’s men. He kept his hand raised, delaying any action until he knew what the galloping urgency was.