Swallowing Portugal Will Settle My Spanish Bellyache

by Geoffrey Watson

  The women mostly disappeared into the houses again. A few of them were occupied with household tasks of fetching water and firewood, but it was not until after the men returned after their service and perhaps had been served with food to break their fast, that the town settled down to a normal routine.

  Most of the men drifted over to the local tavern and disappeared inside. A dozen or so women carrying satchels and containers of what looked like food and water, started out in the direction the prisoners had gone. It had the appearance of a ration party.

  The presence of the priest was confirmed briefly. He was seen moving away from the church after the services, directly towards the nearest large house, into which he disappeared. Several of the men visited during the morning but other than that there was little justification for taking any hostile action, whatever suspicions they may have harboured towards the reverend gentleman.

  By mid-afternoon, Hickson was giving serious consideration to a quiet withdrawal that would permit the Hornets to climb back down to their horses before dark.

  Even the arrival of four or five armed horsemen created little interest until all the men came out of the tavern and crowded round the new arrivals in the small plaza. Someone dashed off to tell the priest and he appeared quickly and started to question the horsemen, all of whom were staring back the way they had come in expectation of some event not immediately apparent to the Hornets.

  Hickson trained his telescope on the road block on the road in. there was a dust cloud whirling round a few wagons, horsemen and a mass of people trudging along the trackway. As they drew closer to the town, Hickson could see four wagons leading the way, piled high with goods. They were followed by a crowd of women and girls who looked to be between ten and thirty-plus: no children or elderly.

  Half a dozen horsemen followed the women, then a score of men with hands bound and another score of horsemen bringing up the rear.

  Hickson handed over his telescope to Lopez without comment. There was no longer any room for doubting what this community was doing, however unbelievable it seemed. Another half-hour and the Hornets might have been on their way back to Santa Cruz to continue the search.

  The priest had been ranting about the French collecting whores and enslaving the men. At the time it had seemed an unlikely scene when most of the French were now in the south or in Portugal and also because generally, they were careful to leave their providers of food to produce more for the future.

  Now, he could think of no other explanation than that this latter-day robber baron was creating his own small empire in line with the methods of the conquistadors in the New World, three hundred years ago.

  What really did not bear thinking about was the complete absence of children and elderly people among the inhabitants of this town and among the sorry looking prisoners just entering the small plaza.

  Lopez handed his spyglass back. “The priest must have gone mad, Jefe. This is the nineteenth century. Not even the French would go this far.”

  Hickson nodded. “You are right, Sergeant Major. Get the men ready to follow me down in skirmishing order. Tell them to keep out of sight if they can. I would like to surround the square before they realise we are here. If we are spotted, move at the double.

  We are outnumbered two to one, but I will still give them chance to surrender. Only if they raise their muskets do our people shoot without orders. I shall start moving in five minutes. Be ready!”

  The wagons moved across the square and stopped. The riders dismounted and stood on the far side, leaving the two huddled groups of prisoners between them, with every man in the town crowding the other sides to watch what seemed to be developing into some sort of ceremony.

  The captive men and women were lined up in three or four ranks, each group kneeling and facing the other. The priest in full robes and two burly henchmen carrying whips were walking up and down each rank, examining them.

  Everyone was so intent on watching what was happening that Hickson led his men down and around the backs of the buildings that were facing the square without any of the crowd being the wiser.

  The houses round the square were built close together, but in most cases there was a passageway or narrow alley that the Hornets could use to come out behind the renegades surrounding the prisoners.

  Hickson and half a dozen men made for the church and spread out along the raised steps overlooking the whole square. They attracted the immediate attention of all the bandits on the far side.

  Father Miguel had turned his attention to the women and was inspecting them carefully, making each one stand up and be prodded and poked like cattle at a market.

  Ramon Hickson was normally quietly spoken, but he had been a Royal Marine and had done his share of giving loud orders in noisy circumstances. He was quite proud of the fact that he used the same words that he had heard Welbeloved use in a not dissimilar situation.

  “That will be quite enough of all that nonsense! Drop your muskets! Stand still or be shot!”

  His voice carried well over the square and was reinforced in the immediate silence following, by the sinister sound of cocking locks from the Hornets all around the plaza.

  Left to themselves, the renegades would undoubtedly have hesitated and might even have surrendered, but it was not to be. There was a high pitched, shrieking scream from the priest. “The unbelievers have come among us treacherously. Kill them! Kill them! Kill them!”

  It is likely that the bandits kept their weapons charged. It wasn’t to be recommended for all kinds of reasons and most regular soldiers only did so if they were on duty or going into action.

  These were not regular soldiers and their muskets were probably loaded with powder and shot. They were not primed however and there was a movement all round the square as about half of them attempted to prime their locks.

  In many ways, Hickson was relieved that action became inevitable. He had got to thinking about what to do with them after they had surrendered. He had no doubt that Welbeloved, Vere or MacKay would have hanged them without remorse and God knows, that was what they deserved. He just had the feeling that he was not senior enough to make such a decision.

  Now, weapons were being primed and were going to be used. The Hornets had all been trained in Welbeloved’s basic principles – never give the enemy a sporting chance. Even if these people were their own folk, they were behaving worse than any Frenchman.

  The Hornets opened fire and anyone handling a musket in an aggressive manner, died. Father Miguel was not holding a weapon, but he was shrieking aggressively and encouraging his men to fight. Hickson shot him down with no compunction at all. He considered that the man was more than evil and if he shot him somewhat lower than he should, it was merely a foretaste of the everlasting torment that was his due.

  Half the bandits died and the rest couldn’t throw their muskets down quickly enough. Only one succeeded in firing. He died as the ball went off into the hills.

  They were all secured with difficulty. The difficulty was that they had to be protected. Two hundred or more women poured out of the houses where they had been kept in the manner of eastern concubines. They had to be restrained from wreaking their own brand of vengeance on their erstwhile lords and masters.

  The priest had maintained a regular harem of a dozen women, some of whom were relegated to others of his band each time a fresh batch came in. About thirty of these current and ex-concubines sat round in a silent circle to watch him die, showing no emotion whatever as his screams became weaker and weaker. Not one of them made any attempt to touch him, seemingly content merely to watch the dreadful agony of his dying.

  The guards at the strong points and those overseeing the ‘slaves’, vanished immediately. There was no point searching for them. Once their captives had been released there was nowhere they could find safety for thirty miles in any direction.

  All the leg-irons were struck off by a prisoner who had been a smith. It then seemed sensible to use them on the captured bandits
until their fate could be decided.

  When it emerged that the priest and his men had murdered everyone younger than ten and older than forty in their raids on villages and small towns throughout the region, it became obvious that the captives could not be allowed to live.

  Many suggestions were made, each more gruesome than the last. Hickson eventually decided that justice and retribution would both be best served by giving the male prisoners the muskets belonging to the bandits and letting them form an execution squad. The priest’s men, with a fine sense of irony, were lined up, standing, against the wall of the church after being made to dig their own mass grave.

  Hickson ought to have been able to congratulate himself on a distasteful job brought to a successful conclusion, but he soon found that his problems were only just beginning. Being a commission officer did wonders for the ego. It satisfied one’s wife’s cravings for status and security and it assured one of a respectable position in society. The drawback was that he was expected to have the answers to all the questions in a situation like this. He had to arbitrate on matters he knew nothing about. Only later did he find out that if he knew nothing, the petitioners knew no more and merely wanted a decision in their favour.

  The male victims were very little bother. Men were expected to make their own way in the world. Once free, they knew where they had come from and they knew that if they returned there, nobody but their fellow survivors, was alive to dispute their right to what they had and maybe a large slice of whatever property had no one left to claim it.

  All of the men and most of the women from the most recent atrocity wished to return home and start life again. All but a dozen of the rest of the men opted to do the same and many of the women were prepared to pair up with them and start their new life as families.

  It left the dozen younger men who wanted to go back with the Hornets, to join the guerrilla band or try for the Hornets themselves. It also left over a hundred women, many of them pregnant, with no one to claim as a partner and no wish to go anywhere that would condemn them to a life without hope of ever finding a husband.

  The only place that Hickson knew that had many more men than women was Santiago del Valle. What the Condesa or Tio Pepe would say when they returned with that many unattached and abused women was entirely up to them. He had most definitely decided that it was a problem well above a lieutenant’s authority.

  There was a consolation prize. They would have to be pleased with the only bonus from the expedition. Even after every prisoner had received a share of the belongings of the bandits, there were still more than fifty spare horses to help mount the new recruits.

  CHAPTER 12

  The Tagus was brimming full with all the rain that had fallen in the last few weeks. It seemed as if it would continue to drench the land until the Spring and Colonel Lord George Vere had grave doubts that it would abate even then.

  The excess of water had certain advantages for the small four-gun vessel with the strange ketch-like local sail plan. The river was wide enough to permit long tacks from bank to bank, clawing up into a breeze that was blowing straight down the river.

  Vere couldn’t imagine where Admiral Berkeley had discovered the strange craft. It certainly wasn’t anything that the Royal Navy would care to use on the open sea, in fact it was probably a Portuguese vessel designed for river use and had been ‘borrowed’ for this particular purpose.

  Certainly, the only way they had managed to pack two platoons of the German Hornets in was by removing the guns and leaving them on the quay in Lisbon, together with all but a very junior lieutenant and half the crew.

  Vere was sitting with Lieutenants Richter and Bauer, the commanders of 1 and 2 Platoons, in the tiny cabin at the stern, studying a very poor map of Santarém. The members of the two platoons were squeezed below decks down the hatchways under the dripping deck planking. Notionally, this was to keep them out of the unceasing rain, but actually it kept them out of the way of the small crew, who needed all the space they could get to maintain the constant series of tacks upstream.

  Another justification for their temporary confinement was that it kept them from being seen by any French troops on the western bank of the river. Not that this was likely now that Marshal Masséna had abandoned his positions in front of the Lines and retired to winter quarters in and around Santarém.

  Even if they were seen, it was doubtful whether the enemy would be able to do anything about it. The Navy and its fleet of gunboats controlled the river, at least as far as the confluence with the Zézere, twenty-five miles north of Santarém. The sight of the union flag on a red, white or blue ensign was no longer a matter for speculation. Like the rain, it was always there.

  Vere had not expected to be here at all. He and Roffhack had been given permission to recruit as many of the Hanoverians as were willing to volunteer. Such was the reputation of the Hornets with these ‘rescued’ soldiers, that almost all volunteered and the process of selection and rejection started with exercises in the hills behind the Lines.

  The high quality of these seasoned and veteran soldiers was such that it was the shortage of officer candidates that eventually restricted the new Wasp recruits to an extra two companies. It meant that half the volunteers were rejected by Vere and Roffhack and were rapidly snapped up by the King’s German Legion.

  Three hundred men were now due to be transferred to the Hornets’ training camp near Oporto. Five out of six would then be selected as Wasps and receive further training. The other fifty men would be given the choice of return to the KGL or recruitment to the wagon train and the Reserve Company that would provide replacements for any casualties.

  Some of them had been meant to go by sea and the rest to be using the captured French horses to ride around or through the outposts of the Armée de Portugal. Now they would all go on horseback, as Vere’s two platoons of Hornets had handed over their mounts and were crammed into this damp, malodorous, almost-ketch at the request of the Commander-in-Chief.

  Word had come that the French were tearing Santarém apart to get wooden beams, planks, nails and whatever else was needed to build boats for a pontoon bridge to take them across the Tagus to the Alentejo; opening a route to Spain, to food and maybe to reinforcements.

  Lord Wellington had asked Admiral Berkeley for help and the Navy had established a battery on an island in the river near to the docks at Santarém.

  The range was too great for the guns to be effective and they had then tried a bombardment with the new Congreve rockets. These had created an enormous amount of confusion and panic, most, but not all among the French. Two separate attacks had proved both frightening and quite ineffective.

  Lord Wellington’s response had been to land one of his divisions on the south bank of the Tagus to let Masséna know that any crossing attempt would be contested. His afterthought had been his onetime staff officer together with his extraordinary collection of killers, and here was Vere with sixty men packed haphazardly under the hatches of an ancient river craft. This was presumably justified, as they were, after all, part of the Naval Brigade and they were all on the lists as Royal Marines, Vere thought glumly.

  The map of Santarém eventually proved surprisingly accurate when Vere studied the town the following morning, from the rocket battery that had been set up on the island. In the days before modern artillery, the town’s position high above the Tagus, with the flood plain of the river Maior to the south, made it one of the more impregnable fortified towns in the country.

  Of course, it could still become a problem to Wellington if he went on to the offensive, but that was of no immediate interest to Vere, his two lieutenants and Sergeant Major Grau. They were taking turns to use the artillery rocket captain’s spotting telescope to study the quays and docks across the river.

  Half a mile or more of river frontage was a hive of activity. For weeks now, well before Masséna had established himself here, buildings were being demolished for wood and nails. The results could be seen in the dozen
s of pontoons that had been built, many of them anchored in lines inshore and many more stacked, keel upwards along the quays. They did not need to be elaborate as long as they would float with a causeway built over them.

  They were all just too far away for the twelve-pound ship’s cannon to be effective and although the Congreve rockets would reach them, their only hope of damage was by setting them on fire. Very little chance of that when the rain had hardly stopped for more than an hour or two during the last eight weeks.

  The rocket man, Captain Chambers explained that the head of the rocket was meant to explode when the mixture of gunpowder used for propulsion burnt through to the mine or petard in the nose.

  The grapeshot had been replaced with a volatile mixture of lamp oil and gunpowder that burned so fiercely that a lucky shot into a pile of wet timber could set it on fire.

  He was quite pragmatic. “The idea is very good, Colonel. We just have to solve the problem of controlling the flight and then every army in the world will be using them.

  Until then, I have dreams of riding them like a witch on her broomstick and guiding them to where they should go.”

  Vere looked at the ungainly apparatus that seemed just like an overgrown firework: a right royal firework. He wondered if Mr. Handel would have been inspired to greater efforts if he had seen one of these before he had written his music?

  “Tell me, Captain, how much of that is made up of what you call propulsion and how much is of this dangerous combustible you have told me about?”

  “As to that, Sir, most of the charge is used to propel the rocket. It has to burn to within a foot of the head before it will explode.”

  “Can the two parts be separated?”

  “Of course, Sir. The nose chamber has to be separate so that we can determine what type of charge is best for the purpose we need to achieve.”

  “Thank you, Chambers.” He changed to german for the benefit of his companions. All the technical words brought him back to english, but all three now spoke english up to nearly the same level as his german and Captain Chambers helped by pointing to any part he heard mentioned.