The second two volleys were delivered at almost point blank range and nearly every shot was fatal. Five or six dragoons succeeded in getting past the skirmishers and reined in abruptly when they saw the mounted line before them. They wrenched their horses round, ready to flee and threw their weapons and themselves down in some haste. The skirmishers were all on their feet and every rifle was trained on the few sorry survivors.
They were quick to surrender, but were not to know that their lives had only been spared because the horsemen behind them were in direct line of sight. The Portuguese Hornets were in no mood to be merciful. They were really hoping that the dragoons would fight to the death.
Prisoners secured, Dodds and Pom led their men towards the bridge. The dragoons on the other side had been helpless spectators to the complete annihilation of their comrades. Fury was an inadequate description of their mood as they watched the two platoons walk slowly towards them. They lined the far bank and in complete disregard of the rules of survival, stood and fired their carbines at the approaching figures, knowing that it would be pure luck if they could hit anything more than fifty yards away.
Nevertheless, with nearly a hundred carbines blazing away at them, the laws of chance dictated that someone was likely to be lucky and the Hornets went to ground again. They vented their own anger on targets that were, however ineffectually, firing back at them.
None of the Hornets now fired more than one shot at the dragoons. Half of them were down and the rest in full retreat before a second shot could be fired and the men were glutted with killing. They could have shot many more as they ran away, but both Dodds and Pom whistled the cease-fire and watched them flee for safety, just as the first of the infantry came marching into sight.
It was time to clear up and leave. Doubtless the Hornets could have killed many of the infantry as they scrambled across the gorge to attack them, but there were too many to stop.
There were still a few places before the plains, where an ambush with their superior weapons could kill a few men and draught animals without reply. Little more could be done to stop them completely, but there was still hope. They would have to cross one major river in full winter flood. That could prove an insuperable problem in itself, even without the constant harrying and harassment.
Gonçalves still had a small drama to act out. The wounded had all been collected together and made as comfortable as possible until their comrades could find them.
The dozen men who had surrendered had their hands tied and were lined up in front of a squad of riflemen. The intent was obvious and a young cornet, the only surviving officer, protested vehemently that they were prisoners of war and entitled to be treated as such.
Gonçalves was stony-faced. “We are the Frelons. Your Emperor has decreed that we are to be shot if captured. Shall we not reciprocate? Your own commander captured some of our Ordenança and shot them. Why do you think so many of your comrades died today if not to avenge them and why do you protest that we cannot do the same thing to you and your men?”
The white-faced young man could find no reply. He drew himself up. “My men only do as they are ordered and our Général Gardanne is but following the instructions issued by Marshal Masséna. As an officer, I must be the one held responsible. Shoot me, if you must, but let my men live.”
Gonçalves stared at him for what must have seemed hours. “I think you mean what you say. I detest all you godless invaders but I cannot shoot a brave man in cold blood.
You will return to your Général Gardanne and tell him that we would have destroyed the bridge anyway. We chose to trap and destroy your dragoons to avenge the executions. Perhaps we are now even, but if we learn of any more executions of prisoners, we will kill fifty Frenchmen for every execution and Général Gardanne will be pursued until we kill him as well.
When the Hornets capture prisoners and cannot spare men to take them into captivity, it has been our practice to require the officers to cease to serve until an exchange can be made. I leave that to your conscience. All prisoners are returned wearing only shoes, breeches and shirt if we consider them to have been honourable.
We consider the actions of your commander to have been so dishonourable that you and your men will walk back to him in the state that you entered this world. I really do hope that you all get pneumonia.”
CHAPTER 16
No French infantry, not even regiments raised as part of the tribute demanded from conquered countries, could possibly allow themselves to be subdued without putting up the strongest resistance. Trapped by overwhelming odds, a settlement might be agreed to, allowing them to march away with honour, but only after bitter fighting had convinced the enemy that no more lives should be lost trying to contain such doughty fighters.
Such thoughts were running through the mind of Colonel Girard as he contemplated the situation he had foolishly; he was even prepared to admit to the word; allowed his command to be trapped in.
It wasn’t entirely his fault of course. His general had given him orders to take a couple of battalions – all that could be spared – and clear out a nest of impertinent British marines and guerrilleros occupying a small harbour fort on the flank of the army.
No significant resistance was expected, but if it proved difficult to re-take the fort, he was allowed to invest it and keep the Rosbifs quiet until the Spaniards had been driven away and the army had time to come back and tread on the annoying insects.
Easy successes against the Spanish armies and the recent pathetic performance by the British at Malaga; where hundreds of redcoats had been frustrated by a mere company of Polish soldiers and had their general captured; gave the impression that all that was necessary was to parade French uniforms and the enemy would surrender or run away.
Well, he had tried that and received a dusty answer from that brown-clad irregular who had called him stupid; and that hurt, coming from someone who wasn’t even a proper soldier.
Now it appeared that he really was trapped in this god-forsaken town and the force that was denying him a way out was so powerful that it was a death sentence to show a shako on that steep, narrow street.
He had already lost over fifty men killed before he had tried to hide men behind a small wagon as they pushed it up the lane. The enemy had ignored it until it was stopped against the piled up bodies. Then, with incredible accuracy they had shot at the legs of the pushers so that the wagon had run back and slewed off the road, leaving another dozen voltigeurs behind it to be mown down by the enemy muskets.
He considered setting fire to one of the buildings and making a rush under cover of the smoke, but such wind as there was would have blown it back into the town. It seemed as if even the elements were against him.
The only answer seemed to be to wait until the cover of darkness, when they couldn’t see to shoot so lethally. He could then rush the redoubts that they had made from the fishermen’s cottages.
It really was the only option left and Colston and O’Malley were just as aware of this as was Girard. With only forty men to defend the position, they had to consider a fighting retreat up the road, but first they would try some of the explosive devices invented and perfected by the Condesa.
Mines and grenades set off by burning fuses were still used, but she had wanted an instant explosion and her first experiment was when Thuner had pulled a long cord that fired a pistol into a store of powder.
Since then, she had acquired several hundred of the new percussion caps and Roberto had fabricated small spring locks to set them off into a variety of grenades, petards and mines.
As soon as it got dark, several small kegs, half-full of gunpowder and topped up with gravel were placed alongside the road below the redoubts. The keg in the lowest position was attached to a trip cord running across the road. The rest of them had lines leading back into the redoubts. The kegs were placed so that they pointed; insofar as a keg can be said to point; so that the gravel charge would spray across the road. Then they waited.
; In the south of Spain, even in the winter, the time between sunset and full darkness is measured in minutes rather than tens of minutes. The French had very likely been assembling while O’Malley was supervising the placing of the kegs and the carcass; improvised oil soaked combustibles that would catch fire if looked at the wrong way.
Girard was an impatient man and as soon as it was dark enough to spoil the chances of anyone with a musket, his vanguard of voltigeurs was on its way.
They were trying to be quiet, so as not to alert the enemy, but it was impossible to completely deaden the sound of half a hundred marching men.
The Hornets heard what they expected to hear and waited for the leaders to trip the cord. The silence of the night was shattered by the explosion of the cask and the screams of the unfortunates in the way of the flying gravel. The carcass caught fire at the same time and the flickering light showed up the mass of men rushing past the scene of carnage. Colston waited twenty seconds until he was sure that a fair number of men were level with the second keg and pulled steadily on the cord.
The second keg responded as planned, with an equal number of screams. A second carcass burst into flame and there was visible a mass of men, much less willing than before to press onward.
In the dark, accuracy could not be guaranteed, but the sheer number of men meant that any shot would hit something and the Hornets opened fire. At the same time, O’Malley and three trusted Hornets lobbed four of the Condesa’s grenades into the middle of the mass.
Few of the Hornets were enthusiastic about the Condesa’s grenades. Once cocked, they would explode when jarred heavily. Heavy jarring could include enthusiastic lobbing and most of the Hornets were very wary of this particular brainchild of the Condesa.
They were carefully lobbing them underarm downhill, so that the amount of force needed was minimal and every one exploded among the voltigeurs crowding the lane. The combination of exploding grenades and flying lead was too much for the light infantrymen to stomach. They turned and rushed back downhill, into the town and shelter.
O’Malley’s men dashed out and set a couple more kegs in place before the next attempt could be made. They had run out of suitable materials for any more carcasses and two of the three were already burning themselves out.
The French waited until the last flickers died away before sending in the heavier line infantry. There was to be no softly, softly approach about this attack. They would march in column in double time and they would punch their way through in the way that French soldiers had made famous. A drummer was placed at the bottom of the hill to beat out the rhythm of the pace.
The Hornets held their fire until they heard the tramp, tramp, tramp rhythm change as the front of the column started to clamber over the pile of corpses. They couldn’t see the attackers, but they knew exactly where to shoot to send a hail of lead to catch the scrambling men.
O’Malley waited patiently. The keg next to the last carcass was placed at the side, to the rear of the pile of bodies and he had to guess when the men who had escaped the storm of shot would reach this side of the human carcasses in a group.
He made his decision and pulled the cord, seeing in the flash of the explosion a dozen or more figures caught by half a kegful of pebbles.
The final carcass burst into flame and provided enough light for the Hornets to add more corpses to the ever-growing pile. One grenadier who had been lucky enough to escape all the hazards and was temporarily blinded by the flash, rushed straight onto O’Malley’s knife and the rest of them fled back to join their comrades in the shelter of the town.
Men ran from cover to throw wood onto the last burning carcass. A large flaring fire would be one more deterrent. Colston did not ask where they found the wood, but most of it looked suspiciously like broken doors and furniture from the cottages.
There were only two powder kegs left and the next attack would thus be the last that the Hornets could guarantee to stop. They took it in turns to scavenge for more wood to keep the fire blazing and waited. They were still waiting at dawn, but the French had conceded that the road was impassable.
Dawn also brought a message from MacKay. He had decided that he couldn’t risk waiting any longer, in case there were enemy reinforcements on the way. He had left orders with Jameson and brought out all the Hornets by climbing the scree behind the fort. They were now on the way to join Sergeant Green and make their way over the headland and down into the town. He wanted the French surrounded on three sides. No escape, even by swimming: the Royal Navy could cover that avenue.
Jameson threw open the main gate of the fort when it was fully light. He had five hundred marines in the fort. After the intensive training they had received from the Hornets, a hundred of them were rated as excellent shots, two hundred were good enough to kill a man at fifty yards and the rest were better shots than the average infantry soldier in most European armies.
Two hundred marines trotted out of the fort onto the clear, but confined area between the fort and the town. About half of the area was the end of the rocky spur on which the foundations of the fort were laid. There was enough room for forty men to stand side by side and the marines formed five ranks or lines of forty men each.
The first rank was made up of the best shots. The next four were chosen from the ‘lethal up to fifty yards’ men. The marksmen in the front rank sprawled on the ground in whichever position best suited them. The second rank knelt behind them with the other three ranks standing behind them.
It could not have been more obvious that it was intended as an impudent invitation to the French to come out and fight. It took the risk that they would merely stay and snipe from the protection of the buildings of the town, but Jameson had needed no convincing that such was not the French style. Napoleon had really convinced his commanders that victories were only won by attacking.
In any case, MacKay had gambled on the supposition that Girard had been humiliated in every attempt he had made and would be desperate to salvage his honour in a set piece battle after being responsible for the first, gross, basic mistake.
Indeed, he must regard it as a marvellous chance to fight on equal terms; a situation where the French expected to win at all times; nothing else was conceivable.
Girard had had a bad night, following a bad day. The bugles were sounding before the last rank of marines was in place. Voltigeurs spewed forth from the town, looking for cover if it was immediately available, but basically just throwing themselves down or kneeling, in their urge to start shooting back at these hated opponents now arrayed in a big red line, large as life in front of them.
So far, everything had happened exactly as MacKay had predicted and it wasn’t provided for in the plan that the skirmishers should be allowed a free shot at the ‘thick red line’.
Sixty of the better shots and forty of the next best had been paired up wherever in the fort that afforded them a good view of the open ground as far as the town.
Nowhere was the range greater than sixty yards and they opened fire on the voltigeurs as soon as they prepared themselves to shoot at the British lines.
There were too few targets to go round and very few voltigeurs managed to fire their weapons. This didn’t stop their second wave, who were supposed to dash forward under cover of the volleys from their forward comrades. The marksmen in the fort were too impatient to let them get settled, meeting them while still running forward, with a sustained hail of lead.
French tactics required the infantry of the line to attack when the skirmishers had already made gaps in the enemy line. They would then either charge in column to take advantage of such gaps or they would spread out into line and trade volley for volley.
Supremely confident that their voltigeurs would make the necessary gaps, the Italian infantry followed on the heels of the second wave of voltigeurs, in a column ten men wide, with no intention of spreading out into line. They wanted to smash straight through to the tempting target of the open gate of the fort.
The m
arines waited until the head of the screaming column was half way across the open ground and almost to the foot of the spur. Jameson bellowed his orders and the front rank destroyed the head of the column, scrambled quickly to its feet and dashed back through the ranks of their fellows.
The second, kneeling, rank fired as soon as they had a clear shot. At the same time, so did the standing rank behind them. The two ranks moved back and the two rear ranks moved forward and took turns in delivering their own share of misery. They then retired and the marines were formed up once more as they had been at the start, ready to begin all over again.
Jameson yelled for a cease-fire. The column had received two hundred aimed shots at very close range and had ceased to exist as a coherent force. He signalled behind him and two hundred redcoats with bayonets left the fort at the double and advanced on the town.
MacKay had sixty Hornets spread out round the base of the track over the headland. A large number of rocks had fallen over the years and there was adequate cover for the inconspicuous uniforms of his men.
They could see into the town from this side and were able to watch the excitement build when the marines left the fort to form up. It was very crowded in the streets of the town as everybody prepared to respond to the challenge that Jameson had thrown down. The men made themselves comfortable to await the outcome of the first clash. They could see the start of the road leading up and out of the town, but no sign yet of Colston and his men moving down.
MacKay grinned. He suddenly realised that he was looking out for his own Hornets. If their training had been done properly he would have been disappointed to see any of them.
There was no mistaking the noise of volley firing coming in after the initial sniping at the skirmishers. MacKay blew a long, sustained blast on his whistle to start the assault by his own men and to warn Colston that support from his men would be welcome.
Swallowing Portugal Will Settle My Spanish Bellyache Page 20
