Swallowing Portugal Will Settle My Spanish Bellyache Read online

  This apparently was not so. This time, the convoy had come through the mountains, parallel with the river and stopped at their favourite small hill town of Santa Cruz. They reported that it had recently been pillaged most thoroughly and quite ruthlessly. No one lived in the ransacked houses any longer and there were many fresh graves in the small churchyard.

  If there was no resistance, a French foraging party in an occupied area rarely did much damage. They took what they wanted and left the townspeople and peasants to produce more for the next time they came calling. Normally they would leave enough food to keep the people from starvation. It was to nobody’s advantage if the milch cow died.

  Now, the little town was deserted. Someone had plundered it and the survivors had buried their dead and departed. Taken in context with the strife and turmoil of the war as a whole it was quite insignificant, but it was an anomaly and it was on their doorstep.

  Their doorstep in this case was less than twenty-five miles away and Tio Pepe agreed entirely with the Condesa that the least they could do was find out who was responsible and try and make sure that it did not happen again.

  Lieutenant Hickson, with 2 Platoon of new Wasps and half of the Hornet Platoon set off to investigate. The training regime of the rest of the recruits ground on remorselessly.

  Ramon Hickson was a large, easy-going man with more of his Spanish mother’s dark complexion added on to the large frame he had inherited from his English sailor father. He was the only one of the original Hornets in the new Spanish company and was still a little in doubt about his suitability to be a commission officer commanding a detachment of nearly fifty highly trained elite soldiers.

  He had no doubt that he could do whatever was asked of him: not quite the same thing as making his own decisions: and he was a more lethal and experienced soldier than anyone else in the company, not excluding his commanding officer, Captain Burfoot. He couldn’t, however, get rid of the tiny seed of suspicion that his father-in-law, Tio Pepe and his wife, Isabella, the maid and companion of the Condesa, had used their influence to obtain his promotion.

  There was absolutely nobody with whom he could share his doubts and he was desperately anxious to prove his worth, if only to himself.

  Sergeant Major Lopez was riding alongside and he had no doubts at all. They had been friends since the time in the Asturias, when the remnants of the beaten Spanish cavalry had been formed into an effective support unit to the Hornets, under the name of Los Lobos Verdes or Green Wolves.

  Hickson had been the only ranker in those brown-clad supermen who could speak fluent spanish and they had resumed their friendship when the Hornets returned to Spain and found him fighting as a guerrillero with El Marquesito in the Asturias.

  Lopez had no doubts at all that he was good enough to be the Sergeant Major of this new company and as Ramon was a much better Hornet than he was, he didn’t doubt but that he would make an excellent officer as well.

  They both had full confidence in their half-platoon of Avispónes, the Spanish Hornets and they would both cast a very critical eye over the full platoon of Avispas, the new Spanish Wasps who were here on active service for the first time.

  Although they were good friends, they still maintained a degree of formality in military matters, something that their English colleagues had largely abandoned, perhaps because of Welbeloved’s easy going ‘backwoods’ style.

  “It is difficult to believe, Sergeant Major, that the French could find enough men between here and Portugal to sack Santa Cruz, when the town escaped most of their attentions at the time they were bivouacked all along the Tagus valley. Does your local knowledge suggest anything that I’ve missed?”

  Lopez glanced sideways at him. “As you know full well, Señor Teniente, I have little local knowledge, being from the Asturias. I heard, as did you, Colonel MacKay saying that all the French in central Spain have gone to Portugal, leaving King Josef and his army alone in Madrid. There should be no enemy armies from south of Salamanca to north of Badajoz.”

  Hickson knew what MacKay had said, but he wrestled anew with the implications. “I have heard tales of disaffected French soldiers who have gathered together as brigands to fend for themselves but I think that was in the north and I can’t imagine that any of our guerrilleros would tolerate such a thing.”

  Lopez looked uncomfortable. “You are a magnificent soldier, Jefe, but you have never been a guerrillero as I have. I hate the French but I have met Frenchmen I could respect. Equally, I have met Englishmen and Spaniards I would not trust to say good day and mean it. It would perhaps be prudent not to trust anyone until we can see for ourselves.”

  Hickson looked thoughtful. “I have never appreciated what a philosopher you are, Sergeant Major. Maybe if you use your tact on those wagoners, we can reach Santa Cruz before dark and see for ourselves?”

  Lopez grinned and bellowed at the convoy that they were escorting on the first stage of its return journey. They managed a leisurely trot in response and reached Santa Cruz with a couple of hours of daylight remaining.

  Hickson looked round him at the deserted village. It was a scattering of dwellings in the middle of a pleasant valley, with two streams meeting in the centre and flowing out alongside the road that the Hornets had climbed to reach it.

  The three ramshackle farm buildings out on the three spokes of the streams formed a triangle enclosing a small church, a smithy and twenty to thirty mean dwellings, few of which rose above the status of a hovel. Possibly a population of more than a hundred before the war had taken most of the younger men capable of carrying a weapon.

  There were a dozen new graves in the little burial plot. It could only be an indication of the number of deaths. There was nothing to show how many occupants shared a grave.

  Whoever had attacked the place had been strangely considerate. Everything of value that could be carried had been taken, but the buildings, for what they were worth, were mostly intact and heavier items of furniture were still in place and undamaged.

  All the inhabitants, with the exception of the dead had vanished without trace and any animals that might have been on the farms were also gone. It was unlike any foraging expedition that Hickson or Lopez had ever seen. Even a village in the middle of a battlefield had its surviving population returning when the belligerents had left.

  No indications could be found to show that anyone had been here since the inhabitants had left. The graves could have been dug afterwards, but not necessarily so. That doubt raised even more questions about the real intentions of the pillagers.

  The convoy was seen on its way in the morning, carrying another small batch of converted Baker rifles for C and D Companies. Hickson’s men split into four squads and set out to search in all directions for any shepherds or goatherds who might just possibly have been away from their farms, looking for the last bit of pasture before the snow covered everything in these high hills.

  Hickson himself wandered around the deserted buildings, looking for anything to give him a single idea about whom might be responsible. He was feeling quite downcast and sure that Colonel MacKay or Sir Joshua would have found everything they needed to know by this time and be far along the path to putting all to rights.

  As pillaging went, this was strangely orderly, unlike anything he had seen before. He had the feeling that things were in suspense, almost waiting for the owners to return at some point in the future and resume life where they had left off.

  Around mid morning, one of the squads returned, escorting a priest on a donkey; a short, stout, florid man who introduced himself as Father Miguel and self-importantly commenced to interrogate Hickson in quite an aggressive manner.

  “Who are you, my son, and who are these strange armed men? They don’t look like soldiers, so what are you doing here? If you are soldiers, why are you not chasing the godless French barbarians who have obviously abducted these villagers as slaves and whores?”

  Hickson interrupted the flow with difficulty, as it seemed th
at he was not going to stop voluntarily. “I am called Lieutenant Hickson, Father, and my men are part of a company of Los Avispónes Morenos. Perhaps you have heard of them?”

  The priest’s eyes narrowed. “Of course I have heard of them. They are a band of heretic English bandits, who irritate the French enough, so that they take their revenge on innocent villagers and peasants. But you and your men are Spanish, even if you have a strange foreign name. How can you be Avispónes? Are you all heretics as they are?”

  This conversation, or more likely monologue, was going nowhere, but Hickson had always been taught to respect the clergy by his catholic mother. He just hadn’t had much interest or opportunity to follow his mother’s faith in England.

  “I am sure that all the men you see, Father, are as faithful to the church as anyone in these difficult times, but I am not here to discuss my soldiers’ piety. I am more concerned with the disappearance of these villagers and finding the persons responsible. What do you know of this matter and why are you here?”

  Father Miguel exploded. “Your first concern must always be for the souls of your men, just as mine is for the souls of my flock and these poor missing people. And what is there to know? You have seen the graves and must know that the French have taken all those living back with them into the valley, to satisfy their lusts and work them to death. You should be taking your men to the Tagus to try and rescue the poor souls.”

  By this time, Hickson was sure that Father Miguel was trying far too hard to sell him the story of a French incursion and maybe to get him and his men out of the way chasing ghosts in the valley. He had always considered the French as a possibility, if an unlikely one, given the known lack of their troops along the Tagus.

  Why then was the priest – if he was a priest – so keen to see the Hornets move away from here out of the mountains?

  It was very tempting to send him on his way with a flea in his ear, but he had occasionally seen Welbeloved, Vere and MacKay in similar situations and remembered at the time that he had been surprised how friendly they had become to the most obvious rogues.

  He put on his most sincere manner. “That is something that I have been considering, Father. Now, my patrols will be returning for their midday meal, within the next hour. I am sure they will be delighted to share their poor rations with you before you go on your way. No doubt in the meantime you will want to visit the church and check on the damage done by the vandals? Perhaps a prayer at the graves of the recent unfortunates, who may not have had a proper ceremony when they were buried?”

  Two hours later, filled with cold rations and a moderate amount of rough local wine, Father Miguel was escorted to the edge of the village and sent on his way, happy with the hospitality offered by men who had been primed to agree with everything he said and to show the utmost respect and piety; or at least the most they were capable of.

  Lopez and three of the Hornets followed at a discrete distance, the closest two following on foot in case some of his friends were waiting on a vantage point, to check on any interest shown.

  CHAPTER 10

  Andalusia had seemed a tempting proposition to the Intrusive King Joseph. It was warm, prosperous and could support large numbers of troops without making life too hard on its inhabitants.

  The Imperial Army quickly brushed aside the few remaining Spanish armies and occupied the whole region, with Marshal Soult named Military Governor, a position he regarded as a Vice-Regal appointment.

  Indeed, his ambitions to become King Nicholas, which had been thwarted in Galicia, seemed much likelier in this ancient Caliphate of the Moors.

  Naturally, everything was not sweetness and light. The Spaniards had thrown a garrison into impregnable Cadiz and also into Tarifa, while Gibraltar always loomed as a potential trouble spot. Then, over the border in Murcia, another local garrison held the Spanish naval base of Cartagena.

  Remnants of the Spanish armies hovered to the north and to the east. With a strength of twelve thousand men each, they were an irritant that had to be faced but not feared. Each was small enough to be cleared away without too much difficulty, but they were anything but co-operative.

  Soult’s invading army had rapidly vanished into garrisons around the province and when he scraped enough men together to tackle Romana’s army in the north, he had to detach half of them to go and deal with opportunistic attacks from Freire in the east.

  He could inflict reverses on both of them, but not crushing defeats, as they both fled into the mountains to regroup when things became too hot for them.

  When this happened, many of the regular Spanish soldiers deserted and joined the gangs of brigands in the mountains who called themselves guerrilleros.

  These bands proliferated and many of them came to prey more on the local population, as being easier targets for the loot they craved, than the well-armed and disciplined French.

  So much so that French soldiers were gradually coming to be regarded as guardians and friends by some of the populations of the towns and cities away from the mountains.

  Hamish MacKay did not find the situation entirely to his liking either. He was supposed to co-operate with anybody who was in the business of doing harm to the French. Very simple and honest an objective on the surface. Welbeloved had written to him with assurances that Lord Wellington was bowing to political horse trading in suggesting the move. It would apparently gain credit for the Naval Brigade as well as the Commander-in-Chief and he was to have complete independence to choose which group to support.

  It sounded fine, but the only commanders in the whole of Andalusia who didn’t outrank him were the guerrilla chiefs and some of them called themselves generals.

  Every Spanish general in Cadiz, Tarifa, Cartagena and in the mountains of Andalusia dreamed of achieving fame and fortune by beating the French. Even better if they could get the valiant Hornets under their control to do it for them. Under their direction, the demise of all the heroic Hornets was surely a small price to pay to save Spain and make them famous?

  Of all the Spanish generals, the only one in whom he had the slightest confidence was Romana and he was with Wellington in Lisbon at the present time. In any case, the last time MacKay had seen him, he looked like a walking corpse.

  Then there were the senior captains and admirals of the Royal Navy at Gibraltar and Cadiz, all aching to lead expeditions to capture coastal towns and ports, or make some equally useless contribution to the discomfiture of the enemy. When even the senior admiral at Lisbon thought he was a good enough general to offer military advice to Wellington, MacKay was determined to keep his men well out of their clutches.

  Shortly before they had arrived in the south, he learned that a small Anglo-Spanish force under Major General Lord Blayney had landed and attempted to capture Málaga. Determined resistance by a small company of Polish soldiers had frustrated all their efforts and held them at bay until General Sebastiani gathered a makeshift force of three thousand men and drove them back to their ships, capturing Blayney and his staff in the process.

  MacKay left Captain Cholmondeley and A Company in the hills above Málaga. A few weeks spent in harassing the new garrison might convince the French that they needed far more troops on the ground there than was actually the case. Teaching something of the Hornets’ methods to a selected cadre of local guerrilleros would ensure that pressure was maintained on the garrison when A Company moved on.

  He established his own base with Captain Addenbrooke and B Company in the mountains close to Ronda. This was within easy striking distance of the Spanish bases of Cadiz and Tarifa and the Royal Navy at Gibraltar.

  It was also within easy reverse striking distance of sixty thousand French soldiers in three separate groups: Marshal Victor to the south, investing Cadiz, General Sebastiani to the east towards Granada and Marshal Soult to the northwest, where he also threatened the southern frontier with Portugal.

  MacKay suspected that Lord Wellington regarded the whole of this region as a side-show as far as
his own strategy was concerned. He had to be aware, nonetheless, that there were more French troops in Andalusia than Masséna had starving outside Torres Vedras.

  Once it was realised what a serious scrape Masséna was in, Soult was the closest source of reinforcements and support. An army corps moving north from Seville could capture the two fortress towns of Badajoz and Elvas and strike across Portugal to the south bank of the Tagus opposite Lisbon.

  MacKay suddenly realised that all the little pin pricks that he had been fuming about as worthless distractions, were actually enormously valuable strategically. If Soult could be kept busy wearing out his soldiers by running from one pin prick to another, trying to counter the Spanish forces, the guerrilleros and any sudden seaborne incursions by the Royal Navy, it was less important that the pin pricks should be effective, than that they kept Soult’s army so busy that he couldn’t afford to go to help Masséna.

  Now that he had it all clear in his head, the Hornets would go on the offensive. They would also offer support to any one else planning a suitable pin prick.

  He would go and talk to the admiral at Gibraltar and to the generals commanding the small Spanish armies. He needed to know where and when they were planning to strike. The Hornets could then be there in advance, on their own terms, to grease the wheels, so to speak.

  ***

  Three years ago, Sergeant MacKay would have been silent and very much in awe in the presence of Captain Sir Charles Cockburn and any of his officers.

  Now, Lieutenant Colonel MacKay was very much at ease, having dinner with Commodore Sir Charles and his Flag Captain, John Guest, in the great cabin of Titan 74, riding at anchor in Algeciras Bay in the shadow of the Rock of Gibraltar.

  He savoured the claret, which had to be the result of trading with enemy fishermen or perhaps taken from a prize somewhere around the coasts of France. It really had to be one or the other, as since Trafalgar, French shipping had been restricted in the most part to coastal traffic, fishermen and Letters of Marque.