Can No One Win Battles if I'm Not There Read online

  CHAPTER 3

  Just as Captain Gonçalves thought he was winning his battle to get a full seven lieutenants to command the platoons of E Company, he was told that he was about to lose one of his more valued officers.

  Lieutenant Pom Bal Li was being poached by Lord Wellington himself, to join his staff. In the past year he had not only proved himself a successful and talented officer, but as an erstwhile language student at Coimbra University, he was fluent in all the main latin languages as well as english and two tongues from China, his mother’s homeland. Additionally, three recent months training with the German battalion had given him a good command of german, but with a Hanoverian accent.

  It was a combination of military competence, together with every language likely to be used in the Peninsular that had convinced Lord Wellington that he was far more valuable as his aide than leading a mere platoon for the Naval Brigade.

  Gonçalves was not convinced. Vere and Roffhack were only half convinced, but Welbeloved had agreed on two counts. Pom’s presence on the staff would be like a friend at court; a constant reminder to Wellington, should it be needed, of the value of the Hornets, particularly as they were mostly out of sight.

  The second count was that Welbeloved was convinced that Pom was not yet sixteen. He had always been careful to let it be assumed that he was already seventeen and no one had enquired too closely when he had proved how capable he was.

  It had been agreed that he would join Wellington as soon as the French had been expelled from Portugal and that now seemed imminent.

  Unfortunately, it was occurring just as enough trained men were becoming available for seven Portuguese platoons. Gonçalves would have to squeeze them all into six and promote Sergeant Santos to sergeant major. He would then have four lieutenants and two sergeants major to lead the enlarged platoons: a convenient arrangement if he decided to split the company into two three-platoon companies.

  He shrugged resignedly. What he now needed was a total of four trained officers and thirty more men and he would have two Portuguese companies, both fully up to strength. He would ask Jorge Oliveiro if he knew of any of the officers in the Portuguese rifles who might be interested and willing to submit themselves to the tough Hornet selection process.

  Until the time arrived, Pom was determined that he was going to be as active as possible. E Company had been made responsible for keeping watch on the Armée de Portugal during its counter-march towards Guarda. Gonçalves had allocated three double platoons for the purpose.

  Lieutenant Dodds, one of the original Hornets had always regarded Pom as his protégé and both their platoons were together. With them was Lieutenant Richter and his troop from D Squadron. They had been riding with E Company for a week or so now and Richter was fast becoming fluent in portuguese.

  This was just as well as the three lieutenants were trotting north together conversing in that language with Pom helping out with any words they had to search for.

  Their men were just out of sight, ahead of a squadron of chasseurs that Masséna had sent out to reconnoitre out in front of his returning army. He was obviously hoping that he could get back to Guarda, but had now been away for a week and was experienced enough to anticipate that Wellington might have arrived during his absence.

  Pom was in full flow. “Whatever we decide, it shall make no difference to Masséna’s intelligence. Another ten miles and the chasseurs shall see our pickets and know that their army can’t get back to Guarda.

  We shall then have to stop them going back to Masséna to report and that in itself shall tell him that our army is waiting for him. I submit that we have nothing to lose if we ambush them anywhere we choose in the next ten miles. If we choose well we might be able to take them all with much less bother. They do not appear to have anyone in close support.”

  Dodds looked across at Richter. “I cannot find any fault at all with that argument, Richie.” He got a grin. “Neither can I, my friend. Do you have a plan?”

  Dodds chuckled. “I always have a plan, Richie. It is one of the first things that the Brigadier taught us right from the start. Always have the framework of what you can do in any circumstances. It must have been part of your own training. Is it not so?”

  “Of course it is, I should not have asked it as a question. Perhaps you shall tell us what you wish to do? Have I got the phrasing correct, young Li?”

  Pom was enjoying himself. The last question had been in german and he replied in the affirmative in the same language.

  Dodds was looking around him. “If you can hide your troop behind one of those woods, Richie, you can rejoin the road after the chasseurs have gone past. We shall continue until we find somewhere that Li can deploy his platoon in ambush.

  My men shall use your new cavalry tactics and wait, mounted and in echelon, to halt the enemy opposite Li’s ambush. When you hear us start shooting, you can decide for yourself how you want to stop anyone escaping.

  Richter tapped his helmet in salute. “I have heard the English in these circumstances. They say ‘good hunting’, which I think is appropriate.” He gathered his men and cantered off into cover.

  The road they were following leading north towards Guarda, was in the catchment area of the River Zézere and its tributaries: the river that later joined the Tagus above Santarém. The valley was wide enough to have been formed by a glacier and the river had cut itself a shallow, narrow gorge in this stretch. On either side, in happier times, small fields and occasional fruit and olive orchards showed that villagers could make a living with vines, fruit and grain crops, with sheep and goats on the steeper slopes.

  It wasn’t ideal country for the sort of ambush that Dodds had in mind and they had to search for several miles until the river was a mere torrential stream and the road itself little more than a wide track running alongside it.

  Many times their rearguard scouts had to wait in concealment until their vanguard counterparts came into view, to reassure themselves that the chasseurs were still advancing.

  They were within a few miles of Guarda itself when they came across a two hundred yard stretch of road with the stream on one side and a gently rising area on the other that was bounded by rows of vines, fruit trees and a large, twisted, ancient cork oak.

  The rooftops of a small village could be seen beyond the point where the stream and the road turned at the end of the stretch.

  Pom led his men on foot across the fallow ground that had probably been harvested of a crop of maize before the invasion last September. The edges of the vineyard started about fifty yards from the road. Far enough to give an illusion of safety to anyone on the road, but practically point blank range for the modified Baker rifles carried by most of his platoon.

  Dodds took his own platoon round the bend and lined them up across the road fifty yards farther on, just before the entrance to the village. He deployed them in two ranks in echelon as he had seen the Germans do. The horses of Pom’s platoon were hobbled and left grazing on a small patch of ground behind them.

  Everyone then stood down until the two rearguard scouts cantered up to report that the enemy vanguard should be in sight within five minutes. Dodds trotted back, held up five fingers and got a wave of a hand from the vines in acknowledgement.

  The two scouts for the chasseurs were hardly more colourful than the Hornets themselves. The weather in the mountains was cold and damp and they were wearing cloaks that might once have been green, but were now faded to a neutral hue, almost identical to the ones that the Hornets had just removed for action. The shabraques on the horses did retain a semblance of green, but the tall, black shakos provided all the identification necessary.

  They paused to make a very extensive visual survey of the ambush area without spotting Pom and his men in the vines. The danger that they were looking for was just round the next bend where they stopped abruptly, almost disappearing from Pom’s view. Almost, because the rumps of their horses could still be seen as they stared at the lines of Hornets confr
onting them.

  Being well trained and experienced, they reacted exactly as Dodds expected. Slowly backing their horses, they studied everything around Dodds and his men and also gave a far more thorough inspection to the vines and stream behind them. Satisfied, one remained watching Dodds while the other turned and cantered back to report.

  There was a long wait while the lone scout studied the Hornets and the Hornets studiously ignored the scout. It lasted so long, in fact, that Dodds was beginning to fidget and wonder whether he was being so obvious as to convince the French that it was a trap. He had deliberately drawn his men up in a defensive posture, as that was what they had come to expect of Wellington’s men. They seemed to be taking an eternity just to sniff at the bait.

  He was unable to see them when they finally appeared, although Pom was watching with interest, the two troops of horsemen trotting forward to join the scout. The leading riders of the other troops could also be seen, hanging back at the first bend and observing.

  Both the leading troops spread themselves across the fallow ground, formed up into three ranks of ten and slowed to a walk, letting their commander trot forward with the second scout and a bugler.

  It was a relief to Dodds when the solitary observer suddenly became four. As an encouragement to the French he shouted a command and his platoon drew their swords and rested the blades on their shoulders. He hoped it would be regarded as a defensive gesture.

  The commander of the chasseurs was a cautious man. With the army in its present parlous state, this was no time to be aggressive. His task was to find out where the enemy was and let his general know. He had now found out where some of the enemy were sitting, but he did not think his general would be much impressed to be told that the discovery of thirty men had satisfied his curiosity.

  Of course he could see it was not just thirty men. They must think he was a fool not to have noticed the extra horses grazing behind them. Even then, they didn’t add up to more than half his own command and how he would love to take those horses for himself. Nearly half his command had lost their mounts in the pitiless campaign in Portugal. It would be a fantastic stroke if he was able to mount another two troops, and wasn’t it the French tradition to reconnoitre aggressively?

  It could still be a trap of course, but if he brought the rest of his men up and charged through that thin line, he could get away with the horses whether the enemy had packed the houses with muskets or not. He turned to his trumpeter.

  Pom heard the notes of the bugle and whistled softly to put his men on the alert for any movement. At the moment, it looked as though they would have to be content with only half the squadron.

  Quickly, he realised that none of them was moving and that the call was for the reserve that even now was moving up to join their comrades. The chasseurs had taken the hook and the float as well.

  As they drew close together, each troop formed itself into a rough square bloc with a front of five or six across, to negotiate the narrowing of the road as it went round the bend.

  Pom watched the bugler over the sights of his rifle. He was the man who would set the squadron in motion as soon as the rearguard caught up. First would come the order to draw swords.

  Orders were shouted and sabres were drawn. The bugle was raised to his lips and Pom shot him out of his saddle.

  His platoon followed him with their volleys almost immediately and half the leading troop went down, followed by half the rear troop five seconds later. Pom reloaded quickly and shot the commander as he was shouting orders for his men to react to this new challenge.

  They reacted anyway. They could see the clouds of powder smoke rising above the leafless vines and the troop officers spurred towards them, but not before more volleys had eliminated the rest of the two outer troops.

  It was only fifty yards for them to travel; hardly any distance at all for a galloping horse. It took more time for the chasseurs to react to the need to change direction and they were hardly into their stride before another dozen or more were knocked from their saddles.

  Nevertheless, more horsemen were left than Pom’s men had time to shoot and it was Dodds’s platoon charging in from the flank that convinced the remaining chasseurs that they should abandon the idea and flee back down the road, with One Platoon in full cry after them.

  Even this relief was denied them when Richter’s troop appeared in front of them. Their wild yells and enormous, hairy moustaches, like warriors out of teutonic legend, took any remaining resistance from men already weakened by six months of privations in front of Torres Vedras.

  Even appearances were deceptive. The German Hornets were actually laughing too hard at the terrified chasseurs to have been as effective as Richter might have wished.

  They secured the prisoners and set them to burying the dead. A dozen only of the wounded were loaded into the platoon wagons to travel back to Guarda. Dodds looked them over and although he was no expert, experience told him that many of them would not survive even that short journey.

  Two hours later, the Hornets and captured horses; fifty of them with captured chasseurs tied to them; trailed back to Guarda and reported to Lieutenant Colonel Günther Roffhack. He listened to Dodds, as the senior lieutenant and merely commented. “I think you have conducted yourselves superbly in a flawless military operation, Gentlemen.

  There is one small difficulty that I foresee and the three of you had better come with me and talk to Lord Wellington. As you may have guessed, he has been hoping to take Masséna in the flank on his retreat to Guarda. I am unsure about whether he really thought he could catch the old fox, but between you, you have certainly ensured that he shall not.

  Whatever the case, it is without doubt my responsibility, but pray that we can see him quickly, while the brilliance of your tactics might divert his thoughts from their consequences.”

  They followed him like a trio of naughty schoolboys as he trudged through the wet, muddy streets to the headquarters buildings.

  Yes! His Lordship was present. Yes! He had a few minutes to spare to see Colonel Roffhack.

  “Good afternoon, Colonel Roffhack. Why is it no surprise to me that you should appear before me with your malefactors, only minutes after I learn that their actions, splendid though they may have been, have quite spoiled the strategy I have been planning?”

  Roffhack had been listening carefully to his tone of voice and they could see him relaxing visibly. “It should be no surprise, My Lord, given the efficiency of your intelligence gathering. I was sure you would wish to hear from the very mouths of my splendid miscreants, how they discovered an enemy reconnaissance squadron no less than five miles from your headquarters. Rather than have them return and report to Masséna, they rounded up the survivors and the wounded and brought them back for questioning.”

  Wellington ran his eye over the three lieutenants, who stiffened to attention. He singled out Dodds. “How many men did you have, Lieutenant…er?”

  Dodds, My Lord. Number One Platoon, E Company. We ‘ad two platoons of Vespãos; that’s Portuguese ‘ornets, My Lord, and one troop of ‘ornissen; that’s the German ‘ornets, My Lord.”

  “Just call ‘em all Hornets, Mr. Dodds. My language skills are not up to Pom’s. How many prisoners have you brought in?”

  “Forty eight and twelve wounded, My Lord. We buried the sixty dead at the scene.”

  Wellington looked slightly bemused. “Thank you Mr. Dodds. If my arithmetic serves me right, you have captured an entire squadron of chasseurs with only three platoons – say ninety men?”

  “Well…not quite, My Lord. Mr. Pom’s platoon was placed in hambush as they mostly ‘ave rifles. ‘is men ‘ad to shoot more than ‘alf the chassers before Herr Richter and I charged in from both sides and the rest surrendered. I think they were more frightened of the Germans’ moustaches than of hany of the rest of us.”

  “Forgive me, Mr. Dodds. I am sure you are being most explicit, but if I understand you correctly, your platoon and Mr. Richter’s troop a
cted solely as cavalry. All the dead and wounded were due to Mr. Pom’s platoon shooting from ambush at mounted men?”

  Dodds beamed. He spoke more slowly and clearly, as he would to a particularly slow recruit, if rather more respectfully. “That is correct, My Lord. Has I said, Pom’s platoon nearly all ‘ad rifles and the range was never more than eighty yards. Even Roberto’s carbines couldn’t miss at that range.”

  “Unbelievable!” The Commander-in-Chief was talking to himself. “I have seen the Hornets in action and admired their speed and accuracy, but I had not considered how devastating a number of them together could be.” He looked directly at Pom. “Paint me a picture, Mr. Pom. Tell me how you were concealed and how the enemy were deployed, then tell the story from there, detailing the number of shots fired and how long the action took.”

  Pom did just that, pointing out that his platoon had eight of the new recruits and was thirty-six in number. Every member had fired three shots in less than one minute. Enemy casualties were only two thirds of that, but as he explained apologetically, some of the chasseurs had been hit by two or three balls in the heat of combat.

  Wellington laughed. “It is a strange state of affairs, is it not, Colonel, when one of your officers finds it necessary to excuse his men when three of them kill the same Frenchman?”

  They were interrupted by an aide reporting the arrival of Captain Gonçalves with the latest news of the French. He was ushered in and apologised for coming directly to headquarters but was able to confirm that Masséna was not now heading for Guarda, but was directing his army northeast toward Spain and Ciudad Rodrigo. It was likely that he would be occupying a town called Sabugal by tomorrow, with defensive positions along the upper reaches of the River Côa.

  Wellington was gracious. “I am obliged to you, Captain. Firstly for this valuable news and secondly for leading such a remarkable company. The three officers that Colonel Roffhack brought here have just removed an entire squadron of chasseurs from Masséna’s army.”