Author – Ben Ebrahim
“Hail! — all hail! The Patriot’s grave,
Valor’s venerable bed!
Hail! The memory of the brave,
Hail! The spirits of the dead!”
Montgomery
My time in Spain began attached to a small force under the command of one Henry Blount of the
95th Rifles. A new experimental skirmish force using the now renowned Baker rifle, it seems strange
to me that at the time many light infantry officers turned up their noses at this deadly weapon due
to its slower reload compared to the common musket. As my I will go on to recount in this book the
weapon proved its worth many times over in the Peninsula. During this action I also had the honour
of meeting young Spencer Perceval (junior) the eldest son of the late Prime Minister Spencer
Perceval (Senior), of only 14 years at the time the young man had been sent to observe first hand life
in the British Army. Unlike myself however, young Perceval had been granted permission by the
General to accompany an officer of his choosing to understand the pressures face by those who hold
His Majesty’s commission. Meanwhile, I as a mere journalist documenting the war was told to
“Keep out the bloody way and try not to get yourself killed” by the General. At the Captain’s
recommendation Perceval had opted to shadow 2nd Lt Carron of the Royal Artillery and his gun crew,
the Gunnery officer was relatively young but due to his diminutive stature looked even younger and
the pair got on politely if not warmly. I must point out at this juncture that my imagined ideal of
Olympian gentleman officers beloved by their men leading by example had already been rudely
quashed. From the Officer commanding Captain Blount who while no doubt being a handsome devil
who turned ladies heads without effort was a tiresome prig of a man, so much so that I often heard
the rankers joke behind his back that despite his good looks the only love he had was for himself,
etiquette and the drill book. Subordinate to Blount was Captain Adam O’Connor of the 88 th Foot’s
Light Company, subordinate only by date of commission I might add though as Blount often pointed
out subordinate of blood also due to some Irish ancestry too as his name betrayed. A quip that riled
O’Conner no end to the detriment of the relationship with his men who failed to understand the
issue being Irish themselves. Third in command was 2nd Lt Carron whom I’ve already discussed.
The first time I witnessed action was in Spain when the light column under Captain Blount’s
command was tasked with securing and holding a forward supply station until it could be retried by
a supply train that was being escorted to their position by the KGL. It transpired that the supplies
had been left by the Spanish army in a church that my Spanish papist manservant Juan ably informed
me was the “Iglesia y convento de Jesús Nazareno”. For brevity’s sake I’ll refer to it as “the
convent” forthwith, it was a relatively simple building religious structure of the common style found
in northern Spain with a tall bell tower at it’s south eastern end.
The convent marked the edge of the village of Ubera and sat adjacent to the Sesto River with a small
roman stone humpback bridge allowing what light traffic flowed through the region to easily cross, if
the royal engineers had been with us they’d no doubt have destroyed the bridge but Captain Blount
dismissed the suggestion of trying to destroy the bridge from Carron as; if I remember correctly “A gross malfeasance of the most egregious sort against such a historical architectural marvel”. The
river itself was slow flowing and at this point fairly narrow, more of a stream or brook than a river if
truth be told. The land nearby was a mixture of fields, vineyards and orchards that supplied the
locals with both their food and produce that they’d sell at the nearby towns of Elorrio and Bergara,
they’re known for a particularly fine sherry that I’ve subsequently had the pleasure of tasting but I
digress.
We’d been at the supply station for less than a day when the enemy was sighted. The first warning I
had that the enemy was present was the crack of rifle fire from the upper windows of the convent
where Captain Blount had positioned half his riflemen to survey the approach road from the
northwest. As per standing orders the men jumped into action. The plan as far as I’m aware had
been for the riflemen harass any advancing enemy troops from the upper echelons of the convent
whilst the light company lined the river and poured fire across into any enemy troops attempting to
ford across. A simple barricade had been erected by 2 nd Lt Carron across the river with the intention
being to move the light cannon there later that afternoon and properly fortifying the position but
unfortunately the French had arrived a few hours earlier than anticipated leaving the light piece in
its original position behind the river. As I found a safe space on a nearby hill to observe the battle I
could see O’Connor moving to their pre-determined position on the river bank whilst the other half
of the Light Company led by Sergeant Patrick Masterson moved round to the front of the Convent to
prevent any attempted crossing of the river there.
At first it seemed that the riflemen in the convent were firing at shadows as Blount stood on the
steps at the front of the convent shouting up to his men that they were to make every shot count
and that he’d be deducting pay from anyone he caught tap loading their rifles. One unfortunate
rifleman experienced a misfire at that exact moment and was only spared his Captain’s wrath by a
stray musket ball that caught Blount across the cheek the sudden stinging pain causing him to
stumble and hit his head heavily on the heavy oak doors of the convent. I confess I believed him
killed at that moment but it seems the Captain had said his prayers that morning as he regained
consciousness several minutes later and his only lasting injury was a rather interesting scar across his
cheek that evermore marked him not only as a handsome devil but a brave one at that.
I remember getting Juan to set up my telescope and as he did so I heard Sergeant Masterson’s voice
carrying over the crackle of rifle fire “Light company present”, glancing back to the action I could see
that the movement was fluid and crisp as the line of infantry turned and brought their weapons to
bear on the long grass on the opposite bank. Time seemed to stand still before Masterson barked
the order to fire in his thick irish accent and the front of the formation seemed to explode into
smoke and fire. Quite how anyone stands infront of such a devastating volley is beyond me even
now when I’ve seen them traded back and forth many times. Too my delicate novice ears the sound
was loud even at several hundred paces distance, at least I thought it was loud until the cannon
spoke. The low thunderous peal of the cannon was almost primal and I swung my telescope to see
where it was aiming and in the distance could make out a French column! The column had just
rounded a small hillock and was steadily advancing down the road, the files filling in where the
cannonball had carved a narrow streak through the formation. I distinctly recall remarking to Juan
that “The fools intend to walk straight into our boys, this’ll be child’s play” the Spaniard returning his
usual gormless grim and nodding excitedly.
Oh how I was to be proved wrong imminently. I’m not sure what was more surprising at the time
the sudden emergence of the cavalry over the crest of the hill or the fact that they charged straight
at the river and Masterson’s line. The cavalry, all gleaming breastplates and large wicked looking
sabres came pouring down the hill and it dawned on me that they were what the riflemen had been shooting at that I couldn’t see in previous few minutes, a fact evidenced by some of the cavalry men
nursing wounds already. I remember spying the officer commanding the cavalry a giant of a fellow
on an equally large horse who looked like he was born in the saddle as he casually jumped clear
across the river, his men attempted to follow suit and proved that one couldn’t disregard the quality
of the French steeds as only a single horse pulled up short, almost throwing its rider into the river in
the process. I was aghast at the sight of the heavy cavalry so easily crossing what I had considered a
natural impediment to such an assault and so was Masterson’s line as the cavalry crashed into them.
The Irishmen never stood a chance as the cavalry ploughed into them, it was carnage and the line
quickly buckled despite the famed ferocity of the Irish. As the fighting devolved into a slaughter I
could make out Sergeant Masterson facing down the French cavalry officer, adopting a fighter’s
stance halberd out in front of him keeping the cavalry man out of reach with short controlled stabs
of the blade. The cavalry officer looked bemused batting the halberd blade away casually with his
sword as he called something to his men who were chasing off the rest of the infantry leaving the
Irish Sergeant stood alone. The cavalry turned to face the sergeant leaving the rest of the Irishmen
to scramble away nursing wounds and carrying wounded comrades. They laughed at the small
Irishman waving his halberd at their officer, that was until Masterson shouted something in French, I
have subsequently uncovered the words Masterson used and they are most ungentlemanly: “Ta
mère était une pute!”. However, the insult certainly upset the cavalry officer as he roared in anger
and he and his horse leapt toward the Sergeant who quickly sidestepped to the right bringing up his
halberd and catching the officer on the arm opening a gash in his left arm. The French officer
shouted in pain and brought his house about quickly trying to strike down the wily Irish sergeant, but
Masterson was too quick for the lumbering brute. Using his smaller stature and longer weapon he
ducked and weaved around the horse jabbing at the French officer who parried and counter
attacked ferociously.
As I felt this somewhat comical duel between the small Irishman and the giant cavalry officer was
only going to end one way despite my wish for a poetic David and Goliath encounter I turned my
telescope back to the road where voices had begun to carry over the sound of musketry, rifle fire
and the rolling thunder of the cannon. I distinctly remember the French singing something as they
marched down the road in their column toward the bridge. Interviews with some of the wounded
we recovered after the battle revealed the song to be the refrain from a marching song named
“Chason de L’Oignan” I’ve included the verse in question below.
“Au pas camarades, au pas camarades,
Au pas, au pas, au pas,
Au pas camarades, au pas camarades,
Au pas, au pas, au pas.”
The singing was rudely silenced by a Carron’s cannon firing canister into their midst. It seemed like
the whole column was engulfed by the canister though as the smoke and debris clear it appeared
nothing had happened save for the barricade now looking significantly worse for wear and leaves
and debris from the edge of the vineyard now raining down over the column. Turning my gaze to
the cannon I spied young Spencer Perceval passing the slow match back to one of the gunners and shrugging apologetically to Carron. Speaking with young Spencer later he confided that Carron has
given him command of the gun while he relieved himself and in his excitement, he had ordered the
men to change to canister and despite their brief protest they complied knowing who he was. Yet
moments later they proven correct to protest as the outcome was exactly what they’d suggested
would happen. Not even waiting for Carron to return they switched back to solid shot but a deep
bone shaking crack caused them to pause momentarily as in the distance one of the hilltops was
obscured with smoke. Just in front of the gunnery crew a huge fountain of dirt and grass erupted
showering them with clumps of grass. The French has apparently brought their own cannon and
finally managed to get it into position to provide some covering fire to their column.
As their cannon began firing the column cheered and began to form into a wide line on the opposite
bank. The constant harassing fire from the riflemen no doubt forcing their officer, a very well-
dressed Frenchman with a most ostentatious uniform to decide that driving them off with a quick
volley before continuing their advance was his best course of action. As the French line fired I could
see some riflemen who had adopted firing positions scurrying back across the bridge to take greater
cover behind the walls of the convent and on the bridge itself firing as they withdrew as one man
covered the next. It seemed that the french volley had done little to the riflemen though the puffs
of smoke emerging from the convent did seem less regular.
As all this had gone on Masterson and the cavalry officer had continued their battle. Masterson
sporting a gash on his shoulder whilst the Frenchman was bleeding heavily from several wounds.
Seemingly bored with the duel the remaining cavalry had sauntered odd and were looking in the
outhouses around the convent. Quite what for I’m not sure and as they managed to escape on their
horses a little later we may never know. Though perhaps they’d been told there were young nuns in
the convent as that was certainly the story told by Pierre a young french infantryman we captured
trying to get into the convent by a side door later that day. His dismay at opening the door to be
faced by several green jacketed British soldiers is still a source of amusement for the men to this day
with one of their drinking songs being:
“Pierre was a Frenchman, he went looking for a nun. But all little Pierre got, was a rifleman!”
Seeing his cavalry troop begin to disperse the cavalry officer fled from Masterson to the jeers and
mockery of the riflemen in the convent. To my astonishment the small Irishman gave a keening
gaelic warcry and launched his halberd like a javelin at the retreating cavalryman striking him square
between the shoulder blades. It was extraordinary! Truly a heroic feat of which Hercules himself
would’ve been proud and all the more astonishing as Masterson certainly looked like no Hercules.
As the officer crumpled to the ground Masterson rushed over and claimed his horse for himself
knowing full well a gentleman of good breeding would pay a small fortune for such a magnificent
beast. With the destruction of their cavalry and the fire from the convent not slowing significantly
the french began to withdraw. The day belonged to the British under Blount, but no one was in any
doubt that it was Sergeant Masterson who had earned the victory. His outstanding display of
bravery and skill had prevented the French cavalry from rounding the convent and setting about the
rear of the force. A feat made even more impressive I was later informed by the fact that these cavalry were the much feared Cuirassiers, scourge of many a battlefield. Upon being reunited with
the main force Sergeant Masterson was made 2nd Lt Masterson, in no small part to my testimony and
that of young Spencer Perceval who named Masterson the greatest Irish warrior since Cú Chulainn.
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