O thou seducer of the human mind,
Thou bane of millions, and thou bliss of none,
Ambition! restless tyrant of mankind,
No knee bend I before thy bloodstain’d throne.
“Leo”
The Gentleman’s Magazine, LXXVII (March 1807), p. 25
Ah sleep, once a thing I fought to stave off as a young man as “Life’s to short to waste it in bed” or so I believed; perhaps foolishly I now wonder. But why am I musing of sleep I hear you wonder? Well let me explain myself; following the retrieval of the supplies from the village of Ubera the force was split. 2nd Lt Carron and his gunners joined the supply train heading west with an escort provided by the 1st Kings German Legion Hussars. An unusually large escort as I was later informed by Captain Blount as he watched them move away, though in hindsight one could posit that the escort was just as much for the young Spencer Perceval as it was for the supplies. Of course it wouldn’t have painted the general in a particularly positive light should the Prime Minister’s son have been captured or killed by the French in Northern Spain when he was merely meant to be sampling army life. With the supply train gone and the cannon piece with it the light infantry column moved swiftly northwards, when I asked Blount about his direction of travel as I was under the impression we were withdrawing west towards Portugal he informed me that travelling along the coast was standard practice as it would increase the likelihood of being spotted and picked up by the Royal Navy. I had my doubts at the time but not being a military man, I kept them to myself.
We marched north for several days at a staggeringly rapid pace, from the grumbling coming from the Irishmen under Captain O’Connor I can assume this wasn’t a pace they were used to but the staunch unyielding Captain wouldn’t relent and ensure they kept pace with the riflemen. It was during the march that I became something of the force’s chief translator, we’d be joined by a small contingent of hussars to act as scouts ahead of the column and to forage for food where possible. They were led by a squat gruff cavalry Sergeant who went by the name of Guivno Fuchs. Hailing from Hannover and son to an Italian mother and a Hanoverian father Sgt Fuchs spoke German, French and Italian but unfortunately no English. I of course speak French, Italian and Spanish having developed a love of the Romance languages as a young man at university and ably stepped up to relay messages between the Sergeant and the Captain. A job I did with aplomb even if I do say so myself.
One evening the Hussars returned to camp at a canter, Sgt Fuchs grinning from ear to ear and gesturing excitedly. It transpired that they had spotted a force of French infantry in some farm outbuildings a few miles ahead, they were clearly drunk and believed themselves safe now the majority of British and Spanish forces had withdrawn from the area. I recall him wanting permission to attack immediately but Blount was hesitant until he could see the situation himself. So that night we made our way north to an area Juan knew as Mentzeta, stopping behind a hill covered in vineyards the Sergeant, Blount, O’Connor and myself dismounted and moved forwards on foot through the vineyards as quiet as mice. Even several hundred yards away the noise coming from the farm buildings was clearly audible. There was singing and laughter echoing around the vineyards and as we got closer it was clear why; the French appeared to have encountered a small British force in this valley and slaughtered it there were red coated bodies littered all over the edge of vineyard and near the road approaching the farm. I could see the cold anger in Blount’s face as he turned to head back. It was a look that I’d not seen from the man previously but would come to know and I must confess fear somewhat.
Once back with the troops Blount outlined his plan; the riflemen would make their way forward through the vineyard and open fire at dawn when the French would surely be in a drunken stupor and fast asleep. At this point the Hussars would erupt into the valley from the western end and ride down any Frenchmen cowardly enough to try and escape whilst O’Connor and the 88th would advance up the valley from the east and storm into the farm complex to finish the job. It was at this point O’Connor had his first confrontation with Blount; O’Connor believed that with the redcoated bodies all over the area his men could during the course of the night disguise themselves among the dead so that when the time came they could leap into action from a much closer position. Blount dismissed it as a plan of such absurdity that it could only have come from an Irishman, an insult that almost brought them to blows. However, Blount relented and gave O’Connor permission to attempt the feat but made it clear that should his men alert the French before dawn then he would be held personally responsible for the failure of the attack. With the plan sorted the men had a few hours to get some cold food and a bit of sleep before moving to position. In small groups the Irishmen snuck off into the dark under the watchful gaze of soon to be 2nd Lt Masterson who showed them where to go.
As dawn approached I was awoken by Juan who gestured for me to follow Blount and his riflemen. Adopting their approach I’d donned by green hunting jacket, whilst not rifleman green it helped disguise me between the vines. Juan having only an off-white jacket had tried to disguise it by apparently rolling in the dirt and sticking vine leaves to himself. The man looked like he’d been dragged through a bush backwards then landed in a pigsty, certainly not a look that any gentleman would be seen in but it did the job as I often lost him in the vineyard that day. We were in position shortly before dawn when Blount gave the order for the riflemen to load but not cock their weapons, he’d evidently feared that loaded rifles might go off during the move forward in the darkness a sensible precaution I might add. As dawn began to break we were startled by the sound of a trumpet call and the tapping of a drum, it appeared that whilst the French may have drunk themselves stupid the night before they were still able to sound the reveille, to my horror streams of Frenchman emerged from the buildings and formed up in a loose square around the building very quickly indeed. I remember thinking that such well drilled and disciplined soldiers couldn’t possibly have been making that noise the night before. The sight only got worse when what we had assumed was some bales of hay were moved to uncover an artillery piece pointing almost straight at the edge of the vineyard, now we knew what had done for the previous British force that had come this way. The seconds seemed like minutes and as I spotted some French skirmishers in the trees less than 100 yards away I couldn’t help but wonder how they hadn’t spotted us or the increased number of red jacketed figures in the long grass already.
It was at that moment that Masterson must have had the same thought as off to our left I suddenly heard the crackling of musketry and glanced across to see a French skirmishers fall clutching their chest just before the edge of their treeline began flared with the return volley from the French. With that the battle begun, the French line began looking to their left at Mastersons skirmishers but before the could make a move a bugle sounded west as Fuchs’ Hussars made their way into the valley. Though we couldn’t see them yet the sound of hooves and clanking of equipment was unmistakeable and the French line presented arms expecting cavalry to appear over the crest ahead of them at any moment.
To our right we could see a French line forming up in the woods with some difficulty, the job made more tricky by the sudden noise. As if sensing their confusion O’connor sprang into action crying “Faugh–a–Ballagh! Arise you dogs! Arise and welcome them to hell!” what a sight it must have been to the French line in the woods, one minute casually forming up as per their morning routine and the next to see the bodies of the dead get to their feet in front of you, level their muskets and disappear in wall of smoke. It was too much for some of them as the French line immediately staggered back further into the woods under the volley as men sought to get into more cover. The trap was sprung and Blount had no option but to follow through as he poked his head above the vines and shouted “Rifles the gun crew are your target” all around men stood taking aim at the cannon crew, steadying their rifles on the wooden trellises. Then in his unique style he stood, drew his sabre raising it high above his head and brought it down in a flourish “FIRE!”. The crackle of rifle fire cascaded across the vineyard and almost immediately I spied an artillery man spin clutching his chest as others dived for cover behind the gun.
I’d never been so close to the action before but I must tell you that time seems to stand still at times like these yet everything happens so quickly it’s hard to keep track of. O’Connor and the Irish advanced through their own smoke, presented again and fired into the woods in an almost clockwork motion until they were almost at the edge of the woods. The musketry duel between the two sets of skirmishers was bubbling along to my left with no discernible effect to either side but had a strangely rhythmic quality to it. It wasn’t until I spied Fuchs’ cavalry round the corner of the road only to be greeted by a huge volley from the distant French line that I was jerked back to reality. I could see a few Hussars go down as others struggled to control their horses. The hussars wouldn’t be leading a gallant cavalry charge through the enemy lines on this day after all and at this point I felt the battle hung in the balance. The cannon suddenly turned to face the riflemen in the vineyard and I heard Sergeant Jenkins cry out “Down lads” just as it fired, the cannon disappeared into a cloud of smoke and the front of the vineyard was torn to shreds as the canister they’d loaded ripped up the vines and trellises raining debris all around. When the carnage subsided it seemed that only a single rifleman had been caught by the blast though several were nursing minor wounds. “I said silence that cannon!” brayed Blount, the fury in his voice clearly audible and his men redoubled their effort the thought of a second canister from the cannon no doubt focusing their minds as I saw several more crew men go down in quick succession before the crew abandoned the gun under the assault.
On the right the 88th’s light company were now just entering the woods when a steady drumbeat the sounded in between the trees, I’d not heard that rhythm before but now I now it as staple of any French battle. The ‘Pas de Charge’ as they call it was struck up and not long later the Irish came tumbling back out of the forest and formed back into a line and presented again as the French retook the woods. I could just about make out O’Connor berating his troops for letting themselves be forced back before they settled back into their clockwork motions of present, fire, reload and repeat.
With the approach to the farm building now clear of any enemy Blount raised his officer’s whistle to his lips and blew a few short blasts giving the order to advance. Seeing the Rifles moving out the woods, it seems that the officer commanding the French skirmishers had a sudden moment of almost suicidal bravery as the French skirmishers quickly scurried out of the copse of trees to block the path of the rifles firing off a few shots as they did so. I only saw a single rifleman fall but to my dismay it was Sergeant Jenkins, I rushed to his side immediately as the cheerful Welshman had been extremely welcoming during my time with the rifles. I could see a dark stain spreading on left sleeve of his jacket as I helped him to his feet. “Jenkins where are you?” called Blount his voice harsh. “By ‘ere Sir I’ve been shot a bit I have” replied Jenkins his voice strained. Blount strode over quickly calling to the riflemen as he did so “return fire”. Blount looked down at Jenkins who was tying a makeshift bandage round his arm awkwardly with my help and studied his Sergeant “Well this won’t do will it Jenkins?” he said shaking his head disapprovingly as he turned back to look at the skirmishers who were scurrying away to safety leaving their officer behind. I remember him turning back to us and addressing Jenkins “Jenkins you’re wounded and no good to me here. I want you to go see if that Frog officer is alive, if so I want him captured and returned to me do I make myself clear?” Jenkins nodded “Crystal Sir.” His teeth gritted against the pain as he pushed his wounded arm into his slightly unbuttoned jacket to act as a makeshift sling as he strode off rifle slung over his shoulder and sword bayonet drawn. As I watched him go I spotted something between the trees, the French line that had fended off Fuchs’ Hussars had formed into column and was moving to intercept us, I yelled a warning to Blount who had already spotted them and waved me away irritably before blowing his whistle to sound the withdrawal. We quickly dashed back into the relative safety of the vineyard and the rifles began firing on the French column. The French were beginning to tire it was obvious even to me, perhaps the nights entertainments were catching up with them or perhaps the constant rifle fire at this range just saps you off your energy. Without having experienced being on the receiving end of riflemen I can’t say for sure but it wasn’t long before the French began to withdraw from the farm. They couldn’t respond effectively at the same range as the rifles and they now lacked the numbers to push through the fire and sweep the vineyard clear. The day belonged to the British and as the French turned a cheer went up among the riflemen.
Once the wounded were tended to and the dead buried I had the chance to explore the farm buildings. It turned out that the cellars had once been full of locally produced wines, which would explain the noise of the night before. Jenkins had captured the French Voltigeur officer who had accepted his capture with grace and presented Blount with his sword but was allowed to keep it as was customary for officers. The officer’s name was Sous-Lieutenant Luc Disway, he knew little or professed to know little at least and I’m inclined to believe him, whilst brave he certainly wasn’t the sharpest tool in the drawer. I do sometimes wonder what happened to Luc from time to time and what he would’ve done had Napoleon’s ambitions not brought Europe to the madness.
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