Soldiers, and Brother Soldiers, doubly dear,
The time will come we meet no longer here;
No more is heard the thund’ring cannon’s roar;
Calpe is silent; Echo says no more;
No more terrific to Iberia now,
Yet scournful frowns with dark unalter’d brow;
Her harden’d front at rest from fruitless rage,
Whilst Hist’ry plants her in the choicest page.
Capt. Joseph Badworth
Half-Pay
The Gentleman’s Magazine, LXIV
(December, 1794)
If often wondered if it’s a peculiarity of the British that drives us to acts of heroism and daring do. To attempt the impossible and the improbable in spite of perceived wisdom, to value the character traits that lead to these acts appears at first glance to be a profoundly British phenomenon. Sadly, for every tale of heroism there is a tale of sacrifice and men gone before their time. Such a tale I will recount to you know…
Following Blount’s successes on the path to Lisbon he was quickly re-assigned to garrison duties to let his force rest and recuperate. For a week or so I stayed with them forming strong friendships with several of the junior officers and sergeants. 2nd Lieutenant Masterson, his commission finally recognised by Horse Guards back in London proved to be an incredibly friendly man. Beneath his short stature, toothy grin and balding pate was a heart of gold. The 3rd son from a small merchant family in Dublin Masterson had seen his only way to a earn a decent living was to enlist, having had some education I learnt he had quickly progressed up the ranks to become a respect sergeant both by the enlisted men and by the officers who were always glad to have his calm demeanour and steadiness under fire alongside them. His actions at Ubera had only added to his reputation amongst the light company and he was never short of volunteers to accompany him on any task he was ordered to partake. Sergeant Jenkins of the rifles also proved himself to be good company in this time, the quick wit and good humour of the Welshman seemed to radiate out from him making the stuffy humid afternoons bearable. He truly cared for “his boys” as he called though if they broke his trust he had a stringing backhand as one or two had learned the hard way. With not much happening I took the opportunity to visit Lisbon and see the city we were tasked with defending, when I returned to the force over a month later I was to find them in a much different state.
My tale is taken from an interview with Blount several days later. I’ve had the details verified where possible by Captain O’Connor and several of the enlisted men. I have been unable to interview 2nd Lt Parson of the Royal Horse Artillery experimental weapons unit who accompanied Blount on his expedition but as you will see from the recollections he was probably advised to return to his unit post-haste.
Captain Blount – 95th Rifles
We’d been tasked to recover a highly sensitive prisoner from a French occupied settlement north of the village of Folgados around 2 days march north of Lisbon. We arrived nearby at dusk and met up with an infantry column who were to provide us with a garrisoned extraction point some distance from where the prisoner was being held. We just had to get in, retrieve the prisoner and get him to the infantry who would then make a beeline back to Lisbon. At the request of the General himself we were accompanied by a contingent of the Royal Horse Artillery experimental weapons unit who brought some kind of brand-new rocket weapon to trial. A thoroughly unnecessary weapon for such a mission but it’s not my place to question a general.
As darkness arrived myself, Masterson and a handful of our chosen men took a closer look at where the prisoner was being held. It appeared that the French had locked him in a small house situated atop a rise in the centre of the village, no doubt it was the most comfortable building and as such the guards had wanted an easier time of it rather than using the damp, squalid looking jail on the outskirts of the village. Masterson and I agreed that we’d be able to approach the house relatively hidden by the other buildings, my men would form a perimeter round the building looking for any other Frenchmen that might be in the area whilst he stormed the house with his men and rescued the prisoner. At this juncture one of my chosen men Private Jack Telad was volunteered to assist Masterson due to his previous experience in night time escapades. I didn’t ask any more, don’t ask don’t tell is my motto for my men’s previous lives. All that matters is that they do as I ask and do it well. I gave him permission to speak with Masterson and assist in the way he felt most pertinent.
Just before dawn we were in position and still shrouded by darkness, at my order we advanced quietly toward the house stopping at the bottom of the slop hidden by shadows and the road edge. Private Jack gave me a quick informal salute, slung his rifle over his shoulder and scampered off into the darkness. A few minutes the front door of the house opened, and light bloomed out, I could see Jack waving a French shako. This must have been the signal he agreed with Masterson as his men quickly broke into a run and streamed into the house as this happened I ordered my men to the edge of the village to survey the escape route. The sounds of fighting inside the house echoed around the streets and quickly we spied several shapes wearing French uniforms spilling out of the house and down a side street as Masterson emerged accompanied by a tall smartly dressed civilian who looked a little worse for wear and was walking with a pronounced limp. We quickly exchanged pleasantries and I outlined the extraction plan to our guest before we were interrupted by a warning shout from one of my pickets. The rising sun had revealed an enemy infantry column was approaching the village at pace and was almost here. Acting quickly I ordered Masterson to make a dash out of the town where he should meet Captain O’Connor on the road near the Vineyards just outside of the town. I’d stay with the rifles and delay the column for as long as possible before withdrawing. As I went to my men I saw Masterson and his men leave the centre of the village, the prisoner being aided by two men. As I reached the edge of the village my men were already firing on the column, I remember seeing the French column forming into a line ahead of us. A small pond and the outer buildings causing them to make a real hash of it. The French line opened fire before they were fully formed the rounds bouncing off the surrounding buildings harmlessly as this range while my men continued to methodically fire and reload back into them. I think the French had fired their second or third volley when I saw them begin to wheel away from us to face a new threat. Thinking perhaps O’Connor had somehow arrived early I quickly dashed to a better viewpoint where I saw with horror that they were forming up to face Masterson’s men who were caught out in the open between the village and the vineyard. I shouted a warning but time seemed to stand still, Masterson turned at the sound of my voice and seeing the French levelling
their muskets shouted to his men to get down has he barged into the prisoner knocking him flat. The French line erupted as their volley spat out and Masterson staggered hit several times, even at the distance of a hundred or so metres I could see the blood already forming from several spots on his shirt. Reeling from this I grabbed my whistle and put it to my lips blowing the short sharp bursts that sounded the orderly withdrawal. I kept my eyes on what remained of Masterson’s men yelling at them to keep moving as I went glancing over at the French line to see what they were doing. Moments seemed like hours, and the seconds ticked by sow slowly in the chaos and confusion, I have never felt such foreboding and horror as I did when I heard the call “cavalry front!”. We were a few dozen light infantry in open ground facing down a French line and now cavalry was coming, the sound of their hooves was like the rumble of thunder in the distance and several of my men were pointing just past the French line where the rising sun was glinting of the drawn sabres and helmets of the rapidly approaching cavalry, I must admit I thought we were doomed at this point and when the first scream shattered the air I thought the gates of hell had opened up.
I remember the rockets blazing across the sky in quick succession, several landed in the vineyard ricocheting along the rows before detonating harmlessly amongst the trellises. One seemed to be heading straight for the French infantry before veering off to the right and in my astonishment passing through the cavalry who were cantering towards us before exploding sending horses and riders alike reeling. The carnage was brutal, wounded horses screamed and whinnied, riders were bucked from their horses the best riders barely held on. The remaining cavalry quickly broke and dispersed the riders focussing more on trying to calm their horses than anything else. The French line seemed to miraculously stand amidst the exploding rockets without a scratch, reloading and blasting volleys at Mastersons men who were doing their best to keep their heads down but not moving. Once we had cleared the edge of the village I had my rifles once again engage the Line whilst I sprinted toward Masterson’s men ordering them to the rendezvous. The men reluctantly began to move the prisoner as I stooped over Masterson’s body, he was already dead slain by a handful of French musketballs, not a fitting way for such a brave chap to go. But now I was in the line of fire and it took all my athleticism to get back to my men without being hit. The remainder of Masterson’s men were not so lucky though and I spied several more go down under the fire, the prisoner managed to avoid it as he was shielded by the men carrying him but it quickly became apparent they could go no further and I would have to take over. Getting my men’s attention quickly we proceeded toward where the prisoner was hunkered down, firing and moving as we’ve been trained to do. As we reached the prisoner and picked him up I heard the bellowing tone of Captain O’Connor ordering his men into Line, presenting and then giving the French a taste of their own medicine. Rockets continued scream overhead as I spied a merchant and his cart laden with barrels of wine hunkering down near the edge of the vineyard, O’Connor spotted him too and called to is men that there’d be an extra wine ration on him from the merchant once they’d beaten back these frogs. The Irishmen cheered and seemed to go through their drill that bit faster. Then disaster struck one rocket hit the edge or the vineyard and veered off straight into the merchant’s cart and detonated throwing barrels over the road and showering the ground with a fountain of wine the Irishmen groaned as the wine showered the ground around them and the poor merchant was nowhere to be seen. Another rocket then followed a similar route but deflected off the ruins of the wine cart and over the Irishmen’s heads causing them to duck and scatter as the rocket roared over the French line causing the Frenchmen to scatter similarly. As the corporals on both sides pulled men back into place the lines continued trading volleys as my men and I picked out way across the field in leaps and bounds towards safety. Another rocket streaked overhead this time missing the
Irish but ploughing along the French line before detonating right in the middle, the French line shuddered and shook before men began to run before we could cheer a victory however the low thunderous roar of a cannon announced the arrival of more French forces. I remember breaking into a run towards the rendezvous, in the distance I could see Sergeant Jenkins and a handful of riflemen being forced back by a wave of French Skirmishers, they were vastly outnumbered and at this point Jenkins appeared to be standing by sheer force of will alone, his thick welsh accent while carrying well over the noise of the battle was strained and hoarse, he was gesturing with his rifle held in one hand whilst his other hung limply at his side. As I watched Jenkins and his men get overrun I could see 2nd Lt Parson and his men struggling to place more rockets on the bombarding frame as huge fountains of earth erupted around them from the French cannon fire. A shout of frustration from Captain O’Connor announced the arrival of even more French troops on his flank and our position was obviously become more untenable by the second. As we reached the edge of the vineyard I turned back and could see O’Connor’s men faltering under the sustained peppering of fire from two groups of skirmishers coming from different directions. Parsons and his men had already limbered up and were riding hard for safety their damned unreliable rockets and bombarding frame bouncing along behind them. Jenkins and his men were nowhere to be seen at this point I gave the prisoner to a handful of my men and ordered them to make to the rendezvous and headed back to O’Conner with my remaining men. I’d lost enough officers and senior NCOs for one day and I wasn’t going to lose another even if he was Irish.
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