Spanish valley.
‘Not a chance,’ said Chapman confidently. ‘That gang was large for a piss poor place like this so I reckon the bandits in this valley joined together and we just beat ’em.’ It turned out he was right. We rode down that valley without any further trouble. We did spot what was presumably the bandit’s encampment half a mile down the track, with some children and an old man watching us warily, but we did not see anyone else. At the end, the countryside opened out again into rolling hills, and I felt much safer as any gang of bandits would now see that we were thirty well-armed soldiers and steer clear. But the priest was wrong; it took us another ten days to reach Alcantara.
Chapter 7
We had already established that Downie could not navigate his way out of a grain sack, but now that the chance of ambush had diminished, I was in no rush. As soon as we found the Spanish I would have to head north and if Wellesley had been beaten I had no wish to meet the French coming the other way. With luck, I thought, when we finally found Alcantara there would be a few sleeping dagoes under a tree with all the news. If Wellesley had won, and I’ll admit I thought that was long odds at the time, then I would head north in safety. If he had lost then we would head south to Seville and the coast beyond, for Soult was likely to follow up a victory with an attack on Lisbon.
So we meandered about the countryside for days. Heading probably south when it was cloudy, based on Downie’s misguided moss principle, and north east when we could see the sun, as even that great booby could use the celestial orb as a guide. I normally had a better idea where we were as I would ask any locals I met when riding ahead as scout, but I only passed the news on to our gallant leader when it suited me. I knew we were getting close when very early one morning we passed an old woman with a scrawny donkey loaded with a bundle of firewood. She was hunched under a load of her own and dressed in black with a matching moustache that would be the pride of any hussar. On enquiry she told us that Alcantara lay just over the hill in front of us. Thinking that we had delayed enough, I passed the news on to Downie. A short while later I realised that we had arrived at exactly the wrong time.
The shooting started when we were halfway up the hill; it was around nine o’clock in the morning. To start with there was the low rumble of cannon, lots of cannon. Then as we neared the top there was a steady crackle of musketry. It sounded as though we had happened across a full pitched battle and Downie was in a fever to get over the summit and join in. We imagined Cuesta and his entire Spanish army locked against a French force. Given the Spaniard’s recent performance against the French I was keen to ensure that my horse was not completely blown when we got to the top. There was every chance a fast escape might be required. But what we saw when we crested the ridge stopped us in our tracks. It was an astonishing sight and what followed over the next twenty-four hours was one of the most extraordinary episodes in military warfare. Although for reasons that will become clear, it is rarely mentioned in the history books.
The first thing we saw was the French, and by God there were enough of them. The far side of the valley across the river was covered in blue coated troops. There were thousands and thousands of infantry. Some were in the town of Alcantara, which was on their side of the river, and lining the river bank, but more regiments were still marching towards us from the hills beyond. There were squadrons of cavalry too, wheeling around the town while the boom of guns and plumes of smoke told me that there were at least two batteries of cannon firing from the other side in our direction, twelve pounders I judged, from the noise of their discharge.
Between us and the French lay the river Tagus at the bottom of the valley, fast flowing and deep
‘Not a chance,’ said Chapman confidently. ‘That gang was large for a piss poor place like this so I reckon the bandits in this valley joined together and we just beat ’em.’ It turned out he was right. We rode down that valley without any further trouble. We did spot what was presumably the bandit’s encampment half a mile down the track, with some children and an old man watching us warily, but we did not see anyone else. At the end, the countryside opened out again into rolling hills, and I felt much safer as any gang of bandits would now see that we were thirty well-armed soldiers and steer clear. But the priest was wrong; it took us another ten days to reach Alcantara.
Chapter 7
We had already established that Downie could not navigate his way out of a grain sack, but now that the chance of ambush had diminished, I was in no rush. As soon as we found the Spanish I would have to head north and if Wellesley had been beaten I had no wish to meet the French coming the other way. With luck, I thought, when we finally found Alcantara there would be a few sleeping dagoes under a tree with all the news. If Wellesley had won, and I’ll admit I thought that was long odds at the time, then I would head north in safety. If he had lost then we would head south to Seville and the coast beyond, for Soult was likely to follow up a victory with an attack on Lisbon.
So we meandered about the countryside for days. Heading probably south when it was cloudy, based on Downie’s misguided moss principle, and north east when we could see the sun, as even that great booby could use the celestial orb as a guide. I normally had a better idea where we were as I would ask any locals I met when riding ahead as scout, but I only passed the news on to our gallant leader when it suited me. I knew we were getting close when very early one morning we passed an old woman with a scrawny donkey loaded with a bundle of firewood. She was hunched under a load of her own and dressed in black with a matching moustache that would be the pride of any hussar. On enquiry she told us that Alcantara lay just over the hill in front of us. Thinking that we had delayed enough, I passed the news on to Downie. A short while later I realised that we had arrived at exactly the wrong time.
The shooting started when we were halfway up the hill; it was around nine o’clock in the morning. To start with there was the low rumble of cannon, lots of cannon. Then as we neared the top there was a steady crackle of musketry. It sounded as though we had happened across a full pitched battle and Downie was in a fever to get over the summit and join in. We imagined Cuesta and his entire Spanish army locked against a French force. Given the Spaniard’s recent performance against the French I was keen to ensure that my horse was not completely blown when we got to the top. There was every chance a fast escape might be required. But what we saw when we crested the ridge stopped us in our tracks. It was an astonishing sight and what followed over the next twenty-four hours was one of the most extraordinary episodes in military warfare. Although for reasons that will become clear, it is rarely mentioned in the history books.
The first thing we saw was the French, and by God there were enough of them. The far side of the valley across the river was covered in blue coated troops. There were thousands and thousands of infantry. Some were in the town of Alcantara, which was on their side of the river, and lining the river bank, but more regiments were still marching towards us from the hills beyond. There were squadrons of cavalry too, wheeling around the town while the boom of guns and plumes of smoke told me that there were at least two batteries of cannon firing from the other side in our direction, twelve pounders I judged, from the noise of their discharge.
Between us and the French lay the river Tagus at the bottom of the valley, fast flowing and deep
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