alternatehistory.com

Once again many thanks to Unknown for correcting the original text.



Lecor took his spyglass and turned it to the enemy in front of him.

He had forced the Spaniards to retreat the last time they tried to cross the river but, now, he could see movement on the roads and that could only meant one thing.

Artillery.

And, by the look of it, they had at, the very least, two batteries and, most likely, more. That meant a minimum of eight guns.

For a moment, he was tempted to curse, but he restrained himself. The Spanish guns might be arriving, but the day was almost setting and they would only be useful in the morning so, in the end, he had gained a day.

A day for his own guns to arrive.

But the huge pieces would take a long time to arrive, even if he forced the militias to drag them here during the night.

Something he wouldn't dare to do, for the militia wasn't famous for being the most careful of soldiers.

He had to think of a way to neutralize this new threat for, even with artillery support, his infantry would be cut to pieces, with no place to hide from either solid or grape shot.

At least one thing was going well.

The enemy was obviously preparing to camp for the night, so there would be no more attacks. Lecor might have enjoyed if they attack once again, but he doubted that, after the bloody nose he had given them today, they would move so soon.

While seeing the rest of the Spanish camp, he noticed on that the enemy general, in his arrogance, had only positioned pickets facing the river! There were none facing the other positions.

His mind immediately began devising a plan.

A devilish plan that, if successful, would destroy the Spanish morale and part of their artillery.

A wolfish smile came to Lecor's face while he turned back to his camp.

Yes, he thought, now the Spanish will learn to fear us.

Lieutenant Colonel Anastácio Falé Ramalho, the commanding officer of the 8th Cavalry Regiment of the Portuguese Army, was passing between his men, to ensure that they were ready for what was coming.

They had been ordered by Colonel Lecor to cross the Caga river’s upper north and, then, to wait for the death of night, before doing a raid against the Spanish encampment, with the objective being their artillery and ammunition reserves.

Ramalho had done his best to ensure that all was done as discretely as possible.

And, now, he and his men were in position.

The Spanish were just a few miles to the south and, even from this distance, the bonfires in the camp were visible.

"Sargento-mor, order the man to follow behind me." he said to his second-in-command. "The sabers will remain in their scabbards, but I want all of them to be ready to charge at any minute, understood?"

"Yes, sir." the second-in-command said, before turning his horse to face the other officer, and to pass on the colonel's orders.

Without waiting, the colonel made his horse advance. At this moment, almost five hundred cavalrymen began to trot behind him.

The Portuguese cavalry was now going to show the arrogant Spaniards that, against Portuguese arms and steel, there was no salvation.

General Solano woke up, hearing the screams of his men.

Surprised by the shouting, he left his bed and ran out of his tent, only to find his men in uproar, while blue clothed cavalrymen were charging and killing everyone on sight.

While trying to understand what was happening, he heard one of the cavalrymen shouting to the others.

He was unable to hear everything, but he captured a vital word.

Canhões.

Cannons.

At hearing this, he cursed his stupidity. He had been so certain that the Portuguese wouldn't dare to attack him that he had only posted pickets near the riverbank and, now, he was paying for it, as more and more blue-clothed men charged to where the artillery was.

Solano tried to rally as many men as possible, but panic had spread among them as a fire spreads in a forest and, when the Portuguese on the other side of the river began to cross to form a line of muskets on the Spanish bank, no one was there to oppose them.

He was still trying to gather men when a huge explosion happened. In one moment, he was on his feet, shouting to the men to face the enemy and, in the next moment, he was on the floor, wondering why had God decided to abandon him and his men.

"Bugler, sound the retreat." ordered Colonel Ramalho.

At hearing the sound of the bugle, the men of the 8th began to retreat to where the infantry was guarding the crossing.

The attack had gone perfectly.

The men had been able to approach the enemy camp almost undetected. Had it not been for a moment of bad luck - a Spanish soldier that had left the camp to take a leak had seen them, forcing Ramalho to order a charge - the Spanish would have only found them after they blew their gunpowder into oblivion; of that, he was certain.

But sometimes fate (or God) intervened, and Ramalho had to admit that the cavalry charge had left the Spanish even more confused and in panic than anything he had hoped for.

In the midst of this, his men had nailed almost all of the Spanish twelve guns and had even managed to destroy part of their powder and ammunition.

That, combined with a fire that was beginning to spread among the tents, made him consider the raid a complete success.

While he passed by the infantry which, to Ramalho's surprise, was being commanded by Lecor himself, he begun to laugh, as he thought of the reaction in the European courts when they learned that a mere five hundred men, had dared to attack a full division and had gotten away with it.

Even after having almost no sleep during the night, Colonel Lecor still had enough energy to drag his staff into exhaustion.

The raid had been a success and he dared to bet that they had gained at least one more extra morning to bring the artillery.

But, even with this extra time, work still had to be done and he would be damned if he cared of what his staff thought.

Ammunition and to be brought from the fortress, messengers had to be sent to the militias guarding the other crossing to the south to ensure that he wasn't being flanked, men had to be sent to scout to the north, reports had to be written…the work of a field officer was endless.

But when he looked at the Spanish encampment, were the damage of last night raid were still visible, he allowed himself a moment of relinquish, before, once again, turning his back at the sight and beginning to shout orders to the officers near him.

The Spanish had been caught off guard, but they were still far from beaten.

Captain Patrick Ó Faoláin, of the 2nd Company of the Regimento Irlanda - Irish Regiment - of his Most Catholic Majesty's Army, ordered his men to advance, as the cannons behind him fired against their Portuguese foes.

It still confused Ó Faoláin that the Portuguese, fellow followers of the Catholic faith, decided to side with Protestant England. He had no problem in killing the Angles; that was one of the reasons why he had to leave his native Ireland but, while he saw the blue-clothed men holding their ground despite the cannon fire, he wondered if there was any point in this.

Why don't they just give up? he thought.

In Patrick's mind, all the Portuguese had to do was to abandon the heretics and then join their fellow Catholic brothers, in destroying the British tyrants. It never occurred to him, that the same hate the Irish had for England, the Portuguese had for Spain and, if he did, it mattered little to him.

After all, if they weren't going to join peacefully, they would join by force of arms if needed.

As he and the rest of the men of the regiment begun to cross the river, the Portuguese opened fire.

This would be the hard part for the Spanish vanguard.

They would be crossing the river with water up to their chests, and would be unable to stop to fire back at the enemy. Many would die in the crossing, but the remainder would be ready to return the welcome they were receiving from their Portuguese hosts.

As he saw the hand of fear in the faces of the men of the other regiments, Patrick was filled with outrage. They were cowards who only wished to be far away from the fighting and back at the barracks. If only the army had more Irishmen, he had no doubt that the Portuguese would have already been routed.

When they were near the other bank, he ordered his men move faster so that they could return fire but, the moment he stepped on to the other bank, Patrick felt something hit his chest; his legs failed him and, so, he fell into the river.

Patrick Ó Faoláin, an Irish exile and officer in his Most Catholic Majesty’s Army, was dead, with a Portuguese bullet in his chest.

Sargento-mor Luis de Moura, commanding officer of the 2º Battalion and now temporary commander of the 5th of the Line, was impressed with the his Spanish foe.

Even after they had gone through, they were still willing to attack, even if their officers didn't came up with the most inventive of tactics.

He counted at least four regimental flags in the middle of the men. He did a quick count, and estimated that the Spanish sent as many as three thousand men but, with them, it was always hard to guess how many men they had, given that some of their regiments could be considered little more than big companies.

de Moura was so embroiled in his thoughts, that he almost didn't noticed the regimental surgeon approaching him.

"How is he?" de Moura asked.

The surgeon took a deep breath before answering.

"He isn't well. The colonel is an old man and I fear that cutting off his leg might not save him, but it's all in God's hands now."

de Moura felt sad at hearing this. Colonel de Brincken was a good man, always caring about his officers and soldiers, always putting their needs in front of his own. He had not even cared when Colonel Lecor, a man half his age, had been given command of the brigade and had always tried to advise the young officer at the best of his ability. And, now, just a couple of months before his retiring ceremony, he was at the gates of death.

"You did your best, Gonçalo." he said to the surgeon. "It's not his fault. If anyone is to blame, it should be put at the hands of Napoleon and his Spanish dogs."

The surgeon could only nod. The colonel had always been fair with him, showing concern about the well-being of his family. For him and the other men of the regiment, the colonel had been more than an officer, he had been a father figure.

When the men had seen him being brought down by a cannonball, they had been outraged and fired volley after furious volley against the Spanish.

After seeing the carnage his men were doing he, for a moment, felt pity.

But when he remembered the colonel's face, covered with blood, all he could feel was hate.

Lecor was seeing his men cut down the Spanish infantry in front of him, when he received word that the battalions of the 17th of the Line were running low on ammunition.

He cursed bitterly at this.

The ammunition, like the cannons, were still on the road, barely a mile away from the fighting.

Close, but not close enough.

As the men of the 5th were also asking for extra ammunition, he decided to gamble.

Until now, his gambles had paid off, and he couldn't just sit while the ammunition was being brought up. So he advanced to the battle line and ordered the regimental and battalion commanders to come to him.

"Men, we have no time to waste. The supplies are still too far away to be of any use and we have exhausted our ammunition reserves."

"Does that mean we are to retreat sir?" asked an officer of the 17th.

"No. You are to tell the men to ready bayonets. We are to expel them from the riverbank with cold steel."

At hearing this, many of the officers were surprised for a second but, then, dark grins came to their faces.

After all, a bayonet charge would be the last thing the enemy would expect.

The Spaniards had been caught off guard. But, despite that, they had fought well, and had died hard.

The bayonet charge had surprised them; in truth, it even surprised the attackers, but they had managed to hold for a while.

But there was no way to stop the men of the 5th from avenging their commanding officer.

They had repulsed the Spaniards, but losses on both sides had been great.

The river was red with blood and corpses filled the riverbank.

But not all the news had been bad.

Two regimental colors and one flag of the King of Spain had been captured.

And, when the cannons that had finally arrived from Elvas had gotten into position, the Spanish began to retreat to their encampment.

The second day of the Battle of Elvas had been a bloody and dreadful affair, but one that the Portuguese had won.


For all of you wondering Sargento-Mor, Sargent-Major in English, was the Portuguese rank equivalent to the modern Major. I decided to keep the old name, but in the future the rank name will change to the modern Major.