SIR THOMAS had his eyes fixed on the hill crowned by a ruin. He galloped along the rough track that curled around the seaward side of the hill and discovered a Spanish brigade marching there. The brigade contained five battalions of troops and a battery of artillery, all of whom were under Sir Thomas’s command because they followed the baggage and Lapeña had agreed that every unit behind the baggage would fall under Sir Thomas’s authority. He ordered the Spaniards, both infantry and artillery, to the top of the hill. “You will hold there,” he instructed their commander. The brigade was the nearest troops to the hill, an accident of where they happened to be when Sir Thomas decided to garrison the height, but the Scotsman was nervous of entrusting the army’s rear to an unknown Spanish brigade. He turned his horse, its hooves kicking up sand, and found the battalion of flank companies from the Gibraltar garrison. “Major Browne!”
“At your service, Sir Thomas!” Browne swept off his hat. He was a burly man, red-faced, and eternally cheerful.
“Your fellows are stout, Browne?”
“Every man jack a hero, Sir Thomas.”
Sir Thomas twisted in his saddle. He was on the coast road where it passed through a miserable village called Barroso. There was a watchtower there, built long ago to guard against enemies from the sea, and he had sent an aide to climb the tower, but it gave a poor view inland. Pinewoods edged the coast here and they hid everything to the east, but common sense told Sir Thomas that the French must attack the hill, which was the highest point on the coast. “The devils are out there somewhere,” Sir Thomas said, pointing east, “and our lord and master tells me they’re not coming here, but I don’t believe it, Major. And I don’t want the devils on that hill. You see those Spaniards?” He nodded toward the five battalions toiling up the slope. “Reinforce them, Browne, and hold the hill.”
“It’ll be held,” Browne said cheerfully, “and you, Sir Thomas?”
“We’re ordered north.” Sir Thomas pointed to the next watchtower on the coast. “I’m told there’s a village called Bermeja under that tower. We concentrate there. But don’t leave the hill, Browne, till we’re all there.” Sir Thomas sounded sour. Lapeña was scuttling away and Sir Thomas did not doubt that his two brigades would be required to fight a rearguard action at Bermeja. He would rather have fought here, where the hill gave his troops an advantage, but the liaison officer had brought Doña Manolito’s orders and they were specific. The allied army was to retreat to Cádiz. There was no more talk of striking inland to attack Chiclana; now it was just an ignominious retreat. The whole campaign was a waste! Sir Thomas was angry at that, but he could not disobey a direct order, so he would hold the hill to protect the army’s rear while it marched north to Bermeja. He sent aides to tell General Dilkes and Colonel Wheatley to continue north along the track concealed in the pinewoods. Sir Thomas followed, spurring out of the village into the trees, while Major Browne took his Gibraltar Flankers to the top of the hill that was called the Cerro del Puerco, though neither Browne nor any of his men knew that.
The summit of the Cerro del Puerco was a wide shallow dome. On its seaward side was a ruined chapel and a stand of windswept trees. Browne discovered the five Spanish battalions lined just in front of the ruins. He was tempted to march past the Spaniards and take post on the right of their line, but he suspected their officers would protest if he took that place of honor, so he contented himself by putting his small battalion on the left of the line where the major dismounted and paced in front of his men. He had the grenadier and light companies from the 9th, 28th, and 82nd regiments, elite men from Lancashire, Silver Tails from Gloucestershire, and Holy Boys from Norfolk. The grenadier companies were the heavyweight infantry, big and hard men, selected for their height and fighting abilities, while the light companies were the skirmishers. It was an artificial battalion, put together for just this campaign, but Browne was confident of its abilities. He glanced at the Spaniards and saw that the battery of Spanish guns had deployed at the line’s center.
The British and Spanish line, arrayed on the seaward crest of the Cerro del Puerco, was hidden from anyone inland; that meant the battalions could not see if any French troops approached from the east. Nor, of course, could they be bombarded by enemy cannon if the French did assault the hill, so Browne was content to let his Flankers stay where they were. But he wanted to see if anything threatened the hill and so he gestured to his adjutant and the two men picked their way across the coarse grass. “How are your boils, Blakeney?” Browne asked.
“Recovering, sir.”
“Nasty things, boils. Especially bum boils. Saddles don’t help them, I find.”
“They’re not too painful, sir.”
“Have the surgeon lance them,” Browne suggested, “and you’ll be a new man. Good God.”
The two men had reached the eastern crest and the great heath, undulating toward Chiclana, was visible beneath them. The major’s last two words had been prompted by the sight of distant infantry. He could see the bastards half hidden by distant trees and hillocks, but where the blue-coated devils were going he could not work out. More immediately he could see three squadrons of French dragoons, green-coated devils, who were riding toward the hill. “You think those Frenchmen want to play with us, Blakeney?”
“They seem to be coming this way, sir.”
“Then we must make them welcome,” Browne said, and did a smart about-face and paced back toward the ruined chapel. In front of him now was a battery of five cannon and four thousand Spanish and British muskets. More than enough, he reckoned, to hold the hill.
A flurry of hooves to the south gave him a moment’s alarm. Then he saw that allied cavalry had come to the hilltop. There were three squadrons of Spanish dragoons and two of the King’s German Legion hussars, all under the command of General Whittingham, an Englishman in Spanish service. Whittingham rode to Browne who was still dismounted. “Time to go, Major,” Whittingham said curtly.
“Go?” Browne thought he had misheard. “I’m ordered to hold this hill! And there are two hundred and fifty Crapaud dragoons down there,” Browne said, pointing northeast.
“Seen them,” Whittingham said. His face was deep-lined, shadowed by his cocked hat, beneath which he smoked a thin cigar that he kept tapping even though there was no ash to fall from its tip. “Time to withdraw,” he said.
“I’m ordered to hold the hill,” Browne insisted, “until Sir Thomas has reached the next village. And he hasn’t.”
“They’re gone!” Whittingham pointed to the beach where the last of the baggage train was plodding well north of the Cerro del Puerco.
“We hold the hill!” Browne insisted. “Damn it, those are my orders!”
A cannon, not fifty paces off to Browne’s right, suddenly fired, and Whittingham’s horse skittered sideways and tossed its head frantically. Whittingham calmed the beast and moved it back to Browne’s side. He dragged on his cigar and watched the dragoons who had appeared on the eastern skyline, or at least the helmeted heads of the leading squadron had shown over the crest and the Spanish artillerymen had greeted them with a round shot that screamed off into the eastern sky. A trumpeter sounded a call from the French ranks, but the man was so surprised or else so nervous that the fine notes cracked and he had to begin again. The trumpet did not prompt any extraordinary activity from the dragoons who, evidently surprised to see such a large force waiting for them, stayed just beneath the eastern crest. Two of the Spanish battalions put their skirmishers forward and those light infantrymen started a sporadic musket fire. “Range is much too long,” Browne said scathingly, then frowned up at Whittingham. “Why don’t you charge the buggers?” he asked. “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?” Whittingham had five squadrons while the French had only three.