Craven’s War:

  RUNNING THE GAUNTLET

  By Nick S. Thomas

  Copyright © 2023 by Nick S. Thomas

  Published by Swordworks Books

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Prologue

  The campaign of 1812 offered a huge opportunity for the Anglo Portuguese army, but also enormous risks with several French armies of a similar size still operating across Spain. After many weeks of tedious but clever manoeuvres, one of those armies commanded by Marshal Marmont was encouraged into making battle with dire consequences for the fifty thousand-strong force. The French army was scattered and suffered horrific casualties at Salamanca with many more taken prisoner in a decisive victory for Wellington which few believed possible, for this was not a defensive victory as he had become known for.

  With Marshal Marmont defeated, the path to Madrid appeared open, a prize and chance to liberate the city, which had been a principal aim following the battle of Talavera three years previously. This was the second chance so many believed they would never get.

  On the army marches into the unknown, but with hope in their hearts and triumph in the eyes of the world. Yet the battle of Salamanca was only the first step in driving the French out of Spain, for there was so much more work to be done.

  Chapter 1

  “You see that, Paget!” Craven roared enthusiastically as he pointed to a road sign directing them to Madrid.

  It was the jewel in the crown that had evaded them years before, and for a long time it felt like a goal so far out of reach that they may never get another chance at liberating the city. It was the capital and seat of power of King Joseph, the brother of Bonaparte the Emperor himself had installed.

  “Will he stand and fight, Sir?”

  “Who?”

  “King Joseph?”

  Craven burst out into laughter.

  “That puppet with only a handful men? He will fly from that city well before we are in sight of it.”

  Joseph had little respect in Spain, not from the Spanish, the Anglo Portuguese army, or even many of the French soldiers deployed there. But the fact remained he was the most senior appointed Frenchman in the country and a figurehead which to topple would send shockwaves throughout Europe and all the way back to Napoleon himself.

  “Do you think Napoleon will finally come and face us, Sir?”

  “Oh, no, he is far too busy waging his own war into Russia.”

  “Will he succeed, do you think?”

  “With the greatest army ever assembled, it can only be a great triumph or spectacular disaster.”

  “Then I pray for the latter, for I cannot imagine what Napoleon might achieve with his grand army if he marched upon us. We could be swept away like we were nothing, all the way back to England, and then have to defend our own borders from his unrelenting march.”

  “Indeed, it has been the fear in England for many years now, and yet here we are, resisting Napoleon’s forces in distant lands, and if we continue to fight and win like we did at Salamanca, then we chip away at Napoleon’s Empire.”

  “But is it enough?”

  Craven shrugged as he honestly had no idea. The echo of musket fire in the distance caused him to halt their advance. Sporadic fire continued. It sounded as though a small skirmish had broken out not far from them.

  “How far is that?” Craven asked Moxy, knowing he could judge the distance by the sound of the shots better than anyone.

  “A little over a mile,” he replied quickly.

  He peered around to see there was no one else rushing to help, and they were well ahead of the main army, though Major Spring and several of his staff came galloping towards them.

  “Must be a few stragglers causing a ruckus. Get in and help, Major!” he cried out to Craven.

  His timing seemed a little too convenient, but Craven welcomed a little excitement in an otherwise monotonous march.

  “Riders with me!”

  He took off towards the sound of the action. He didn’t wait to see if the others would follow him as he had no doubt of it. He trusted in his comrades wholeheartedly in a way he never had in his previous life. It was a refreshing feeling to know that so many dependable soldiers and friends had his back. They galloped on with some speed and knew it would be only a matter of minutes before they were at their destination and joining the fray. Few shots could be loaded and fired in that time. But they were all acutely aware of how quickly a situation could change in close quarters if a fight reached bayonet and sword range, or even the threat of it, for many soldiers fled at the sight of a cavalry or a bayonet charge.

  Shots continued to echo out ahead of them, and they could smell the putrid powder smoke wafting across the open ground before them, with the action unfolding in a valley below the natural shelf in the ground ahead. Craven led twenty mounted soldiers. It was a perfectly adequate troop for scouting duties but hardly a formidable fighting force, and he had no idea what sort of trouble they were about to run in to. He couldn’t imagine it could be much, for the French army was in flight after the mauling they had endured at Salamanca.

  Craven led them forward over the crest to find two horses with empty saddles, both the mounts of British officers from the looks of the equipment fixed to their saddles. Beyond them a small battle was raging where three carts had sought shelter among the remnants of a burnt-out farmhouse and outbuildings. Several French cavalrymen lay dead on the approach, their horses fleeing into the distance, whilst more Frenchmen fired on at the defences with their carbines. A few dozen others still in their saddles rallied for another attack. British soldiers fought from behind and atop the full waggons whilst others had sought refuge among the stone ruins where they loaded and fired from open windows and doorways.

  “Make ready!” Craven took his rifle from his back.

  Paget was stunned that he had not charged in with sword in hand, but also glad he had not, for they did not want to come between the fire of both sides. The French cavalry were starting their advance to make another rush on the defences and had not even noticed the arrival of Craven and the others. The skirmish and near continuous sporadic fire had entirely concealed their approach.

  “Present!” Craven cried.

  Even his roar went unnoticed in the chaos below.

  “Fire!”

  Their volley ripped into the French cavalry, knocking many out of the saddle and causing their advance to waver as they slowed in a state of confusion. Craven quickly slung his rifle onto his back and drew out his sabre, the very same sword Le Marchant had gifted him. It now meant more to him than ever, following the tragic death of the General during his most successful feat in the field of battle at Salamanca.

  “Charge!” he cried out as if he were himself a cavalryman.

  A British officer fighting from the ruins raced out in jubilation to see their rescuers with his own eyes. He grabbed hold of a riderless French horse and leapt onto it to join in the push as Craven’s small force darted down the gentle slope. The French cavalry quickly fled, and the British officer’s path intersected with Craven’s as they soared on after the enemy. They could see the French cavalry regrouping ahead of them as if the fight was over, and that they could be on their way in a more orderly fashion, but Craven’s force descended upon them relentlessly.

  The Frenchmen made an advance towards them in an attempt to break the charge, but it would not be stopped, and the two sides crashed into one another. Craven beat one of their blades aside before hacking at it. He barely needed to put any force into the blow, for the speed of his horse powered the cut more powerfully than he ever could. The blow cut deeply, and he soon wheeled around to continue on in the melee as the clash of cold steel rang out, a far more welcoming sensation than the acrid sulphur fumes from black powder weaponry.

  His next blow cleaved through a French sabre, breaking it in half. The officer wielding the remnants threw up his hands in surrender with the others quickly following suit, causing them all to become prisoners with few casualties.

  “Round them up, Mr Paget! And those horses, too. They will be most useful to us!”

  Craven sheathed his sword and watched the enemy throw down their arms. It was a satisfying sight as he had no desire for needless killing, and not even Charlie seemed disappointed by the lack of bloodshed. Though Birback was quick to riffle through their possessions, which he at least did without doing them harm. The horses were slight and underfed, as the French were clearly short on both animals and feed.

  “I say, Sir, what time you have!” roared the officer excitedly who had ridden on beside them from the makeshift defences among the ruins and carts.

  He looked to be of a similar age to Paget but was a
few inches taller and stronger built. Yet he carried the same boyish enthusiasm which Paget so often exuded even after years of campaigning. He wore the typical uniform of an infantry officer much like Paget and carried the same sword. Craven’s keen eye quickly spotted the makers markings in the spine of the man’s blade. J J Runkel it read. A common German import blade which a great many British swords were fitted with, especially officers’ swords, which were hilted up and sold by such a wide variety of cutlers and furniture makers of varying quality. But a Runkel blade had Craven’s respect. They were common but of robust quality. He wondered if the sword was a wise choice by the young man or simply a lucky coincidence. For a great many young officers who had purchased their swords from a tailor’s shop were not so lucky.

  “Buncy?” Paget rode up beside them.

  “Is your work not done?” Craven asked angrily, having given Paget orders just moments before.

  “It is,” snapped Paget.

  He pointed back towards the enemy where he had delegated the work to others, just as an officer should, with Matthys now in charge of the prisoners. A better guardian could not be asked for, and so Craven could not argue with him.

  “BP?” asked the officer in surprise, referring to Paget’s initials.

  The young officer almost looked like he could be related to Paget as if he was the bigger brother, and they spoke to one another with such fondness and familiarity even with only the briefest encounter.

  “You know one another?” Craven enquired exhaustively, as if he was about to endure a long-winded story.

  “We most certainly do. For we went to school together,” smiled Paget. “Major James Craven, Richard Bunce, or Buncy as I have long known him.”

  “That will be Captain Buncy,” smiled the officer.

  His uniform was as well-kept as Paget’s always was, but Craven knew there was a reason for it in Paget’s case. He bought new at every opportunity and so he never looked like he had been on campaign for long. Craven wondered what this Captain’s reasons were. He showed no signs of wear and tear. No visible scars or signs of serious hardship. His face and body were a little more filled out than Paget who could still be mistaken for a teenager due to his stature.

  “Major Craven, it is an honour, for I am familiar with some of your exploits and today I got to witness them with my own eyes, bravo!”

  “Captain already?” asked Paget in amazement.

  “Promotion is quick in war. I thought you to be a Major by now,” jabbed Bunce in a friendly fashion.

  “We do things a little differently in the Salford Rifles,” replied Craven defensively.

  “It is true, the Major was only promoted as such most recently and it was quite the struggle to make him accept it,” replied Paget.

  “Why the devil for? What better to achieve than promotion if not glory?”

  Craven smiled.

  “That is funny for you, Sir?” Bunce asked in a curious manner.

  “It is, for you remind me of Mr Paget when we first met.”

  “Is that a compliment?” smiled Bunce.

  “No,” replied Craven abruptly.

  Bunce looked a little put out but said nothing, and the silence which followed drew all of their attention to several riders approaching at speed. It was Major Spring who approached with a great smile on his face as he drew up before them.

  “Good show, Major!”

  But Craven looked suspicious.

  “You knew there would be a battle here today, didn’t you?”

  “Major, I cannot predict the future,” he replied defensively.

  “No, but you can set things in motion to collide with one another.”

  Spring smiled as he all but recognised his guilt in the set up.

  “I see you have already met Captain Bunce?”

  “I have,” replied Craven suspiciously.

  “Sir, I have orders to report to Wellington,” insisted Bunce.

  “So that he may inform you of your transfer, which I will now deliver to save us all the time.” Spring pulled out some papers from a satchel and handed them to the captain. Bunce quickly unfolded them with great anticipation and curiosity.

  “It says I am to transfer to the…Salford Rifles…” he declared in disbelief.

  “Absolutely not,” snapped Craven angrily.

  “Craven, you have recently lost a good officer in Captain Hawkshaw. Wellington felt that you could do with a capable replacement.”

  “No,” replied Craven sternly.

  “This is not a matter for debate, Major.”

  “I decide who serves in the Salfords!”

  “But you also answer to Wellington, and these orders come directly from his Lordship, and you will follow them.”

  Craven looked back and forth irritably. Even Paget looked a little put out, as it would place his old friend above him in seniority despite all the years of good service he had given. But Craven finally nodded in agreement, knowing he was in no position to fight against the transfer.

  “Can I have a word, Major?”

  “I will be on my way, and so you can speak for as long as you wish to follow me.”

  Spring turned about and went on. Craven quickly caught up.

  “Why are you doing this to me? Is Wellington offloading another problem child on me?”

  “I think we can all agree that Mr Paget is a most formidable asset and soldier to have under your command.”

  “He is now, but do you know how long it has taken to mould that boy into a soldier?”

  “Bunce is a year Paget’s senior and not new to Spain. This will be good for you Major.”

  “There is no way I am getting out of this, is there?”

  “None at all. These are Wellington’s orders, and you will follow them if you want to remain in charge of the Salford Rifles. You may operate far outside of the normal confines of command, but never forget that you do answer to him. Look, the remnants of the army we fought at Salamanca retreats North, and in doing so opens the road to Madrid and a great many of French positions. Wellington has ordered advances on Tordesillas, Zamora, Tora, and Benavente. It is all hands on deck, Major, and you have been given a fine young and strong officer with which to press on forward with.”

  Craven groaned.

  “Can he at least fight?”

  Spring smiled as Craven had clearly given up the struggle, and he stopped to turn back. He watched as the carts that had taken shelter among the ruins were dragged back out onto the road, and the soldiers took charge of the French prisoners to lead them on. Craven went back to his comrades with their newest recruit who he did not know what to make of.

  “Did you request this appointment?” Craven demanded of him bluntly.

  “I did not, Sir.”

  “Can you fight?”

  “I can, Sir.”

  “Prove it.” Craven gestured towards Matthys who took out a pair of singlesticks from the back of his saddle.

  “Paget, let’s see what he is made of,” ordered Craven.

  The Lieutenant leapt from his horse and removed his sword belt in readiness, but Bunce hesitated and did not know how to react.

  “Have you not fenced or cudgel played before?” Craven asked.

  Bunce stuttered and hesitated as he was clearly well out of his comfort zone.

  “We fenced foil many times,” insisted Paget.

  Craven nodded in appreciation as he turned back to Bunce.

  “And now you are a Captain in the British army, and so you must know how to cut?”

  “Sir…I…” bumbled Bunce.

  “Captain, you have been signed over to me, and I am therefore your commanding officer. Every soldier who fights under my command must not just know how to fight; they must be damn good at it. All of our lives depend upon it. For we do not sit about barracks and play soldier, we do the soldiering. We could encounter the enemy tomorrow or even again today, and I want to know if you are up to the task.”

  “Was my bravery in the face of the enemy today not enough evidence?”

  “That you are not a coward is certain, but I have not yet seen you use a sword.”

  “Are they of great use in this war, Sir?” Bunce has doubt in his voice, as if he were questioning Craven’s motivations to put so much emphasis on the art of fencing.