Chapter 981: Wellesley's New Army
The Kattegat Strait, the maritime gateway connecting Northern and Western Europe.
Inside the captain’s quarters of the HMS Britannia, a first-rate ship of the line in the British Royal Navy, a captain stood at attention before Brigadier General Pix. He offered a salute and handed over a folder tucked under his arm.
"General, the latest reports are in. They signed the treaty at noon today," the officer reported.
Pix’s expression hardened. He knew exactly which treaty the officer meant: the so-called International Maritime Convention.
"So soon?" He snatched the documents, his brow furrowing. "I thought they were still bickering over the definition of territorial waters just yesterday?"
"They were, General. However, the French quickly secured the backing of Russia and Austria, effectively crushing any opposing views."
Spain, of course, was in no position to oppose France on the matter of the maritime convention. After all, they were entirely dependent on French support on the Portuguese front.
Pix flipped through the report, which contained a copy of the International Law of the Sea signed just hours prior. He scanned the section regarding territorial waters:
"Territorial waters shall extend 6 nautical miles from the coastline..."
"Dispute resolution mechanisms. For violations of maritime law, nations may appeal to the International Tribunal for the Law of the Sea, where arbitration judges will mediate or pass judgment..."
"Transit passage systems for international straits..."
"Special territorial water considerations for island nations..."
"Maritime access rights for landlocked nations..."
Pix tossed the report onto his desk with a dark scowl and waved the officer away.
He had been ordered to lead more than twenty warships to blockade the waters near Denmark to intimidate the nations participating in the convention, but it was clear his presence had achieved nothing.
In truth, the British government had anticipated this outcome, but they felt it necessary to make their opposition known.
First and foremost, France had seized the moral high ground by championing the slogans of "freedom of trade" and "the sea belongs to all nations." Apart from Britain, nearly every other country was a staunch supporter of the convention.
Secondly, the sheer number of signatories was staggering.
The moment Britain caught wind of the proposal, they had begun lobbying European nations to boycott the organization. However, the French mobilization had been far more successful, ultimately drawing over eighty countries to the table.
The British Navy was undeniably powerful. When threatening a single nation, even Russia had to tread carefully.
But threatening eighty nations simultaneously? That was tantamount to placing Britain in opposition to all of Europe.
The next day, the inaugural general assembly of the International Maritime Convention Organization concluded. Ships flying the flags of various nations began to stream out of Copenhagen Harbor. They completely ignored the menacing British warships loitering nearby as they sailed steadily into the Baltic Sea.
Brigadier General Pix sighed softly, muttering under his breath, 'It’s just a treaty with no real enforcement power anyway. Let the French enjoy their little victory.'
As a man of the eighteenth century, it was difficult for him to grasp the immense psychological and ideological impact such an international organization would have on the global consciousness.
In the short term, it might not restrain the British fleet’s movements, but once the common people of all nations accepted the Law of the Sea as justice, Britain’s blockades would be seen as an assault on justice itself, earning them the animosity of the world.
When this sentiment trickled up to the governmental level, it would manifest as crushing diplomatic pressure.
Furthermore, Joseph was certain to take active steps to accelerate that very process.
...
Central-Western Portugal.
By the lower reaches of the Mondego River, in the city of Coimbra.
Luis dos Santos, commander of the Portuguese Legion, watched through his telescope as the Spanish forces retreated like a receding tide. He turned excitedly to the Marquis of Wellesley and exclaimed, "General, they’re retreating! We’ve won..."
"This is nothing," the Englishman replied calmly, adjusting his horse's reins as he began to descend the low hill. "Talavera has been launching relentless assaults on Coimbra for a full week. His soldiers are exhausted."
'Once our flanking maneuver is in place, we’ll retake Mortagua by this afternoon,' he thought.
He looked toward a nearby messenger. "Order the Scots Guards to begin."
"Yes, General!"
Indeed, Wellesley had arrived near Coimbra from Porto a week ago. However, he had only sent three thousand Portuguese troops to assist with the city’s defense, keeping his main force stationed dozens of kilometers away, waiting for the right moment.
That moment had arrived today, as he launched a sudden, massive counteroffensive against the Spanish army.
Despite their numerical superiority, the Spanish forces collapsed like a house of cards, quickly falling into a disorganized retreat toward the northeast.
The pursuing Anglo-Portuguese Allied Forces seemed in no hurry, maintaining a perfectly disciplined formation as they advanced. Though they cut down many Spanish soldiers, they appeared to be falling further behind the Marquis of Talavera’s main body.
By three o’clock in the afternoon, when the sound of cannon fire finally faded behind him, Talavera breathed a sigh of relief. He turned to his messenger and commanded, "Tell the Ruinis Legion to establish a defensive line in the valley ahead. Everyone else is to return to Mortagua to rest and refit."
"Understood, General."
The messenger had barely ridden off when the Marquis of Talavera heard the sharp crack of musketry echoing from the north.
He frowned and remarked to his staff, "Likely some local guerrillas. Send the cavalry to deal with them..."
However, he realized almost immediately that something was wrong. The volume of fire was far too dense and disciplined for a mere band of guerrillas.
He spurred his horse up a nearby embankment and leveled his telescope. His blood ran cold as he saw his left wing, the Toledo Legion, being sliced in half by men in bright red uniforms. A flood of his soldiers was already fleeing toward his position.
"Order Ruinis to form a defensive square immediately! Do it now!" he screamed at those beside him.
The Ruinis Legion was one of the most elite units under his command. By the time the British vanguard reached the Spanish center, Ruinis had already deployed three lines of infantry to the north.
Hundreds of British skirmishers immediately charged forward, braving the fire of the Spanish cannons.
As the distance closed rapidly, the British began to level their muskets and fire.
The soldiers of the Ruinis Legion were shocked to find that the enemy’s fire was devastatingly rapid.
For every three volleys the Spanish managed, the British returned four!
Before the main British infantry lines could even close the distance, their skirmishers had already shattered the first Spanish line.
One could hardly blame the Spanish for their poor performance; they were facing Wellesley’s New Army, equipped with the latest percussion cap muskets and bulletproof inserts.
This was the first time the British Expeditionary Force had engaged the Spanish in a direct, head-on battle since landing in Portugal—even the fighting near Coimbra had involved the "mixed formations" of the Anglo-Portuguese forces.
The twenty-five hundred soldiers of the Scots Guards were like lions among sheep. they tore through Talavera’s center with terrifying speed, driving over ten thousand Spanish troops toward the banks of the Mondego River.
At the same time, the main body of the Anglo-Portuguese Allied Forces arriving from Coimbra reached the battlefield.
By the time the Marquis of Talavera could see the rushing waters of the river in the distance, night finally fell, and the British halted their advance.
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