Chapter 982: A Different Peninsular War
However, a single night was nowhere near enough time for the Marquis of Talavera to construct a formidable defensive line.
Early the next morning, led by Wellesley's most elite unit, the 43rd Light Infantry Regiment, the British-Portuguese Allied Forces launched a full-scale assault on the Spanish positions.
The Marquis of Talavera personally commanded the defense, but the British "New Army" possessed an overwhelming advantage in both equipment and training. They hammered the Spaniards so relentlessly that the latter found themselves unable to mount any effective resistance.
Before noon, Talavera's remaining seventeen thousand soldiers had been squeezed into a dangerously narrow strip of land along the riverbank.
The air was thick with the rhythmic cracks of British musketry, while behind them lay the churning, unforgiving waters of the river.
The Marquis of Talavera was on the brink of despair. He clutched a cross and prayed, his mind already drifting toward the inevitable prospect of surrender.
On the other side of the battlefield, Dos Santos drew his sword and mounted his horse, preparing to lead the final charge himself. Just then, a British hussar galloped up and reported to Wellesley, "General, we've spotted French cavalry activity to the northeast."
Wellesley's brow furrowed instantly. "How many?"
"It's unclear, sir," the rider replied. "The enemy is maintaining a tight screen. We haven't been able to get close enough for a proper count."
"Yes, General!"
Dos Santos's eyes widened in disbelief. He hurried to intervene. "General, why stop the attack now?
"We only need two more hours—no, ninety minutes—to completely shatter Talavera's forces! This is the moment to—"
The Englishman turned a cold, piercing gaze toward him. "I believe I have made myself clear, General. Retreat. Now."
"I... Yes, I understand."
Half an hour later, the British-Portuguese Allied Forces began an orderly phased withdrawal from the battlefield, retreating toward the city of Coimbra along the Mondego River.
The Marquis of Talavera was astonished to find the British pressure suddenly vanishing, but he didn't dare attempt a pursuit. In truth, his troops no longer possessed the morale required to launch even a basic counterattack.
An hour passed. Suddenly, over a dozen French columns launched a fierce assault on Colonel Lycole's rearguard. Simultaneously, French Chasseurs in their distinctive white double-breasted uniforms slipped around the flanks of the British line, pressing the pursuit southward.
The two thousand Anglo-Portuguese troops left behind to cover the retreat held out for barely twenty minutes. Under the thunderous volleys of the French infantry lines, they broke and scattered to the flanks.
Shortly after, Junot arrived at Talavera's temporary headquarters with his personal guard. The moment they met, Junot let out a furious roar: "What the hell are you doing here? Why didn't you pin the British down?!"
The words of gratitude that had been on the tip of the Marquis's tongue were swallowed instantly. He replied awkwardly, "I... I was worried it was a British trap."
Junot gave him a scathing look, then wheeled his horse around to continue the chase south.
He had been waiting for an opening further north in Tondela. When word reached him yesterday afternoon that the British had finally taken the initiative to attack, he had mobilized his army with feverish excitement.
His troops had covered thirty kilometers in a grueling forced march, reaching the area south of Mortagua in less than a day.
And yet, all he found was a meager rearguard of two thousand men.
This meant that a Spanish army of nearly thirty thousand had failed to hold the British-Portuguese forces for even a single day...
By the time Junot reached the outskirts of Coimbra, he saw the flashes of British artillery from the city walls. It was clear the enemy was already dug in and prepared for a siege.
Inside Coimbra, at the Allied headquarters.
"Events today have forced me to question your courage, General." The Portuguese commander, Dos Santos, leaned heavily on the table, staring at Wellesley. "You heard the cavalry report. That French force had at most five thousand men.
"We finally gained the advantage, yet you threw it away so easily!"
Wellesley motioned toward Colonel Lycole, who had just changed into a fresh uniform. "Colonel, please tell General Dos Santos how long you were able to hold those Frenchmen."
"About twenty-five minutes, General," Lycole said dejectedly. He had been lucky to evade the French cavalry and make it back to Coimbra, but the units he commanded had been decimated.
Wellesley nodded and turned back to Dos Santos. "And do you believe your men could have repelled those five thousand French troops?"
The Portuguese general stiffened, then slowly shook his head.
Lycole's command had been a "mixed formation," including at least six hundred British regulars. Their combat effectiveness was far superior to his own units, which were composed entirely of raw Portuguese recruits.
Wellesley continued, "We had no way of knowing if Talavera's army was truly broken. Furthermore, our formation at the time was poorly suited to defend against an attack from the north.
"Had the Spaniards managed to launch a counterattack at the same moment the French hit our flank, our entire army might have been routed."
Wellesley's command style was famously cautious. In his career, he was rarely caught off guard, even when facing opponents of Napoleon's caliber.
Dos Santos lowered his head in silence. He had to admit that the Englishman's logic was sound.
After a moment, he spoke with a heavy expression. "Our plan has failed. The situation will become very difficult now. The enemy will surely lay siege to Coimbra."
A month ago, the Franco-Spanish army had left Porto and turned south.
Wellesley had deduced that their target was Coimbra, the gateway to Lisbon. He had decided to take advantage of the enemy's haste by launching a surprise strike with the British New Army, which had been kept hidden until that moment.
He hadn't expected the French to have a hidden card of their own, nearly leading to a disastrous counter-ambush.
Wellesley, however, remained remarkably composed. "No, we haven't lost anything. In fact, by forcing the enemy to shift their axis of advance on such a large scale, they will have to consume vast amounts of resources to re-establish their supply lines.
"We will simply continue to build our bastions here in Coimbra, just as we did in Porto.
"If we force them into this kind of exchange one more time, the Spaniards will be forced to retreat simply due to their massive financial deficit."
"Just like Porto..." Dos Santos felt a pang of apprehension. "You mean?"
Wellesley nodded. "Our only path to victory is to constantly strike at the enemy's supply lines and maximize their attrition."
Three days later, João, the Prince Regent of Portugal, received another recommendation from Wellesley. It was a request to "evacuate" every village and town in the vicinity of Coimbra.
With the experience of the successful defense at Porto fresh in his mind, João didn't hesitate for a moment before signing the decree.
After all, Coimbra was dangerously close to Lisbon. It was a position that could not be lost under any circumstances.
***
Eastern suburbs of Paris.
Joseph's carriage came to a halt in the square outside the French Royal Military University. Immediately, the thunderous boom of a rhythmic artillery salute echoed through the air.
This was the site of the old Paris Police Academy. Following the restructuring of the police force, the facility had been expanded into a full military university.
Today marked the sixth anniversary of the founding of the original academy. Almost every capable officer in the French military had gathered here for the occasion.
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