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Chapter 987: The Portuguese Militia

Central Portugal, thirty kilometers west of Viseu City.

Two French Hussars rounded the hills ahead, pulling their reins one after another. They tipped their hats in salute to a Captain riding a Gallic horse. "Captain, another British cavalry squadron has arrived. It looks like they could launch an attack at any moment."

The cavalry Captain nodded. "What is the situation in the town?"

"They have scraped together four or five hundred muskets," one hussar reported. "But I observed them through my telescope—it is a mess. I doubt they have much fighting strength."

"Oh, they also seem to have a few dozen riders, likely local mounted police from the area."

"Understood. Go and rest for now."

The two hussars shared a glance before one ventured a question. "Captain, are we... still going to stay out of it like before?"

For over ten days, British cavalry had been roaming everywhere, forcing villagers to leave and torching the fields.

This French cavalry company had been ordered to monitor a British cavalry squadron. However, even as the latter raided three villages, the French had done nothing but follow from a distance.

Unsurprisingly, the newly elected town council had rejected the scorched earth order issued from Lisbon.

The British cavalry seemed concerned about suffering a setback in a town of three thousand people, so they called in another squadron—usually, they operated in groups of fifty riders to a single squadron. After all, this area was within the supply lines of the Franco-Spanish alliance; concentrating too many troops risked total annihilation.

The French Captain, however, let out a smile. "No, our 'vacation' is over."

Dousal Town.

Laplecie, commander of the militia battalion, stared nervously through his telescope at the open ground to the west. Though no British cavalry were visible yet, he knew they were out there, ready to appear at any moment.

The thought made him wipe the cold sweat from his forehead repeatedly.

Indeed, he was a retired sergeant who had never commanded more than twenty soldiers. Now, he was expected to lead four hundred and sixty men to repel two squadrons of enemy troops.

But he knew he had to hold his ground. If he didn't, his home behind him would be reduced to ash, just like those of the villagers who had fled to the town.

Recently, the British, acting on the King's orders, had burned three nearby villages. As many as three or four hundred people had fled to the town as a result.

Fortunately, after hearing the rumors, Dousal Town had quickly elected a council. He had to admit those once-annoying Liberals were right this time.

The council had gathered every weapon in town and organized retired soldiers and police into a militia battalion.

It was lucky many of the refugees were hunters; otherwise, they never would have found over four hundred people who knew how to shoot on such short notice.

A man’s resonant voice sounded from behind him: "Those nobles sucked our blood dry to fatten themselves, and now they want us to die for them!"

"We will protect our homes with our own strength! Neither the King nor the Spaniards will make us bow!"

Laplecie didn't need to look back to know it was the newly elected councilor, Apinto.

He turned instinctively and bowed slightly. "Lord Apinto..."

The councilor helped him up, speaking earnestly. "Mr. Laplecie, there are no 'lords' here. Every man is equal."

"I have brought sweet bread and wine on behalf of the council for everyone."

He then leaned closer to Laplecie and whispered, "We can win this, right?"

Laplecie forced himself to look confident and nodded firmly. "Yes, we will win."

Apinto’s clenched hands relaxed, and he nodded back. "We only need to hold out for three days. The people of Rouet Town will come to reinforce us."

The Dousal Town Council had already reached a mutual defense agreement with several neighboring towns.

Just as the women accompanying the councilor were about to distribute the bread and wine, the dull thud of galloping hooves echoed from the distance.

Laplecie hurried them away and strode to the barricades at the town entrance—a rampart made of furniture and sandbags. He shouted at the top of his lungs, "Don't be afraid! Don't fire at will! Listen for the command!"

Almost no one listened to him.

It wasn't that they didn't want to; their brains were so gripped by terror that they simply could no longer process the sounds reaching their ears.

Ten minutes later, several dark blue figures appeared on the horizon, riding side-by-side at a slow pace.

They were British Hussars.

"Crack!"

A shot rang out from Laplecie’s left. Someone had pulled the trigger in a panic.

As if prompted by the signal, the air was suddenly filled with the continuous popping and banging of musketry.

In contrast, the hunters in the village remained calm. They knew they couldn't even kill a rabbit at this distance. To take down a wild boar, you had to let it get within forty paces.

More cavalry appeared in sight and quickly accelerated, charging toward the town entrance in an inverted V formation.

The militia's frantic opening volley had done no damage, and now they were all in a fluster trying to reload.

British cavalrymen dismounted to clear the roadblocks while the horses behind them leaped over the remaining sandbags. Their sabers pointed directly at the militiamen over a hundred paces away.

The hunters on the flanks finally opened fire.

However, there were too few of them, and they failed to form a concentrated volley. After killing five or six British soldiers, the cavalry crashed into the militia's defensive line.

Sabers flashed, and more than a dozen men fell into pools of blood with agonizing screams.

Laplecie raised his sword, shouting for the reserves hidden in the side alleys to engage the enemy.

The cavalry’s momentum was slowed by the bodies. Seeing over a hundred men suddenly emerge, the British officer decisively ordered his men to wheel out from the west side of the defense line.

Behind them, over thirty mounted police immediately gave chase with a roar. Their carbines flashed, successfully gunning down a few British riders.

However, after the British had galloped several hundred meters, they suddenly veered to the side. Fifty British Hussars, who had been waiting to support them, cut directly into the disorganized ranks of the mounted police.

Blood sprayed as a dozen men were instantly hacked down by sabers.

The remaining police turned to flee in terror, but turning a horse takes time. The British circled behind them, quickly formed a line, and charged back in.

In the end, only seven blood-soaked mounted police managed to scramble back into the town.

The British cavalry calmly reformed their ranks and soon launched another assault.

This time, the Dousal Town militia were completely overwhelmed by fear. Dozens of corpses lay beside them, as if Death itself were grinning at them. More than a third of the men fired a single shot before dropping their weapons and fleeing.

Laplecie led the remaining men in a desperate struggle for half an hour before they were forced to retreat into the heart of the town, hoping to make a stand in the narrow streets and alleys.

The British were experts at clearing streets. Half dismounted to fire volleys while the other half hunted down fleeing militiamen.

Around three in the afternoon, over a hundred militiamen had been killed, and the British cavalry was closing in on the town church.

At that moment, Councilor Apinto suddenly appeared in the church bell tower, waving a white flag and screaming, "Stop! Stop fighting! We surrender!"