Chapter 988: The Quagmire
Laplecie turned toward the bell tower and spat out an angry rebuke. "You coward! They’ll burn the town to the ground, and our children will starve to death in Lisbon!"
Apinto spared him a glance, continuing to wave his white flag as he switched to English. "Surrender! We surrender..."
The already shattered militia saw that even the honorable councilor had given up. What little will to resist remained instantly collapsed. One by one, they dropped their weapons and fell to their knees.
"Damn it, we can't just give up!" Laplecie shouted in desperation. "Think of the farmers who fled here for safety!"
Only the hunters who had fled there as refugees and a handful of townspeople remained huddled around him—perhaps a hundred men at most. They continued to reload and fire.
Just then, a boy in his teens ran over, gasping for breath as he shouted to Laplecie, "Com—Commander! Over on Red Bamboo Street... there are lots of Englishmen!"
Laplecie’s head throbbed at the news.
Red Bamboo Street was south of the church. This meant the British had successfully flanked them.
The saber he had been brandishing slowly lowered.
Even if they all died here, the town was lost.
If they stayed alive, they might still be able to protect their families on the road to Lisbon. Though, in all likelihood, they would probably starve to death anyway...
"Listen, everyone." He raised a hand to signal the militia. "Put them down—"
He was only halfway through his sentence when the crisp, rhythmic crack of musket fire erupted from the north.
Suddenly, the British fell into a panic. They left only thirty or forty men to maintain the standoff while the rest of their soldiers scrambled to turn around and form lines.
'Could it be the people from Rouet Town?'
Laplecie immediately shook his head. That kind of synchronized volley was something no militia could ever achieve.
A jolt of electricity ran through him.
Regardless of who the reinforcements were, this was the perfect opportunity to repel the British!
He loudly rallied the militia around him, ordering them into formation. "Our reinforcements are here! The Redcoats are faltering! Follow me and wipe them out!"
Seeing the tide turn, the militia who had previously surrendered snatched up their weapons and rushed forward to join him.
No one wanted to lose their home. Especially after reading those pamphlets that had been circulating; the people were now firmly convinced the British intended to use the war as an excuse to slaughter them.
Soon, Laplecie was the first to charge toward the British soldiers across the street. Nearly two hundred men followed behind him, screaming at the top of their lungs.
At the north end of town, a company of French Hussars suddenly struck the British cavalry from the rear, instantly shattering their formation.
By the time the British cavalry realized what was happening and tried to wheel around to regroup, seventy or eighty of their men had already been cut down by the French.
The British had started with nearly 300 men, but after their previous losses and leaving a portion behind to deal with the militia, they had only 130 left to face the French.
The French Hussar company consisted of 115 men.
Despite the similar numbers, the battle was completely one-sided.
Upon dismounting, the French cavalry immediately formed a standard infantry line—a core part of the curriculum for all students of the Paris Police Academy. Whether one was cavalry, artillery, or even a combat engineer, training began with the mastery of horizontal and vertical formations.
Conversely, the British appeared incredibly clumsy once they were off their horses.
However, charging an infantry line with cavalry in the cramped streets of a small town was a suicide mission. They had no choice but to fight on foot.
The French used volley after volley of carbine fire to hammer gaps into the British ranks, forcing the Redcoats into a continuous retreat.
Soon, the chaotic sound of gunfire erupted from behind the British as well.
Laplecie and his men had broken through the British lines, and together with the French, they pinned the enemy down in the street fronting the church.
At four in the afternoon, the British ceased their resistance and declared their surrender.
Laplecie looked nervously at the imposing French soldiers before him, asking tentatively, "Our thanks to you lords for helping us defeat these bandits. Are you... are you here to requisition grain?"
The Frenchmen looked at each other in dismay. After a long moment, one of them stepped forward and said in broken Portuguese, "We... come to help. We came to Portugal to drive out the British. We are your friends."
The surrounding militia remembered their comrades who had just been killed by the British cavalry. Hearing this, a shared hatred for the enemy surged within them. They crowded forward, offering sincere thanks to the French troops, with some even inviting the soldiers into their homes as guests.
The French did not stay long, however. They simply instructed Laplecie to seek help from the French camp in Viseu if they were ever attacked by the British again, then departed Dousal Town with their British prisoners in tow.
Townspeople who had heard the news gathered at the entrance to the town, watching the French cavalry depart and whispering among themselves. "It's a miracle the French showed up today, otherwise the town would be ruins..."
"Those damned Redcoats. I heard they blockaded the French ports to starve them out. And our own King is nothing but an accomplice to the British."
"I didn't quite believe it before, but now it seems the French really did come to Portugal just to fight the British."
"I think we should help the French against those British bastards."
"Exactly! Kick the British out of Portugal!"
As dusk fell, the townspeople finally returned to their homes.
That night, an angry mob threw Apinto into prison.
The following day, after a simple election process, Laplecie took his seat on the council.
Laplecie's first act in office was to send word to all the neighboring villages and towns about what had transpired.
In an instant, anti-British sentiment spread like wildfire throughout the region surrounding Coimbra.
Not only was the Crown Prince's scorched-earth decree completely ignored, but several officials sent to deliver the orders were even beaten and injured.
Simultaneously, driven by the propaganda of the Security Bureau, this tide began to sweep across all of Portugal.
By early autumn, with the tide of battle turning increasingly in their favor, Spain decided to commit an additional 15,000 troops to the siege of Coimbra.
This brought the total number of Spanish forces fighting in Portugal to nearly 50,000.
In Coimbra.
More than 120 cannons thundered day and night, pouring shells into the last two remaining bastions outside the city.
Currently, over eighty percent of Spanish logistics were dedicated to transporting artillery shells; food, wine, and other supplies were almost entirely sourced locally from within Portugal.
This was sixty to seventy percent cheaper than transporting supplies from across the border.
On the other hand, the Portuguese populace gradually realized that the presence of the Franco-Spanish alliance didn't actually disrupt their lives. If anything, selling supplies to the army provided a welcome boost to their income.
Of course, this was largely because the French acted as Military Police, ensuring strict military discipline among the Spanish soldiers.
Wellesley attempted to push the scorched-earth policy twice more, but each time he met with fierce resistance from local militias and harassment from French hunters. Ultimately, he was forced to give up in frustration.
In the British-Portuguese Allied Forces headquarters, west of Coimbra.
Wellesley stared at the freshly compiled casualty reports, his face clouded with gloom.
Because the Franco-Spanish offensive was so relentless, even his newly formed units had been deployed into the bastions to bolster the defense.
However, last week his new army suffered over 600 casualties, with Portuguese losses being even heavier. Despite the cost, they had still lost a strategically vital bastion.
If these last two bastions fell, it wouldn't just be a matter of losing Coimbra—Lisbon itself would be wide open to invasion!
He agonized over the situation half the night before finally picking up his pen. With a heavy heart, he wrote to Prime Minister Grenville, requesting an additional ten thousand men for the expeditionary force to stabilize the Portuguese defensive line.
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