Chapter 21: The Hundred Thousand Sons of Saint Louis

Outside Cadiz, Spain. September 1823
Brigadier General Marcel Defarge greeted me with his usual ferocious scowl when I presented myself at his opulent headquarters, a hacienda outside the village of Port Royal, on the mainland across the lagoon from the besieged city of Cadiz.

“I have some news which will delight you, English.”

He waved a sheet of paper in his hand.
Defarge always referred to me in private as ‘English’. I was not annoyed by the appellation, but hoped one day he would address me by my given name.

“Has my replacement arrived, and I can now return to Italy?” My heart leaped in joy at the thought of seeing Mimi within a few months, only for it to be shattered at Defarge’s next words.

“No replacement as yet, English. Besides, we have not yet restored the King of Spain to his rightful throne. You surely would not want to leave the Brigade before completing the task set us?”

I sighed in resignation. “No, of course not, General.”

“Eh bien, it cannot be long before the republicans holding Cadiz and the King surrender to our superior force. Since capturing the Fortress of Trocedero, the city has been under constant bombardment from the guns of our navy, and the cannons in the captured fortress of San Pedro and Trocedero.”

He had a smile of satisfaction on his face, as well he might.
It was a battalion of the Foreign Brigade who had carried out an surprise assault from the seaward side of the Trocedero fortified position.
Taking advantage of the low tide, they had overwhelmed the defenders of the fortress by the ferocity of their bayonet attack.

“The good news, English, is I have been ordered to send a battalion of the Brigade to assist the Royalist forces in the town of Jerez de la Frontera, a place renowned for the production of Sherry, a beverage much appreciated by you English, but to no other race with even a hint of a palate.”
I pricked up my ears at the news. Jerez de la Frontera, more commonly known as Jerez to the British, was where Charles Godfrey, the British Consul in Cadiz, had his estate.
“You will take your battalion to the town and assist the authorities in searching out republicans. While doing that you can also help yourself to countless bottles of Sherry, for you can be sure no self-respecting Frenchman will avail himself of the putrid liquor.”
He chuckled. “Of course those Hanoverians in your battalion, whose taste buds were destroyed during their previous service in the King’s German Legion, might help you drink the filthy brew.”
I gave the general a smart salute, and quickly made my way to the cantonment of Le premier bataillon du premier régiment de la première brigade d’infanterie étrangère.

You will no doubt be surprised that I, a full colonel in the British Army, should be commanding a battalion of foreign infantry in French service.
I grant you, should my unusual appointment become known to Horse Guards and the Foreign Office in London, or to their equivalent departments in Paris, then Brigadier General Marcel Defarge and I would be in hot water. However, circumstances had rather forced the appointment upon me.

During the voyage from Toulon to Spain, I learnt something of the composition, and command structure, of the Foreign Brigade.
The brigade comprised of two regiments of two battalions each. Both regiments were commanded by men with little or no military experience but were staunch Royalists. The First Regiment’s commander, Jules Blanque, Count of Dinard, was a case in point; getting dressed in his uniform appearing to be the extent of his martial prowess.
However both battalions of the regiment were commanded by hard bitten ‘chefs du battalion’, obviously veterans, and probably commissioned from the ranks rather than graduates of the Academy of St Cyr.
I had quizzed Brigadier Defarge on the military deficiencies of the regimental commanders.

“Jules Blanque, and Pierre Cazeneuve, Baron de St Malo, who commands the Second Regiment, are both trusted by King Louis. I, and the battalion commanders, are tainted by our association with Bonaparte, but have the military expertise lacking in the ‘trusted ones’. None the less, we are closely watched in case of any latent republicanism still in our bones.”
He grinned. “In my youth I was a Jacobin, and when Napoleon Bonaparte made himself emperor I knew I would need to keep my political opinions to myself, which I continue to do. All those who marched with the Grande Armée, and are now commanding royal troops, are similarly gifted in keeping their mouths, and minds, closed.”

“You are not an admirer of Napoleon Bonaparte?”

We were leaning at the taffrail of the vessel, and he spat over the stern before speaking.

“The man was a military genius, but left two armies to fend for themselves while he scuttled back to Paris and safety.”
He stared at the wake of our vessel for a moment.
“Of course, he had good political reasons for his action in each case, but it did not make what he did any more palatable for those of us who were left behind – first in the sand and then in the snow.”
I knew Brigadier General Defarge had commanded a brigade in General Ledru’s division of Ney’s III Corps, and assumed he had been part of the rear-guard during the retreat from Moscow.

Shortly after disembarking at the small port of Platja Grifeu, in Northeasten Spain, both chefs du battalion of the First Regiment were killed.
These deaths occurred during operation to ease the passage of Moncey’s, the Duke of Congeliano, IV Corps of the French Royal Army, through the Pyrenees. The Foreign Brigade occupied blocking positions near the Col du Perthus, the main pass through the eastern Pyrenees, thus preventing information or troops moving between Barcelona and the pass.
Rene Clouzet, chef de battalion of the first battalion, was killed in an exchange of fire with a piquet of Republican infantry posted in a cave, unseen by Clouzet when conducting a reconnaissance of the area.
The second battalion’s commander, a large ungainly man by the name of Jean Dromance, tripped when traversing a rocky path and fell over the edge of a precipice.
He was heard loudly quoting le bon mot de Cambronne as he hurtled to his death a thousand feet below.

Defarge was at his wits end to find replacements with sufficient experience to take their place, and in desperation asked me to carry out the duty for the first battalion, until such time as new officers were appointed.

That moment never appeared, and from the north east of Spain I marched at the head of the first battalion of the first regiment to Madrid, the geographic and political centre of Spain. The French arrived too late to prevent the republicans, who had seized the city in 1820, spiriting the imprisoned king Ferdinand VII away, first to Seville and then to Cadiz.
Eventually, after many forced marches through Spain, from which experience the Foreign Brigade coined their motto, ‘March or Die’, the brigade reached Cadiz.

I had divested myself of my scarlet regimentals the first time I came under fire from sharpshooters, and now wore the same garb as ‘my men’, although I retained my Belgic shako, as I thought the bell topped shako worn by the French ostentatious, uncomfortable, and ultra-conspicuous.
I say ‘my men’, as by the time we reached Cadiz they were as dear to me as those I served with in the 69th Foot and the Lincolnshire Militia.
There were few battles, but many skirmishes, during this peregrination through the Iberian Peninsula, and men were killed. Of course, those killed in a skirmish are just as dead as any killed in a great battle, as the unfortunate Rene Clouzet could attest to, or at least his shades could.

The First Battalion of the First Regiment of the Foreign Brigade were quartered in a farm near Porto Real, although the former owner, and his stock, was now in the besieged city.
I strode into the battalion office where the sergeant major was sitting at his desk, making up the guard roster for the coming week.

“You can forget that, Fritz. We are moving to Jerez, have the men fallen in ready to move in an hour.”

Fritz Lang looked up in amazement. “Just our battalion, Jack? “
I nodded, and a big smile slid over his face.
“Independent command, and away from the top brass around here. Just what the men need. They are angry we weren’t chosen for the attack on the Fortress Trocadero.”

Fritz Lang and I were old friends from Wellington’s army in Spain. He had been a lieutenant in the light infantry battalion of the King’s German Legion, and was one of the few survivors of La Haye Sainte at Waterloo.
In private we were Fritz and Jack, but on parade he was Sergent-Major Lang, and I chef du battalion Voieverte.
I never asked him what a Hanoverian was doing in French service, although he was not the only member of the battalion from the Kingdom of Hanover, which is why Brigadier Defarge had made the remark concerning sherry and the lack of taste buds in my battalion.

We marched through Lompardo en route to Jerez, and although the republicans were practically defeated I posted skirmishers on the flanks, and at the front and rear of the column.
Most buildings we marched pass flew the royal colours of Spain, but the looks given us by the local populace were not always of approbation.
Whilst the locals were predominantly Monarchist, not all were happy with the current incumbent.
Jerez was silent, with empty streets, and I wondered why we had been dispatched to what appeared to be a quiet and peaceful town. On arrival at the town hall I met a young captain of the Royal Spanish army, who introduced himself as Captain Diego Di Costa.
I asked why he had summoned troops when it appeared the town was free of republicans. His answer appalled me.