The Frenchman on the horse at the rear of the picture (see below) is the rather flamboyant deployment marker for the French forces. The French Commander Colonel La Panne had only recently arrived in Spain and was still getting accustomed to the rather hot climate. To his distress all of his classmates, the intelligent and ambitious ones, were seeking glory on the "enterprises of enterprises" in Russia. There it would be a much more sensible climate. 1812 was going to be a glorious year for the Emperor, one knew that he would confirm the place of France as the rightful superpower of the world. Yet, here he was in this hell-hole of a Spanish backwater. Rivulets of sweat poured down this face and again he dabbed his brow. Damn them, he knew the Portuguese were watching his every move, but he could see nothing of them (see below, like the books told him to do, skirmishers to the front and main body behind. Trouble is he did not know what. if anything, was hiding in the scrub ahead):
They approached the nondescript scrap of scrub and the danger seemed to have passed. Then it started. Seemingly harmless clouds of white smoke appeared to his front from the scrub. Birds flew up into the air. The smoke grew cloud grew and obscured his front, musket balls whizzed by like angry swarms of hornets. At least his skirmishers, the Voltigeurs, handled themselves well, taking this "shock" in their stride, they were his best trained troops. They could fight and fire like demons under the experienced eye of Big Pierre - he called their mechanical actions Sharpe Practice (see below, at least La Panne's men seemed to be more numerous that these Portuguese, but worryingly they were matching Big Pierre in his professionalism):
To La Panne's horror a regular line of brown clad infantrymen approached in line to the sound of a monotonous drumbeat. The sound rolled down towards them, for a moment he thought we was back in Austria fighting Grenzers. The moment passed as a crackle of gunfire swept into the French skirmish line and brough La Panne to his senses. His skirmishers were looking a tad ragged now. Big Pierre was shouting encouragement but twice as much fire was incoming than outgoing. La Panne barked orders to hasten his own troops forwards, but his boys could barely keep stride and keep their lines properly dressed. To ask for more much speed would be asking for chaos (see below, march to the sound of the guns and into the smoke):
The French were being badly pressed and losing the firefight. With two units to fight Big Pierre could not bring either unit under telling fire and his best was to "hold his ground" - to the Portuguese this was good sport, they were dropping Frenchmen (see below, then suddenly the Portuguese skirmishers to the right withdrew after being caught by an accurate volley, briefly they was a ray of hope, but then a second unit of Portuguese skirmishers now appeared to Big Pierre's left, curse these phantoms):
Big Pierre's skirmishers dropped back to reform behind the main French Line, they were a sad and bloodied sight. The two regular formations faced off against each other. Crashing volleys spoke out across the battlefield and brave men dropped dead while others fought off the shock and confusion of battle. The French had won the better position through Big Pierre's bravery, it provided a small difference in cover, but the Portuguese Line unit outshone its French counterpart. It seemed to fire three volleys to La Panne's every two. The men were beginning to buckle and also the Portuguese skirmishers had rallied quicker than the French. La Panne cast an anxious look at his second formation of French Line down in the valley, they would not get to him in time. It was time to retire (see below, there are more holes and more shock on the French forces, with great difficulty La Panne escaped, even if his forces were depleted they would still be useful):
Musing in the cool of his tent, after touring the charnel house that the Regiment called a hospital, it was clear that his opposition was well drilled in the art of war. Old Sergeants shook their heads in disbelief and told him that the Portuguese were different this year. They now "meant it" when they came to fight, the British had instilled some of their "Iron" in the Portuguese bellies. La panne ruminated that he had truly missed the boat when he missed a posting to Russia. If he was not careful Spain would be his grave.
Another good outing for Sharpe Practice. I am getting rather fond of this set of rules. I need to start painting my own Frenchman now!
