The Last Cartridge
Battle of Fuente Ovejuna
7th September 1810

A Tale of the Napoleonic Wars
Based on a True Story

Church Defense

by Richard "Rifleman" Rutherford-Moore

The Spanish were succeeding in their efforts. As French firing slackened, Spanish soldiers in the windows and doorways of cottages opposite fired a hail of bullets through the doorway of the church and more soldiers crept forward and threw more and more combustibles on the growing pile near the doorway of the church under cover of fire from the street corners. At right, the old church tower: the "last cartridge" was fired from the church roof just below the balcony, and the French survivors were forced to surrender. The church clock tower is a later addition during restoriation. They were now throwing wool fleeces onto it, in order to create thick smoke to try and choke the Frenchmen inside. There were now so many Spanish infantrymen crammed into the narrow overheated streets of the village and firing muskets that they were in some danger of shooting their own men in the back, as they craned their heads over those in front to get a better look at what was happening, their eyes streaming from the heat and billowing smoke. The square outside was almost invisible with gun-smoke, and it was not until too late that the Frenchmen saw flaming torches coming through the gloom. They fired - too quickly - the shots missed the holders and the torches were thrown or pushed into the dry straw. The flames, from torches soaked in oil, quickly got a hold and flared up driving the defenders back from the heat, their right arms instinctively held across their faces. A shout from the rear of the church announced that the Spanish had also lit a pile of straw, hay and bedding against the sacristy door, and it was aflame too. No water was to be had to throw upon it - Billot was forced to order the few remaining defenders - only twelve men - to flee up the steps to the bell tower to avoid being suffocated by smoke or burned by the leaping flames. He struggled up himself as last man, in agony from his wound. The shock had now worn off and he was beginning to weaken from the loss of blood. The right leg of his once-white linen overalls was now slick-red with glistening blood. He had dropped his sword and lost it - he wasn't going back for it. Spanish soldiers were now firing point-blank through the doorway over the flames. A dead soldiers' cartridge box; too close to the flames, smouldering; went up with a whoosh as the cartridges exploded. More straw trusses were coming through and piling up on the floor of the church. Billot turned and struggled up the narrow steps after his men. The man in front was stamping up the wooden steps, carrying two handfuls of loose cartridge box belts, taken from the dead. He could also hear shots coming from higher up - the men in the bell tower windows were still firing. Now there was shouting - there was no more room at the top. Men occupied all the available window spaces, and were firing. The flames from below had caught the bell rope and was slowly consuming it, despite men furiously kicking at it with their feet. The men left on the stairs were coughing and choking in the thick smoke. Billot drew breath, and shouted for the small upper window to be broken in, dug out or kicked through - once removed they could clamber out onto the roof, twelve feet above the street. Other than that it was like being hung like a ham in a smokehouse chimney! Pieces of plaster and stone began to rain down as men dug at the plaster and bricks with bayonets. After a few moments work, a hole had been created and the surrounding bricks and stones kicked out - the first men were out on the roof. The man in front moved up, his legs kicking as he pulled himself through the hole in the wall and Billot saw sunlight streaming in through the raw gap as the smoke billowed out. Once on the roof - which mercifully was almost flat and covered with large half-round Spanish tiles - soldiers breathed again as they reloaded their muskets. Bullets from God knows where were chipping stone from the church bell tower and smashing through tiles; one ball struck a French soldier in the back as he reloaded, raising a cloud of dust from his jacket - he uttered not a word but slowly sank down onto the tiles, sliding down the steeper north side out of reach of the outstretched hands trying to grasp his legs, until disappearing over the edge, taking the gutter and tiles there with him. The last Billot saw of him was his gaiters and the worn soles of his hobnailed boots. This was no longer War; it was murder. Spanish soldiers were openly standing shoulder to shoulder in the billowing smoke in the square and on the roofs of the surrounding houses just shooting at them. All around him, Billot's men clawed at their pouches, seeking cartridges - there were none left. Some shook their fists at the Spanish, howling soundlessly; another ripped up a roof tile and hurled it at the nearest of them. Another French soldier fell with a gasp, clasping his hands to the wound as he was struck by a bullet in the thigh. A French soldier hurled his musket like a spear, bayonet fixed, at a Spanish soldier standing in the street below them, carefully taking aim upwards. The soldier fired, and the bullet struck the Frenchman in the arm as he shouted for another musket-spear. Bullets came in thick and fast humming like angry bees; one tore Billot's remaining epaulette from his shoulder and sent it spinning over the roof tiles. The smoke billowed out of the hole that was once the window - the church was well ablaze now. Even the roof tiles were getting too hot to touch as the remaining soldiers threw themselves down on them trying to escape the flying bullets. This was madness! Surrender A shout from below; more shouting and a clatter of hooves - the shooting had stopped. Billot - in a daze from loss of blood and pain - at once thought that his reinforcements had arrived, but a voice in very bad French called up for them to come down by the ladders and surrender. The porch over the church door (possibly where french survivors left the church roof). As if to signify credence, a ladder thumped against the gutters of the roof. His men, gasping and choking, but still clutching their muskets looked over at Billot propped against the church bell tower, one leg now almost covered with blood - he dropped his musket with a clatter and shrugged; a purely French gesture which was lost on his men, blinking in the smoke. There was nothing else to do, except be shot down or roasted alive up here. His men deserved something better. Dead, they would never get it. Slowly, the surviving Frenchmen slid down the roof tiles and got onto the ladder. Billot almost fell from the roof as he descended last. Some Spanish soldiers had climbed up and were handing him down, muskets slung on their shoulders. He collapsed, his head lolled and he had to be manhandled the last few feet down into the street. The flames had erupted from the eaves and set the top of the ladder alight - one Frenchman had to leap from the bell tower onto the roof and down into the street in a shower of broken tiles, where he rolled over and over in a smoking tangle of burned shoulder-belt, smouldering coat and with no facial hair left. The young soldier stood up at once, miraculously unhurt except for the scorch marks on his uniform. The holy water had worked after all; he had been the closest to God! Two days after the fight at Fuente Ovejuna, the second battalion of the 51eme arrived after a forced march, advance guard of the French counteroffensive from Cordoba, marching towards the plume of grey-black smoke on the horizon. The village when they arrived was overshadowed by this hanging pall of smoke, the bullet-scarred church still on fire, most of the houses around it burnt out and smouldering, some just blackened bare walls. Many fresh graves lined the roadsides, one much larger than the rest. The few returning villagers were rounded up - all said that no Frenchman was left alive. Colonel Bony of the 2nd Battalion of the 51eme picked up a heat-distorted leather infantry shako from the largest grave, the plate on it bearing the numerals '51'. The Spanish troops had departed the way they came yesterday - the stout old soldiers' lip quivered, and his eyes filled with tears. He had heard before of Spanish atrocities in Andalusia against French prisoners. Billot and his men, all dead - but burned alive! In the bell tower, the supports of the church bell burned away and it fell fifty feet, hitting the flagstones with a terrific crash, shattering the bronze bell. It sounded like the final death-knell of Fuente Ovejuna. They were all wrong. Ten Frenchmen had survived - among them Cyr Billot. They had halted the Spanish advance, and also inflicted two hundred killed and many more wounded on the attackers. Morillo himself, filled with admiration and remorse, had relented on his order to burn the French out or burn them alive - he had stopped the shooting himself of the helpless Frenchmen and given orders for ladders to bring them down from the church roof. The French wounded in the church had been burned - even Morillo could not prevent that - the place was now an inferno. A priest accompanying the Spanish troops was an educated man from the University at Salamanca and said that they would have suffocated first, and would have felt no pain. The church roof had then fallen in with a crash and sent the soldiers nearby scurrying for safety, arms held protectively over their heads. A mushroom-shaped cloud of smoke and plaster dust rose far up into the sky. The priest crossed himself and stated that any remaining bodies would have to be recovered for burial when the embers cooled and the walls of the church were no longer in danger of collapsing on the heads of any searching soldier. Billot had been coming in and out of consciousness on waves of nausea. He had tasted a watery soup made from onions and the village goat - it had been left tied by the spring, and hadn't survived the battle. It had been spooned into his mouth and then washed down with watered brandy. He had burns on his hands and arms, was in great pain from his hip wounds - old and fresh - and had lost a lot of blood. He was also severely dehydrated - part of his hair and moustachios had been singed and burnt away. They had taken his boots - the right one was stuck to his foot with sticky blood, and they got it off only with difficulty. His tattered uniform jacket was under his head. The nine surviving men from his company were given water and a little food to gnaw on - mostly hard ships' biscuit-bread - and now lay in a covered wagon. Robert, arm in a sling from a flesh wound, and the young soldier who nursed nothing more than blisters, both sat perched precariously on the boards of an artillery caisson. Most of the rest were wounded, some twice, and in addition had bad burns from the flames. A litter had been made from old blankets to carry Billot back up the road towards Badajoz, the animal pulling it along being his old mule. A yellow parasol shaded Billot's face in his delirium. Morillo - with a strange chivalry - had insisted on him using it. Over one hundred walking wounded infantry had already set off up the road back north-west towards Badajoz. The wounded that couldn't walk were stretched on splintered planks and bullet-holed cottage doors or swung in blankets supported by four unwounded men, one at each corner. The road surface was dotted with spots and splashes of their blood for miles. A horse, a pale spavined animal with scars on its legs, standing all alone yet saddled in an olive grove - you could hang your hat from its hindquarters - was caught and mounted by a young Spanish officer, who rode away on it later in the day clutching Morillo's report to the Le Marques de la Romana. The report from Morillo said that the village was now a smoking ruin; his men were exhausted and his ammunition reserves were low; they had suffered heavy casualties, with many wounded. The Division would have to fall back, as Morillo could not now hope to hold any French advance up the road from Cordoba at Fuente Ovejuna. But the courier sent by Morillo with the report to La Romana rode cross-country to save time - but he never could get the pale horse to gallop . . . More Last Cartridge Last Cartridge: Introduction Last Cartridge: French 51st Regt Last Cartridge: Preparations Last Cartridge: First Attack Last Cartridge: Crisis Last Cartridge: Last Defense at the Church Last Cartridge: Another Battle Last Cartridge: Authors Note Back to Table of Contents -- First Empire #50 Back to First Empire List of Issues Back to MagWeb Master Magazine List © Copyright 2000 by First Empire. This article appears in MagWeb (Magazine Web) on the Internet World Wide Web. Other military history articles and gaming articles are available at http://www.magweb.com