East bank of the Tamega River.
Junot, commander of the French Iberian Legion, looked at the small town built halfway up the mountain before turning to the officer from Spain beside him. "Major Caldes, are you certain the guerrillas have never left?"
The latter nodded vigorously. "Rest assured, my men have been watching them the whole time."
"Good. Same rules as always. I'll deal with the guerrillas; you're in charge of requisitioning grain."
"Yes, commander."
Before long, two French Army infantry companies marched into Elsut Town.
After a burst of gunfire, thirty or forty Portuguese men clutching guns fled from the eastern side of the town.
However, the cannon already positioned halfway up the mountain immediately began spitting fire at them.
After more than a dozen men were torn apart by cannonballs, the rest lost the courage to resist. They threw down their weapons and surrendered to the encircling French Army soldiers. Immediately afterward, Caldes led more than two hundred soldiers from Spain in going door to door to requisition food.
The town, with barely eight hundred people in total, was quickly picked clean.
Watching the Spaniards load sack after sack of wheat, sour cheese, and cured meat onto carts, Junot gestured to Caldes.
"There are still several hours before dark. Send these supplies to Marquis Talavera as soon as possible."
Yes, for some time now, the Anglo-Portuguese army had consistently avoided a decisive battle with the Spaniards attacking Porto, hiding in fortresses and holding out stubbornly instead. At the same time, the supply lines of the Franco-Spanish Allied Forces had suffered frequent attacks from British cavalry and Portuguese guerrillas, with more than half their logistical supplies lost along the way.
Although Spain immediately redirected additional supplies to the Porto front, they were still stretched thin. At one point, the