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Ah, the Carlist Wars – that tangled web of Spanish royal intrigue, where brothers fought sisters for a throne, and foreign powers couldn't resist dipping their toes in the drama. It's 1836, and while Britain basks in the glow of a long peace under the freshly crowned Queen Victoria (well, almost – she ascends in 1837), the Royal Marines are about to embark on one of their lesser-sung adventures.

Picture this: a corps that's seen better days, with promotions as sluggish as a galleon in doldrums, suddenly thrust into the rugged hills of northern Spain. Factual history? Absolutely. But let's spin it with a dash of that entertaining flair – imagine a bunch of Bootnecks swapping Portsmouth barracks for Basque battlefields, all while dripping about foreign politics over their rum rations. Drawing from the dusty pages of H.E. Blumberg's History of the Royal Marines 1837-1914 (edited by Alastair Donald), we'll dive into this tale of muskets, monasteries, and makeshift heroism.

First, a quick backdrop to set the stage. In 1833, Spain's King Ferdinand VII kicks the bucket, leaving his daughter Isabella (backed by her mother, the Queen Regent) as heir. But enter Don Carlos, Ferdinand's brother, waving the ancient Salic Law like a battle flag, claiming only males can inherit. The supporters? Isabella's lot are the Christinos (liberal, urban types), while Carlos rallies the Carlists (traditionalists, rural Basques and Navarrese with a fondness for berets and bayonets). France and Britain, ever the meddlers, side with the Christinos to keep the balance of power. Britain doesn't commit fully – no, that would be too straightforward. Instead, they allow a ragtag British Auxiliary Legion under Sir George de Lacy Evans, bolstered by a Royal Marine Battalion and a smattering of Royal Marine Artillery (RMA). It's like sending your best china to a bullfight – risky, but oh so British.

Our story kicks off in May 1836, when Major John Owen (later Lieutenant Colonel and a knighted hero) assembles a battalion at Santander from detachments across the divisions. Plymouth lads embark on April 27, sailing into the fray. Their mission? Support the Christinos along the northern coast, where the Royal Navy under Lord John Hay rules the waves.

Royal can't stray far inland – they're tied to the fleet's guns like a dog on a leash – but they make their mark as garrisons, raiders, and unflappable fighters. Early on, 100 men from the battalion, plus detachments from HMS Castor under Lieutenants Halliday and Langley, fortify Portugalete at the Bilbao River's mouth. They convert an old monastery into a stronghold – think dusty cloisters turned into a fortress, complete with two 32-pounders and a pair of 9-pounders. Cleaning the place must have been a chore; one can imagine the dripping: "Blimey, more monks' muck than musket balls!"

By late May, action heats up. At San Sebastian, the Legion, aided by HMS Phoenix and the fleet, drives off Carlists and nabs some guns, only to retreat. The RM Battalion shuttles between Bilbao and San Sebastian, ever the reliable backup. Then comes a clever feint: On May 27, the Third Brigade of the Legion, backed by Marines, fords the Urumea River east of San Sebastian under steamship and fort fire. They bivvy up on a hill near Ametza, while a Royal Marine detachment in HMS Salamander and Reyna distracts westward.

At 3 a.m. on June 6, Carlists pounce, driving in pickets. The Marines rush up, three companies deploying and unleashing volleys that send the enemy scampering. Captain Garmston and two privates take wounds – a grim reminder that this isn't a seaside jaunt.

Meanwhile, a detachment of 70 from Castor (Halliday and Langley again) lands at Passages on May 28, marching uphill to command the harbour. Joined by Lieutenant Clapperton and 12 RMA, they build the "Ship" redoubt – a ship-shaped fort armed with 6-pounders, 3-pounders, a 4-pounder, and even a rocket tube. Seamen help, and it's only six miles from San Sebastian – close enough to hear the cannonade.

At 2 a.m. on June 9, 400 Carlists attack the 300-strong garrison. Dawn brings visibility, and the defenders rout them. Langley takes a leg wound but earns the Order of San Fernando – heroism with a Spanish flair!

The battalion concentrates at Passages by July 10, then joins Evans' push toward Fuentarabia on the 11th. They seize a bridge near Guadalupe Monastery, but Carlists counter. Two Royal Marine companies hold an embankment, two more a convent, checking the enemy till afternoon. As Christinos retire to Isquibel hills, more Marines thwart a Fuentarabia sortie. Losses: two killed, 10 wounded. Back to Passages, where a minor Carlist probe on October 1 is swatted away like a pesky fly.

1837 brings escalation. On March 10, the Legion and Spaniards, Marines in tow, assault Ametzegana (a Marine-built redoubt at Passages). Feints at Lezo and Renteria, storms on heights – the RMA guns pound San Marco's defenders. Victory! But Hernani looms, seven miles from San Sebastian. On March 15, the battalion advances to the Windmill Battery in the Ayette Lines. Carlists hold Oriamendi's vents; Marines under Owen endure 800-yard artillery fire, RMA replying fiercely. By 5 p.m., the Legion seizes heights, guns close in. At 7 p.m., the Venta falls; Carlists flee to Hernani.

Dawn on the 16th: Marines on Oriamendi plateau, covering artillery. With the Legion's 5th Division, they advance. Carlist guns bark; RMA howitzers under Lieutenant Savage respond. A Carlist lancer charge is repulsed, but four battalions emerge from a gorge, routing skirmishers.

Owen deploys five companies behind a breastwork, their independent fire halting the foe. Flank attacks? Smashed by echeloned companies. But chaos reigns – Christinos and Legion crumble by 3:20 p.m. Marines fall back 800 yards, deploying in line. Their threatening front stops the pursuit cold. As night falls, they quarter in San Sebastian's Church of St. Francis. Evans praises: "The unshaken firmness of the British Royal Marines... afforded you a noble example." Without them, disaster!

The year rolls on with patrols between Passages, Hernani, and San Sebastian. Irun falls on May 18, Fuentarabia surrenders. The battalion joins the Spanish Army, present at Hernani's surrender on September 9. Lieutenant White's capture (and gentlemanly treatment) in August adds a touch of chivalry. Lieutenant Colonel Parke takes command in November, relieved by Thompson Aslett in 1840.

By summer 1840, the war winds down. The battalion returns home September 2, decorated with Spanish honours. Lord John Hay's letter lauds their "zeal, gallantry, and good conduct." Evans echoes: four times their number repulsed!

First Carlist War 

What makes this story sing? It's the Marines' steadfastness amid allies' panic – a theme echoing through their history, from 1664's formation (as noted in Nick van der Bijl's The Royal Marines 1939-93) to modern elites in green berets. Blumberg's account highlights their adaptability: fort-building monks' haunts, rocket-firing redoubts, and volleys that saved the day.

Entertainingly, imagine a grizzled sergeant at Oriamendi: "These Carlists charge like bulls, but we've got the red cape – and bayonets!" Politically absurd? Sure – Britain meddling in a family feud – but it honed the Corps for future glories.

Fast-forward: This grit foreshadows WWII Commandos, Falklands yomps, and Arctic prowess. Van der Bijl reminds us the green beret, born in 1942, symbolizes that elite spirit inherited from Army Commandos. In Spain, without it, they were already elite – selected, trained, unbreakable.

So, next time you think Royal Marines history starts at D-Day or the Falklands, spare a thought for those 1830s boots on Spanish soil. They turned a sideshow into a masterclass in Marine mettle.