Deakin nodded, satisfied, then started on his next topic of worry.
“How’re the children?”
Now her hand went onto his arm.
“Fine. We’re keeping them warm and fed. Fine!”
The last word was spoken with increased volume, and drawn out for added emphasis. Deakin nodded again, for the final time, at last, but it was Bridie who had more to say.
“And, at the top of all, Mary’s feeling better. She’s riding on a mule called Pablo.”
She pointed to the shape, not far off, the ears most prominent. Deakin leaned away from her, the better for her to see his look of astonishment.
“How’d you get that?”
“The drover ran off.”
“And didn’t take the mule?”
“No. It was loaded with bags of cartridges. No use to him. So we loaded them onto the other mules and stuck Mary on top.”
Now Deakin did smile and looked at his “follower wife” with admiration, before kissing her fondly.
However, the night was not peaceful. Fraser and Hope’s Divisions had not wholly quitted the town and word was spreading that they were not to turn and fight, which was a bitter disappointment. Moore had ordered the retreat to continue, contrary to the rumour that had spread since Benevente, that at Astorga he would, indeed, offer battle. O’Hare had not heard formally, but he learned such from a Captain of the 6th Foot who was out in the tumult of the night, trying to restrain his own men. The mayhem had extended back through the town to the ground of the 105th and so O’Hare ordered Gibney to mount again their own guard to prevent their own men from marauding. However, the guard found themselves fending off drunken soldiers from a variety of Regiments, trying to plunder the buildings they were occupying. The Captain was shouting himself hoarse, but to no avail. His men paid him no heed, reacting only to blows from Gibney and his men as they fended off with heavy blows any lurching pillagers that came too close, this being the only effective form of discipline able to be enforced all round and about. O’Hare had gone to the Captain and touched his arm, but the result was an ill-tempered tirade, fuelled by the desperation of his circumstances.
“Unhand me, damn you, before I shoot you where you stand!”
The anger turned to shock as he recognised O’Hare’s symbols of rank.
“Sir. My apologies, Sir. I thought you were one of my men. I can’t say how sorry I am, Sir.”
O’Hare had greater worries.
“It’s of no consequence. Now, tell me what’s happening.”
“Much of the army has mutinied, Sir. This place is full of heavy baggage and munitions, rum included. They’ve got at it and this is the result. They’re sick of the retreat and now they know that we are not to make a fight of it here, as they think was promised. If I spoke honestly, Sir, I’d say that they have a point. They feel there is nothing behind them to be in any way afraid of.”
“Did La Romana hold Soult at Mansilla?”
The sudden change of topic took the Captain by surprise.
“La Romana’s here, Sir. In Astorga with us.”
“All his men?”
“As I’ve heard, Sir, but no kind of army at all, more a band of beggars, and they’ve brought typhus with them.”
“So there’s your answer, Captain. Soult got past them at Mansilla, meaning that we are close to being outflanked, by him. He could be across our rear, as we speak. Also there’s the small matter of Napoleon himself planting his feet in our footsteps. Moore has little choice but to retreat further before Soult cuts him off. So, when you finally regain control of your men, tell them that, will you? In fact, I will make that an order.”
O’Hare’s firm tone had its impact. The Captain saluted and returned back towards the town. O’Hare walked over to Gibney, holding the centre of their defensive line. By now most of the drunks were prone, more from blows inflicted, than the final effect of the alcohol consumed.
“Sar’ Major. Form up a section of men, men who can take care of themselves. Get into the town. This riot will spoil more stores than it distributes to where it’s needed. See what you can rescue, food and cartridges get priority, but after that, there appears to be some rum, in copious amounts. I can trust you?”
“Sir!”
The volume and tone told O’Hare that it would be more sensible to doubt the dawn of the following day.
“Recruit some Officers. Pass on my instructions to you as an order to them. I’ll take over here.”
Gibney saluted and hurried off to the nearest building where he knew men of the ilk he required were billeted. It contained Ameshurst’s Grenadiers and, after that, he gathered Carr, Drake and Heaviside, then soon to be joined by other Officers, all armed at least with a pistol or their sword. With 50 men they set off into the town, into a scene of mayhem. Drunken soldiery in several gangs, bellowing and fighting, roamed the streets, many drinking rum from their cooking kettles and canteens. Carr, Gibney and Heaviside led the way, ignoring any drunk that fought with a fellow in similar condition, but pointing accusingly at any that was assaulting a Spanish civilian, the pointed finger sending an avenging NCO to drag off the offender and beat him senseless. Heaviside inevitably spoke what they all felt.
“The drunkard and the glutton shall come to poverty. Proverbs 23, verse 21.”
Carr was one of the few that heard.
“That is certain sure, Joshua, looking at this, and what’s to come after. Nothing more certain.”
They soon reached the town gate that pierced the ancient walls and entered to progress on and find an even thicker and more dangerous crowd, gathered around the place that evidently commanded their most attention, these being storehouses some way in from the town walls. Ranged along the road were many abandoned carts and wagons, their draught animals dead, and their drovers run off. Heaviside commanded their men to draw up four wagons and they pulled them to the gaping doorways. Roughly dividing their men into three they entered, but only two groups found any supplies such as they wanted, this being blankets, shoes, flour and biscuit, although much had been hauled out and was now trampled into the mud of the roadway. They guarded their gains with fists and pistol butts as they hauled their gains in their carts, including even some barrels of salt meat and rum, back to the gate and then through, after hauling out senseless drunks who barred the way.
Outside the gate, houses were still numerous on either side and screams and shouts of both triumph and distress came from both the doors and windows. Soldiers were emerging from most doorways, carrying all manner of useless articles, but one figure was unmistakable, especially to Cyrus Gibney. He strode forward, delivered a killing left hook to the point of the chin, then a slamming blow to the side of the head and finally, for good measure, a downward blow to the back of the head as the figure slumped forward.
“Tiley! Tha’ whore’s left overs.”
Although very drunk and stunned, Tiley was able to raise himself on his hands and knees, but Gibney placed a boot just below his armpit and shoved him over. By now Carr and Ameshurst had arrived.
“Tiley, Sir. Seth Tiley. Was a Grenadier of ours, now a deserter.”
Carr looked down at the prone figure, noting the drunken, piggy eyes, narrowed with hatred, but with enough cunning to make no attempt at escape.
“Is he one of yours, Lieutenant?”
Ameshurst answered immediately.
“No Sir, one of D’Villiers.”
Carr nodded and turned to Gibney.
“Tie his hands. Use his own belt if you have to. Then use another to lash him to a wagon.”
Soon all was done and the carts were finally hauled back to the 105th, but on the journey none expressed any sympathy for their prisoner, Seth Tiley. Any drunks found wearing the green facings of the 105th were forced to drink salt water and, as they vomited the rum that had rendered them senseless, Gibney pronounced judgement.
“Tha’s’ll thank us come mornin’, that tha’s able to take tha’ place int’line. Crauford’s comi
n’ on behind, and he’ll hang thee for a deserter, or leave thee for Johnny Frog, who’ll just smash in tha’ scull!”
***
The full light of dawn saw the 105th and their followers marching through a town desolate and despoiled, civilians on either side attempting to remake a home using what furniture was scattered in the roads and alleyways, but too little of it remained and all too damaged, for every building beside the main road had been broken into and looted. Many soldiers, the less drunk, had dragged themselves to their feet and were staggering on, lurching on before the marching 105th. They were the last Regiment of the main body through the town before the rearguard came up, but many of the intoxicated were still too sunk in stupor and remained in such state beside the road. The far towngate was soon passed through, with most men and followers in good heart, for all haversacks contained something and most had an extra blanket, and many again, new shoes. However, all spirits sank a little when they saw the heights in the not too far distance, high and covered in snow, the ridge of Monte Teleno, behind which lay the high plains of the Vierzo. Also, unknown to many, the Regiment had suffered its first deserter, although for the second time in the case of Seth Tiley. Thrown into a cellar, a stiff leather belt that bound his arms could not be drawn tight enough to long resist the strength of such as he. He freed himself, used his immense strength to force up the slanting doors that gave access from the yard and disappeared into the night, but not before bludgeoning a sleeping soldier and relieving him of his blanket, haversack and bayonet.
***
Chapter Six
Retreat
With every step up the Monte Teleno the rain transformed itself into thick snow. Its twelve mile climb sapped not just the energy, but also the spirit, for every horizon, glanced at hopefully from a face most often turned away from the blizzard, turned out to be just another false crest, to reveal yet another climb, wending mockingly away towards the white horizon. Equally depressing for the 105th, forming the last of the main column, were the continuous signs of an army falling apart. All along both roadsides, they found abandoned arms and equipment, by men who had discarded all, to lighten their load, retaining only that which could carry food or keep them warm. After but a few miles out of Astorga bodies lay in the snow, some now frozen to death, these being drunks, too debilitated by the night’s excess, who had collapsed from cold and hunger, whilst others had rapidly consumed the drink they carried, only to sink into a renewed state of helpless coma and succumb to the cold.
Almost as soon as they left Astorga they had come to the pass of Manzanal and soon after that, the pass of Foncebadon, and almost every soldier, who felt that he carried within himself enough of the General, looked at both to judge them as the impregnable positions that they were. At both, it was obvious that a single battalion could hold off an army for days, so why wasn’t Moore standing to fight? Thus the overall standing of their Commanding Officer fell to a new low. Officers such as Lord Carravoy, voiced their opinion to any that would listen, especially to his captive audience of D’Villiers and Ameshurst, whilst such as Carr and Drake retained their thoughts to themselves. Such as Deakin, Halfway and Gibney likewise held their peace, thinking merely ‘good luck to the bloody rearguard!’
With the first “fall out”, Deakin and Pike had hurried back to the followers, but they found them in good heart. The care that had been devoted to their clothing and boots was being repaid. The reply to Deakin’s anxious enquiry was to be told to drink his tea! All were bundled up, fed and warm. Lacey, O’Hare and Simmonds equally played their part, tirelessly riding up and down the column, pleased that the men were holding their places within their Companies, with Officers and Sergeants also holding to where they should be. O’Hare, unsurprisingly, proved especially adept at passing on encouragement, which brought a laugh out of most who heard.
“Ah, come on now, boys, and don’t be spoiling your throats with the demon drink! Sure, now isn’t there tea, buns and a Carol Service waiting for you all at the top?”
With their arrival at the summit, achieved as the light was dying, came their arrival on the plain of the Vierza, bleak, open, treeless and wild, broken but by a few low stone walls built upon earthen banks for extra height, such was the dearth of good building stone. Likewise, wood for fuel was very hard to find, therefore campfires were built with the absolute minimum and stocks of kindling were guarded against theft as though it were the family treasures. The one saving grace was that the march to Astorga had taught all the brutal truth of exactly what was facing them, these being all those possessed of sufficient hope, buttressed with the necessary determination. Bar the worst malcontents determined to soon desert, almost all heeded the advice of veterans, it coming both from amongst the army and the followers, to “ leave nothing uncovered and then just set your face into it, one foot after another.” Crossing the Vierza took three days and the conditions across it kept the army together, not for reasons of high morale or discipline, but simply because there was nothing anywhere to rob and pillage, beyond the occasional one room, stone hovel. Thus all kept together; for there was no alternative that gave any hope for survival. Many survivors, when arriving home described the toil up the Monte Teleno and the crossing of the Vierza as amongst the worst of the retreat, no other part was more exhausting, for the cold, the ice, the wind and the absence of fuel and shelter created the harshest and most unforgiving conditions of the whole march. They attributed their survival to the fact that, at that early stage, they were still well clothed with sufficient food. Most hovels encountered were dismantled down to the bare walls, but the inhabitants were not maltreated, if such a term were not misapplied, as their home was pulled apart before their very eyes.
One such home was not so lucky. The vanguard of the army, in this case wholly the opposite of such a noble and heroic term, was made up of various gangs of deserters and criminals and one such was led by Seth Tiley. He had attached himself to just such a collection, battering its erstwhile leader senseless and then usurped the throne. Knowing that they had to stay ahead of the army, for the Provosts were now at work with the hangman’s rope, they were always the first to any place of habitation. So it was now, that Seth Tiley held his bayonet under the chin of the daughter of one pleading crofter, whilst his wife and other children screamed hysterically, but not at such a volume as to drown out the harsh tones of Seth Tiley himself.
“Alimento! Alimento, pronto!”
The husband knew that surrendering their meagre stock of food would be a death sentence to some, if not all, of his family and so he continued to supplicate before the implacable thug that was Seth Tiley, constantly repeating his plea.
“Ningún alimento, por favor, nosotros moriremos de hambre.”
Tiley had not the faintest idea what the man was saying; only that food was not being produced. In response he thrust the bayonet up a little higher. The girl screamed as blood trickled down the blade and Tiley shouted louder.
“Alimento! Alimento, pronto!”
The wife yelled something at the man, his face fell and he then motioned them towards the yard, where a door was uncovered of its snow and opened to reveal some sacks and some dried vegetables. As his gang emptied the store, Tiley punched the man in the face for his reluctance to divulge the food sooner. Now better provisioned, his men made off into the snow, still following the road, with three of his gang carrying extra looted items, which they soon threw away as useless.
Similar was inflicted on the first town off the Vierza, this being Bembribre. When the 105th entered the town, it looked as though it had been fought over as the lynchpin of a battlefield. All the houses were wrecked; all furniture and fittings taken for fuel and some buildings were even on fire. The streets either side were full of abandoned wagons, or their sketchy remains, them having been pulled apart for fuel and also there were many dead animals, butchered down to the skeleton. The men of the 42nd of Bentinck’s Brigade, two hours ahead of the 105th, had tramped on through, giving but small glan
ces to the pitiful inhabitants attempting to make sufficient shelter from canvas and blankets, these stretched over bare walls in the place of ruined roofs. However, for the 105th, here they would spend the night.
The appearance of a battlefield was added to by the dead drunk soldiers lying in the streets, but, incapacitated deserters and marauders as they were, they were not alone, for many yet remained on their feet and were still yet prepared to rob and scavenge from any humans within range. Lacey knew this and ordered a double guard on both their camp and that of the followers. He chose this instead of obeying his instinct which was to round up all deserters and march them on as prisoners, but he also knew that he would be placing his own men at risk, not only from injury, but of deserting themselves. However, no such good sense existed in the thoughts of Reverend Chaplain Prudoe. He took himself and his wife further away, to the Church, there to find better shelter and there to better enlist the protection of his merciful Lord. Chaplain’s Assistant Sedgwicke was horrified at the risk he was taking and felt impelled to speak out. He knew what would almost certainly happen.
“Sir, they’ll take our mules, Sir, then we’ll have to abandon the wagon!”
Prudoe turned to Sedgwicke and spoke indulgently.
“Not so, Private. My rank will protect us, as will the good Lord, I feel sure. I cannot imagine any of our soldiers robbing a Chaplain, their Man of God.”
Sedgwicke wrung his hands together, it was useless to argue, but, even in the gathering gloom, he could see the wraithlike gathering of scavengers slowly approaching. He could only say one thing, as Prudoe entered the church.
“Sir. It would seem that such soldiers are here already. Perhaps you could exert your authority at this moment, Sir?”
Prudoe paused from ascending the steps and looked back puzzled, looking down at Sedgwicke, stood at the bottom, who had nothing more to say, for the deserters were already running forward, and so Prudoe descended and placed himself before them.
Close to the Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regimen Book 2) Page 27