Haggard

by Christopher Nicole

  He came to attention. ' Tis good campaigning weather, sir.'

  ‘Indeed it is,' Captain Llewellyn agreed. He was young, for a captain. His army career had only begun in 1803. Had I remained an officer, Roger thought, I might well be colonel of this regiment now, and he be calling me sir. Except that had I remained an officer I would also have remained with the artillery. But thoughts of that nature were a waste of time. 'And we shall be campaigning,' Llewellyn said. The general returned last night, from Cuesta's camp. Tis a combined operation we're after. Sergeant Major. Victor must be crushed.'

  'And will the Dons fight, sir?'

  Llewellyn frowned. 'Do you doubt that? Tis their land.' 'I meant, sir, in our fashion. Will they obey General Wellesley?'

  'We shall have to wait and see. But I doubt it matters. Tis the numbers that are important. Why, we shall outnumber the frogs by at least two to one. They'll not escape us this time.'

  'As you say, sir,' Roger agreed. He had had sufficient experience of fighting alongside inexperienced or self-centred allies; they were less nuisances if they had not been there at all. Still, he had no reason to doubt Sir Arthur Wellesley's dispositions. That long-nosed old bugger had led him to three victories, so far, in two years. He seemed to know what he was about.

  'Mind you,' Llewellyn said, chewing his lip. it will be a risky business. There is talk that Soult is hovering over there . . .'He pointed to the mountains fringing the north. 'Just waiting to descend on our flank. And then the Light Brigade has not yet come up . . .'He was definitely agitated, for all his attempt to suggest that he was looking forward to the prospect of a fight.

  ‘I am sure Sir Arthur keeps Marshal Soult in mind, sir,' Roger said, ‘I'd but wish, if you'll excuse the liberty, he kept our grub more in mind as well. This last week we might have been back in Portugal.'

  'Aye, well, there is a war on, Sergeant Major.' The Dons don't look as if they're starving to me.' Llewellyn nodded. 'Difficult. They do not understand us, to be sure. They do not understand anything. Even when we offer them money they prefer to hoard their food. But Sir Arthur is working on them, you may be sure of that. Now you get the men ready to march.'

  Forward, once again, into the heart of Spain. The day was 16 July 1809, and no weather could ever have been so hot, even in Egypt. Every footstep dislodged a puff of dust, and the cavalry, out to either flank, as well as the artillery bringing up the rear, created clouds which hung above the column and showed no tendency to dissipate in the windless air. Men coughed and choked as their red jackets became orange, while officers riding up and down the column were shadowy, half visible figures, nuisances because they created yet more dust.

  'Column will halt and fall out.' The order was received with a clatter as men sat or lay by the roadside. And here was relief. Immediately men materialised from the yellow murk, great muscular fellows with sun browned skins sheltering beneath enormous sombreros, every one with a full barrel on his back and a cup in his hand.

  ‘Limonada,' they called. 'Limonada fresco.'

  Immediately the weary men were back on their feet or their knees, holding out their own tin mugs to be filled with the enormously refreshing liquid. Roger waited his turn. He knew there would be sufficient for all.

  'Christ but that tastes good.' Corcoran squatted by the roadside, sipping his cupful with great care. 'How much longer, Sergeant Major? Four days. By Christ, another week and I'll have lemonade in my veins instead of blood.'

  'We'll be in Orepeso by sundown,' Roger said. 'So you'd best spruce up. There's to be a parade.'

  For General Cuesta was coming to see his allies for himself. The Worcesters took their place in the line beside the 48th, the Northamptons, with the other line regiments farther along. They had dusted their jackets and waxed their belts, and their muskets gleamed. They looked good, and they knew it. But what were they to make of the Spaniard, Captain-General of Estramadura, held on his horse by two pages, wearing old-fashioned trunk hose and laden with gold lace and glittering medals? Before he even reached the 29th, indeed, he was overcome by his ailments—he had been ridden over by his own cavalry a few months before —and was forced to take refuge in his coach, from the cushions of which he peered out at the amazed Englishmen.

  'Christ, what a crew,' Corcoran muttered, staring less at the general than at his escort, whose prancing, shaggy- ponies hardly suggested the Horse Guards any more than their officers, dressed in a variety of uniforms, armed with Toledo blades so long they all but dragged on the ground, and chewing tobacco or openly smoking cigarillos, suggested an Englishman's idea of an officer.

  'Hold your tongue, goddam you,' Roger growled. But his heart was sinking. Were these men capable of standing before Napoleon's veterans?

  Cuesta's departure was followed by a visit from the commanding general himself, Sir Rowland Hill at his heels.

  'Do you see those mountains?' demanded Sir Arthur Wellesley. That is the Sierra de Credos. That's where the French are, my lads. That's where you'll have your fight.' He rode on, and Roger squinted at the forest slopes, seeming to shimmer in the heat. At the foot of the nearest hill there was a sizeable town.

  Talavera, it is called,' Captain Llewellyn said when the parade was dismissed. 'That's our destination.'

  But of course the Spaniards had to be given the honour of clearing it of the French. The British stood to their arms and watched the dragoons, the first regiment wearing blue jackets and the second green, go clattering past, and immediately there was a great hullabaloo from in front of them, shrieks and musketry interspersed with cheers of 'Viva Espana,' while soon enough the inevitable crowd of men and women and children came flooding down the road to greet the advancing army and to convey, with bloodcurdling gestures, just what they had done to the French.

  ‘I tell you what, Sergeant Major,' Corcoran muttered. ‘I’m glad these chaps are on our side, that I am.'

  Suddenly the morning was overcast with the growl of artillery, and a moment later the Spanish dragoons came straggling back from the far side of the town, wailing their fear.

  The 29th will deploy.' Captain Llewellyn rode up and down the column, while Sergeant Major Smith and his assistants formed the men into line and dressed them.

  The 29th will advance. Fix bayonets.'

  With a gigantic rustle and clatter the regiment prepared for battle, the various companies coming up into the line, while beyond the houses they could see first of all the river and then the hills beyond, but for the moment no sign of the French.

  'Where are they then, where are they?' someone muttered.

  'On the far side of the river,' someone else said.

  That's a river?' Corcoran demanded. In the July heat the stream had dwindled to a few yards across and clearly only a few inches deep.

  'That's the Alberche,' said someone else, more informed than the rest. ' Tis a tributary of the Tagus.'

  'Nah,' Corcoran objected. The Tagus is in Portugal.'

  'It begins here,' Roger told him. 'But you're right. It'll be no obstacle.' He looked for his officer. The regiment was excited and ready to go. They had heard the sound of enemy guns, but they had lost not a man. At the command they would wade that river and he was sure, drive away anyone opposed to them.

  But the bugles were sounding and the command was being passed down the line. 'Fall out. Prepare to bivouac'

  Roger saw his men setting up their tents, sent out picquets, waited for Llewellyn to come up. 'What a way to fight a war,' the captain said as he dismounted. 'You won't believe it, Sergeant Major, but the Spaniards weren't ready to fight today. So we don't.'

  The Dons were not ready to fight on the morrow, either. The British lay to their arms, while endless staff officers, and even Sir Arthur himself, visited Cuesta's headquarters, without apparent avail. Nor did the French seek to cause trouble, and indeed they were nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Ten to one they're already half way to Madrid,' Llewellyn grumbled.

  They'll be concentrating, sir,' Roger poin
ted out. 'We surprised them, but not any longer. We're going to have a fight on our hands.'

  Which earned him a startled glance from the captain. And on the next day the Worcesters were awakened by a great noise: the entire Spanish army was at last on the march, an amazing sight, as the advance guard was composed of what appeared to be brigands, dressed in a variety of garments not one of which could be called a uniform, and armed with a variety of weapons; behind them came the regular soldiers, a gleam of blue and scarlet marching in perfect order with arms sloped as if on parade, and behind them a nondescript horde of priests and women, cattle and pigs, sheep and chickens. It made Roger think of tales he had read of Hunnish hordes on the march.

  'And where are they going, Sergeant Major?' Corcoran wanted to know.

  To find the French,' Roger said.

  'While we stay here?'

  The men were restless and disappointed, as Roger reported.

  'Aye, well,' Captain Llewellyn remarked, somewhat relieved to find himself still behind the river, 'Sir Arthur wants to fight as much as anyone. But not by marching blindly at those hills. So far as he knows there are better than fifty thousand frogs over there, and now they know we're here. Nor do we have a tenth of the carts promised us by the Dons. You mark my words, Sergeant Major. Those fellows will be back, and with their tails between their legs.'

  For once he was absolutely right. Only two days later the Spaniards came hurrying down the road in a chaotic, shouting mass, screaming that the French were at their heels. The redcoats clustered outside their bivouacs and stared at the mob in amazement, which only grew as, having fled precipitately from a single contact with the French, Cuesta suddenly halted the retreat on the other side of the Alberche, and stubbornly refused to bring himself and his men to safety for another twenty-four hours, while Wellesley begged him and pointed out his danger.

  Which was real enough. Now the dust clouds were moving towards Talavera, and the distant firing showed that the French were dispersing all rear guards that might be left to oppose them. So rapid was their march, as they discounted the Spaniards and knew they outnumbered the British by two to one, that the rumour ran up and down the ranks that the general himself had been taken while at a reconnaissance. But Wellesley reassured his troops by cantering down the line, while the British slowly spread themselves across the plain.

  'Because you may rely upon it,' Roger told his company. 'That river wouldn't stop us, so it won't stop the French either.' And indeed, the more he regarded the situation the less he liked it. The allied right was in Talavera itself, and was secured by the Tagus. Here the Spaniards had been posted; even they could surely hold the town walls. But the British were extended across an open plain, with only a stream, the Portina Brook, another tributary of the river, in front of them, and their left anchored, if such a disposition could be so called, on a little hillock which rose from the plain, the Cerro de Medillin.

  'I want them two deep,' Captain Llewellyn said.

  'Very good, sir,' Roger agreed, but never had he seen such a thin line.

  'We're overextended, that's what we are,' Corcoran commented, suddenly very knowledgeable. 'We'll not stop anything at all.' 'Well, the enemy ball will pass through that much easier,'

  Roger reminded him, but he gazed at the distant dust with increasing apprehension. Never had he felt quite so exposed, not even when retreating across the mountains with Moore last winter, and certainly not under Wellesley, who invariably chose the very best defensive positions for his troops.

  But there could be no question of retreat. Behind them was open country, and the French had far too great a preponderance of cavalry. Besides there could be no doubt that were the Spaniards forced to abandon the walls and houses of Talavera they would dissolve into the rabble they suggested.

  'We're here for a day or two, lads,' he said, strolling along the line of bivouacs. 'So sleep easy tonight, and be sure the frogs will still be there tomorrow.'

  He reached his own tent, where he found Captain Llewellyn.

  'Good evening to you. Sergeant Major. I have just come from General Hill. He wishes us to occupy the hillock, first thing in the morning. There's a compliment, eh? But that position must be held, and the 29th and the 48th are the best infantry in the army. His words. Gad, I feel twice my size.'

  'Yes, sir,' Roger agreed. 'But should we not occupy it this evening?'

  'No, no. That isn't in the least necessary. There's a company of the King's German Legion up there now, and you may be sure the frogs won't attack without a proper reconnaissance, at dawn. We've time, and the men are exhausted. Let them sleep.'

  'Yes, sir,' Roger said, and saluted as Llewellyn walked into the darkness. He had no doubt the officers knew a great deal more about battlefield strategy and tactics than himself. And the French did not usually attack at night, to be sure, at least without a proper understanding of what they were about. But he did no more than take off his boots and his jacket, lay down with both staff and musket close at hand, slept deeply, and awoke with a start at the crash of musketry and the peal of a bugle.

  He was on his feet and into his jacket in a moment, seized his rifle and his boots, dragged on his belts and his water bottle, crammed his hat on his head.

  To arms,' he bawled. 'Fall in, the 29th.'

  It was utterly dark, save for the flurry of sharp lights where the musketry was coming from, both in the centre of the English line, some half a mile to his right, and from the Cerro de Medillin itself. But where the devil were their officers? Men poured out of their tents, some with and some without their equipment, hastily forming rank, heads turning from left to right as they listened to the fire.

  'Who's there?' Roger shouted, presenting his musket as hooves thundered through the night.

  'Rowland Hill, damn your eyes,' came the reply. 'What regiment is this?'

  Roger came to attention. The 29th, sir.'

  Thank God for that. You'll follow me, on the double. Extended order.'

  'Extended order,' Roger shouted, heart pounding. It was the first time in all his long years in the army that he was actually going into battle under the immediate command of a general officer, and what an officer, for Hill was bareheaded and his tunic was open at the neck. But his sword was drawn, and now he dismounted and put himself at the head of the advancing line.

  'Do you wish bayonets, sir?' Roger asked.

  'No. Musketry must do this work in the beginning. There are the devils.'

  Men could be seen on the slope in front of them, engaged in driving the last of the German Legion from the hillock.

  The 29th will present,' the general called in a clear voice. 'Aim, now, lads, those are frogs. Fire.'

  The explosions came almost as one, a hail of lead which swept up the slope and sent the French marauders scattering back in dismay.

  'The 29th will load and advance,' the general said.

  Roger hurried along the ranks, slapping men into action. 'Get that ball home. Haste now. Load up.'

  Some scattered shots were fired in return, and a man fell with a ghastly whistling sound. Those around him hastily knelt to his aid.

  'Up.' Roger cracked his stick across their backs. 'Load. You heard the general.'

  'The 29th will take aim.' Hill continued to march at their front, turning now to face them. 'Steady lads.' Still bullets pinged around them, scattering dust, and striking home again by the cry which came from farther down the line. 'Fire.'

  Once again the hail of lead swept forward, and the French on the hilltop, hastily endeavouring to form line to meet the advancing British, could be seen to waver.

  'Now the 29th,' General Hill shouted. 'Now. Fix your bayonets. Follow me.'

  Steel rasped, and Roger hurried up and down the line, forcing it straight, barking encouragement. The men ran forward, and it was time to fight himself. He threw down his staff, drew his sword, ran with them. Shadowy figures formed up, and raised their own weapons. They also had fixed bayonets, but too many of their number were a
lready retreating down the hill. The shock of the 29th's charge completed their discomfort. Those still on their feet turned and ran for the brook and the safety of the French line.

  'Halt there,' bellowed Hill. 'Sergeant Major, fetch those fellows back.'

  Roger stumbled down the hill behind his men. 'Halt there,' he shouted in turn. 'To me, the 29th. Fall in. Fall in the 29th.'

  Reluctantly the men came to a halt, panting and gasping.

  ‘I got one,' Corcoran shouted excitedly. 'I got one, Sergeant Major. Right through the belly. Look at-that.' Even in the darkness the blood could be seen staining the bright steel of the bayonet.

  'So you did,' Roger agreed. 'Now back up the hill, or you won't live to see your grandchildren.'

  ‘Is that the end of the battle, Sergeant Major?' Withers inquired, as the company tramped back to where General Hill was standing.

  That?' Roger gave him a grim smile. That wasn't even the beginning, lad.'

  'Well done, the 29th,' Hill said as they came up.

  'Oh, indeed,' agreed Captain Llewellyn. 'Well done the 29th.'

  'Where the devil have you been, sir?' the general demanded.