The Plains of Talavera,
the Hills of Busaco.
Martin McDowell
Published in 2016 by FeedARead.com Publishing – Arts Council funded
Copyright © The author as named on the book cover.
First Edition
The author, Martin Andrew McDowell, has asserted their moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
Dedication
To my wife, Doreen, and children, Amy and Steven,
who are so indulgent of my unfathomable
Napoleonic obsession!
Also to David Richard Wood, my good friend and colleague, who
always appeared interested, for which encouragement
I am eternally grateful
Acknowledgments
The History of the Peninsular War-
Volumes II and III
Sir Charles Oman
Talavera -
Andrew W. Field
Talavera –
Peter Edwards
Waterloo
Mark Adkin
An Atlas of the Peninsular War
Ian Robertson
During the Campaigns described in this volume:-
- Oporto and the pursuit – 105th are in the place of the 29th Foot, Worcestershire, ‘The Two and a Hook’, 6th Brigade.
- Talavera – the 105th are in the place of the 2/31st Foot, Huntingdonshire, Mackenzie’s Brigade, ‘The Young Buffs’. The 2/31st were one of the three heroic Battalions that held the British centre until the 48th arrived.
- Busaco – the 105th are in the place of the 45th Foot, Nottinghamshire, ‘The Old Stubborns’ Mackinnon’s Brigade. It was a Wing of the 45th that joined the 88th for their charge against Merle’s column.
- Defence and advance of the Lines of Torres Vedras – the 105th are in the place of the 71st Foot, Glasgow Highland, Erskine’s Brigade. It was the 71st that repulsed the attack out of Sobral
Books by the same author.
105th Series - Worth Their Colours
- Close to the Colours
A Question of Duty.
Cover picture
1st Regiment of Foot Guards at Waterloo by Brian Palmer.
The light company of the 1st Foot Guards commanded by Lord Saltoun, defending the hollow way, behind Hougoumont.
Chapter One
Between Two Cities
They had come and they had conquered, surmounting all walls and defences, brushing aside defenders who had earlier marched through so assuredly to man the parapets and bastions of the ancient city. However, now were heard within the well-appointed streets, not shouts of relief, but the cries of a thousand anguished voices as the news spread. To these wails of despair were soon added the crackle of flames engorging treasured landmarks and edifices, all of which had stood the test of time, war and pestilence but were now engulfed in the tragedy of military conquest. What few spaces there were within the cacophony of this tumult were filled by the noises of conflict; cannon, bugles, muskets, frightened horses, shouts of triumph and cries of defeat. Oporto had fallen, all defences taken, all defenders now falling back. All this came to the eyes and ears of the Capucin-Franciscan Friar, Juan Delica as he set foot on the first planking that carried the bridge of boats over the wide River Douro, now the only escape for almost all of the people of the city. Merely minutes earlier he had done his best to quell the chaos of the main street which led down to the bridge, but all was to no avail, for then came cavalry, of his own countrymen, riding at full speed down the main street, trampling hundreds in their own efforts to escape by using the crossing, only to be halted by the sheer press that itself was vainly attempting a place on the precious bridge. The best that could be done by him now was to help the weak and infirm remain upright in the stream of panicked humanity that continued to add to the river of distress that inched its way down to the banks of the Douro and the bridge that was their only means of escape from the rapacious incoming French army.
The panic had been intensified by the sudden collapse in high confidence that all had placed in their own defences and soldiers, but these had stood for mere minutes before the oncoming invader and, now, those same soldiers of Portugal were mixed in the throng, the presence of their uniforms giving testimony that their city was now lost. Juan Delica stood on the first yards of the bridge, the planking now echoing the sound of hundreds of feet beating upon it, adding to the sounds of the chaos. He could do little but support here and guide there and soon he had little choice but to allow himself to be carried on, to cross with the fleeing multitude of the terrified to the far bank. At mid-way he came to the drawbridge in the centre of the pontoon where the horror that was great within him now descended to new depths. Many Portuguese soldiers, over 50 each side, were pulling the ropes to raise the drawbridge, with thousands yet to cross. Juan Delica also had heard the new sounds of conflict along the quayside and saw what could only be French troops advancing to the end of the bridge. This is what had caused the Officer to give the order to raise the drawbridge, but the effect could only be an obvious disaster. He fought his way through to the Officer to plead for the vital woodwork to remain in place, but the result was a pistol thrust into his face and the order to get himself over to the far bank.
The drawbridge continued to lift, the soldiers straining to left both the bridge and the mass of fugitives stood upon it. As the gap grew many flung themselves at the ascending edge, some to cling on for safety, some to fall into the receding tide. Then came the full horror, for those further back on the bridge continued to push forward, not knowing that there now existed a forty-foot gap in the centre. Loud and despairing were the cries of those, of all ages and classes, that were pushed over the edge to join the stream of the drowning that was being carried out to sea. The numbers falling were added to when firing erupted all along the quay, for the French, seeing so many Portuguese uniforms amongst the crowd opened fire on the now static crowd helpless upon the narrow causeway. The citizens on the safe side of the gap moved on quickly, but not quick enough, for even some of these fell from musket fire. Juan Delica remained with the soldiers as they now pulled up the strongest whose strength had taken them across the gap by clinging to the bridge or even swimming, Delica not to help up those alive but to give the last rites to those on his own side hit mortally by the assault from the gathering French now pouring musket fire into the whole mass of humanity trapped on the bridge. The horror grew, for the gap was now bridged, not with stout timber, but by the sunken bodies of the drowned, and so the strongest were able to wade and scramble their way across to safety over the noisome and writhing causeway.
Mercifully, the firing from the quayside ceased and the French soldiers, seeing that almost all upon the bridge were civilians, were at last showing mercy and were pulling and pushing, mostly by using their musket butts, all those remaining on the bridge, back into the city. Juan Delica now joined the Portuguese soldiers as they finally completed their crossing of the now hideous river to the village of Villa Nova de Gaia, to then climb the Serra hill above the South bank and from there to witness yet more horror, albeit from a distance, as the final garrisons of Portuguese taking false refuge in palaces and bastions, were finally overcome and the survivors bayoneted. T
hen the city was sacked in an orgy of plunder, murder and rapine that occupied the rest of the day. Juan Delica heard much more than he was able to see whilst remaining there for some hours in the remote hope of providing some help, but no opportunity presented itself, nothing came but the morose sight of bodies floating back on the incoming tide. Finally, he removed his Friar’s robe and threw it over the cliff at his feet.
oOo
On the same day, a scene of stark contrast was playing out on the quaysides of Lisbon, a scene of hope and no little joy. Yet more Battalions of the newly arrived British army were disembarking, filing patiently from their transports to form up on the stonework, now both warmed and cheered by the early April sunshine. An endless stream of Redcoats, or so it seemed, filed through the disembarkation ports of their vessels and onto the several gangplanks that led to the quayside, all welcomed by band music, speeches, flowers and coloured bunting fluttering in the cheerful breeze. On top, came the applause and greetings from the grateful population of the capital of Portugal, a crowd that had maintained its size all through the days of the British arrival. The unloading was to be done quickly; many more ships remained out in the harbour, all filled with Redcoats and their Followers eager to be quit of shipboard life, after 10 days at sea across a turbulent Bay of Biscay.
Jed Deakin, Colour Sergeant, First Battalion, 105th Wessex Foot, Prince of Wales Own, placed his first foot on the gangplank, followed by his good companion of more years than they could remember, Corporal Toby Halfway. Whilst Deakin secured the precious Regimental Colour under his arm, Halfway hitched both his musket and pack into a more comfortable alignment.
“Don’t expect much change in this place, Jed. Not since we was here last August, don’t seem much more’n yesterday.”
“Can’t say you’m wrong, Tobe, but I can’t see us gettin’ lucky like last time and beddin’ down in that castle up there”.
He pointed with his free arm to the imposing and extensive castle that was Fort St. George, high on its hill, but the statement was too obviously correct to extract a reply from his good friend Halfway as they made their way confidently over the firm woodwork. Soon all ten Companies of the Battalion were formed on the quayside and expectancy grew that soon they would march off. They made a fine sight, all uniforms were new, as were all items of kit and footwear, but all was far from uniform in the expression on their faces. For most, veterans like Deakin and Halfway, this was far from new, but for many the anxiety showed. This was not safe England, this was a foreign land and any that explored the thought of the distance that a three days march would take them, then pursued the idea further, found their thoughts inevitably at the notion of facing the French in open battle, a very perilous idea indeed. The 105th had lost over a quarter of its strength during December and January past, being part of the Corunna retreat and then the battle that had followed. Therefore many new recruits stood anxious and uneasy, for this was now reality, they were on campaign and with cause to be fearful, because certain conflict lay in the future. Typical of these were Privates Nathaniel Solomon and George Tucker, both plainly agile and durable men, the former very powerful, therefore both stood within the ranks of the Light Company on the far left, but their thoughts dwelt little on the sights and sounds around them, more on the feel of foreign ground beneath their feet and the alien language of the crowd behind them, mostly meaningless shouts of “Viva Inglese”.
But one “company” now remained to disembark and gather, that of the ‘Followers’, the few wives and children of those allowed by their Commander in Chief, one General Arthur Wellesley, to accompany their husbands, joined either by Church or Common Law. He had dictated that only those who could add to the effectiveness of his army could accompany their men, and so there had been no lottery to choose who should be with their men and thus swell the numbers of those that ‘followed’. Wellesley was only too well aware of the encumbrance that had hampered Moore’s army during its retreat to Corunna, fully adding to the horrors that had befallen all of Moore’s command on that dreadful Winter retreat, for, in many ways, the experience of the families was worse than that endured by the soldiers. Soon the Followers had joined on the end of the column, a much smaller number than was traditional and usual, but all were prepared for the march, as were their men, each woman with a wooden cross, not unlike that of an itinerant tinker, on which to carry the pots, pans and spoons that enabled them to cook the family rations as they progressed through the too often bleak and barren countryside.
As all finally gathered, Lieutenant-Colonel Bertram Lacey, the Lieutenant Colonel of the 105th, accompanied by his Senior Major Padraigh O’Hare, were deep in conversation with another Officer of higher rank, him being Brigadier Richard Stewart, now giving orders for the 105th to leave the quayside. The subject of the conversation had been a map, but this was now lowered from sight, accompanied by much nodding of heads and then salutes as Stewart left to consult with another of his Brigade Colonels. Thrusting the map into a pocket, Lacey hurried but yards to the awaiting Regimental Sergeant Major Cyrus Gibney, one imposing and engulfing figure not least caused by the effect of his prominent moustache and sideburns which swooped up under his shako to add to the impression of great height, which was actually so, for there were few that cast a longer shadow, nor broader, than that of Cyrus Gibney.
“Sar Major!”
“Sir”
This accompanied by a perfect and punctilious salute.
“March the men off. I will lead. We are in camp, someone on the outskirts, alongside the Grand Trunk. Their main road.”
Gibney took one pace back, saluted and spun on his heel. He marched to the centre of the long column of Redcoats, and sucked in one enormous breath.
“Paraaaade!”
The sound echoed from the warehouse walls and even the hulls of the moored ships nearby. All in the ranks came to ‘order arms’, their musket held alongside their right leg. After more bellowing the 105th were marching away, in ranks of four, muskets now across shoulders, all in perfect step, but their footfalls were drowned by the cheering crowds, unintelligible to most English ears, “Bravo Inglese!”
Their route was to the North and soon they were in sight of the Campos, the wild and untilled region above Lisbon, but its nature was wholly altered by the ranks and battalions of white tents that marched and spilled over the slopes and hills. Merely a few minutes more and they were off the road and onto already beaten and trodden earth to then come to a halt before their own ranks of the pale, crude, triangular structures. The Officers left the tedium of the allocation of tents to the Sergeants of each Company and here Company Sergeant Ethan Ellis came into his own. He was the embodiment of a grim, uncompromising, veteran soldier, liked by few, but certainly respected and always obeyed. Ellis marched his Company, 82 strong along their rank of tents, allocating ten to each, eleven to the last two. The final group included the men he had most and least time for; the most being John Davey and Ezekiel Saunders, both a Chosen Man, the former even though once a poacher condemned to serve by the Courts. Also the huge Saunders, solid, dependable and a very good man in any type of conflict, for he was once, and still could be, a wrestling champion. The least, was Tom Miles, complaining, argumentative and often neglectful of his uniform, sometimes deliberately in the opinion of Ellis. However, Ellis knew his worth, for Miles ill-temper made him as potent a soldier as any in the Battalion, but he would never allow this to be known to Miles. Both exchanged ill looks as Miles ducked under the tent flap to join a group that was one more than the tent was designed for, which Miles immediately commented on.
“Bit overcrowded, b’ain’t this crib?”
Already inside were the other members of their mess, John Byford, the intellectual “Gentleman Ranker” of the Company, Joe Pike, a young volunteer, but now a campaign veteran; Len Bailey, a housebreaker and also a “King’s Hard Bargain” similar to Davey. Ellis had included the two new recruits; Solomon and Tucker, in the hope that these experienced veterans would
soon mould the newcomers into something like capable soldiers. The remaining four were all experienced Light Company infantrymen. Within minutes these had established themselves and were preparing to cook their rations, Bailey was sent to the supplies wagon, Byford to gather wood for their fire. Within the hour all were contentedly eating and drinking, with the inevitable exception of Tom Miles.
“How come we ain’t put up in some decent building somewer’? ‘Stead of rolling about out yer in the mud!”
The reply came from Davey, one of the few who could bandy insults with Miles, without the conversation descending into a fight.
“Who’d want you as a neighbour?”
The constructive reply was provided by Byford.
“This is a sizeable army, Tom. No room in the city, especially for the sort that contains me and thee. Besides, rumour is that Wellesley’s due in soon, so don’t expect to have to put up with this for too long. He’ll be eager to get us out and up against the Johnnies.”
The last addition did nothing to ease the feelings of Solomon and Tucker.
oOo
The decent buildings, as Miles would describe them, that held any vacant space were the preserve of the Officers, and two of these were now exiting their billets, having partaken of a very decent meal, as cooked for them by their servant. These were Major Henry George Carr, the Junior Major of the 105th and Captain Nathan Jameson Drake, Captain of the Light Company. Since coming together in the Battalion over a year earlier, the two had formed a firm friendship, although Carr was always of the senior rank. The two were very different in character, Drake’s rook to Carr’s raven. Drake’s head and eyes always seemed to be on the move, looking, enquiring, absorbing, and sending information to an active mind that always needed something to comment on. Carr, in contrast, seemed sedate, almost detached, seemingly there, right enough, if not taking part, but captured in indolence. However, as Drake knew, in battle his character totally changed, converting him into one of the most capable Officers in the Battalion, the equal, at least, of both Lacey and O’Hare. Carr had once commanded the Light Company as a Captain, with Drake as his Senior Lieutenant, which is what had brought them together as friends. Now both had risen in rank after the Corunna retreat.
The Plains of Talavera Page 1