The Plains of Talavera

by Martin McDowell

  “An’ tomorrow I s’pose we’n back up yer in Battalion?”

  “S’right Miles and I’ll be checkin’ your flint, pan and touchhole.”

  Miles scowled.

  “What about buttons?”

  “Them too! Shiney! And shako plate. And crossbelt plate!”

  The last was shouted and Saunders grinned behind Miles.

  “Want to borrow some brickdust, then? Tom?”

  Low chuckles from all around, the discomfiture of the grumpy Miles was always a source of certain amusement, but little more was said, as the first houses of Lisbon approached.

  Simultaneously, in a well-appointed room, deep with Lisbon, humour and bonhomie was also much prevalent. Lord Templemere had invited a long acquaintance of his to supper, this being Captain Lord Charles Carravoy, along with Captain Lucius Tavender and Lieutenant The Honourable Royston D’Villiers. The families of Templemere, Carravoy and D’Villiers were neighbours in Gloucestershire and all friends of long standing. Both Carravoy and D’Villiers were of the 105th and both were Officers of the Grenadier Company. It was Tavender who was footing the bill for this occasion, having engaged a local hotelier to provide the meal and each dish had indeed been sumptuous, accompanied with just the correct wine. Whilst his fellow diners were all of noble birth, he came from a family of probably greater wealth than the families of his fellow three combined. The talk had been standard for men of their social class, ranging across tailors, horses, saddles, gunsmiths, hunting, racing at Ascot and now Wellesley. The final topic was initiated by Templemere, a simple question.

  “This Wellesley. What’s he like?”

  D’Villiers was a mere Lieutenant in the company of Captains, two of whom were Lords. He had an opinion, which was generally favourable towards their General, but he knew Carravoy’s opinion and it was probably shared by Tavender. In the event, it was Carravoy who provided an answer, confirming D’Villiers’ suspicions.

  “Irish! And mostly served in India. Sepoy General some call him. I’ll grant the victories of Rolica and Vimeiro, but the French played right into his hands. Marching right up for us to blow them all to Hell. My complaint is that he has no respect, nor any understanding, of the needs or standing of his Officers. On a whim he’ll strip you of your servants and necessaries. You’ll be no more than a plain ranker. And end up looking like one!”

  Tavender nodded.

  “On top, he’s total infantry. Little idea of how to handle cavalry. Look at that shambles at Vimeiro. A total mess! With that, I rest my case.”

  D’Villiers was in a quandary. He had the firm opinion that it was Wellesley Generalship that had gained the victories aforementioned and the cavalry shambles at Vimeiro had been their own entire making, running completely out of control and too far into the French lines. Should be speak up? He was outranked both militarily and socially, but then came the bombshell from Templemere, totally changing the subject and raising what was most likely the whole point of the evening.

  “What are we going to do about Carr?”

  Both Templemere and Tavender looked steadily at the two opposite, but Templemere continued.

  “I’d say I’m right in thinking that we all have a score to settle there.”

  He pointed to the scars on his right cheekbone, where fragments of bone had to be removed before the hole was trepanned. Carr had smashed the pommel of his sword into the spot during their first duel. D’Villiers had no such grudge and was aghast at the thought of becoming engaged in some conspiracy against a fellow Officer of his Regiment, but he managed not to show it. Carravoy, on the other hand was deep in thought. A strong rivalry existed in his own mind between himself and Carr, especially as Carr had been promoted Major over him, at a time when he was the Captain of the Senior Company, the Grenadiers. That rankled greatly and it was Carravoy who answered.

  “What can be done? He’s now a gazetted Major.”

  Templemere twirled a knife, making a hole in the tablecloth, then threw a nut into his mouth. His chewing of it did not affect what came next.

  “We are about to go on campaign. Things inevitably go wrong and blame must be lodged, wherever it may fall. If Carr was around at the time, part of the whole and on the scene, as it were, I’m sure something can be constructed. It may not need to be too much of a……….”

  He paused.

  “……..work of fiction, if you take my meaning.”

  Tavender leaned forward, determined.

  “All we have to do, Gentlemen, is to keep our eyes and ears open and see what coincides between the presence of our Major Carr and the ups and downs of our fighting the French. On top, we have a General who’ll back us up, our own General Perry. We’re on his Staff.”

  Templemere immediately filled each glass, the gleam in his eyes matching that of the fine crystal.

  “A toast to that!”

  Each raised their glass and drank, but D’Villiers took merely a sip.

  oOo

  It was in merely a backroom in a backstreet house, but Lacey and O’Hare knew why they were there even before they entered, as they ascended the stairs through the gloom and dank air, somehow chillier within these confines than the late morning breeze outside. Each found a chair as more Officers arrived to put themselves in the presence of their Brigadier, one Robert Stewart. He sat his own chair, awaiting the last arrivals, himself every inch a Highland Commander. Apart from sideburns that descended to his collar, he was clean-shaven, exposing cheeks ruddy from the blasting wind of the moorland. His far seeing eyes were shaded by his Highland bonnet which sported a huge badge at the front and his left hand flexed endlessly on the pommel of his claymore, whilst his right was rock steady holding a glass of scotch. This had just been provided by his servant, in full Highland uniform, standing behind his left shoulder. As the last Colonel and Major arrived, glasses were passed around and the servant moved forward to provide a more than generous measure in each. For Stewart, first things first, which was to swallow the scotch.

  “Slange!”

  His spirit disappeared in one gulp, requiring his guests to do the same. He then came straight to business.

  “I doubt ye’ve met each other, whilst I’ve met ye all, so I’ll do the introductions.”

  He concerned himself solely with the Colonels, starting on his right, and pointing to each.

  “Burns, First Sixteenth Portuguese Line. Lacey, Hundred and Fifth Foot, Ruskin, First Detachments.”

  All nodded and smiled as the names came forth, but Stewart was onto the main business.

  “Wellesley arrived yesterday. He’s divided us into Brigades, with a Portuguese Battalion in each, as now trained up by Beresford and mostly Officered by ours.”

  He nodded in the direction of Colonel Burns and received one back.

  “He briefed us in the evening and now ah’m includin’ you. Soult's still at Oporto and Wellesley wants onto him immediately. Mackenzie’s left during the night, us all to assemble at Coimbra, halfway there. Today’s the 23rd, we leave on the 25th. Get your men on the Grand Trunk at Noon. Dismiss.”

  He turned himself around for another gill of scotch, paying no more attention to the six Officers now exiting through the door. On the stairs, Lacey half turned to O’Hare, following close behind

  “What shape are we in?”

  “Good enough as we speak, with us marching to the Campo most days. The spare day will take out the last wrinkles.”

  “You check with the Company Captains, give Carr responsibility for supplies, medical and Followers.”

  Thus, within hours Henry Carr was presenting himself at Commissariat Headquarters and joined the queue before the Quartermaster Sergeant who suddenly had more to cope with than could easily be achieved. He left the building with a requisition for three days supplies for 722 men and Followers. This meant that replenishment would occur en route after the three days. He had already visited Nelly Nicholls who already knew, probably before he did, and she had spread the word. Then Surgeon Pearce, a les
s than cheerful man, but experienced and plainly competent and he was found in a permanent state of readiness because his skills could be required at any time. Now there remained but the Battalion Chaplain, a man whom he had little to do with so far, not since he had joined the Regiment back in February. This was the Reverend Thomas Albright, an uplifting name for a Man of the Cloth and hopefully for someone of a sensible and constructive disposition. The Chaplain’s Assistant he did know, Private Percival Sedgwicke, a thief, de-frocked from the Priesthood as a consequence and condemned to serve in the Army for the duration. He was a fish-out-of-water, being an educated man, down in the ranks, but he was undoubtedly popular with the men, despite being an utterly hopeless soldier in a firing line. However, he had spent a great deal of his time in the army as a Storesman and, being highly literate and numerate, he was possessed of good organizational sense and could see his way through most organizational challenges.

  Carr found Albright, beside his wagon and at his midday meal, a plain combination of bread, fish and fruit. Albright spoke first, recognising Carr as one of the Majors of the Battalion. He was at once welcoming and cheerful.

  “Major Carr! Good-day, Sir, you are most welcome.”

  He rose from his chair and extended his hand, which Carr took, to receive a warm handshake, but Carr had no time for any further pleasantries.

  “Good-day Reverend. I’ll come straight to the point. We march day after tomorrow. North, to meet the French. You’ll need to be ready.”

  Carr was treated to a beaming smile.

  “As we will be, Major. As we will be, be most assured of it.”

  Somehow Carr was not convinced, but the comforting words had been spoken and so he saluted, this being to a Reverend, and then left. Albright finished his final mouthfuls and hurried around the wagon in the hope of finding Sedgwicke, but failing. What he knew was that his Assistant was of the habit of visiting the Followers and so he began to move in that direction, but, as luck would have it, Sedgwicke immediately appeared around the corner of a wall. Albright greeted him with a look of deep concern.

  “Sedgwicke, we are due to march out of here within 24 hours.”

  He paused to allow that to sink in.

  “What does that mean?”

  Sedgwicke, for all his sheltered upbringing and tender calling was a veteran of two campaigns, not least the retreat to Corunna and, with justification, he regarded both of the immediate superiors he had ‘assisted unto’ so far, as being wholly less than what they should be. His first Chaplain had made not one good decision and had then deserted before the battle of Corunna. This one, having just landed, had no notion of what could come their way during the rigours of a campaign and here he was, asking what it meant to begin a march. He sucked in a deep breath and let it out as a barely audible sigh.

  “Well, Sir, it means that all that we need to sustain us whilst traveling and will enable us to perform our ministrations must be loaded into that wagon. Sir.”

  Albright looked at the wagon as though seeing it for the first time. It was not the wagon for a carrier, more a light cart, with an awning, it being a vehicle small and undemanding for a team of two mules.

  “That wagon? Alone? I thought it for my own personal use.”

  “It is, Sir, for your own personal use, for your effects and mine, although mine all go into a pack and a haversack.”

  Albright looked incredulous, as Sedgwicke continued.

  “What we must do, Sir, is discard anything not essential. If feed for our mules is unavailable, they starve and what then moves the wagon? If they are weak, which is often the end result, the lighter the load the more likely they are to keep going. Sir.”

  Albright continued to stare.

  “We will be on campaign, Sir. Against the French, who march faster than we do. We may be without food, yet still required to move quickly. Sir.”

  Astonishment now overtook his superior, but Sedgwicke had interpreted the look.

  “Yes Sir. There may be much that we have to leave behind. We can include a few luxuries, Sir, but a few. Weight is paramount.”

  No reply.

  “I’ll see to the selection, Sir then I’ll make a list for your final appraisal.”

  A resigned nod was the response. Sedgwicke saluted and left, not to his duties but back to the fireside of Nellie Nicholls and Bridie Deakin. The wagon was already packed, all that remained outside were his Reverend’s bits for camp. Besides, Albright had eaten, he would not need feeding again for sometime and the two good women, in whose high esteem Sedgwicke dwelt, had always tea and doughcakes ready for the hungry.

  The day came and all were standing in their place, the last notes of the band who were leading out an earlier Brigade echoing but dying between the tall buildings. Although this was the third day of the army marching North, there was still a good crowd, ready to cheer any departing soldiery, but especially those of their own Portuguese army, a Battalion in every Brigade. The men were stood easy in their marching ranks, some being fussed over by Followers, helping with straps and buckles, easing as best as possible the 30lbs weight of full kit, with rations on top. However, in many cases, the rations issued to the men were now back with the Followers. Easing their load was one thing, but them being killed with a full haversack to be pillaged by the French would be a disaster, therefore, the children of Bridie and Nellie carried the rations of single men such as Byford and Saunders and the lovelorn Joe Pike.

  Lacey and O’Hare were mounted, alongside Stewart, him equally mounted and now passing a hip-flask across to the pair. He was the picture of a bucolic Highland Laird, passing a fatherly eye over some festival of highland dancing taking place on his estate. Thus he was wholly relaxed over the whole affair, for the times of marching out to war were numbered beyond memory for a veteran such as he. Carr had no mount, but preferred to march anyway, at the rear if the column. Someone of his rank may be needed in that part of the Battalion. Lacey turned his mount around for him to walk back to the Honour Guard. He had seen the Portuguese 16th break out their Colours, them having been given the honour to lead out the Brigade. They had two Colours, as had British Infantry Regiments, their King’s Colour was an intricate accumulation of red and blue rectangles, a yellow diagonal cross, then with the Royal Arms of Braganza large in the centre. Their Regimental Colour, in the case of the 16th, was almost all white, with a red border, and with a much smaller Arms of Braganza in the centre. Their appearance at the head of their men had caused a bout of wild cheering from the Lisbonese all crowded along the roadside. Lacey looked at Ensign Barnaby Rushby the senior of the two, who carried the King’s Colour. Ensign Trenton Neape carried the Regimental.

  “Break out the Colours Rushby. I think a bit of a show is called for.”

  Although the order was addressed to Rushby, it was the two Colour Sergeants who obeyed it, Deakin drawing the King’s Colour from its leather casing, Harry Bennet the Regimental. That done they were handed to their respective Ensigns and the huge Union Flag of the King’s Colour and the lurid green of the 105th Regimental Colour added their gaiety to that of the Portuguese. At first silently, this being nothing more than a nod from Stewart to Burns at the head of the Portuguese, the process began to enable them to move, this starting with the Portuguese being brought to ‘shoulder arms’. Lacey took this as his signal and gave the nod to Gibney who bellowed his men through the same process, him then followed by the NCO’s of the 1st Detachments behind. They all began to march off, to the intense cheering of the civilians either side. At the head of the column, in Number Three Company, the men took their lead from Heaviside, his order to march being inevitably prefaced by a Bible quote.

  “For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope. Jeremiah 29. 11.”

  At the rear, in the Light Company, the men picked up the step, with the friendship group close up to each other, Miles, Byford, Pike and Davey in one rank, with Saunders, Bailey, Tucker and So
lomon behind in the next.

  Even Miles, marching on the left, felt uplifted by the endless lines of cheering and smiling faces, then came one he knew, it was his ‘washer girl’, laughing and waving at the 105th Redcoats as they passed by. He raised his voice above the din.

  “Consuela! Consuela!”

  Bailey spoke to Saunders marching beside him

  “What’s he shouting about? Daft bugger!”

  “I think he’s seen his washer-girl.”

  She heard her name and turned to see him as he approached. He pointed to his chest.

  “Tom! Tom!”

  Recognition came into her face. She said something, but it was drowned. Miles turned to Byford beside him.

  “Byfe. What’s ‘good luck?”

  “Boa sortay.”

  Miles turned to Consuela, now almost passed.

  “Boa sortay, Consuela! Boa sortay!”

  She waved and so did he, but it was clear that she was heavily pregnant. Also there was a man stood behind her with his hands on her shoulders. She said something to him and he gave Miles a friendly salute as they finally passed by, but Ellis, having seen all, was incensed.

  “Miles! You keeps your arms swingin’ at your sides. This is a parade, not some pub crawl jaunt!”

  But Miles, in uplifted mood, was in no frame of mind to be quiet.

  “Just buildin’ good relations with our civilian allies, S’aren’t. That’s all!”

  Ellis may have replied, but it was Saunders that was heard.

  “Looks like she’s found that beau we was talkin’ about, Tom. An’ got well spliced!”

  Miles nodded and actually grinned, good white teeth in brown face.

  “Ah well. She remembered me and it looks like she’s happy. That’s all to the good.”

  Saunders, from behind, gave him a consoling pat on the shoulder.

  oOo