“Aye Sir. Ah’d say that Deakin here, has just about the raht of it!”
Behind them came the Grenadiers, led by Carravoy and D’Villiers. The third and final Officer of the Grenadier Company, Lieutenant Simon Ameshurst, was back with his Section to the rear. Both somewhat morose, both Carravoy and D’Villiers maintained a gait somewhat between a plod and a trudge, Carravoy, because he was tired and much of him below the waist ached, D’Villiers because he was very apprehensive, anxiously gazing ahead at the cavalry far beyond the infantry screen. Although a veteran, now, of four battles, his memory of his own conduct in each did not fill him with much confidence. Carravoy was speaking of the campaign so far, in none too complimentary a tone, much of it sourced from his own aching legs.
“Too quick! He’s pushing us out too quick. We’ll outrun our supplies and what then? Another pull back like at Coruna!”
D’Villiers knew that much of what was said was untrue. He himself had supervised the issue of another three days rations and he fully appreciated the virtues of taking the French unawares.
“We may catch them on the hop.”
Carravoy snorted.
“Catch out Johnny Frog! His cavalry are the best in the world. They’ll see us first more like.”
D’Villiers changed the subject.
“Well, if we do have to pull back, at least it’s in Spring weather!”
Carravoy was in no mood to be mollified.
“Small mercy!”
In the Light Infantry screen, life was utter tedium, required to advance thirty yards apart with all conversation barred and not even allowed to puff their pipes. If there was any conversation it was with a patrolling Officer, roaming up the ranks and usually admonishing someone for failing to maintain the correct distance. For Miles and Saunders nothing of such came, for them maintaining distance was pure instinct, but Tucker and Solomon often heard the rough edge of the tongue of their Sergeant, the formidable Ellis, or even the usually more forgiving George Fearnley, second Sergeant of the Light Company. However, even for Miles and Saunders, carrying their Baker rifle across their chest and at the ready, was beginning to make their arms ache severely. It was not long before they used the rifle sling over their left shoulders. Ellis said nothing.
Further out, within the cavalry so directly spoken of by both Deakin and Carravoy, Captains Tavender and Templemere were thoroughly enjoying themselves. Their mounts were of the best and each had huge confidence that both stallions would have enough speed to propel them out of any possible trouble. The only cloud of the day had been their Commander, Colonel Withers, damning the pair of them for sitting their horses outside of cover, which was a very convenient spinney of trees. However, status quo had been somewhat repaired when Withers asked to borrow Tavender’s telescope, a most splendid four draw instrument. Through it Tavender had seen blue uniforms withdrawing and now Withers could do the same. He rode off to tell Stapleton-Cotton, their Brigade Commander, whilst Tavender scoured the hills through the fine lenses, for French uniforms. None could be seen and so the squadron trotted forward, Tavender now de facto leader.
Furthest back for the 105th came their Followers, behind even the supply wagons, mules and the light cart of the Reverend Albright. From these people came more noise than any other part of the whole, the incessant timpano of pots and spoons colliding together and their chatting, shouting and laughter. However, as usually transpired, beside Sedgwicke, as driver of the Chaplain’s cart, walked Nelly Nicholls, Bridie Deakin and the children of both. The question most commonly asked up into the cart came from Nelly Nicholls, directed at Sedgwicke
“Sure now, Parson darlin’, how long d’ye think before the next stop?”
Sedgwicke sucked in a deep breath. He had registered the beginning of this stage at 2.30 and so he consulted his watch which read 4.00. If he said what he thought, he would be saying one and a half hours, but, that would mean little to Nelly, her never having owned a watch in her life, nor having any understanding of fractions. Instead he looked ahead and fixed on a far hill.
“Can you see that hill, up there? The one with trees running down the right.”
Nelly craned her neck.
“Sure! Yes, I can.”
Sedgwicke smiled down.
“I’d say just over the other side. We could well be there for the night.”
Albright felt the need to say something; this was, after all, his flock. He came upon a combination that would apply both to walking and to his calling.
“God will carry us forward, my good woman. Are we not, after all, about his Good Purpose?”
Sedgwicke gave an irritated sigh and slapped the reins, whilst Nelly barely heard, for Bridie had tapped her on the shoulder.
“Where’s Patrick? Sure I’ve not seen him for much of this day.”
Nelly looked around.
“Nor I. The scamp! Sure, he’ll be up to something.”
The something was discovered when they made camp that evening on the far side of the hill, which had been identified by Sedgwicke. Patrick came marching into their area wearing the full uniform of a Drummerboy, white facings all over the front, the collar and the shoulder wings, with a black symbol similar to a fleur-de-lys every two inches. His sleeves were covered in rings of the same design. He carried his drum slung by its strap over his shoulder, sticks in his belt. Bridie shrieked, not at her son, more at Jed Deakin.
“Jed! He’s joined up! He’s a Drummerboy! Look! Look!”
Deakin barely moved.
“That was always on the cards, Ma. He’s old enough and tough enough.”
Hearing no support from her husband, she burst into tears and lifted her apron to her face. Deakin sighed, he loved Bridie dearly and was always upset with any upset in her, so he rose and put his hands on her shoulders.
“Bridie, he’s a good strong lad. Sooner or later they’d have made him join, either the Drummers now, or the firing line later.”
He allowed the fearful idea of the firing line to sink in.
“’Sides, he’ll get paid now and it’ll keep him out of mischief.”
He paused again.
“’Tis not so bad a thing”.
Bridie leaned against him for a second or two and then went over to embrace her eldest son, who, once released from her arms, waved a companion into the light of the fire.
“Ma, I’ve got a mate. His names Henri. He’s French!”
Henri walked forward, nervous and unsure, but Deakin was cudgelling his memory. He looked at Davey.
“B’ain’t this the boy that you dug out of Elvina, after Coruna?”
Davey examined the boy in the firelight.
“Looks like. Can’t be sure.”
He turned to Byford.
“Ask him, Byfe.”
Byford came forward to stand before the boy.
“Êtes-vous le garçon nous avons trouvé de Elvina?”
The boy looked up, re-assured to be spoken to in his own language.
“Oui, je suis.”
All understood that reply and so Byford sat down, but Deakin had noticed something.
“Byfe. Ask if we can see his drum?”
Byford rose and spoke again.
“Puissions-nous voir votre tambour?”
The drum was swung around on its strap and Deakin’s suspicions were confirmed.
“I bloody knew it! He’s still got the same drum as we found him with. That bloody French thing what he wouldn’t let go of.”
Deakin’s tone alarmed the boy, but Byford was still near.
“Il est très bien. Tout est bien.”
Nelly Nicholls had memories also, of a starving, wasted and terrified youngster, captured by his enemy after a dreadful march and an appalling battle. She did now, what she did then, to hold up a welcoming hand.
“You come on here now, honey, and lets see what we can get ye t’eat.”
As he came within reach she laid the welcoming hand on his shoulder, then send an admonishing look all around
the camp.
“Fine welcome ye’ve all given the lad. Youse! Spalpeens, the lot of ye!”
The boy was pushed onto a log, given a dish and then some stew was ladled into it. Nothing more was heard from the boy, but Bridie was greatly concerned.
“What of his Mother, Jed? She’ll be beside herself with worry, his body not found after the battle and no word from nowhere!”
Deakin looked over at her, exasperated and astonished.
“What can I do? There’s none too many letters as moves between home an’ France, never mind between the rankers of armies.”
However, Davey had been listening.
“I reckon something can be done, Jed. But not just now and only if we can get pencil and paper. Byford here can put something together.”
Byford looked up, something between a sarcastic thanks and astonishment on his face.
oOo
Everything had changed at the end of that day. The dying light of the day gave significance to the distant pop of cavalry carbines, which meant that they were up on the French and that the French knew of their arrival. Stewart was riding with Lacey and O’Hare and, with the sound of conflict, Stewart said but one sentence.
“Wellesley’s up with us. We’ve a meet this evening, then you after that. My tent at 10.00.”
With that they parted company until the stated time when all seven senior Officers of the Brigade squeezed in, only three able to sit. Stewart did not depart from his standard routine and the prelude was the usual gulping of near tankards of scotch whisky. That done he came straight to the point.
“Our General likes to use his flanks, and so to that end, Hill and Cameron have taken their Brigades to Aviero, just over from us at the coast, to get into boats and then go up the coast aways and get behind the Johnnies. We will be supporting a night attack of cavalry and guns at the end of tomorrow. Wellesley hopes to force the crossings of the River Vouga and push all opposition back to Oporto, doing as much damage as we can.”
A pause.
“See to your men!”
They all filed out as Stewart partook of his final, pre-bed, swig of scotch.
The following day was spent with inspections, then rest, but only the most experienced managed any form of beneficial sleep. For many this was their first combat and for many others, thinking of the last time they had faced the French, it had been in a battle won only by extreme effort and courage.
For Templemere and Tavender life had suddenly become extremely arduous. They had spent the day maintaining a cavalry screen in the hills above the River Vouga and had barely had time to eat before they were called to form up and trot forward again. Little was said as both set out with their squadrons, side by side, Tavender more than a little nervous, he knew the success rate of night exercises, whilst Templemere was in a state of near terror! Their General, Stapleton-Cotton, commanded the leading squadrons, all being from the 14th Light Dragoons, whilst, Tavender, as a Senior Captain, commanded three squadrons at the very rear of the 16th, and he now well realised just how much they relied on their guide, an unknown Portuguese, who arrived in the night, called Godofredo and could only communicate by sign language. After crossing the Vouga at a ford and it wasn’t long before he was unseen, lost ahead in the dark and the mist, which was growing thicker by the minute. Tavender asked the obvious question.
“Where’s Fredo?”
Templemere had no answer and so the answer came from Tavender.
“Damn traitor! Damn all Portuguese idiots!”
Thus, it wasn’t long before they had a choice between two narrow gullies, which to take and Tavender took the one directly forward, but soon it turned disconcertingly rightwards, inland. Tavender called a halt.
“Can you hear any firing?”
“Not in this slot in the earth!”
“We have to bear left.”
In this haphazard manner they took their decisions to bear left, bear right, or even countermarch, until dawn cracked the sky. They had not fired a shot, nor attacked any Frenchman, however, someone’s luck was in, for as the day lightened, they saw Stapleton-Cotton’s squadron’s drawn up on a ridge and so they silently led their men over to extend his line from the right. There came no messenger from the General and a nearby Cornet in the 14th told them that their night advance had not gone at all well either. Plainly Stapleton-Cotton was examining his options. They were looking at a village across a valley whose length both left and right was hidden in the mist, across the valley were drawn up an array of French cavalry, well in excess of 1,000 sabres, with infantry to the side and cannon in front. By this force they were outnumbered and the situation became yet more anxious when these began to advance, and then bugles sounded, British calls not French, which told them that Stapleton-Cotton was ordering a retreat and so all turned their horses heads to the rear to quickly fall back.
Meanwhile, the Light Company was advancing forward, in a close column, led by Carr and Drake, with their guide Leandro close at hand. A mist hung heavy in their ravine and a shape grew out of the gloom to reveal itself as a field-gun stuck behind rocks. Drake, ever ready for any act of kindness, spoke up.
“Should we help?”
Carr shook his head.
“There’s beefy Grenadiers right up close behind.”
With that dismissal they moved on, to then see even more threatening shapes appear. Carr took no chances.
“Halt! Repulse cavalry.”
His column immediately adopted formation, front rank kneeling with bayonets extended, the two ranks behind at the ‘make ready’. Drake yelled into the mist.
“Identify yourselves!”
The call came back in the positive.
“16th Light Dragoons!”
As Drake commanded his men to reform into column, Carr walked forward, so find a group of Light Dragoons.
“Do you have an Officer?”
The reply came from a Sergeant.
“Yes Sir, off to the right, Captain Tavender.”
“Are you sure he’s there?”
“No Sir.”
Carr let that drop.
“Weren’t you supposed to clear the way?”
“Yes, Sir, but the Johnnies are in strength up ahead, Sir, and’ve all come on, so we’ve fallen back.”
“Are they behind you?”
“Can’t say, Sir.”
Carr was instantly livid. This was what cavalry were there for, to find intelligence and these knew nothing.
“Right. You turn around and you go back and find out exactly what Johnny’s up to. Then come back here and report to me. Take all these with you and keep together.”
Such a clear order from a Major had to be obeyed and the Sergeant turned his horse again and rode back, taking his men with him. Drake came up to Carr, who turned to meet him.
“Keep the men together, Nat. This is a God-awful shambles and who knows what’s coming our way. Last report was Johnny advancing, as cavalry!”
At that moment there came the sound of galloping, but from behind and of but a few in number, three as it turned out, being Stewart, Lacey and O’Hare. Carr came to the attention and saluted. The reply was to be handed a whisky flask.
“Report, Major.”
“Our cavalry have pulled back, Sir. I have sent some to return forward to find out what is happening. Other than that, I’m in the dark, Sir.”
Stewart looked down at him whilst fixing the top onto the flask and sliding it into his pocket. He had not drunk from it.
“Your name?”
“Carr, Sir. 105th.”
Stewart peered forward through the thinning mist, then another Officer appeared, a full Colonel.
“Sir, are you General Stewart?”
Stewart nodded.
“Good, Sir, glad I’ve found you. General Stapleton-Cotton has gathered his men and is about to attack. The French have seen your men here and the Portuguese 16th and have pulled back. You are to push your Light Companies forward as skirmishers whilst keeping the rem
ainder of your three Battalions in column, two side by side, one in reserve. You will be following cavalry, Sir.”
Stewart peered forward some more, then turned to the messenger, clearly an Aide-de-Camp.
“And your orders come from whom?”
“General Wellesley, Sir. He’s with your 1st Detachments.”
Stewart nodded, then turned to Lacey.
“Your Lights have Bakers, do they not?”
“Sir.”
“I want yours in the centre. The Portuguese Lights will be on your right, those of the Detachments on your left.”
He then looked down at Carr.
“You’re in command of the screen. Don’t move until your supports arrive either side.”
Drake had been listening and called his Company forward.
“Skirmish order! Files of three.”
Stewart nodded, but with no mirth on his face, as the 105th Lights ran forward, adopting formation as they ran. It was not long before they found themselves looking at a long line of horses tails, many swishing to and fro with impatience.
Relieved of the mist, Tavender and Templemere were again looking across the same valley of a little earlier, at the same village, but now with only a single Regiment of cavalry before it. Both were positioned on the right of their line, with Stapleton-Cotton out in front of them and the 14th on their left. Stapleton-Cotton turned in his saddle.
“16th! Draw sabres!”
The eerie scrape of swords leaving scabbards came to all ears. He lifted his own.
“Advance!”
The pair immediately behind him did not like the odds. They were nothing like their full strength of 700 Dragoons, with so many still lost, and they were about to charge a whole Regiment. Stapleton-Cotton led them down the slope at a walk, to splash through the small stream at the bottom and then walk up the far slope. Lacey and O’Hare, with Stewart now gone, both shared the same thought, spoken by O’Hare.
“At least Cotton knows his business, keeping his horses fresh, but he’s taking the risk of being charged down the slope.”
Lacey nodded.
“Perhaps, but I think he’s pushing at an open door. They won’t stand, not with us coming up behind Cotton and his men.”
The Plains of Talavera Page 5