The 16th reached the crest in good order and continued their walk forward. With the good daylight aiding them another whole squadron of the 16th, once lost, now galloped over to join the line, which re-assured Tavender, whilst Templemere had eyes only for the static French, now but 300 yards away. The order came.
“Trot!”
Then, soon after.
“Canter!”
Templemere’s heart came into his mouth, but then he could have shouted for joy. The whole French regiment were turning their horses and disappearing back to a line of trees. His whole emotion somersaulted — “Surely we should charge?” He heard a bugle sound but it did not register, until he realised that the line of troopers was now significantly back behind him and he reined in his own horse. Stapleton-Cotton had slowed his men back to a walk, then an Officer galloped across their front to him and he ordered a halt. They sat their mounts for a few minutes and then the infantry screen came up to them and passed through. Carr was in the lead and passed close to Tavender, but gave him barely a glance, for he walked straight to Stapleton-Cotton.
“Sir. Major Carr. 105th Foot. General Wellesley has sent us forward as a screen, Sir, with General Stewart’s three Battalions following in column.”
Stapleton-Cotton nodded.
“Right. I’ll stay out front between you and them. Watch for a messenger from me, I’m sure I’ll discover something you’ll need to know.”
He ordered his troopers forward and they soon passed through the Light Infantry files. During the interim, whilst both sides had stood idle and close to each other, Zeke Saunders and the ex-thief Len Bailey had used the remains of the mist to exchange a flask of French wine for a quantity of British tobacco.
With the cavalry screen out before, Carr led his men on, following. For Templemere all anxieties returned. They were once again in the lead as they entered the trees, but mercifully for his nerves, it was but a rank of thin specimens bordering a field and no French could be seen beyond. For an hour they walked on, slowly climbing a shallow incline. Templemere and Tavender were now side by side, and the former, now moderately re-assured by the knowledge that he had almost their full 700 Light Dragoons at his back, felt distracted enough to look around and over to the left where saw, by the naked eye, what looked like a brown and green smudge, about half a mile distant. He turned to his companion.
“What’s that? There?”
He pointed and soon Tavender had his telescope focused.
“Peasants! On horses. Mounted peasants.”
“Should we not tell Stapleton-Cotton?”
“I think not. They’ve probably come to watch the show.”
Whatever Tavender’s opinion, within 15 minutes, one of the mounted peasants had galloped over to accost their General and communicate, possibly by speech but also with much gesturing and pointing. They saw Stapleton-Cotton turn in his saddle and wave for someone to come forward. Tavender decided who.
“Fred. You’d better go forward. He wants someone.”
Templemere spurred his horse forward to reach his Commander, who wasted no time.
“Do you speak Portuguese?”
“No Sir.”
“Fair enough, but as best I can work out the French are drawn up at, or at least near, a place called Grijon.”
“Yes Sir.”
At this point the messenger spoke up, recognizing the place name, which inspired a repeat of his message.
“Os Franceses estão em Grijon.”
Stapleton Cotton looked at Templemere.
“There. I gather from that, that the French are at Grijon. How far that is, I can’t say, but we must assume close. Find General Wellesley and tell him. Tell him that I am advancing with caution.”
He looked full in the face of Templemere, making no small challenge.
“Got that?”
Templemere nodded, more than a little irritated at being spoken to in such a manner, but he turned and rode off to pass through his own line, to see then Carr coming up from behind. Being unable to resist the temptation to exercise his superior knowledge he set a course to pass by at a walk.
“Carr! Major Sir!”
Carr turned towards him as Templemere spoke further, a dismissive half smile on his face.
“Our General says that the French are up at a place called Grijon.”
He grinned fully.
“You’ll be in action soon.”
Carr managed an indulgent smile and made a reply which brought just a shadow of discomfiture back across Templemere’s face.
“So will you!”
A pause.
“I take it you’ve been sent to find Wellesley?”
Templemere nodded.
“Then perhaps your first utterance should have been: where is Wellesley?”
No reply. Carr was absolutely correct and he continued.
“You see the brown column behind us, with a red one to your right of them?”
Templemere rose on his stirrups and looked, but said nothing.
“He’s between the two.”
A pause for a triumphant grin.
“It’s always a good military axiom that an Officer should know where his Superiors are. And a walk is a wholly unsatisfactory speed for delivering a message to our Commanding Officer!”
They parted, Templemere now much put out and Carr’s Light Infantry marching on, always upward, always on a rocky plain. Carr looked around to see, re-assuringly, several teams of field guns picking their way through the rocks. Then came Templemere, riding back to his Dragoons, at some distance from them and then Stewart came cantering up, accompanied by four Dragoons of the 14th.
“Major Carr. The Johnnies are up ahead. Formed up, we must assume, at a place called Grijon, it’s but yards ahead, less than half a mile. Cotton has been ordered to attack if the situation is favourable, you are to push on and skirmish against the place, but frontally. Behind you, your 105th are coming up with the Detachments. The 16th Portuguese will advance on your right and over to the left, Wellesley has sent the whole of Perry’s Brigade, four KGL.”
He looked down, in almost fatherly fashion.
“Good luck, Carr.”
Carr saluted.
“Thank you, Sir.”
Carr drew his sword; a straight, solid, blade of shiny steel but a dull metal bell-guard to protect his hand. He then looked to left and right to see that his men at least, of the three Light Companies, were in perfect formation.
By now Templemere was alongside Tavender, all anxieties firmly uppermost. His mouth was dry and something was not quite right with his stomach. Things did not improve when Stapleton-Cotton called “Draw sabres.” Again the scrape that stretched nerves and soon all both to left and right carried a sword erect in their right hand. All was happening all too quickly. The order came, “Trot”, then soon after “Canter”. At some speed they were moving forward, his stallion needing to be held back, being caught up in the excitement. He was comforted to see Tavender just ahead and even more so to have Troopers come up on either side. From no order, or at least one unheard by him, the line broke into a gallop. Then he saw the French, a blue and maroon line, if static or moving forward he could not tell. The men either side of him were howling, an animal moan heard above the pounding hooves. Then the blue and maroon line turned into individual men, but seconds away, and they were Hussars it seemed, some subconscious memory told him, because they had no breastplate. The two lines crashed together with an unearthly crash, almost like a huge wave carrying rocks spending itself on a rocky shore. He would soon be passing a French Hussar who had his sabre raised to land a blow. Terrified as he was, Templemere was no dunce with a blade and parried the blow to allow it to slide down to his hand guard. A shriek behind told him that someone had felt the edge of a sword, but whom he knew not.
The conflict was now a melee, but being mounted on horses, this held the combatants away from landing many telling blows. Whether for seconds or minutes, Templemere could not tell how long it lasted,
whilst his horse pirouetted around, Templemere trying to land blows, whilst his back and neck cringed at the arrival of a blow from behind, but then the French broke and galloped away. A shout of triumph came from the Dragoons and the pursuit began, Templemere, so well mounted, was now in the van. His horse overtook a French Hussar, who heard the noise of the overtaking hooves to turn his head round and give a terrified look before Templemere stood up in his stirrups and brought his sabre down across the man’s neck. He fell behind and someone shouted, “Well done, Sir.” Then it became easy. His superb mount overtook Frenchman after Frenchman and all were dealt a telling blow. Templemere was intoxicated, here he was leisurely dealing out death to the men whose presence but minutes earlier had reduced him to a state of terror. He downed another Frenchman, but then the situation changed.
The French had ridden back upon supports and his horse was brought to a halt by a solid group in his path. Instinctively, he turned his horse and he found that he was terrifyingly alone, for either he had outrun his comrades or they had stopped once the French were routed. He spurred his horse on, back towards safety, but his mount was now tired, almost blown, from the charge and the fight and the pursuit. He looked over his shoulder to see at least three vengeful faces beneath French Hussars caps. They were going to pursue him as far as was prudent, this murdering British cavalryman, at least as they saw it. Suddenly, the situation changed again, now he was surrounded by the mounted peasants seen earlier and the French were gone. One, clad in brown homespun, seized his bridle just behind the bit and led him back to the now static British, like an incapable child, but Templemere was too relieved to object. His rescuer turned and grinned through brown stained teeth, before releasing the bridle.
“Lá você é inglês. Está seguro agora..”
Then his rescuer turned his mount, as had his companions and was gone; they had other business. Their leader Juan Delica, had soon deduced what their best tactic was, that his men were more effective against scattered and broken troops and so, watching from the distance and seeing the French cavalry turn from the fight, beaten and broken, he led his men forward to hit the retreating French from the side. They had inflicted several casualties, but then his men had stopped, well taught to go no-where near formed troops, but just at the moment when Templemere needed a rescue, they decided to do the extra and take the chance to save this ‘loco Inglês’. The same, now chastened and realising that he had had a very fortunate escape, turned his horse and sat in front of the ranks, beside Tavender.
“You were lucky there, Fred! Still, you must have downed several.”
He turned to look at him.
“No-one can condemn you for that.”
Templemere was examining his sword, but seeing nothing. The fear had yet to subside.
oOo
Carr led his men on, across the high, rocky plain that, with midday approaching was becoming warm and he was becoming thirsty. He looked behind to the right to see Sergeant Ellis, once of his Company.
“Sergeant! A drop from your canteen, if you please!”
Such was tantamount to an order and so Ellis unslung his canteen, caught up with his Major, pulled out the cork stopper and handed it over. Carr took one long pull, then handed it back, for Ellis to return the cork, but Carr had more on his mind. They were now “in the presence of the enemy” and all convention of rank was irrelevant as they walked on.
“What d’you think?”
Ellis had his opinion and gave it.
“There’s French cavalry about and I don’t like it. Not with us out front as skirmishers.”
He looked both left and right, but re-assuringly he could see no-one on any horse, nor wearing any colour of uniform.
“Looks like that one charge was about all our cavalry had in ‘em. Sir.”
Carr nodded.
“Pass the word. Any sight of French horsemen, shout and holler!”
“Sir.”
Ellis dropped back and the message began, circulating outwards from him. Then, once again, Carr heard hooves behind, to, once again see Stewart with his escort. Carr halted and saluted. The result was the same, a whisky flask. Stewart spoke as Carr took a sip, but he would have preferred water. With Carr, their Officer, now halted, so did his men and all listened who could, to their Brigadier elaborating on what he had said earlier.
“Grijon’s just beyond those trees and the French are drawn up, either side, in strength. Your 105th and the Detachments are in column behind you, but Wellesley wants them held in reserve. On your right the Portuguese will attack in open order and on your left the whole of Perry’s KGL Brigade are going in. That’s the main attack, to come in on their flank. You penetrate that wood and distract them from the front. Assume it’s full of French, which is very likely. It’s you that Wellesley wants to open the ball! Good luck.”
With that he wheeled his horse around and cantered off.
Carr looked at the trees, 300 yards distant. It was his decision, they could walk up, in skirmish order, and see what happened, which would mean taking some casualties, but that would make possible an advance according to their drill, which would mean fewer casualties as they entered the wood. Or they could close up into a line and rush the trees, hoping that there was much less than a whole French battalion in there. Carr had about 240 men. He decided that they would rush the tree line in open order, in no formation at all. He looked for his bugler Arthur Bates, well known as ‘Bugle Bates’, unsurprisingly.
“Bates. Sound advance on my word.”
He drew his sword and walked forward, the signal for all to advance with him. Staring at the trees and certain that he was a prime target at the fore, his own apprehension grew. On his left was Richard Shakeshaft’s section with the Lights of the Detachments beyond them. On his right was Drake’s section, with the Lights of the Portuguese beyond them. The file of Miles, Davey and Pike were the furthest right, and so they were next to the Portuguese, which did not please Miles one jot, holding his place in the middle of their file, with Davey before and Pike behind. It was Davey that received Miles’ opinion.
“How much can we count on these Portugee? I ain’t never heard of one yet as could stand up to what the French can throw at ‘em!”
The reply came from amongst the brown uniformed ranks to his right.
“You look to yourself, Inglese! Where you go, so will we!”
Davey gave himself the luxury of a look back and a grin at the discomfited Miles.
“There’s your answer! Perhaps these is more eager for this fight than you”
Miles sucked in breath for a reply, but the bugle notes of “double forward” came and so he used the breath to run. The Portuguese were yelling “Ataque! Ataque!”, encouraged by their Officers at the front, waving their swords. The distance lessened to one hundred yards and then the firing came from the trees before them. Men fell, uniformed in both red and brown, but then they were onto the last yards. The French had fired one volley and as Davey entered, closely followed by Miles, they found no French at the edge, they had fallen back to contest the deeper recesses of the wood. Drake was as relieved as any Officer, for he too had realised the possibility of the wood being held in great strength, but what they were opposed by, they could cope with.
“Advance! In files.”
Davey moved forward, from tree to tree, staring forward when he could, feinting one way then the next, always changing whether or not he emerged left or right from behind a tree. Musket balls began to sing past him, smacking into the heavy bark. He looked right, never directly forward, which would cause him to move too far out of cover. He saw a blue uniform, raised his Baker and fired. The Frenchman slumped down and Davey reloaded, for Miles to run to the next tree forward and find his own target. In the centre, armed only with a sword, Carr could do nothing, until one of his men was badly wounded, then he picked up the Baker rifle and added his own fire to that of his men. The sound of the musketry was continuous, the fighting ferocious, but his men, armed with the accurate
Baker rifle were making progress, picking off the French at longer range. Their light infantry drill was pushing the French back, each man taking targets off to the side, half to fire across left, half to the right, so that they remained in cover, but clearing the way for their comrades off to the flanks, as they were doing for them. The tactic was devastating for the French, picked off from the side, where they could be seen, whilst not from the front. As their casualties mounted, the French began to give ground. Miles and Davey had fought their way forward to the first French casualty, a wounded man, gasping for breath, but Miles simply kicked away his musket as he passed by.
“Who be these, John? These b’ain’t those tassel swingin’ bastards, nor be they decked out in blue and red!”
Davey gave no answer as he reloaded, the fact that his opponents were neither assault Voltiguers nor trained sharpshooter Tirailleurs, was all to the good. In his eyes, who they actually were counted for nothing.
However, the sounds of combat were fiercest on the right. The Portuguese, almost heedless of casualties were pushing forward, indicating that something very different was happening on that side; perhaps their whole battalion had caught up. Close to them, Joe Pike was kneeling behind a stump, looking for a target to his left when across his front came a rush of brown uniforms; many more than had entered the wood with him. The Portuguese had been reinforced from somewhere and were now advancing in strength, all enemy in blue falling back before them. After checking that all in blue were gone, Pike stood up, to soon be joined by his two filemates. Davey looked at Miles.
“Now what was you saying about the Portuguese?”
However, Miles had other things on his mind, clear ideas about his own comfort.
“These Frogs is gone. I’m for what’s in their packs and a French one of they for me, afore Carr sends us forward again.”
With that he walked to the nearest French body, whilst the Officer that he spoke of, this being Carr, was indeed leading his men forward cautiously, always keeping a tree to his front, giving Miles very little time for his pillaging. Soon the gloom of the centre of the wood was broken by light from the far edge and, when Carr came to the last tree, he called a halt. Grijon was in view, with no French in the fields before, but what looked like three whole Battalions were drawn up in the fields beyond. Either side of the small village, retreating French infantry were streaming past and on either side of Carr’s position he could see, coming in from the left, the red uniforms of the King’s German Legion pressing forward and over on the right the brown of the 16th Portuguese charged forward with their two Colours in the van, bright and clear. ‘A good day for them’, Carr thought. He led his men out of the woods and into the fields, across the short stubble. Some cattle and pigs, utterly panicked, ran across their front and firing began again, to which Carr turned a blind eye, deciding his men deserved some boiled pork. They had fought well and casualties seemed light. With that thought put aside he watched events beyond the village, because the three French battalions, in good order, were breaking from line into column and then, at double speed, forming on the road that could be seen disappearing over the ridgeline behind the village. French soldiers were joining them from both sides and soon there were none to be seen. Then some British cavalry came in from the left, led by a lone Officer, galloping directly onto the road which forced Carr’s command into their own narrow column by the side of the road. The horsemen then galloped over the ridge, presumably in pursuit of the retreating French and then Drake appeared at Carr’s side, providing an audience for Carr’s thoughts on the headlong cavalry charge forward, which they had just witnessed.
The Plains of Talavera Page 6