The Plains of Talavera

by Martin McDowell

The interpreter nodded his head.

  “Si, senhor.”

  Waters slid back with his companions, shook hands with the three and was gone, soon after to be admitted into the Convent and Wellesley’s quarters.

  At the same moment, Brigadier General Edmond Perry was sat in his own quarters picking over the lunch that he had been given, wondering which sections of the pork joint on his plate were fit to eat. Perry was a man who permanently had the appearance of someone wrestling with some disagreeable issue and this time that issue was manifest and on his plate. Around him were his Staff, Colonel Withers and Major Johnson of the 16th and his two family acquaintances, also of the 16th, Tavender and Templemere. The latter two had abandoned the food itself and were indulging in the wine, which both had judged as “agreeable”. However, Perry was suddenly relieved from the problem on his plate, because a messenger entered, a full Colonel Aide-de-Camp, his shako respectfully under his arm, and he addressed himself to Perry.

  “Sir. General Wellesley, requests your attendance at the Convent.”

  Perry looked up. He didn’t like his meal, but he objected to it being interrupted.

  “Now? Immediately?”

  The Aide-de-Camp remained at attention.

  “Yes Sir. Immediately.”

  Perry stood up, followed by his Staff, but their Brigadier addressed himself only to his Colonel.

  “Withers. You’re with me!”

  Three hours later, Perry was mounted and at the head of his command, albeit smaller than he would have wished, in this case two battalions of his King’s German Legion, two guns and two squadrons of the 14th Light Dragoons. Tavender and Templemere, both unaware of what they were there for, being 16th, sat their own horses just behind, both with heads still befuddled by the ‘agreeable’ wine. Through this alcoholic fog, they were making enquiries of the Colonel assigned to the cavalry force, their Colonel Withers. The reply was clear and somewhat disturbing.

  “We are to get up to a place called Barca D’Avintas, about four miles up. Get onto the ferry there, cross and establish a bridgehead.”

  He saw the concern cross the face of Templemere, but he ignored it.

  “If no resistance, then push on until we make contact.”

  There was no reply, merely a blank look from widening eyes.

  “We are to grab Johnny’s attention. And keep it!”

  Suddenly sober, both Tavender and Templemere spurred their horses forward as the order came to march.

  Simultaneously, a far more perilous undertaking was in progress. Waters, Juan Delica, the barber, and two men were crowded into the small skiff and rowing upstream, far enough upstream to be hidden by the bend in the river above the barges. Some of Juan Delica’s guerrillas had watched the far bank and found that a French picket passed each half hour and he had now passed. The row over was hard and slow, for they were towing a doubled rope, attached to a tree on their bank, but they came under the French bank and the tide, carefully timed, was now fully turning and so they were drifting down alongside the reeds, barely using the oars. Around the bend, the first barge appeared and, needing no guidance, their skiff bumped into the high, blunt bow and Waters scrambled up the salt stained side, four foot above them. He slowly stood to examine the bank, but saw nothing; neither soldier nor peasant. He motioned his companions to follow him and he helped up the first. Then they moved rapidly to implement the scheme as worked out by their dockside longshoreman, that of lashing all four barges together, stern to bow, and also their own double cable to the bow of the barge uppermost in the stream, the first that had been boarded by Waters. That done, all four were cast off from the bank and, with agonising slowness, the barges were caught by the rapidly quickening tide and moved downstream. Their double cable began to take the strain and with a groan and fountains of water issuing from the tightening fibres, the tide began to swing all four over to the Allied side, the vessels now suspended from the anchor point on that far bank. The more the barges entered the tide, the more rapid their swing across, until the man on each was able to throw ropes over to their bank, where stood waiting guerrillas. The barges were then pulled fully across so that all four could be securely moored against the Allied side. The whole had taken merely minutes and no sentry had been seen. Waters, now much relieved, as were his companions, quickly mounted his horse and galloped off to the Convent.

  oOo

  Orders were arriving rapidly, troopers of the 20th Light Dragoons riding hither and thither on horses that were tiring rapidly from being asked to ride up and down the Serra Hill. Stewart, with concerns of his own, had simply sent his harassed messenger on to find his three Colonels, the first being Lacey. The trooper handed down the note before saluting, whilst Lacey read it, his hand then falling down to his side, whilst he looked around for O’Hare, but this gave the trooper some concern.

  “Can I have the note back, please Sir? It is the only copy and I have to get on.”

  Lacey, trying to collect his thoughts, handed it back.

  “Of course!”

  The trooper saluted before taking the note, then rode off to find either Colonel Burns and his Portuguese or Ruskin and his Detachments. O’Hare had sensed the sudden activity, not least seeing a long column of field guns begin to tackle the steep road up to the Convent and he immediately had deduced that his place should now be with his Colonel and so Lacey soon saw him running up, whilst buckling on his sword. His arrival, at the run and also armed, asked its own question, ‘What’s going on,’ which Lacey answered.

  “Stewart wants us on the road, in column. He received an order from Wellesley, which he sent around. He has added, 1st-105, 2nd-16th, 3rd-Det.”

  O’Hare was still adjusting his scabbard slings.

  “So us first?”

  “Looks like.”

  “To do what?”

  O’Hare raised both his eyebrows and his hands.

  “As yet, unknown.”

  O’Hare took a deep breath.

  “So who first in the column? Lights or Grenadiers?”

  It was Lacey’s turn to breathe deeply.

  “If it’s an assault, then Grenadiers.”

  Unusual for him, O’Hare slightly raised his voice.

  “Across that bridge! With a big hole in the middle!”

  Lacey nodded.

  “Assume that.”

  O’Hare’s face twisted in bemusement.

  “I’ll get Carravoy. See him first”

  At that moment Captain Lord Charles Carravoy was enjoying a good chicken lunch, with some sort of green vegetable which Binns, their servant, had called calabrese. The wine was good and Carravoy was just taking a swallow, when his table companion, Captain D’Villiers, looked out of the window, as he was seated so to do.

  “I say! Seems a lot of hustle and bustle out there. Do you think there might be something afoot?”

  Carravoy turned to look for himself, to see shakoes and muskets passing at a pace. The door then opened and in came their third Officer of Grenadiers, Lieutenant Simon Ameshurst. He looked directly at Carravoy.

  “Sir. The whole Battalion has been ordered to form up on the road. Six across, Sir, with us in the van.”

  Carravoy swallowed the mouthful he had been chewing.

  “Advance or retreat.”

  Amehurst’s brows narrowed.

  “Advance, Sir. Seems something has happened and we’re going to try to cross.”

  At that, both his fellow Officers took one final gulp of wine. Then Carravoy spoke.

  “What of our Company?”

  “Sergeant Ridgway is forming them up now, Sir. At the front, as I say.”

  Both Carravoy and D’Villiers stood up, for Carravoy to then raise his voice.

  “Binns!”

  Their servant, Private Arthur Binns, put his head around the kitchen door.

  “Sir?”

  “Swords and pistols. Now!”

  Meanwhile, Lacey, with his two Majors, Carr and O’Hare, were stood at the head of their colum
n, but deep within the houses of Villa Nova and unable to see anything significant of Oporto across the river. Their men were formed up, in a column six across, so there was little they could do but wait. However, they did not have long to wait before Stewart rode up and immediately began talking, the absence of the whisky flask telling its own tale of urgency.

  “Wellesley going to attempt a crossing! We’ve got four barges over to our side and he’s loading in the Buffs and sending them over, led by Paget. There’s some big building on the other side, a Seminary or somesuch, that’s unguarded and a distance from the town. Seize that and we have a bridgehead!”

  He paused for breath.

  “He’s put three full batteries into the Convent to see off any French attack from the town to this place. The Seminary! ”

  Now Stewart did pull out his flask and take a drink, to then pass it down. The spirit perhaps loosened his tongue, at least to give vent to his own thoughts.

  “Damn risky. These barges are the most unwieldy damn hoys you could ever lay your squints on, so, it’ll be no swift crossing, but Johnny’s asleep! None to be seen! Therefore, Wellesley’s taking the chance that’s there. If he loses half a Battalion from failure, well, that we can swallow. If this takes the town, well, that speaks for itself.”

  Lacey handed back the flask.

  “What of us, Sir?”

  Stewart shook his head.

  “Stand by. You may get your own turn to get across in those clumsy hulks.”

  He allowed that to sink in before turning his horse.

  “Good luck to us all!”

  With that he was gone, on to convey the same to Burns and Ruskin. Carr turned around to see the small portion of the Douro that was visible.

  “Is there no way we can get ourselves over, Sir, to support the Buffs?”

  Lacey scratched his forehead.

  “Don’t know. Let’s go down and take a look!”

  Leaving Carravoy and D’Villiers at the head of their Grenadiers, the three walked into the town, all three pulling out their telescopes. They came to the last building on the road before it reached the crossroads that marked the beginning of the bridge of boats, and they knocked on the door. It was unoccupied and so the three entered, climbed the stairs and Lacey and O’Hare went to the nearest window, looking directly over the surging waters of the Douro. Carr went to a side window that gave a view upstream. Stood at their window, Lacey and O’Hare shook their heads. There were several boats, perhaps twenty, drawn up on the shingle opposite, out of the tide, but the gap in the bridge of boats remained imposing, jagged and impossible. Along the quayside at their end of the bridge and taking their ease, mostly sat or lying down, was a whole Battalion of French soldiers, with perhaps two more Battalions, equally at ease, downstream to the left of the bridge. Then Carr spoke.

  “Sir. You should come take a look at this.”

  Both did come over to his window and what they saw upstream was enough to tighten their throats and stomachs. The four barges, all indeed patently very unwieldy, were crossing the river, all not yet halfway, filled with recoated soldiers and propelled by nothing other than two huge sweeps each side, manned by the labouring men of the Buffs. For two minutes, five, then ten, the vessels inched forward, the tension rising within every observer along the Allied bank. Each minute one of the three at their window raised their telescope to examine the streets beyond the river that led down to the quayside and the road that ran upstream to the Seminary, but no blue uniforms were seen. More importantly, there was no movement from the French troops directly opposite. Finally, after what had seemed an age, the first barge grounded and about 25 men leapt into the water to splash up to the bank and disappear around the far wall of the Seminary. Within a minute the iron gate that allowed access from the road to the town was shut. The other three barges shed their compliment of men and they also followed the same route around the back wall. All three observers exhaled a sigh of relief, then the barges returned, only after some brown clad figures had run up the bank carrying rope, which they attached to any anchor point. The barges were now to cross, back and forth, as ferry boats attached to a cable secured to both banks. The four barges left the bank, moving much quicker as they were pulled back. They disappeared behind the bend and the scene resumed it’s tranquillity, as before, with not a Redcoat to be seen.

  The three watched another crossing, with no reaction from the French, then another, but, as the barges began their third return, at last there came some reaction from the French. An hour had lapsed since the first embarkation and the Seminary was now held by more than three Companies of the 3rd East Kent Foot. However, now a cloud of French Tirailleurs followed by three Battalions in column were on the quayside and doubling up to the Seminary. Then came a battery of field guns, which immediately began to unlimber on the quayside, for their crews to point them at the four wine barges. At that moment came the bark of a howitzer from above the three watchers and a shell burst over the leading French field-gun to kill or disable every man and horse belonging to it. Then the remaining guns in the Convent opened fire to cut swathes through the three French Battalions with grapeshot. The survivors reeled back including the gun crews, leaving their guns forlorn on the bank, pointing uselessly across the river. Several times the French attempted to creep forward in groups to fire at the barges, perhaps thinking this to be more important than to attack the Seminary, but each time the fearsome discharges of the eighteen guns on the heights sent them back into the cover of the houses, leaving the road covered with the gruesome remains of all three Battalions of a whole French Regiment.

  From their upstairs window, the three Officers watched the French attacks fail, then musketry was heard, continuously, from the side of the Seminary furthest up from the river, the uppermost wall that did border the scattered houses. Plainly an attack was coming from that direction, down the slope from the town, using the houses as cover, but the barges were plying to and fro and, now that two hours had lapsed, close on three British Battalions were holding the Seminary. Lacey turned away.

  “We’d better get back. We’re going to be needed, in one way or another.”

  He turned to Carr.

  “You stay here. I’ll send you a runner or two. Any developments, send word back.”

  Carr heard them exit the room and descend the stairs, then minutes later appeared two Grenadier Corporals, who both came to ‘order arms’, their muskets grounded beside their right leg. Carr waved them forward.

  “Come and see this, both of you. The crossing of the Douro! Something to tell your Grandchildren.”

  The pair chose their own window as another volley from the guns of the hill sent smoke and grapeshot across the intervening river to shatter yet another French attempt against the gates of the Seminary. As a professional soldier, Carr was appalled, condemning the French performance as totally incompetent. To leave as potent a foe as the British, who had beaten them everywhere on the Peninsula, totally unobserved when separated by merely a river, was the worst dereliction of military judgment he had ever heard of, akin to treason! A concluding thought entered his mind, “You may give us trouble, but you aren’t going to beat us, Johnny. Not anywhere, if you can’t do better than this!” He continued to watch upstream, when one of the Corporals, at a front window, called for his attention.

  “Sir, I think something’s happening.”

  Carr hurried to the window and saw the development. The three Battalions opposite had been ordered to their feet and assembled into column. They were, as he looked now, leaving the bridge and making their way upstream to join in the attack on the Seminary. Carr spoke to the Corporal next to him.

  “Back to the Colonel. Tell him what you’ve seen.”

  The man saluted and left, leaving Carr at that window, continuing to look over the ebbing waters of the Douro, thinking of the thoughts of the soldiers opposite, many of whom were going to certain death. All marched on, leaving the bridge and quayside unoccupied and for minutes nothing chang
ed, but then figures appeared from the streets and buildings behind the quayside. Furtively at first, in one’s and two’s, then a crowd and then a throng. Their purpose soon became clear, when, in their tens and twenties, they jumped down onto the shingle and launched all the boats, for their crews to then row, with frantic energy, across the river. Carr needed no messenger.

  “With me!”

  They both exited the building with a clatter and Carr, just before turning away to leave the river looked over to see the first boats already halfway across. At that point he heard the British batteries beat the attack of the three Battalions into yet more bloody ruin. He ran the final hundred yards to confront Lacey and O’Hare.

  “Sir. The French have abandoned the quayside opposite. The people of the town have launched the boats there and are coming over to us. They will have crossed within minutes.”

  Lacey looked at Carr, then at O’Hare, then back to his Regiment.

  “Carravoy! Forward!”

  With the three in the lead, the column started forward. They ran over the bank and down to the shingle just as the first boat was touching. Lacey gave his orders.

  “Padraigh. Over with the first boat and push up the main road with the Grenadiers. Carr, I’m sending the Light Company over next. Go over now and take command when they arrive. Penetrate up between the houses upstream of Carravoy. I’ll be over with the rest, but only after I’ve told Burns and Ruskin.”

  There were now enough boats at the shoreline for a whole Company and in climbed the Grenadiers, their three Officers and Carr and O’Hare. The Grenadiers doubled at the oars with the Portuguese and the nimble boats sped forth. Carr was sat in the stern of the lead boat, facing a straining Portuguese oarsman, who felt the need to give some encouragement.

  “Viva Inglese. Luta bem. A morte da francesa!”

  Carr nodded and smiled encouragingly, without having a clue what the man had said, bar the first two words. Then he looked at O’Hare.

  “Any ideas what he said?”

  O’Hare adopted his clearly nonplussed look.

  “Long live us and death to the French is in there somewhere!”