He then looked at the Portuguese.
“Viva Portugal.”
The oarsman grinned, but they were soon over, for O’Hare to immediately lead them across shingle and up the steps to the quayside, then to the entrance of the main street, which ran up the slight hill. He took one look up the road, wide for a town street, but narrow for a firing line. He made a rapid calculation, then found the nearest Grenadier Officer; Simon Ameshurst.
“Simon. Get your men across the road. Three deep. Hold there.”
He next found D’Villiers and Carravoy, close together.
“Charles, get Royston’s Section behind Ameshurst’s. In support. Expect to file through when they’ve given a volley.”
He ran back to Ameshurst’s Section, now across the High Street, placed himself in front and drew his sword.
“Come on!”
Filling the road, they advanced forward. The people of Oporto, now arriving from all over, and then seeing so intimidating a sight as a whole line of Redcoat Grenadiers advancing towards them, fled into the sidestreets to avoid the inevitable conflict. For this O’Hare was wholly grateful, when, 100 yards up, he saw a disorganised band of French running down the street, nevertheless in some strength and led by what looked like a Senior Officer. O’Hare held up his sword.
“Three rank volley!”
Well drilled on the Campos, the Grenadiers halted. The front rank kneeling, the back two standing, but the third, ‘locked on’ between the heads of the middle rank.
“Make ready!”
All muskets were raised in the air, triggers besides their chins, thumbs pulling back the hammer.
“Present!”
All muskets came level as the French came on, with the slope in their favour.
“Fire!”
A full volley for the 105th in three ranks meant each rank counting three before delivering its fire in turn, ‘What’s the point of hitting the first man with three bullets? Give ‘em time to fall over and expose the next’, as Lacey had drilled into them. Therefore, three separate hideous crashes echoed between the buildings, beginning with those kneeling. Then all was obscured in smoke and what had happened to the French could not be seen. O’Hare filled his lungs.
“File through!”
What came next gave O’Hare no small amount of grim satisfaction. Every alternate file of Ameshursts Section ran forward to create a gap in their ranks for D’Villiers men to then advance through. It was perfectly done and soon D’Villiers’ Section was under his command.
“Three rank volley!”
Again the men formed up and O’Hare peered through the clearing smoke. The ground was covered in French dead, but more were coming on behind. He ordered the volley and then repeated the file through. Now, with Ameshurst’s Section leading, he advanced further up the High Street, but the French were pulling back, in full retreat, at least in this part of the city. Carravoy was with him.
“Hold here. The rest of the Battalion are coming up to you.”
With that he turned and jogged back down the High Street, to see the Colour Company advancing up, led by Lacey and Heaviside, both Colours flying, the whole parade being cheered and clapped by the re-emerging populace.
Meanwhile, Carr and the Light Company were advancing in their files through the upstream suburbs of the city, followed by three Line Companies of the 105th, sent after them by Lacey. The sounds of the fighting at the upper wall of the Seminary were growing louder with each street they entered as they eased rightwards. Carr knew that the city was carried and the French would now pull back, so he was determined not to risk many lives as he cautiously advanced on. Miles, Davey and Pike were just ahead, filing up, each running into a doorway or alleyway to cover the advance further of the next. Miles, in the lead, peering intently ahead, saw a blue uniform, just over 100 yards ahead, shouting into an opening. He was waving a sword, which was enough for Miles. He pulled back the hammer of his Baker rifle, braced the barrel against his doorway and fired. When the smoke cleared the Frenchman was on the ground to roll over once, move an arm, then lay still. Davey came up as Miles reloaded.
“Officer bastard! That’ll be a few silver buttons for later!”
Davey moved past, saying nothing, followed by Pike and then Major Carr. Nothing was said and by that time, Miles had reloaded and was moving up to file past Davey, but Carr now took the lead. The conflict at the Seminary was as fierce as ever and, moving up and to the right, they would soon meet it. He quickly reasoned that they must get above the French and come in on their flank and rear. He had four Companies with him, almost half the Battalion and he soon decided what to do. He looked for Drake and motioned him over.
“Nat. Stay here. I’m taking the Lights up to the top of the town. Tell the following Captains to come up towards me a bit further, but not to join. They are to choose a street and advance right. The four of our Companies should come in on the French flank and relieve those lads holding the Seminary.”
Drake looked puzzled and so Carr came to his aid.
“That bloody great religious building, upstream, on the edge of town. The first we took.”
Then humour came forth, unusual for Carr.
“If you get in, say a prayer for me!”
But Drake was more sombre.
“And for Jane and Cecily!”
Carr’s mood sobered.
“Yes. Now I’d better get on.”
With that he ran up the street, calling for Lieutenants Stuart Maltby and Richard Shakeshaft. With these two beside him, he led the whole Light Company upwards, in column, until the city thinned into scattered smallholdings. They looked over to see the smoke from the fighting at the Seminary, this rising thick and white, as was the sound of the fighting.
“Right. Stuart, take yours straight ahead, soon you’ll meet the French. You’ve got three Companies of ours on your right. Go.”
He turned to Shakeshaft.
“Dick, we’re going further up, then over.”
As Maltby’s Section ran forward, Carr led Shakeshaft’s 100 yards further up the slope, then swung right. Carr immediately changed formation, yelling both left and right.
“Open order! Ten yards.”
The files of three spread out to a ten-yard gap as they advanced. There was a hedge of what looked like tall reeds and the noise of some activity beyond it and also down towards the town, this told by shouts and orders in French. Carr doubled forward, his men copying. Immediately beyond the hedge there was a narrow lane and, galloping up it, was a whole French battery, trying to make their escape.
“Open fire!”
At 50 yards distance his men opened fire to bring the lead gun to a tangled and bloody halt, dead and dying men falling down amongst dead and dying horses. The lane was now totally blocked and so the remaining gunners, with the potent arrival of Redcoats above them, abandoned their pieces and ran off over the fields, joined by their Officer on a very rapid horse. Carr’s men had captured a whole French battery, but Carr ran screaming along the top of the lane; a retreating battery would be followed by Battalions of men, far outnumbering one Section.
“Take cover. Reload. We hold here!”
His men took cover and reloaded, whilst, incongruously, the horse-teams below waited patiently in their harness. Carr sent down two men to despatch two wounded horses and, as they climbed back up the bank, what must be Maltby’s Section and the supporting Companies joined the fight on their right. Within two minutes retreating French from the Seminary began to arrive, running through the fields on the other side of the road. They were in their hundreds and Carr feared that they may come his way or even try to rescue the battery.
“Open fire!”
His men loosed a full volley, to bring down several retreating French, but the mass veered away; they had no idea if the far side of the road was held in force or not. The horse-teams below, trained to remain calm during the sound of conflict, ignored the reports occurring merely feet above their heads. The firing intensified to
his right, it would seem Maltby had joined, which was all to the good. Carr allowed his men to continue firing, the more brought down now, he reasoned, the fewer they would have to face later, until one word came from Shakeshaft’s Sergeant, George Fearnley.
“Sir?”
Fearnley could see that what they were doing and, to his mind, continuing to shoot at fleeing men was little short of murder. Carr heard the tone of his word, both accusing and questioning, and he reluctantly agreed.
“Cease fire.”
The last of the fleeing French were crossing before them and they continued unmolested, passing between or jumping over the fallen bodies of their comrades, which littered their path. Some 200 yards behind came the pursuing British, led by an odd figure on a horse, somewhat portly and perhaps old before his time, wearing a worn out British Uniform, but he was plainly a Senior Officer, identified by his sword and sash. He rode over to Carr, who was now standing on the bank above the road, and Carr began to identify the features of this Officer as he came nearer, a sad, down turned mouth, set below far seeing, but equally gloomy eyes, and a nose perhaps a little too long. Carr came to the attention, bringing his sword up to his own nose. The Officer was now directly opposite above the road and looking down into it.
“What’s all this, Major?”
Carr lowered his sword.
“A French battery, Sir. All six, that we prevented from escaping.”
The cheerless mouth then broke into a delighted smile.
“Six guns! Ha!”
The delight continued.
“A whole battery! Wellesley will be cock-a-hoop!”
More delight.
“Six!”
He looked at Carr.
“Who are you?”
“Major Carr, Sir. 105th Foot. Prince of Wales Own Wessex.”
The face became cheerful.
“Ah! The “Rag and Bone Boys!”
Carr was more than a little incensed.
“Some call us that!”
A pause.
“Sir.”
There came a slight, almost sympathetic smile.
“I think you’ll find most people say that not too unkindly. Certainly not Wellesley.”
However, the Officer was immediately back to the business in hand.
“Now, Carr. If you find a Senior Officer, tell them that I am pursuing, with the 3rd, 66th and 48th. A mile or so, then I will halt where I can counter any French return. Got that?”
“Sir. Who should I say sent the message?”
“General Hill! That’s me. Paget’s probably lost his arm. To a musket ball.”
“Sorry to hear that, Sir.”
“Can’t be helped. That’s the game we’re in.”
He gathered the reins of his horse.
“I’m trusting you, Major. See that Wellesley is informed.”
“I will Sir. You may count on it.”
“Be certain of it, but I’m away. Good luck Major.”
Carr brought his sword up in salute as Hill rode off, leading the men that had gathered around him, and talking to them as though about to lead a group of infants out of a nursery.
“Now, men. See to your effects and such. We’re off on a long chase, to who knows where, on Johnny’s coat-tails.”
Every face around him broke into a smile as he led his men off to join the pursuit already gone past. Hill’s group were the last of his Brigade, for no more Redcoats emerged from the area of the Seminary. However, what did now emerge were the citizens of Oporto, crudely armed and bent on revenge, born of the memory of what happened when their city was sacked back in March. They came from the back gardens and alleyways and were already clubbing to death the first French wounded that they found. Carr was incensed.
“Fire over their heads!”
His men who were loaded did so, then Carr led his men down onto the road, scrambled past the horse-teams and up onto the field beyond. Carr shouted at Fearnley as they ran over.
“Sergeant, get them back against those walls!”
There was no need to elaborate on who “them” were and Fearnley himself fixed his bayonet and forced back several of the vengeful citizens, then he was joined by the rest of the Section following his example. Carr looked around. He could hear screaming from further down the slope where the French had come from, but he could only see Ellis.
“Sergeant Ellis! You and Captain Drake take charge here. I’m going further down with Captain Shakeshaft’s.”
Ellis screamed his orders as Carr ran off. Soon the French wounded were gathered in one row, guarded by angry and protective Redcoats. Ellis saw Miles, eyeing the dead French and knew immediately his hopes and intentions. However, he was well aware that they were both on campaign and every help could make a difference, especially if they were required to march on before nightfall. It could make the difference in the days ahead between living or dying.
“All right, Miles! But packs, pockets and knapsacks. Nothing gets cut! Y’hear? Understood?”
Miles nodded. Whatever their personal animosity, he had his own code that was not so dissimilar to that of Ellis. Miles ran over to the French dead, followed by many others.
Carr, meanwhile, was leading Shakeshaft’s Two Section down the slope to meet, or so he hoped, the back wall of the Seminary. The screaming had stopped, which could mean one of two things, either the civilians had murdered every wounded Frenchman, or some Redcoats had put a stop to it. The answer turned out to be the latter, because they passed wounded French still alive and guarded by Redcoats. Hill had left a Company of the Buffs in the Seminary and they had come out to protect the wounded remaining from the conflict now just ended at their back wall. Carr easily identified their Regiment as he approached a Captain nearby, because his facings were indeed Buff, with the Roman numeral III on his crossbelt. The Captain brought his sword up in salute, which Carr acknowledged.
“Captain. I take it you are here to protect the French wounded?”
“Yes Sir. Just so, Sir.”
“Very well. Carry on. I’ll take mine on further and try to find my Battalion.”
Then Carr noticed, just further down the slope, what was indeed the back wall of the Seminary, with the space before it covered in a French dead, often one on top of another. He looked at the Captain.
“Tough fight!”
The Captain shook his head.
“Not so bad, Sir, in truth. We had the wall and plenty of men. No contest, really.”
Carr nodded.
“Right. I take my leave. Good luck, Captain.”
“And to you, Sir.”
Salutes were exchanged and Carr led his men past the Seminary and down, and then, with Shakeshaft now beside him, they came onto the road alongside the river. This was an utter charnel house, covered in French dead, sometimes two, sometimes three deep. Each body was shattered; all wounds having been caused by the one-inch grape shot fired from the batteries in the Convent. Both British and Portuguese, aided by French prisoners, were doing their best to give what help they could, but most often it was only water to wet the lips of a dying man. Carr could not help but think that ‘A few French sentries in the proper place would have saved them all this.’ However, they progressed on to reach the bridge, Carr very mindful of the need to pass on Hill’s message, but then the problem was solved. Wellesley was about to disembark from one of the boats still ferrying Redcoats over the Douro. Carr hurried over and came to the attention at a respectful distance, but still within hearing, and so, as Wellesley passed, he spoke.
“Sir, if I may, Sir. I have a message from General Hill.”
Wellesley diverted his course and came over. Carr saluted with his sword, which his Commanding General acknowledged, but Carr wasted no time.
“General Hill is pursuing the French, Sir, with the 3rd, 66th, and 48th. For a mile, he said, then he will halt at a position where he can resist any French return.”
Wellesley studied him for a second.
“You saw the French, Major?�
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“Yes Sir. They passed across my front before General Hill came up.”
“And what would your assessment be of the condition the French were in?”
Carr paused, in order to choose his words carefully.
“In full retreat, Sir. Not a rabble, but certainly disorganised.”
Then Carr took a deep breath and smiled.
“We captured a full battery, Sir. Six guns!”
Wellesley shared in the mirth, but not quite laughing.
“All six!”
He turned to an accompanying Brigadier in full Scots uniform.
“You hear that Campbell? All six!”
Campbell nodded, a smile illuminating the gloom beneath the peak of his enormous bonnet. Then Carr continued.
“I’m afraid I have some bad news, Sir, in case you are as yet unaware.”
Wellesley frowned.
“I’m afraid General Paget is wounded, Sir. He may have lost an arm.”
Wellesley nodded, his face resigned.
“Thank you, Major. I’m grateful for your information.”
Carr stepped back and saluted, then Wellesley looked at him more carefully.
“Am I correct in thinking that it was you that I saw atop a bank of shingle when we landed at Mondego last summer. Commanding a Company of Light Infantry as I recall.”
Carr smiled.
“Yes Sir. That was me. Kind of you to remember, Sir.”
Wellesley smiled and walked on, but saying one more thing over his shoulder.
“The 105th! The Prince’s Wessex Own.”
“Sir.”
At that point, with Wellesley gone, Saunders came running up.
“Sir, I’ve found the Colonel, Sir. He’s in the High Street, about half way up. This way Sir.”
Carr waved his hand, signalling ‘lead on’ and soon they were in the High Street, but they had to push their way through a crowd of Portuguese, all yelling abuse at a group of French prisoners. There was no need to guard the prisoners; they cowered against a wall, far back behind the cordon of Redcoats holding back the vengeful population. Carr saw Lacey up ahead and hurried on, leaving Shakeshaft with his Section. Then the stones began to arrive, in a shower, landing on both French prisoners and wounded and so he immediately slowed his walk up to Lacey.
The Plains of Talavera Page 9