The Plains of Talavera

by Martin McDowell

  “Well damn me if he hasn’t blown up his army’s treasure. Too heavy to lug along. They’re in a mess. Desperate I’d say!”

  Now Withers had turned his horse from Perry and was back with them. He knew, even if Perry did not, that the prospect of treasure could destroy the whole column, men falling out to secure as much as five years pay, which required but a small amount of effort in this case. However, he did not know whom he trusted most to act as guards to keep their men on the road; the Light Dragoons or the King’s German Legion. He decided that being mounted gave most chance of being effective, and so he gave orders to Johnson, Tavender and Templemere.

  “You three. Pull out four men each and ride the length of the column. Keep all in their place.”

  Simply by pointing, the three chose their men and rode back. In the event, they were superfluous. The superb discipline of the King’s German Legion was immediately evident as the two Battalions marched on, in step and in good order. However, the temptation was too much for two of Templemere’s escort. The Dragoons arrived at the rear of the second KGL Battalion and found themselves alone, amongst the now significantly richer Portuguese. The two reined in, having seen large purses in the hands of two middle-aged civilians, and both quickly dismounted. One Dragoon ran up to citizen and punched the astonished townsman, then he took his purse, whilst the other needed to do no more than draw his sword and raise it for the bag of coins to be handed over. Then both re-mounted and rode off, to the shouted curses of the men and also those who had witnessed. Templemere caught up with the pair, to receive challenging looks. Their options were clear in their minds, to kill him and then speak of his sad death at the hands of stragglers, or even to desert, but they were in a mood to bargain, the nearest opening negotiations.

  “What’ll it take, Sir, for you to forget about what you’ve just seen?”

  Their heavy Dragoon pistols, very visible on each saddle, conveyed a threat that had no need to be spoken, their challenging looks conveyed it well enough. Besides, there was profit here for everyone.

  “Eight from each of you, for me, and we’ll say no more!”

  The coins were handed over from each and the three parted company, Templemere now the richer by sixteen Gold Napoleons.

  oOo

  All through that day, the guerrilla band of Juan Delica tracked the French, always keeping the last of their retreating column in sight. Thus was the day occupied in despatching Frenchmen who could march no longer and lay helpless at the roadside, but Delica would countenance neither torture nor bestiality. Death was to be dealt out swiftly. Now he was lying in some trees above the French column, their army now on the desperate roads over the Serra de Santa Catalina. He was examining the sight below him, where the last of the French were crossing a bridge over a ravine. With so many of them now over it and so few to come, perhaps they could capture the bridge and cut off those yet to cross? He looked at the French. All still carried their muskets and accoutrements, meaning that his men would have to fight back against capable veterans, who would show no mercy. So far he had not lost a man. He slid back into the trees, deciding to keep it that way, for they had done well, by his measure, because they had already despatched over 30 of their enemy who had fallen out from the retreating column. Therefore, that night, they kept watch on the French campfires, both sleeping and keeping vigil by turns. His men were in good spirits, they were doing harm to the French, no-matter how small in the grand design of things, but they were doing much to put fear into their enemy, so that for these, all around and anywhere beyond the road was decidedly hostile and deadly. There was not one man who did not harbour the deepest hatred of the French within himself and tomorrow would bring the same, when the peaks of the Serra would defeat the energy of even more of these detested and vicious invaders. Thus, sunrise found the Delica band riding the goat tracks high above the French column, within sight, but out of musket range. They did not leave their vantage point, but remained watching, knowing that their very presence created fear and that those of their band following on the road would end the life of any Frenchman who fell behind.

  The same sunrise saw the 105th on the road leading out of Oporto and ready to march. Lacey, O’Hare and Carr were at their head, but standing, not mounted, as was their Brigadier Stewart. All stood together and all were drinking, but not of the contents of Stewart’s flask, at least not directly, for some of its contents had been poured into the coffee mug of each and each relished the taste of the warming liquid. Little was said, once Stewart had said his piece.

  “Wellesley wants the French pushed to the borders. He knows we’ll not catch them, but perhaps all these guerrillas, or their militia ‘Ordenanza’, who have sprung up all around, can delay them awhile. Then we’ll see.”

  The companionable silence that came next was terminated by an order to march, delivered by an Aide-de-Camp. The last of the coffee was thrown into the gutter and the pursuit began, but the 105th were in good heart. Knapsacks were full of supplies and French packs and French boots were about the persons of those who wanted them, including Tom Miles, whose only issued clothing was his British tunic and shako and his British crossbelts supporting his knapsack, bayonet, cartridge box and water flask. All was well in the mind of Miles, especially when they were able to spend that night as occupiers of a decent village, which they had reached, Villa Nova de Famelioccao, so Byford told them, but no-one took much notice.

  For Perry and his command, their lot was another night on the hillside, beneath hedges and walls, although Perry and his Staff were able to commandeer an abandoned barn, which smelled appallingly of mouldy straw and generations of sheep droppings. However, it was paradise compared to what was endured by their men outside, who, when not soaked by frequent rainstorms, were required to cope with a chilling and eerie fog. All woke cold and in low spirits and what little wood there was would not kindle and so, on Withers advice, they gave up and mounted their horses or formed their columns, everyone cold and hungry. The knowledge that on that day they would rejoin the main army, almost certainly at Braga, did little to boost morale, nor did a view, across a rain swept valley, of the retreating French, a large body, so Tavender, through his superior telescope, told them. Were they in a position to know it, they had seen the rearmost columns of the main French army.

  Such a view put some urgency into the onward progress of General Perry, suddenly feeling himself to be a vital cog in the Allied military machine.

  “Wellesley must be informed. I will convey the same myself.”

  To that end he quit the company of his two Battalions of infantry, leaving Withers as their Commander and, with an escort of 20 from the 14th Light Dragoons and Major Johnson he galloped into Braga as the light was fading and the shadows darkened even more from those remaining the dismal day. Here, as expected, the main army were resting and Wellesley had presumably set up his Headquarters so he roamed the town for some time in his attempt to find the necessary building, until it was identified by Major Johnson.

  “Sir. That building there looks to be the centre of activity. At least they should know, Sir.”

  Without a word, Perry spurred his horse into a canter and dismounted, flinging the reins at a nearby sentry. He entered and took himself straight up to a Major, sat behind a desk, attended by several ‘runners’, these being private soldiers.

  “Major! I have some important information, which I must convey to General Wellesley immediately.”

  In languid fashion, the Major looked up.

  “May I have your name, Sir?”

  “Perry. General Perry.”

  “And your information, Sir, briefly, if you please. It may help you to gain an early appointment.”

  Perry’s temper was rising, but the Major was talking sense.

  “The whereabouts of the French.”

  The Major nodded, and scribbled a note, which he handed to one of his waiting soldiers, who hurried off. Perry left the table, his left hand flexing on the hilt of his sword, showing his
impatience. The building was run-down shabby, but at least there was a good fire in the grate, of large, spitting logs. He stalked over to stand before the marble mantelpiece, pock marked and chipped from misuse, some of the damage plainly of recent origin. Above was a large gloomy picture of some local worthy, a civilian, and Perry read the first word of the title beneath; “Don Emilio…..” but then the tangle of ‘y’s ‘g’s and ‘h’s defeated him. ‘No-matter’, he thought for he was being approached by the messenger soldier.

  “Sir. If you’d care to follow me.”

  The soldier led him up a bare staircase of dirty pine timber on which both their boots clumped and scraped. Then along the landing to the final door, which the soldier opened for Perry to enter. There, behind a plain table sat General Wellesley, writing despatches. He paid Perry the courtesy of immediately ceasing to write, on hearing his entrance and he lifted his head, to regard Perry with a pair of wide, challenging, eyes that seemed to immediately convey disbelief, even shock. Fixed by those eyes, Perry walked forward and stood still. Wellesley leaned back, with the quill pen still between his fingers.

  “General Perry. I’m told that you have something useful for me. You’ve seen the French, or at least the back of them.”

  Perry straightened, self-importance rising all the while.

  “Yes Sir. On my way here, back to rejoin you.”

  Wellesley stood, the ghost of a smile passing across a mouth somewhat small, compared to the size of the nose above.

  “I’m glad to hear it. Could you show me?”

  Wellesley walked over to a large map pinned to the wall and then stood aside to give Perry his opportunity. He walked forward, suddenly very unsure of himself. The map showed the few existing roads and a few villages and towns, the rest were rivers and valleys. Perry found Penafiel and Braga, then he vaguely worked the route of his sweep around from the former to the latter, but which valley the French were marching up was a mystery. Johnson, his map reader, had made an educated guess at the time of the sighting, but even that memory was now less than clear, especially when faced with a map of such detail. All that Perry could do was pass his hand over a portion of the map.

  “In this area, Sir. Heading North.”

  Then a thought.

  “Or perhaps North-East.”

  Wellesley nodded again.

  “And some cavalry of your command are following them, yes? Those you saw?”

  There was sarcasm contained in the voice. Perry cleared his throat.

  “No Sir. I brought my men in.”

  The eyebrows above the eyes were raised.

  “All!”

  “Yes Sir. My men have been out for three days. Our rations are exhausted and they are very tired!”

  The challenge came.

  “And the French are not?”

  Wellesley allowed the words to sink in.

  “I would have thought, General, that you could have gathered together enough rations from amongst your force to provision half a squadron, especially as you knew you were about to join the main road to here, where you could re-supply?”

  Perry trawled his mind for a reply and found one, albeit plainly weak.

  “I was not certain that I would find you. Sir.”

  The eyes bored into him, then Wellesley raised his own hand to the map.

  “I suspect, General, that the French you saw were here.”

  He placed a finger on a specific point.

  “Labouring up this valley, the valley of the Cavado, to Guimaraens just further up, where Loison will almost certainly join them, having been pushed back by Beresford. Both will then probably go on to Salamonde and try to cross the river. My own Dragoons are following and a message came back this Noon. To that effect.”

  Perry had recovered.

  “I’m pleased that I can confirm that. Sir.”

  Wellesley was returning to his desk, where he sat down and again picked up the quill pen. Perry walked over to regain his original position, but now Wellesley was looking at him, plainly there was more to be said and the silence was held until Wellesley dropped the quill pen.

  “Post Oporto, General, I am informed by Major General Stewart that your conduct against the retreating French must be called into question.”

  Wellesley leaned forward, his hands on the edge of the desk as though he were about to stand and deliver a ferocious tirade. Perry’s confidence fell a significant measure in expectation, but Wellesley remained seated and continued.

  “You had an opportunity, General, of doing the French a great deal of harm, in fact, of possibly cutting off half his army, if you had placed your men across their path.”

  A pause, for Wellesley to allow emphasis to build within the rebuke and for Perry to think up an excuse, but Wellesley had his next phrase thoroughly ready and his voice up a decibel.

  “A risk, I would agree, but a risk worth taking if it could take out half the French army of Portugal! Which we will have to face at some time in the future. Your Germans didn’t fire a shot! And you had two strong Battalions! And two squadrons of cavalry!”

  This delivered by a voice barely raised, but thick with disapproval. Perry replied the only way he could.

  “I was concerned that your attack across the river, Sir, had failed and mine was the only force on the North bank. Sir.”

  He took a deep breath.

  “Also, I felt myself very outnumbered. Sir.”

  Wellesley gave no reaction, but his words were measured.

  “A modicum of thought, General, would have led you to the conclusion that my attack had succeeded, for why else would the French be in full retreat? As to outnumbered, with my men plainly across the river, you could have counted on reinforcements! Sooner or later. We must have been pursuing, or did that not occur to you?”

  The words echoed around Perry’s head, but there was nothing more to be said, other than the final words of Wellesley, conveying all the condemnation required.

  “You are lucky that there is not enough time for a Court Martial.”

  Again the dreadful silence, but there had been no words conveying Wellesley’s dismal opinion, merely a systematic deconstruction of all Perry’s excuses, an expose’ of opportunity wasted, and the consequences thereof. Wellesley lowered his head to his despatches.

  “Now, good night.”

  Perry gave the salute he thought was required. It was not acknowledged and so he walked out of the room and the building and into the night.

  For Juan Delica and his men, that night was as abominable as the previous, with soaking rain carried painfully on a howling wind, as they remained mobile and watchful, following a goat track along a mountainside. However, they remained in good spirits. Now well informed by Waters, who saw Delica as a most useful ally, Delica had told his men that another French army, which had been operating in the South-East and had been out-manoeuvred by an Allied force sent against them, was also retreating and liable to concentrate at Guimaraens. This was commanded, or so was believed, by the hated Loison, ‘The One Armed Assassin’, the butcher of Evora, a massacre during the first French invasion of Portugal during the previous Spring, yet now the French were being forced out of their country and Delica impressed upon his men that they must play their part.

  Their guide told them that Guimaraens was just over the next ridge, further on in the inky black of the pre-dawn, so Delica allowed his men some sleep and awaited the light, but, as both the rain and wind lessened he could hear the clear sounds of a marching army; most telling the rumble of hundreds of wheels over stone and gravel. He allowed himself no sleep, but crept forward with his guide to the ridge. There could be seen hundreds of campfires, for it was the main French army from Oporto taking what rest they could. Delica knew that Soult had two choices, to take the trunk road out of Portugal from Oporto and through Braga, or again a very difficult road over the mountains to Salamode. The growing dawn gave him Soult’s answer, told by huge explosions and fires, as baggage was destroyed and guns were wre
cked. From this, he knew that the French were destroying what was brought to Guimaraens by this newly joined force, destroying what they could not carry or pull over a mountain road. Therefore, he concluded, they were going to Salamonde, which meant crossing the bridge just after that village over the Cavado, at Ponte Nova. Such a bridge could be held by 50 men against thousands! He roused his men and headed off, along the most direct mountain track.

  He hurried his men on, all mounted on decent horses. Soon they were able to descend to the road, all the marching French having been left behind, and they made better progress on the road’s easier route, but not a better surface, for there was nothing significantly different between this mountain road and the high track they had descended from. It began to rain again, but his men were covered in good British cavalry cloaks and so they pushed on, speed undiminished. At Salamonde, Delica gave the Mayor one simple warning and one simple instruction; that the French were coming, so take to the hills and muster your Ordenanza. Within minutes the small town was in uproar, with the old, the women and the children taking the paths up the hillside, whilst the Ordenanza Militia paraded, for the want of a better word, along the main road. Any firearms they possessed were utterly ancient and would probably harm the user as much as any enemy. Their most potent weapons were their axes and pitchforks. Nevertheless, they marched out with Delica and just before Noon they were riding over the bridge with the torrent of the swollen Cavado beneath. Beyond was the small village of Ponte Nova, so Delica led his men in and found the leader of the Village Council; it was too small to have a Mayor. The immediate knowledge that the French Army of Portugal was on its way and that tools were needed to destroy the bridge, reduced the man to a state of near despair. He wanted to leave the bridge, let the French through at their best speed and for the village population to take to the hills. He knew that to hinder the French meant reprisals, but Delica was incensed and yelled at the man.