“Haverá represálias de qualquer forma quando você não dá-lhes comida suficiente!”
Many within earshot nodded in agreement, and the man could not argue. Reprisals would be inflicted anyway if insufficient food was handed over He led them to the blacksmith’s and indicated the best tools they could provide for the job of demolishing the bridge. Delica indicated for his own guerrillas to gather them, which they did, and then they returned to the bridge to begin stripping away the surface planks, beginning from the far side, while the Ordenanza demolished the easier balustrades. When all was done that could be and only the main crossing beams remained in place, Delica led the Ordenanza to a group of huts above the bridge and allowed them to shelter from the rain, but pressing two men as sentries, pushing them in misery to the point where the bridge was overlooked. Then what to do? The French would be there before dark, but the bridge surface and the balustrades were already in the Cavado, bar the remaining main beams which spanned the chasm. Without explosives, these were impossible to remove, but, three feet wide, they would provide a crossing for desperate men, and the French would certainly be just that, with Wellesley coming on as fast as he could in pursuit. More men were needed to hold their side, so he again ordered the Ordenanza to keep a continuous watch on the remains of the bridge, all through the night, then he gathered half his men and rode further up the valley, hoping to find another village to gather more Ordenanza.
Placed in the middle of Wellesley’s army, the 105th slogged on, now 20 miles behind Delica and 10 behind Soult. The pursuit had begun before dawn, all parading on the road in slanting rain, blown in on a cold wind chilled by the sea. All were tired, the cold and the wet both taking their toll on men who were part of an army that was outreaching its supplies and consequently hunger was growing amongst them. No French dead nor badly wounded had been seen for hours, which gave no encouragement that they were overtaking the fleeing French army. Miles had an even more fundamental question, which he flung in the direction of Ellis.
“Can we be sure, even, that we’n on the right road?”
Ellis was in an even worse mood than his questioner.
“Shut your mouth and keep movin’, Miles. This’ll finish, sometime soon, either in a fight or us just callin’ off the chasin’. One or t’other!”
All within earshot heard the reply and pulled their heads further down into their greatcoat collars, but the rain trickled in anyway. Then Gibney arrived, him feeling the need for some disciplined encouragement.
“Pick up the step!”
Wholly unnecessary, they were all automatically in step anyway, but they all pushed the soles of their boots a little harder into the soft earth of the road to increase the pace, each man but a small part in a much greater whole, this set upon a much greater purpose than simply to keep dry and ignore the hunger.
Night fell, and with it the rain, now in torrents. Juan Delica at last returned to Ponte Nova, after an almost fruitless quest. Half a dozen extra men were on their way in a farm cart. He tethered his horse and went to the bridge, rain beating on his cloak and water running in rivulets down the street to join the now raging Cavado. He hoped for a sentry, but was not surprised to find none. The rain beat upon the two cross members that still spanned the river, the splashing of the drops on the soaking timber somehow creating points of light in the inky black of the all-encompassing night. The cross-members were wide enough to be walked over for anyone with normal balance and the French could be on the other side, just across that chasm and, if quiet, there at that moment, unknown and unseen. The rain turned to sleet and the wind picked up, almost matching the sound of the Cavado beneath his feet. His mind returned to the matter of a sentry, but who could blame anyone for not wishing to stand out, on guard, throughout such a night? However, one was unquestionably needed. He stood for some minutes more, hoping to see or hoping to hear, but it was hopeless with the flooding torrent and the beating rain. However, there must be a sentry, if only for half an hour each, to warn of any attempted crossing, so who? His men were hardier, all volunteers, now resting further back in the village, so the guard would best come from them. He walked back up the slight slope, passing the group of huts that contained the local Ordenanza and entered the first house beyond that contained his men. He roused one, a man made thoroughly reliable through his often demonstrated hatred of the French. They left the building and began their return to the bridge. They had not made any more than a dozen steps, when suddenly, from the area of the bridge, there was uproar, shouts and screams. The street was filling with dark shapes of men running in panic, and when the first arrived, he was a member of the Ordenanza. He pointed back down the street, breathless from panic rather than his run.
“Os franceses estão aqui. Eles estão matando todo mundo!.”
The French had crossed the bridge and were slaughtering the Ordenanza in their huts. Delica turned to his fellow guerrilla.
“Obter os cavalos.”
The horses would be needed for a quick escape, but first the French must be delayed. He ran into both houses to rouse his men.
“Tudo lá fora. Formem uma linha.”
His men emerged, many carrying what should be draped around them, but they formed a line across the road. The last of the lucky escapees of the Ordenanza were passing through, but no French. Perhaps they were now too busy at the vital bridge, content for now of having either despatched or put to flight the Ordenanza guardians. He waited for some minutes, until he saw no point in beginning a hopeless fight against a whole army.
“Monte os cavalos. Hora de ir.”
The line dissolved as his men turned to run back to their mounts. Soon they were leaving the village and then they slowed their horses to a walk because the road was too bad to even trot in the dark. At the first building, a barn, Delica dismounted, kept two men with him and ordered the rest to ride on to the next bridge. He slept till dawn, guarded by his two companions, a deep sleep, but terminated by both the light and his underlying concern of the oncoming French. His companions were a little way down the road, where they could see some way back to the village, so Delica joined them and bid them go back to bring the horses down. Then he climbed a small hill, carrying his telescope and, as a blessing, the rain had stopped and visibility became adequate, so he focused the instrument back on the village and saw what he had feared. The French were tearing the houses apart, partly to look for food but mostly to provide material to repair the bridge, sufficient for an army to cross, albeit footsoldiers and horses only. The continuous stream of men going down to the river and carrying materials told him that work was now ongoing, with some urgency. There were some guards at the top end of the village, but none beyond; however, through his telescope he could see the dense column of the French army, still held on the far side of the river. There was no point in remaining, his companions were beneath him with the three horses, so he descended, mounted and they all rode on.
All serious work for the pursuing British force during the main hours of daylight remaining was undertaken by Cavalry, not least the two squadrons of the 14th Light Dragoons, commanded by their Brigadier, General Perry. They were in the lead of Wellesley’s force, scouting to find the French and, within minutes, after a miserable and late lunch of water, army biscuit and hideous Spanish cheese, they rounded a corner of the road to immediately see the French rearguard, a very substantial force. Tavender used his glass to count a whole Brigade of infantry of three, perhaps four battalions and two Regiments of Cavalry. Perry used his own telescope to study their formation, to conclude that they were well positioned, using a valley that crossed at right-angles the defile they had just ridden up. He turned to Templemere
“I want you to ride back and tell Wellesley that we are in contact with the French rearguard.”
Now the lesson learned but days earlier was put into practice.
“Johnson! Show me where we are.”
The Major walked his horse up to Perry and offered the map, whilst pointing with his
finger.
“Here Sir. We have passed Salamonde and we are coming up to the Cavado, at a point close to this bridge shown here, I would say.”
Perry turned to Templemere.
“Got that? Between Salamonde and the river.”
Templemere nodded and turned his horse to canter back. Perry looked again at the French.
“We stay here.”
However, Withers, further losing faith in his Commander, felt the need to speak out.
“Sir, we should engage them, if only as skirmishers. To keep them here, Sir, to let them know that we are up to them and that they cannot easily pull back. We can use our carbines.”
Perry looked at Tavender for support, posing the question to him that remained unsaid. Was that right?
“Colonel Withers is correct, Sir, if I may be permitted to say. We have to let them know that we have caught up.”
Perry nodded, somewhat reluctantly.
“Right. You two, lead the men forward.”
The Dragoons dismounted and carrying their carbines they crept forward, led by Withers and Johnson. The first shot came from the French, then a bickering fire began all across the narrow valley. For half an hour this continued, with Johnson organising his men to repulse a French sally, then counter-attacking to push them back further. It was the main event of the conflict, but then it began to rain and the firing died away to almost nothing. There had been minimal casualties on either side in over two hours fighting.
Meanwhile, Juan Delica was now buoyed up with rekindled hope. Ten miles back from the Ponte Nova he came to another bridge, over a tributary of the Cavado, the Misarella, with its bridge of a single span making a spectacular leap over a deep chasm. However, what had caused his hopes to rise so markedly was the fact that the far side of the Misarella was held by what was evidently several hundred Ordenanza. He rode over the bridge, passing men destroying the balustrade. The bridge was of very solid stone and this was all that could be done, then he rode around an abattis of stakes before completing his crossing. Once over, he found his own men, who came down to him and they pointed out an Officer, obviously British by his red uniform. Delica approached him with his interpreter, the one who had done duty at Oporto. Each introduced himself, Major Warre and Juan Delica simultaneously shaking hands, but Delica felt the need to make it clear that he was more than just another partisan, that he was a leader of men, but more than that, his band needed a name, so he quickly thought of one.
“Eu sou o líder da Guerrilha do Porto”
Hearing the translation, Major Warre, congratulated him, before asking what he really needed to know.
“Where have you come from?”
The reply came.
“Ponte Nova. De onde vieram?”
Warre replied. It was fair that this Guerrilla leader should know where he had sprung from.
“General Beresford’s force.”
That translated, he asked his own question.
“Are the French across?”
“Si.”
“How far are the French behind you?”
“Dez legua.”
Warre needed no translation for any answer. About ten miles, less than three hours marching and the French may have already started. One more thing.
“Will your men stay to help?”
Delica looked at the interpreter as the question was relayed, then back to Warre.
“Si.”
“Muito obrigado.”
Delica was pleased at the reply in Portuguese and they shook hands, before Warre left to inspect what had been done. The abattis was in place, there were no parapets on either side of the bridge and the earthworks either side of the exit were almost complete. Thus satisfied, he set about deploying his men. The best armed he put in the earthworks, the rest on the hillside beyond. Delica’s men he wanted in reserve but Delica wanted no part of being in reserve.
“Não! Uma linha para defender a estrada.”
Warre could not argue with that. Delica’s men were well armed with British muskets. A firing line across the bridge from behind the abattis would provide a good first offering to the inevitable attack. Delica departed to order his men to clean and check their firearms, whilst Warre climbed to a vantage point. It was probably during the 30th time that he raised his telescope that he saw the oncoming French vanguard and through his telescope he saw that they did not look like beaten men, they were formed up and in step. Within a minute they had halted and a General came to their head, identified as such by his gorgeous uniform and massive, almost ridiculous, hat and identified as General Loison by the fact that he had no left arm. Another Officer soon joined him and they consulted for some minutes. Meanwhile, all of Warre’s force was in position, with Delica stood behind his men, but after looking at the terrified faces of the Ordenanza on either side behind the earthworks, he tapped one of his men on the shoulder and gave his order.
“Certifique-se que os cavalos estão prontos para partir.”
It was clear that this would not last long. He was determined to do what damage he could, but not sacrifice the lives of his men in a massacre, as had happened at Ponte Nova. He would have the horses ready. From where he was he could see some way beyond the bridge and he knew that it was a forlorn hope to expect these men to hold back the French. These Ordenanza would have no stomach for the hand-to-hand combat that would be needed to even delay the French and it needed little deduction to conclude that Soult would happily lose a thousand men if it allowed his army to escape. This was soon confirmed, for, led by a single Officer, came forward one huge column, something like 1500 men, running towards the bridge. The Officer reached the end of the bridge, yelled something as he held his sword aloft and ran onto the bridge’s surface. Delica knew his moment.
“Primeiro lugar. Disparar!”
His first rank fired, covering all with smoke, which quickly cleared in the breeze. Many French were down, but it had made no difference to the number still charging across the bridge.
“Segundo lugar. Disparar!”
Again the noise and smoke, and again, when it cleared, there were several more dead and injured Frenchmen, but it had made no difference, a dense crowd of blue uniforms were charging across the bridge. In seconds they were at the abattis, some trying to pull it away or tear it apart whilst others thrust with their bayonets through the woodwork to keep Delica’s men away. His men fought back with their own bayonets and musket butts, some even managing to reload and fire a third time, but the French were down on the banks at either side and storming the earthworks. One Ordenanza, either berserk or doubly vengeful or both, climbed onto the top of the earthwork, screaming defiance, but he was hit by two bullets, whilst the rest were already melting away. Some fired their weapons, but soon there were no Ordenanza in either earthwork. Delica waited no more. Any more delay and they would be encircled.
“Cai para trás. Chegar a seus cavalos.”
His men ran back up the hillside to their horses, where hundreds of Ordenanza were scattered around, running to the valley sides to then climb up to some form of refuge. He could not see Warre, so he mounted his own horse and led his men away. They had left one man behind, dead, hopefully, he told himself, rather than wounded and left there for the oncoming French. At a vantage point he reined in his horse to take a last look back. The French were despatching the few wounded who could not run mercifully with musketfire, whilst the vanguard, with Loison at the head, poured across the bridge. It was at that point that Delica heard the sound of cannonfire from some way back, probably at the Ponte Nova.
Merely minutes earlier, and a mile on the far side of the Ponte Nova, Perry remained sitting his horse, satisfied that he was engaging the enemy, but dissatisfied at the desultory nature of the conflict. Whilst pondering such, he was notified of Wellesley approaching and so Perry turned in his saddle as his Commander approached. Perry was now unsure, whether to speak or wait to be spoken to, but the latter came from Wellesley as he came up level.
“I see yo
u’ve got your men into action, General!”
The sarcasm was evident, but Wellesley was now studying the French and asking a question at the same time.
“What do you know?”
Perry took a deep breath.
“We have seen three, perhaps four, Battalions of infantry, Sir, with strong Cavalry support, perhaps two Regiments.”
Wellesley nodded, but during the act of studying the French for a minute further, he looked not again at Perry, but instead for the Commander of his lead Brigade, and he quickly found him. It had taken but minutes to formulate his plan.
“General Campbell! Get your Lights off to the left and skirmish against their right flank.”
General H. Campbell saluted and rode off to find his two Light Companies of Guards and the single of the 60th Rifles. Wellesley was looking next for his Divisional Commander.
“Sherbrook! What’s your nearest battery?”
“Lawson’s Sir, three pounders.”
“Get two up. Either side of the road.”
At last Wellesley gave Perry some attention, but speaking as he once again used his telescope.
“General Perry. Be so good as to recall your men.”
Perry turned to Johnson, who rode off and, within a minute the bugle notes rang out, and the Light Dragoons edged their way back.
Meanwhile, Wellesley had fixed upon a Guards’ Colonel who was part of his Staff, this the Colonel of the Coldstream Guards Battalion halted just behind, with the 3rd Foot Guards to the rear of them. The three Light Companies were already detached and running over to the left.
“Mackinnon!”
“Sir.”
“Get both yours and the 3rd ready to advance. In column, then forming a company front as you come within range.”
As Mackinnon departed, so the guns arrived and, knowing that they were under the gaze of their Commanding General, the guns were rapidly unlimbered, sited, directed and charged, but not yet the type of shot. Lawson approached Wellesley.
The Plains of Talavera Page 12