The Plains of Talavera

by Martin McDowell

  “Grapeshot Sir?”

  Wellesley nodded.

  “Indeed.”

  Lawson’s gunners had heard the confirmation and the heavy canvas bags were loaded into the waiting muzzles. Lawson himself directed each gun and as he left the gun on the right, to then cross the road and train that on the left, the first gun opened fire. The three pounder exploded with a sharp bark, then all was smoke, which quickly cleared. The French line was unharmed.

  “Down ten!”

  The left hand gun fired and, when the smoke cleared there was a gap in the French line, marked by prone figures and writhing wounded. Both guns then commenced loading and firing at their best speed, whilst Wellesley studied the ground over to the left. By the naked eye the two Guards Light Companies could be seen advancing with the green, less conspicuous, uniforms of the 60th Rifles in the lead. Soon they were fully engaged when Wellesley turned to find that Campbell had returned.

  “That’ll do Lawson. Your turn, Campbell!”

  Still on his horse, Campbell walked forward to be followed by the two Battalions of Guards in column, four men wide across the road as Lawson’s guns gave one last discharge. However, once clear of Wellesley, each Guards Battalion immediately formed a Company wide column and the 3rd Foot Guards caught up with the Coldstreams whilst changing formation to make one long line. The speed and precision was well noted by all behind and also by those in front. The French facing them, knowing that they were the rearguard of a beaten army and facing the obviously very capable vanguard of a victorious and formidable one, almost immediately broke formation and hurried to the rear. As this happened, keeping formation, and with Campbell and Mackinnon in the lead, the Guards hurried after them, but not sooner than the 60th who were onto the last of the French immediately, bringing down both men and horses. Wellesley and his Staff walked their horses forward in slow pursuit, but Perry felt the need to be included, somehow.

  “General Wellesley, Sir. What for me and my men?”

  There was no reply.

  With little hope of drying out after a night and most of the day spent in the rain, Lacey, O’Hare and Carr were now halted someway back from the conflict, amongst the 105th. They had heard the same discharges of Lawson’s battery as Juan Delica, but all knew the likely reason, spoken by O’Hare.

  “Rearguard being pushed back.”

  Within minutes of the last of the cannonfire, the 105th were marching again, soon to come up to the evidence of combat, French dead being stripped by civilians who had come from no-where and the few British dead and wounded, lying in rows, the latter being attended to. Another half mile and the unbroken sounds of conflict intensified, made more so by the noise of a full battery in action, however, with the onset of darkness the fighting ended, and the order came to halt and make camp. In the narrow defile, crowded between the steep slope and the road, the men of the 105th made a meal from what was in their haversacks, meagre as it was. However, as a third blessing, the rain held off, for all were warmed by good fires burning as much wood as they wished gathered from the nearby forests, and, even if a little hungry, the men of the 105th Light slept warm and dry under their ‘Davey’ lean-to shelters. Nevertheless, it was a sleep punctuated with the groans and cries of wounded coming to them through the heavy air of the still, damp night, which reluctantly changed into a grey, sickly dawn. Ellis was around rousing all and moving on quickly to the next group, even before Miles could engage in any argument, not that Ellis felt the need to avoid Miles, simply that he wanted his Company to be first up and ready. The three considered their breakfast, Miles looking at Pike.

  “What’ve you got, Joe?”

  Pike tipped out the contents of his haversack and studied the result.

  “Three biscuits, a bit of bread, some kind of fruit and a bit of dried beef.”

  The other two did the same and the food was spread around, but not all consumed. All had learned only to eat the minimum when they were unsure as to when the next issue of rations would arrive. Soon they were back on the road and marching forward to almost immediately see the source of the mournful sounds that had come during the night. The French rearguard had been overtaken at Ponte Nova and casualties amongst them had been severe, their dead now dragged off the road and also about 50 prisoners, sat cold, forlorn and mournful at the roadside. However, this sight, gruesome enough as it was, did not prepare them for what was to come at the bridge. Both the cross beams and the makeshift surface were splintered and torn, evidently by the continuous blast of grapeshot. All was red with blood, evident as the 105th approached, but even the most veteran winced at the sight below, markedly stemming the river torrent, fierce as it was. Joe Pike was on the outside of the file as they made their way across the torn collection of doors, table tops and window shutters.

  “John! Look at that.”

  Davey peered over to see what was in effect, a damn of bodies, human, horse and mule, with the water made bright pink as it flowed through and over the hideous mound. The cannonfire in the dying light of the previous evening had wreaked appalling slaughter on the French rearguard attempting to escape the two oncoming Guards Battalions. Evidently, they had been held up by the perilous bridge and, crowded together, they had made an easy target which Lawson’s guns had taken full advantage of. However, what thoroughly annoyed Tom Miles was not so much the evidence of such a loss of life, as the sight of both the Light and Grenadier Companies of the both Guards Regiments, taking full advantage of the French dead. The pack mules themselves, left abandoned by the escaping French were left unmolested by the plunderers, evidently under the protection of ‘officers’ orders’, they were not to be killed for food. However, the French rearguard had carried all their looted booty from Oporto with them and so the packs and haversacks of both the men and the mules all contained valuables of all kinds, including gold and silver plate and cups stolen from both churches and houses. Thus, on the banks of the Cavado, rifling through the packs and panniers which they had rescued from the noisome pile, sat these men of the Guards, joyfully pulling out both food, drink and plunder.

  “Lucky Guards bastards! Walkin’ off with booty like that. Wouldn’t say no to meetin’ one of they on a dark night an’ relievin’ ‘em of some of that!”

  Davey looked carefully at his aggrieved companion.

  “Our turn’ll come, Tom. Somewhere, sometime! Meanwhile, I’m happy that I’m in one piece and that supplies’ll soon come up.”

  Tom Miles continued to look enviously at the gleeful Guardsmen, him not at all mollified to any promise of supplies. They marched on, now in the van as part of Campbell’s Brigade. Under an hour’s hard marching saw them cross the spectacular arch over the Misarella, which showed no record of the recent conflict, bar the absence of balustrades either side of the bridge The dead Portuguese had been given a Christian burial by their own local people and, from a small mass grave, French bodies being exhumed by the locals in the hope of some gain, perhaps good boots and breeches. At that moment the sun thoroughly cleared the clouds and the day became hotter and more airless, continuing to wear down the pursuing men of Wellesley’s army, but, as the evidence of a French retreat grew less and less, it was clear that they were falling behind.

  Marching at the head of the 105th column were the Colour Guard and so it was they who first entered the village of Ruivaens as the day thankfully ended, to be greeted by an ecstatic population, who pressed upon them a share of whatever they had been able to carry away into the hills, to keep out of French hands. Soon the four, these being Deakin, Bennet, Rushby and Neape were sharing bread, wine and sausage amongst themselves. Heaviside, accepting what was thrust upon him, for plainly there was little choice but to accept, summed up the feelings of all, because, all over the small square were men and women on their knees praying thanks for their deliverance and all others, except those bestowing gifts, were dancing and cavorting with glee.

  “In every way and everywhere we accept this with all gratitude. Act 24. Three.”


  However, their habitual messmates from the Light Company, at the rear of the column, saw none of the results of this gift bestowing from grateful civilians until they made their camp in the fields outside, because all had been given to those arriving before by the time they finally entered the village. Yet even Tom Miles could not complain as he and the others received their share saved for them out of the villagers’ generosity by Lacey and O’Hare and, in addition, at last rations came up, carried by a string of mules towed around by Chaplain’s Assistant Sedgwicke. Still surprisingly to Sedgwicke, he was greeted warmly, first by Jed Deakin.

  “Hello Old Parson. Be these rations?”

  Sedgwicke found himself smiling at the warm greeting, but somewhere deep within him the total familiarity slightly irritated, it remained something that he had some difficulty coming to terms with, to be greeted as an equal by such as these, but another part of him fully appreciated their warmth and kindness.

  “Yes, these are your rations.”

  He counted the men before him.

  “Eleven men. How many families?”

  Deakin answered.

  “Two, Parson. Wives and seven childs.”

  Then he had a thought.

  “Does that mean the Followers is soon to come up?”

  Sedgwicke nodded.

  “It does. They are on their way, but probably arriving tomorrow.”

  Sedgwicke produced the parcels from the mules’ panniers and laid them on the ground. Saunders found cause to be cheerful.

  “No prayers this time, Parson. Where’s your Vicar?”

  The possessive word grated in Sedgwicke for he once had been one, but he answered.

  “Asleep! But expect him at sometime. Prayers are always a help in times like these!”

  “Amen, Old Parson.”

  Sedgwicke moved on and all sat around their fire to eat and perform their maintenance rituals before sleep. However, they were not roused early. It was obvious that Wellesley had given up the chase when, with the sun by then high and warming, Gibney came around to order them to assemble by the roadside, prior to taking their place as part of the whole Brigade. Opposite them, on the far side of the road, were the 16th Portuguese Line, with the British 1st Detachments further off to the right. As if to confirm that the pursuit had ended, Wellesley himself cantered back between them, with his Staff. Immediately, at the sight of their Commanding General, all the Portuguese took off their shakoes and put them on the muzzle end of their muskets. Then the shout went up from all stood within their ranks

  “Douro! Douro! Douro!”

  The 105th and 1st Detachments did nothing as spectacular or informal, merely to present arms at Gibney’s command, but Wellesley was obviously pleased at the reception and took off his hat which he held before him as he rode through. When Wellesley came to the Light Company at the end of the 105th line, the Portuguese were still shouting the single word, which aroused Drake’s curiousity, him stood with Carr.

  “So that’s their name for him?”

  Carr nodded.

  “Seems so. The man who got them over the Douro! And sent the French packing.”

  “What are ours calling him? Any idea?”

  “Nosey! But I’ve heard Atty.”

  “Atty!”

  “Yes. His first name’s Arthur.”

  Now it was Drake’s turn to nod and laconically agree.

  “Makes sense.”

  However, if any more was to come from that conversation, it was interrupted by Gibney forming the Battalion on the road, and soon Lacey himself marched them off along a side road to camp alongside a small hamlet, where they rested for that day and occupied themselves with their usual equipment and uniform routines. The conversation revolved around speculation as to when they would get back to Oporto and when their Followers would get to them. On top discussing deals of barter with the local farmers, trading food for French clothing and equipment.

  For Wellesley and his army, the Oporto campaign was done, but not for Juan Delica. He and his men continued to harry the French army with what form skirmishes, however small, they could manage and even when Soult’s men entered Spain, they spent two days carrying out as vicious a farewell as they could create, before returning to Montalegre where they, themselves, used the opportunity to take their ease amongst their own respectful and admiring people. This admiration significantly intensified by the many tales of hazardous exploits against the departed French, all told in the bars and at the family tables of their now tranquil homes. Also, another nickname was bestowed, for his people had not forgotten that Delica had once been a Capucin Monk, therefore now, all around, he was known as that brave guerrilla leader, El Capucino!

  For the 105th, the Followers came up to them the day after their arrival at Ruivaens. No sooner had they marched in than they scattered to find their loved ones and the noise level and general good cheer increased throughout the camp as families were rejoined. Joe Pike and John Davey, although with no Followers, were as pleased as anyone, but for a different reason, this spoken by John Davey.

  “Well! At least quality at mealtimes will be going up a notch.”

  This provocation was overheard by Tom Miles, who most often did the cooking when there were no Followers.

  “And my cooking is what? Like?”

  Both Pike and Davey looked at him, but Davey spoke, in quiet understatement, more worthy of Byford.

  “Well, lacking a certain quality in both flavour and …… structure!”

  Miles’ brows knitted together, but Davey continued.

  “An’ don’t tell me that you don’t fully enjoy what Bridie serves up, neither!”

  Miles’ temper subsided and they wandered over to where Bridie and Nelly were greeting their ‘husbands’, but Bridie was soon giving most attention to her reunion with her Drummerboy son, Patrick, never taking her hands off the sleeves of his elaborate uniform and speaking to him in tones both admonishing and affectionate at the same time, until ordered by Deakin to ‘give the lad some peace.’

  The days became weeks and the whole army settled in. Within a day extra lean-to shelters had been built for their newly arrived Followers and, two days later, matters improved further, with Saunders and Bailey entering the camp. It was Miles who saw them first and, in his astonishment, blurted the question to which the answer was obvious.

  “What’s that?”

  The giant Saunders looked down in mock bemusement.

  “So, you Bristol boys have never seen one afore. ‘Tis a cow!”

  “What for?”

  “Something else you don’t know. You gets milk out of it!”

  Miles gave up the argument, then looked at Bailey. The burden he carried was also obvious, a crate of chickens.

  “What’s them for? Eatin’ or layin’?”

  “Both. An’ don’t you go lookin’ for more’n your fair share. These is for special days.”

  “Like what?”

  However, the business brain inside Miles quickly gained prominence.

  “How’d you pay?”

  “Frog Officer buttons!”

  Miles nodded. He had provided several of the silver articles himself for the community fund.

  Thus were the days spent, in something as close to bliss as could be for any army on campaign. May became June and the heat grew, but supplies were regular and the surplus could be traded for extra luxuries such as wine, dried meats and fruit. The only cloud on their horizon was that Lacey had them back on manoeuvres, now that they were well rested, and Drake took the Light Company out into the woods and fields to practice their drills. A Portuguese Light Company came with them and performed well, once taught and drilled by both Carr and Ellis. Then, on the 9th, came the order to break camp and ready themselves for a long march and so rumours abounded, ‘they were going East into Spain, back to Madrid’, no, ‘they were going North, back to Astorga’. Finally, the truth filtered down, they were marching South, past Oporto, even past Coimbra, to Abrantes, less than 100 miles fro
m Lisbon. Something had happened, events were on the wing, but few knew where, or in what form.

  oOo

  Chapter Three

  More of Spain.

  General Jean Baptiste Marie Franceschi-Delonne, although he only ever used the first and fourth of his queue of names, sat a tired horse, between two half squadrons of the 1st Chasseurs a Cheval, their green uniforms covered in dust, their crowned helmets similarly dulled in the high June sunshine. He was tired himself, as were his escort, and he was annoyed that it required such a force, moving with little rest and needing to be commanded by such a rank as his own, to deliver any French message around this area of Spain. His route was from Zamorra, North of Salamanca, to Madrid, bearing a letter from Marshall Soult for King Joseph Napoleon in Madrid. He felt belittled; despatched by Soult to carry a despatch, the contents of which he was unaware, but he sustained himself with pleasant memories, of amorous encounters and also of his being promoted General on the field of Austerlitz. They had made good progress and in thus manner he allowed his horse to trot on, the reins slack, as the good mount, snorting from the dust, followed in the hoof-prints of those Chasseurs before.

  All at once he was jolted out of his sojourn by an anxious awareness of where they were and where this execrable road was taking them, for now they were in a steep gully, which widened ahead, but not for the better, for the easier slope had allowed trees to grow and they came right down to the roadside, their thick new season leaves arching over to almost meet above the darkened road. The hair on the back of his neck stood up as the troopers up ahead entered the deep shade. A count of twenty and he was in the gloom himself, then it happened, a volley of shots, then another and many of his men were down. Then came the attack out of the trees, not on foot but mounted, 50 or 60 brown-green figures charging into the Chasseurs, many of whom had not yet had time to draw their sabres. He turned to urge forward his rear escort, to spur to the aid of those before, but before the words could clear his mouth he saw that they had their own problems, there was pandemonium at the very rear of his column, for they had received volleys of musket fire at the same time, from above and now, from what he could make out, they were being charged from behind, along the road.