He heard the Officers back there screaming to their men to turn and meet the threat, then he looked ahead, to see to his horror that it was all over, all that remained of that conflict were the few Chasseurs left alive and not prisoner, forcing their horses up through the trees, the better to make their escape. One guerrilla was screaming at his men and immediately those unoccupied with guarding prisoners were riding past Franceschi to finish the last French resistance back in the gully. The Chief Guerrilla, if that description was correct, followed his men, but stopped at Franceschi to then seize his bridle, grin malevolently and fix him with a look of pure hatred before speaking, the words coming as a soft hiss.
“Juan Delica, em seu serviço, Senor.”
The sarcasm was obvious and, before Franceschi could make any reply, the dispatch bag was cut from his shoulders by another guerrilla and tossed across to who must be, Franceschi reasoned, the damnable bandit El Capucino, distinctive by his upper body being covered in a poncho made from a cut down Capucin monk’s robe, hood still in place. This brigand unfastened the leather flap to the satchel and looked inside, to then bring out a bundle of papers, which he soon returned to the depths of the bag. He then looked at the waiting guerrilla.
“Llevarlo con nosotros!”
The guerrilla moved his horse up to Franceschi and pulled the reins from his relaxing grip. He was then led forward into the trees where, spread around were the results of the recent combat, dead Chasseurs being stripped down to nakedness, a few dead and wounded guerrillas, and the last of his command, wounded or whole, being despatched at the roadside with a single axe blow to the back of their heads.
oOo
The 105th had been three days on the march before Lacey received any knowledge as to why, with all speed, they were marching South. It came in the form of Brigadier Stewart, who reined in his horse besides Lacey and O’Hare, to turn his mount and ride along beside them. He came straight to the point.
“Wellesley’s received a captured dispatch. Soult’s abandoning Galicia, seems he’s in nae shape to continue there. Staying there, he’ll just be bound up in various strongholds doing nothing, penned in by guerrillas and eventually starving. He’s all out of supplies of all sorts and has tae move towards Salamanca.”
He allowed the words to sink in, before continuing.
“Seems we did him a lot more harm than we thought.”
Another pause, but the pair that were his audience were listening intently.
“So, with nothing to the North of us, he’s taking us back down South, with a view to co-operating with that grand old man La Cuesta. Good luck to him with that! Seems we’ll be back in Spain again before long and he wants us in tae Spain before Soult can get himself back together.”
With that information, now Lacey had his own question.
“How far down does he want to go, Sir. We’ve heard Abrantes.”
“Ye’ve heard aright.”
“That’s a fair stretch, Sir. The men are feeling the pace already.”
Stewart now spurred his horse forward to leave, at the same time making his final comment, this practically an order.
“Can’t be helped! Keep them going, push them on.”
The pair rode on through the dust of Stewart’s departure, O’Hare thinking logistics more than Lacey was.
“Which is the next main town? Do you know?”
Lacey’s mouth slewed sideways in thought.
“Must be Oporto!”
O’Hare sighed deeply.
“And there’ll be damn all for us there!”
Thankfully, O’Hare was wrong. Oporto had been turned into a supply base, but veterans like Jed Deakins were not beguiled when they were issued double rations. Himself and Toby Halfway were together occupied with finding space for provisions in packs and knapsacks and any other hole, which could receive a portion, however small.
“You know what this means, Tobe?”
Halfway did not need it to be explained.
“I do. No other issue for a long time down. Lucky we have the families to carry extra.”
A return to the Deakin and Nicholls families found a similar scene, all trying to find additional places for the extra rations, such that even the smallest, Sinead Mulcahy and Violet Nicholls were weighed down with bags of food. For the three man messes of the 105th, there was nothing for it but to recover their King George backpacks from their supply train and somehow drape these about their persons, prepared to bear the burden of the extra food. Thus, in this most incongruous and unmilitary form, the march continued.
It was now the second week of June, with the sun almost at its zenith and each day it eased its way painfully across the roaring blue of the continuous arch of sky, taking its time, the better to deal wearying heat onto the plodding column of humanity below. Three days and then half a night brought them to Coimbra, which they entered as a town just waking up, but at least much recovered from the fear of the French invasion merely weeks ago. Although it was the dawn of a new day, the whole army, their Followers and baggage all simply found a space and slumped down to sleep and then wake later in the heat of the Noon sun. Food and water were the only concerns they had and they were nearing desperation, especially the issue of water. For this reason did RSM Gibney take himself to the encampment of the Battalion Chaplain, but it was Sedgwicke that he wished to find and he did, the good ex-Cleric just rousing himself from under his small cart. He bent down from his great height to seize the shoulder tab of the half conscious Sedgwicke.
“Percy. Hast tha’ a jug and a bucket?”
Sedgwicke nodded.
“Yes Sergeant Major.”
“Fetch uns. Then with me!”
By doubling his normal walking pace to maintain station alongside the marching Gibney, Sedgwicke found himself beside the only well within reach of the 105th, where a near riot was taking place to get at the water that came up in the single bucket. In consequence more was spilt than found its way into the containers, which both the soldiers and Followers carried. Gibney expanded his chest.
“Enough! That’ll do! Not one of you moves, not one!”
At the familiar voice all stood stock still as Gibney shouldered his way through, with Sedgwicke in his wake. He came to the well and glowered all around before delivering his edict.
“Canteens gets one jug. Cooking pots gets two.”
He allowed that to sink in.
“As doled out by our trusted man Sedgwicke here.”
The word ‘trusted’ was not used lightly and was the reason why Gibney had selected Sedgwicke, because two years past Sedgwicke had uncovered a plot to steal the men’s rum and this was one of the reasons why the ex-Cleric was so well liked and treated so familiarly, even if it grated somewhat on his own self-esteem and the requirement for natural respect.
Gibney had more to say and a role to play for himself.
“I’ll keep a full bucket up here, now us’ve got two, and thee, Percy, uses the jug.”
Thus it began, Gibney maintaining a full bucket on the rim of the well, while Sedgwicke gave the issue. Soon Gibney found himself looking at Zeke Saunders.
“Saunders. Get tha’ water an’ then fetch Deakin an’ Halfway up to this place.”
Saunders soon departed and soon returned to the well with the two trusted NCO’s.
“Halfway. Take over with t’buckets. Deakin, take charge.”
Only now did Gibney march away, military order having been restored.
As a consequence, now well watered, Miles, Pike and Davey were considering extra food. The double rations had run out on the previous day, bar the standard issue of flour and this they had handed to Bridie Deakin. Davey asked the first question of Miles.
“How many buttons we got left?”
Miles did not need to look.
“Four!”
Miles then pondered the question not asked, his mouth working with each calculating thought.
“Dried fish, bread, some beans.”
Davey n
odded.
“Give two to the boy. He’s better lookin’ than you and some old dear at the market might take a fancy to’n an’ chuck in a bit extra.”
Miles nodded at the wisdom, but he had thoughts of his own.
“Better some doe-eyed girly. Try to find one and try your luck, Joe.”
The buttons were produced and given to Joe Pike, the blond Adonis, who departed without a word.
As chance would have it, those three ingredients were exactly the combination that Lacey, O’Hare and Carr were dining on, albeit accompanied with some local red wine. In between combining some fish, beans and bread on his fork, Lacey asked the key question of O’Hare.
“How are the men bearing up?”
O’Hare finished his own mouthful.
“So far, quite well, but there was a bit of a set to at the well a while ago, dealt with by Gibney.”
He paused for thought.
“I’d match the discipline of ours against any in the army, including the Guards, but this is a forced march and we’re only just over halfway. On top, it’s my bet he’ll take us over the Sierra on the direct route to Abrantes. That, will be nothing less than arduous. It’ll take its toll, on strength and discipline.”
Both then looked at Henry Carr, but it was Lacey who spoke.
“What do you think, Henry?”
“Can our Commissariat keep us fed, Sir? I don’t see what else can be said. If yes, we’ll get there as an army, if no, then as a rabble. We all remember Coruna.”
More thoughts took place within Carr, before he spoke again.
“However, once fed we came back together again well enough. So there’s hope there.”
Both nodded and Lacey poured more wine. Meanwhile, Pike had returned almost empty handed, to sit miserably before his two messmates and produce some bread and cheese, but, at least, one remaining button.
“Stalls were almost empty. Hardly anything anywhere.”
Despondently, Davey took up the bread and began ripping it apart, using his Baker bayonet. However, Miles had thoughts.
“This town is well set. Where is it all? Nothin’ hardly left as can be seen, an’ they needs feedin’ too, those as lives ‘ere.”
The question was answered with the dying of the day. Whilst what was available in the market had all been bought up by the Officers, also Wellesley’s Commissariat had previously gone around the whole city, buying at top price whatever was available in the stores and warehouses. So, in the gathering darkness came an issue of flour, dried fish and dried beans, both green and red, but this small blessing was immediately counterpointed by the order that they were to be ready to march out at dawn of the next day.
Lacey had been only half right concerning the crossing of the Sierra between Coimbra and Abrantes, for the 105th like the rest of the army, were only called upon to add their weight to the gun and wagon teams on one occasion, when they crossed a pass into the valley of the River Zezere. Four times each Company hauled a gun up through the narrow streets of some impossibly remote village, to then descend back down to take up the rope of another gun or wagon. However, once in the valley, water was plentiful and the height of the valley head reduced the June heat, but food was once again a problem for both men and animals, to the extent that marauding began against the local farms and settlements. It was Stewart who delivered the warning, delivered perfunctorily as usual, as they descended the valley, marching besides the clear Zezere.
“Wellesley’s sending the Provosts out, Lacey. He wants nae ill feeling ‘tween us and the populace caused by villainy. Keep your men in hand.”
Such brevity gave weight to his words, making them an order, and Lacey saluted as Stewart rode away. He then looked at O’Hare.
“Warn Gibney.”
O’Hare turned his horse to ride back down the line and find their Sergeant Major.
However, that evening in the drawn out dusk of the long summer day, there was a serious discussion in the mess of Miles, Pike and Davey, Miles looking at Davey.
“What we going to do, John? We’ve eaten damn all for the past two days and this Abrantes place is two more away.”
He paused, to gather yet more weighty words.
“You was the poacher! How’d you get food in times like these?”
Davey looked at him, but it was Pike who spoke.
“They catch you out roaming and scavenging, then you’re for the rope. You know that Tom.”
Davey gave a thoughtful poke to the fire.
“Well, we all knows that from a farm you can get animals, hens and eggs. But, like Joe says, get caught carrying any of that back, gets you hauled up.”
More thought.
“How far’s the river?”
Miles pointed with his thumb over his shoulder.
“Half mile. That way.”
Davey stood up.
“Best go now. It looks better in the dusk than the full night.”
Within the hour they were beside the Zezere and in the full moonlight, all three were using ‘scoops’ made from thin branches to Davey’s design, this well suited to trawling beneath the banks, even though requiring over an hour to make. Their fishing proved fruitful, four each for Miles and Pike, but seven for the more experienced Davey. Then, with their catch strung together over their shoulders they set off back, but the moonlight which had aided their fishing now caused their undoing as they crossed an open field. In the stark white light they stood out like rocks on a beach and, almost immediately, they heard galloping horses from their right. Miles, most often involved with the Provosts, gave immediate advice.
“Walk on, nice and steady. Look innocent, like you was about your common business an’ expect them to ride on past, them goin’ about theirs.”
But, of course, they did not ride past, instead pulled up in their path, large men on huge horses, their almost ridiculous helmet crowns adding to their height. The three under suspicion stopped, but it was the Provost Sergeant who spoke first.
“Out plunderin'."
Davey, the Chosen Man replied first.
“No, Sarn’t. Out fishing.”
“Caught where?”
“In the river back yonder.”
This seemed to place the NCO in a quandary. Fish were no-one’s property, yet here were three men, out of the lines, in the full dark of night. However, just then an Officer came galloping up, to rein in between the two groups.
“Three? Sarn’t?”
“Not sure, Sir. These has fish. From the river, so they say.”
The Officer turned to carefully examine their three captives. As if to help the decision, Miles held up one of his catch, on its string, to emphasise the point. The Officer was evidently very put out, but as much at a loss as to what to do as was his Sergeant.
“You are out of your lines!”
However, Davey was growing in confidence.
“Yes Sir, but we’ve just made camp and now we’re lookin’ to catch our dinner. Sir.”
The Officer sat back in his saddle, patience quickly evaporating, but this was plainly no hanging matter.
“Back to your camp. And stay there! If we find you out again, it’s your neck!”
All three saluted, the fish swinging with the motion of their arms, all three speaking in unison.
“Sir!”
The Provosts rode off and the gap between the two groups grew, each yard adding to the ease in the chests of the three. They continued, the moonlight guiding every step, then the crossing of a field boundary brought a change in the ground beneath their feet, something was growing there, evidenced by green haulms all around. Joe Pike voiced his curiousity.
“John. What’s all these ridges. What’re they for?
“I was askin’ myself the same question, Joe, and I think I knows the answer.”
He removed his fish from around his neck and laid them on the ground.
“Get out your brummagem. You too, Tom.”
Within a minute both were digging in the ridges with their ba
yonets and soon they had unearthed pale tubers, shining almost white in the moonlight.
“Tatties!”
Miles looked up.
“Wher’ be they Provosts?”
All three stood and looked, but mostly listened. There was nothing, not even receding hoof beats.
“Right!”
Miles had decided and all three dug further and then they filled every pocket that had any space to receive such a bounty. Finally, Joe Pike was stood up, his fish draped around his neck and his hands cupped before him. These received a few more of the fresh tubers, then Davey did the same for Miles. That done, and crouching low, they hurried back to their camp. Within the hour the fish were gutted and boned and the potatoes peeled and chopped, as the main ingredients in a good fish stew, all lovingly created by Bridie Mulcahy, adding herbs and a few army biscuits. That night they were late to sleep, their bellies being too full, but the next dawn found them well into marching in their place in the ranks of the 105th, making good progress along the good road. Wellesley wanted some distance behind them before the heat of the day arrived and that was not the only method by which he demonstrated his concern for his men. A supply train had left Abrantes to meet them, containing not only plentiful food, but also new boots and breeches. However that evening came the counter from Wellesley, delivered by RSM Gibney, on his way around every mess, delivered perfunctorily and broking no argument, except inevitably from Miles.
“Stocks! Sar’ Major. We ‘as to wear stocks!”
Gibney regarded Miles as if he were a cockroach in his favourite stew, his outrage deepened by the firelight that flickered over his kitted brows.
“Tha’ heard me, Miles, an’ make sure that thine is up high and laced up tight. I’ll be lookin’ for thee, count on’t!”
That evening several from their mess took themselves to the baggage train where their banished King George backpacks were, containing their hated leather stocks. Then in the morning, after eating, because the stiff leather restricted even swallowing, each tied the loathed object around the neck of another, to finally force their heads high, erect and immobile to either side. On that day, they marched into Abrantes, looking as smart an army as those good people had ever seen.
The Plains of Talavera Page 14