He turned his horse and gave his parting words.
“Expect a battle on the morrow, Lacey. Expect it. An’ it’ll be a big one!”
Their paths parted as Mackenzie moved on. The sun remained bright and hot, the flat plain shimmering as the heat rose from the honey coloured grass and stubble and, almost unbelievably, birds rose and fell, looking for food. All in the columns suffered in the stifling heat but it soon became clear where the Allied line was, because running North from Talavera was a wooden palisade of obviously huge strength, solid tree-trunks which even artillery would struggle to penetrate, and it gave few openings for hostile musket-fire. The whole ran for a mile at shoulder height beginning at the North wall of Talavera and ending at the slight rise which Mackenzie had called the Pajar with its farm atop. Lacey turned to Dunn whilst pointing in the direction of the formidable construction.
“That is for whom?”
Dunn studied it himself and then looked down at the walking Colonel.
“It’s for the Spanish, Sir. General Wellesley had it built yesterday and finished today. The Spanish are behind it now.”
“As we speak?”
“Yes Sir. There now.”
“General Wellesley feels more confident in the Spanish if they have something such as that to defend. Sir.”
“And for us?”
“I’m afraid the open plain, Sir, mostly, but our line terminates at a hill called the Medellin. That’s a good defensive position.”
“But not for us!”
“No Sir. General Hill is there.”
Lacey nodded, resignedly.
“Right. Lead on.”
oOo
Bridie and Nellie turned from their laundry at the sound of the commotion. One of the Followers was running back into their camp, waving an empty basket, the contents of which had fallen out but a minute before when she heard the news herself.
“The men! They’ve been broken! Up ahead.”
Both women dropped their washing into their buckets and joined the rapidly gathering group of women, all yelling questions at their new arrival, but she could only blurt out what she knew and not in the order of the questions.
“Broken up by the river! Prisoners. Dead. I don’t know. A Cavalryman told me. All our Regiments up there guarding the river have been broken.”
Bridie lifted her pinafore to her mouth and began sobbing with deep breaths, now with growing panic.
“My Patrick! He’s just a boy. With a drum. And Jed!”
She fully broke down and fell to her knees. Nellie sucked in a deep breath. Her Henry was in the centre, with the Colour Company, where there was always fighting. She fought back her own tears of worry, before kneeling beside Bridie, who was kneeling in the dust in the middle of a growing group of Followers all milling around hoping for extra information.
“Now, Bridie. These things always sound worse than they are. Ye’re not to despair. There’s always hope. Lots of it.”
She lifted her friend up and they both clung together, but Nellie could now see Chaplain’s Assistant Sedgwicke approaching. He too had heard of some kind of disaster and then Nellie released Bridie.
“Parson! Have ye heard?”
Sedgwicke nodded, but Nellie had a plan.
“Parson! Do you think you could go up and see what you can find out? Nobody knows a thing.”
Sedgwicke nodded and began to fully button his tunic.
“I’ll go now.”
Then a sudden thought, spoken out loud.
“I’d better go fully equipped.”
However, before he could move Bridie had seized his arm.
“Patrick! My Patrick. He’s with the Drummerboys.”
Sedgwicke needed no more explanation. He ran back to his small cart and spent many frustrating minutes donning the full equipment of a line soldier. Much burdened, his slight frame hurried on, in the direction ‘forward’, to soon come up against the Spanish defensive palisade and find that there was no easy way over. He looked at the grinning Spanish soldiers, amused at his confusion, but Sedgwicke was unperturbed and his Spanish was by now perfectly adequate for the task.
“El inglés, que forma?
Several pointed and one spoke.
“Esa ruta.”
Sedgwicke started North and, after a march of many minutes, came to the Pajar. There he saw his first Redcoats and he approached the nearest Officer, him with numeral XL on his crossbelts. Sedgwicke came to “order arms” and saluted.
“Beg pardon, Sir. But I am trying to find the 105th, Sir. Part of General Mackenzie’s Division.”
Sedgwicke paused while the Officer studied him.
“I was hoping that you could help, Sir. Their Followers have just heard that they have been broken, Sir, the 105th, and this has caused a great deal of distress. I’m trying find out what has happened, Sir, at least to enable me to pass on a more accurate picture, Sir.”
The lucidity of Sedgwicke’s speech came as a surprise to the Officer and it made him sympathetic. This was evidently an educated man on a kindly mission and he should, in all humanity, be helped.
“Well, soldier. All I can say is that Mackenzie’s just marched across our front. I have to say that they carried many wounded. They will have been positioned somewhere beyond us, further North, where Mackenzie’s are. That’s the best I can say.”
Sedgwicke took a step back and saluted.
“Thank you, Sir. I’m very grateful for your help.”
Sedgwicke carried on through the lines of Redcoats. Every 50 yards he asked, “105th?”, but each request received a shake of the head, until the question gained the response, “Over there.” Sedgwicke instantly recognised the lurid green of their facings and ran over to their lines to then run along it to find the man whom he knew could tell the most. He found him, sat on the ground, adding fuel to a fire.
“Sergeant Deakin!”
Deakin looked up to see a fully equipped and breathless Parson now standing over him.
“Parson! Why be so far up?”
Sedgwicke took a deep breath.
“The women have just heard about what happened up at the river. They’ve been told that you were broken and now there are wild rumours of huge casualties and many prisoners and wounded. What can I tell them?”
Deakin stood and placed his hand on Sedgwicke’s left shoulder.
“’Tis good of you Parson, to come up and find out for ‘em. There’s no other way they’ll get to know, an’ that’s certain.”
He released a breath.
“We’n all well, here. Me, Toby an’ Henry.”
He allowed that to sink in before continuing.
“As for the Lights. Well, they passed me by a while back and asked after me an’ Tobe. I asked after them and they said all are well, part from cuts and bruises. One ‘as a slight bayonet hole, one called Tucker, and him I don’t know.”
He allowed that to be absorbed.
“Go back an’ tell ‘em all that we’n all up here, an’ making camp. So a bit of grub, if they has any, would be more than welcome. I surely can’t see the Colonel stoppin’ the women from comin’ up. We are in reserve, so I’m told.”
Sedgwicke grinned and lifted his musket from the ground.
“Best I return, then.”
“That’s so, Parson. Be certain that we’n all grateful.”
But he did not remove his hand.
“Now, Bridie’ll be anxious over Patrick.”
He paused.
“Of him I don’t know, but they’n just behind us a piece.”
He pointed back, releasing Sedgwicke’s shoulder.
“Thereabouts.”
Sedgwicke turned and walked through the traffic of passing soldiers. The sight of drums painted with a generous contribution of 105th green told him that he had arrived and there he picked out the largest Drummerboy.
“Patrick Mulcahey.”
Amazingly the reply came in French.
“Ah oui. Il est mon ami. Mais il est
blessé.”
Sedgwicke wiped the shock from his face at being replied to in French.
“Où est-il?”
“La!”
The Drummerboy pointed to a group sat around a fire. He went over.
“I am looking for Patrick Mulcahey.”
A ring of bandage turned upwards to reveal a grinning face. Blood had seeped through to the outside layer that circled the top of his head.
“Your Mother is worried about you. You’ve been hit. How bad?”
The grinning continued. To his mind he was a wounded hero.
“Not bad tell her. Not bad. But I’m hungry. That’s for sure.”
With that, Sedgwicke turned and hurried back through the British lines, hurrying as much as the many pounds of equipment would allow. On his return he was pounced on and questioned from all sides, but, above the din, he shouted the best general answer he could give.
“It’s my opinion that you can go to your men. They are in reserve by the first stand of trees you come to. Up left.”
This removed at least two-thirds of the crowd who left immediately, leaving Nellie and Bridie amongst the remainder, their anxious faces beseeching more information.
“Jed and Henry are unhurt, but Patrick seems to have a slight wound.”
With those words, Bridie nearly swooned again, but both caught her.
“It’s not bad. Not bad at all. He say’s he’s hungry.”
With that Nellie took charge.
“I’ll stay, now I know my Henry’s all right. Parson, you take Bridie back up there now. I’ll stay and come up with the pots of food when ‘tis ready.”
The day was dying, but not quite yet the conflict. As the Followers of the 105th were running up, with those of Mackenzie’s other Regiments, cannon-fire began from the hill opposite the British occupied Medellin, but nothing came their way. All hurried on, to either find their men or discover the worse. Their arrival was seen by Carr and O’Hare, who, at that moment were studying the French artillery line, but they immediately returned to their telescopes.
“Does that hill have a name?”
O’Hare replied instantly.
“The Cascajal.”
However, it was then that the Followers were around them, which immediately changed the subject. Carr looked around at the anxious faces, but his worry came from military concerns, not from sympathy.
“Will the Colonel allow this?”
O’Hare nodded.
“I’m sure, yes. Let it go, we are in reserve. By now they’ll have heard about what happened up at the Alberche. They’ll want to know and it’ll surely be a cruelty not to let them find out.”
They resumed studying the Cascajal, obviously ringed with a huge French battery. British guns were ineffectually replying from the Medellin, but their fire only added to the din, not reducing that of the French. Nellie looked up at the sound, but then returned to stirring both pots, hers and Bridie’s. However, what came next caused equal consternation to all, these being Nellie, Carr, O’Hare and every soldier and Officer in the British army. From the Spanish line there crashed out a huge volley, seemingly every man in the Spanish Army firing their muskets together, but then what happened to Nellie went beyond mere curiousity, for within minutes of the sky splitting sound, she was deluged by running Spanish soldiers. The first, merely ran past, but the next, perhaps not quite so panicked and running through the British camp, took the time to study what was around and their eyes lighted on Nellie’s two cooking pots, both full. One Spanish soldier seized the handle but then quickly released it, for it was so hot from the fire, but others were taking whatever could be picked up, blankets, haversacks, whatever was portable. The Spanish soldier, still at the pot, was on the point of dipping in his hand, when he was practically laid out by a blow from Nellie using the heavy iron ladle that she used for sharing portions. Then, with this medieval weapon, and the almost as heavy stirring spoon, she defended her patch, swinging either implement at any that came close enough to threaten, accompanied by one of two phrases; “Filthy, thieving, Spanish tripehounds!” or “You cowardly Spanish gobshites!”
Within minutes all had passed, but much was missing from her camp and she set about restoring order to what remained, albeit much scattered. However, during the remaining hour of the day, the fugitives returned, having been rounded up by their Officers, but all within her view were treated to a look that would have frozen molten rock and a threatening gesture from the ladle. At the sound of the volley and the commotion, Bridie, much to Patrick’s relief, broke off from the finer adjustments of his bandage and, with Deakin and Halfway, they hurried all back to the camp. They took charge of the cooking pots, which needed to be taken up to the lines, but Nellie would not leave, still needing to vent her anger on any Spaniard within earshot. Miles also, on returning to their camp when their turn came, vowed dire revenge.
“Them Don bastards can expect no charity nor square deal from me! Not after this. Not never!”
It was Mackenzie, inevitably, who brought the story to the 105th, speaking to Lacey as he rode by.
“Nae good, Lacey. Some French Dragoons rode within sight, in sight mind ye, that’s all, nae near at all, and fired their pistols. The whole Don army loosed off their muskets and ran. Ah dinnae ken it at all, and like it even less.”
Wellesley’s army was still assembling at about 8 o’ clock and two KGL Brigades marched between the 105th and those at their front; the 2/83rd of Cameron’s Brigade of Sherbrook’s Division. Lacey, recognising the KGL facings of royal-blue, dredged up the German from his past to exchange greetings as they marched on, all evidently very tired, on towards the valley between the Medellin and the Cascajal. Then Mackenzie returned, with orders from Wellesley.
“I know ye’re in reserve Lacey, but Himself wants a skirmish line out there on picket. What with us an’ Johnny bein’ so close. So, get some men out to support the 83rd, at your front. They’re already there.”
Lacey went himself to find Heaviside, who sent out a Section, half the Colour Company’s strength, but then not trusting merely what he had been told, as a precaution, he sent out Carr to check that all was well and in place.
Carr walked forward in the fast fading light of the late July evening, and found Captain Heaviside out amongst his men, dispensing rum and morale boosting Bible quotes. Even in the growing gloom, each quickly recognised the other as Carr approached
“Joshua.”
“Henry.”
Each had the deepest respect for the other and had served together as Captains, especially during the difficult assault at Rolica, and so the two, out of comradeship and shared past danger, could seen no reason to make any change in how they addressed each other, even after Carr’s promotion. The thought never occurred to either.
“All well?”
“All’s well.”
At that moment a flame sparked up, in the gloom somewhere between the lines. Evidently, some trading was taking place between the pickets, almost certainly involving brandy and tobacco.
Carr chuckled.
“Nothing new here.”
“No. The first law of picketing.”
But it was Carr who finished off.
“Leave well enough alone!”
Both laughed.
“Have you had any sleep?”
“Not much!”
“Well I have, so get some rest. I have a feeling that tomorrow will be as bad a day as any we’ve ever been through.”
“I doubt many will sleep tonight, even if the French allow it. A little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the hands to rest. Proverbs 6, verse 10.”
“Amen to that, Joshua.”
Heaviside walked back to leave Carr alone in the rapidly enveloping dusk, but he stood in nothing like night-time silence, instead hearing the rumbling of yet more French artillery being moved into position opposite his picket line and in the distance behind, the chilling sound of their own Battalion Surgeon, Charles Pearce, administering crude medi
cal help to the wounded of that day. Visually there was also a distraction, just under a mile up from where Carr stood, this from the Cascajal, from where French howitzers fired their shells into the night, their fuses fizzing in a long white arc across the darkening sky, to land amongst the British lines. In the distance was another kind of light, that of burning wheat fields, the smoke drifting towards him, sometimes but a smell to his nostrils, sometimes chokingly thick. The French horse-artillery continued their leisurely pounding of the British line opposite for several more minutes, but then suddenly, perhaps mercifully, it stopped. Carr estimated the time to be ten o’ clock.
oOo
Chapter Five
The Plains of Talavera.
Historians have argued over the official beginning to the Battle of Talavera on 28th July 1809, but for Carr it began well before midnight of the previous day, although he was but minimally engaged. After the 10.00pm cessation of French artillery, and with but the merest of light remaining to guide any footsteps and himself out amongst the pickets, Carr was certain that he heard an extra sound, that of thousands of marching feet. Faint on the wind, in the distance and up at the Cascajal, but it was unmistakable and never-ending. He looked around to find the soldier he wanted, and saw merely a shape, but it was the unmistakable bulk of Sergeant Henry Nicholls of the Third Company.
“Sergeant!”
“Sir.”
“Alert the men. Keep them on their toes. Something’s happening, starting up North.”
As a shock to both, Nicholl’s reply was drowned by several blasts of musketry, in ragged volleys, but obviously between the two hills to the North. The sounds of combat died down but did not end completely, such that, within minutes, he could see the flame of musket fire moving right to left, all between the two hills. If the fight was moving that way, then the French were advancing in a night attack which others could also plainly see and, in response, shouts and orders echoed through the darkness, as, all along the British line, the Battalions ‘stood to’.
“Nicholls! Are you still there?”
The Plains of Talavera Page 22