Then Lacey took a glance at the Cascajal and immediately raised his telescope.
“Tactical conference occurring opposite.”
O’Hare raised his own glass to see an array of glittering uniforms, all mounted on horses covered in equal finery. A gun spoke on the British side of the valley, it may not have been loaded or the shot flew over, but the warning was clear, ‘Approach too far at your peril.’ The group rode back behind a line of their own infantry and remained there for the next hour or more. Eventually, O’Hare pronounced judgement.
“Seems like a bit of an argument’s going on up there!”
Lacey used his own glass.
“If all that arm waving shows such, then I agree.”
He then lowered his telescope and pulled out his own watch.
“10 o’ clock. We’ve been idle these four hours and it’ll take them up there another hour to decide their next move, at least.”
“I’d say three, before anything happens.”
What did happen was a column appearing behind them, made up of Spanish infantry, cavalry and guns, moving up towards the Medellin. Lacey gave this event barely a thought, unlike Miles who spoke his thoughts out loud.
“’Bout time they thievin’ Spanish muckrakes took a turn!”
Lacey’s thoughts were elsewhere. He was as conscious as any Officer above the rank of Captain, that the whole British army was remaining at ‘stand to’, in line, awaiting what they thought was the inevitable, and imminent French attack. Both Lacey and O’Hare used their telescopes again to look for French movement opposite, but there was none and the waiting continued. Lacey gave an order which allowed his men to sit down, but remain in line. Sometime before 11 o’ clock, Carr arrived and spoke to Lacey.
“Sir. Water is very scarce and the men have had very little food.”
O’Hare added his agreement.
“He’s right. We’ve all been drinking water and the men have had no time to cook anything, having to stand to, then stand down, up and down, all through the night.”
Lacey nodded agreement.
“Water at least, but where from?”
Carr spoke next.
“It seems that there is some kind of truce holding between the two hills and just below. A Captain on Mackenzie Staff told me. It came about whilst the wounded were being gathered and it’s holding still, such that both sides are obtaining water from the Portina.”
“You’re sure.”
“Yes Sir.”
Lacey nodded.
“Right, by Companies, starting with the Lights. One man with five canteens. We’ll assume one canteen can be shared between two when they get back. We’ll start with that.”
He looked at O’Hare, who nodded his agreement, for Lacey to then look down at Carr.
“Right. See to it.”
He looked at O’Hare.
“Could the Followers come up, d’you think?”
“I’d say yes, and that I’ll see to myself.”
He jumped down to turn right, whilst Carr felt the need to take a look first at the Portina and only then he walked forward to pass between the 61st and the 83rd, to there find a Major of the former.
“Carr. 105th.”
“Russell. 61st.”
“We’ve a mind to send some men forward to the stream to get some water. Seems there’s some kind of an agreement further up.”
Russell nodded.
“Our thoughts entirely, but Johnny’s got his Tirailleurs out just beyond the brook. If we send our men out there in two’s and three’s they’re just as likely to get bagged.”
Carr sighed.
“True. So?”
Russell paused for thought.
“If we both send ours out as whole Companies and only a little way forward in skirmish order but within reach of the stream should anything flare up, then that may get them to hold off and we both get a drink, them and us.”
“Good idea. I’ll get mine out, but not far enough to be an obvious threat.”
“Right! See you are the bar!”
Carr laughed and they both returned to their men, Carr going straight to Drake, the first Company on the left.
“Nat. Take yours out, beyond the 61st, as a skirmish line. Then, ten men with five canteens each to go up to the stream and get them filled. Do that about five times or so to get water to your whole Company, sharing each canteen between two. There seems to be an informal truce all up and down that seems to be holding. Johnny’s not moved these past five hours.”
Within minutes, the Light Company were spread before the British line, in the company of the 61st Lights. Amongst the first ten, Drake had chosen Saunders, Miles and Byford, the latter because he could speak more than halfway decent French. Their Baker rifles were slung behind them, across their backs, as insurance. Anxiously, the three approached the Portina, even Saunders craning his neck to try to see beyond the reeds. Just then, to their great relief, a French Tirailleur pushed through the reeds, carrying several canteens himself, soon to be followed by four more. The three looked at the five for several seemingly eternal seconds, before Miles pushed forward.
“Come on. These is after the same as us!”
Seeing Miles walk forward, so did the Frenchmen and soon all were busy filling canteens. By chance, one slipped from the grasp of a Frenchman and the eddy around a stone sent it over to the British side, but within the reach of Saunders. He pulled it out and tossed it back over to the same Frenchman, who nodded in return, but did not smile.
“Merci!”
Saunders nodded, then replied with a growl. Tirailleurs were their most often opponents during the Retreat to Coruna.
“Think nothing of it.”
Byford translated.
“C’est rien!”
At this, the Tirailleur did smile, but if there was any thinking happening, it was taking place behind the ferretlike eyes of Tom Miles.
“Zeke! How much tobacco you got?”
Saunders did not look up from thrusting a canteen beneath the waters.
“Full pouch. Nearly.”
Miles turned to Byford.
“An’ you, you’re full, I knows! You don’t bloody well smoke!”
Miles looked across to study the Frenchmen.
“These looks like good lads, who knows how things work. Give us ‘em yer!”
The tobacco pouches were passed to him from both sides and then, with his own, he displayed the three open pouches on a rock. The invitation was obvious and it soon attracted the attention of the French opposite.
“Byfe. Do the speaking.”
Byford took a deep breath.
“Vous aimeriez au commerce du tabac de brandy ?
The Frenchmen heard and plainly understood, but at first they only looked at each other. Then, one pulled out from his own haversack a flask of brandy, to be followed by the others. Miles reached into his own haversack to pull out the flask he used but Byford stopped him before it could emerge.
“Leave it there. It’s loot, it came off a dead Frenchman. They’ll probably take offence. Use my additional canteen.”
Byford pulled out of his own haversack the extra canteen, which he had brought to obtain extra water for himself, and handed it to Miles. He took out the stopper and, using a central rock for purchase, he reached across the stream, holding out the canteen, obviously inviting his customers to pour in some brandy. Each did and each time Miles shook the canteen to gauge the depth of the contents. He only needed to shake his head once to obtain the extra required for a fair swap, before he then pointed to a French haversack hanging from the shoulder of the nearest Frenchman, but he clearly failed to understand, until Byford intervened.
“Votre havresac, s'il vous plait, pour le tabac.”
The haversack was passed across and the three tobacco pouches emptied into it, then it was closed and passed back. The last of the canteens were being filled with water, when one of the Frenchmen pointed at Saunders.
“Votre fusil. Puis-je voir?
”
Byford looked at the Frenchman, trying to make a judgment.
“He wants to see your Baker.”
The three British looked at each other, before Byford spoke.
“Don’t take it off, Zeke. Just slide it around to your front.”
Warily, Saunders did as suggested and he then twisted it so that the firelock could be seen, but the Frenchman broke into a wide grin.
“Une arme très fine.”
It was Saunders who answered, the words needing no translation.
“Yes. Bloody good!”
However, Miles had the last word as they rose to leave, but spoken in a low tone, as the wet canteens slopped against them, staining wet their coats and trousers.
“Bloody fine, yes, an’ it may be the one as puts a bullet through your kisser!”
However, if that was heard, it made no difference, as they parted with a slight wave of their hands and half smiles, but all well content.
oOo
The watering parties continued apace from both sides and the Followers arrived, with kettles of food, such as they could create with the meagre provisions and, with the men stood in line, the stew had to be given out in tin mugs. Little was said, bar “Thanks. Take care, now”, as the men took the food and ate where they sat or lay, but still in line.
Carr, being more of a free agent than O’Hare, took the time to wander towards the Medellin, where a battery of field-guns had just arrived to position themselves between the 83rd in the front line and the most Southerly Battalion of the King’s German Legion, the 1st KGL. Whilst they unlimbered and wheeled their pieces forward into line, Carr, trying to occupy the idle hours, introduced himself to the Battery Captain.
“Good afternoon. Carr 105th.”
The Captain saluted.
“Good afternoon, Sir. Sillery, Royal Horse Artillery.”
Carr nodded.
“Pleased to have you alongside. I’m sure you’ll make a difference.”
“Oh we will, Sir. Count on that.”
“You’ve come from the hill.”
“Yes, Sir. We supported the repulse of the morning attack. Now we’ve been sent down here.”
He swallowed hard.
“I have to say, Sir, that there are thousands of the Johnnies opposite. You don’t have to be a genius nor need a crystal ball to work out that they will be trying here next.”
Sillery paused before pointing at the Cascajal.
“And he has batteries all down his line, not just up there on his hill. I counted 25 up there alone, Sir.”
Carr nodded.
“Well, we can but trust to our own firepower, you’d agree, but don’t let me keep you, you must have much to attend to.”
“Yes sir. Thank you. I must see to our line.”
He saluted and trotted forward, to where his gunners were already arranging the six guns.
Meanwhile, Lacey and O’Hare were making observations of their own, although slightly more frivolous. Lacey looked across from the height of their cart at their hurrying water parties and those of the French opposite, each largely ignoring the other.
“Have you ever seen the like?”
O’Hare grinned and shook his head.
“No, nor even heard.”
Lacey looked up at the Cascajal.
“Our glitterati have not reappeared. Gone since Noon.”
He took a deep breath.
“This is absurd! And cannot go on for much longer. Remember what Mackenzie said about French armies closing in behind us. Wellesley won’t advance, he’s happy on the defensive, but we’ll have to get out sooner or later. Even out of Spain altogether!”
It was at that moment that an Aide-de-Camp galloped up to rein his horse to a halt before the pair.
“Sir! Orders from General Wellesley, Sir, get your men back to their positions. Significant movement opposite you can be seen from up on the Medellin.”
He saluted and rode off. He did no need for him to say where the ‘significant movement’ was and Lacey was grateful to see Cyrus Gibney stood nearby.
“Gibney! Get them in.”
Gibney ran forward to shepherd the current watering party back to their lines, accompanied by Officers of the 83rd and 61st, all obeying the same order. O’Hare now pulled out his own watch and he was not alone, almost every Officer in the British army did the same, to note the resumption.
“2 o’ clock! How nice of him to choose the hottest part of the day to resume this particular quadrille!”
At the same time, close behind the line, the Followers had finished handing out what food there was, Bridie kneeling beside Jed Deakin, him sat on the dry earth.
“’Twas not much, Jed, but a few beans in a mug. We’ll try again later, if the flour comes up.”
Deakin turned and smiled as he handed the mug back.
“You did your best, Bridie. You did your best.”
It was at that moment that all the cannon on the French side opened fire with an ear-splitting crash, this time the ball and grape showering amongst the British occupying the plain. Screaming began and not just amongst the soldiers. Followers were hit also.
“Get out Bridie! Get back!”
She needed no further bidding, as did the other Followers, but she did pause just enough to kiss him quickly before running off, spoon and cooking-pot in either hand. Lacey and O’Hare jumped off their cart just as it was wrecked by a cannon-ball, but they gave themselves no time to reflect on their lucky escape. Instead, they ran along the line, giving the only order they could.
“Stay down! Lie flat.”
It was not long before that order had been obeyed along the full length of the British line, from the Medellin in the North down to the Pajar in the South. On the Medellin, Hill pulled his men back behind the crest and into shelter, but for the three Divisions on the Talavera plain, Mackenzie’s, Sherbrook’s, and Campbell’s there was no shelter, merely hope, as they flattened themselves as best they could against the unyielding earth. Thus, their trial began and those who survived spoke of it later as the worst hour endured throughout the whole Peninsular Campaign. The fire from eighty French cannon, many firing at the rate of six rounds per minute, rained down upon them, many with the advantage of the height of the Cascajal. Men called to each other, to discover who was still alive, for none dared to lift any part of themselves more than an inch from the greater safety of the hard ground. Deakin found himself lying beside Ensign Rushby who seemed to be enduring the cannonade as well as could be expected, but Ensign Neape was chattering with fear and Deakin could hear Colour Sergeant Bennet doing his best to comfort the terrified youngster, him in his mid teens. With Rushby still settled, Deakin called out for Halfway.
“Tobe! You still alive?”
The reply came, barely audible above the sound of the cannon and the passing of the shot.
“Yes, I be. But somethin’ hit my foot, took off the heel, but only in passin’, like.”
Deakin gave a small smile in relief.
“There’ll be plenty of spare shoes afore this day’s done!”
All along the line could be heard the screaming of the wounded and those newly hit, a sound as continuous as the bombardment itself. Lacey, O’Hare and Carr crawled amongst their men, encouraging or consoling. Carr found himself rolling into Heaviside, him speaking encouraging words to his own men.
“Well done, Joshua. We’ll get through this.”
Heaviside did no more than pat Carr on the arm, before crawling onward to a group of his own men, where he heard again the common question.
“Sir! What’s to be done?”
“Endure! What else? When they come, and they will, there will be a reckoning. For judgment is without mercy, to one who has shown no mercy. James 2. Verse 13.”
From somewhere came the beginnings of a reply, but this was soon lost in the screams of someone newly wounded. Still close by, Carr found himself crawling next to Carravoy.
“Charles! Should you not be with your men?�
�
“Doing my best to get there! I was at my tent when it all started. Now struggling to get back.”
Carravoy crawled on a little further, even raising himself a little.
“Is it lessening, do you think?”
Carr rolled onto his back and pulled out his watch.
“I’ve got 2.55. An hour would be about right for any kind of softening up.”
He lay on his back, watching the white smoke drift across from the French side, but now more listening than seeing.
“You’re right, Charles. It is, tailing off.”
He turned to face him, seeing Carravoy’s tailored uniform covered in dust, dirt and scraps of stubble.
“Give it another minute or two, then probably you can walk back to your men.”
Carravoy crawled on.
“Minute or ten, more like.”
Carr raised himself up onto his elbows. The cannonade was no longer a continuous roar; rather it was only the report of individual guns which could now be heard, some clearly from the French battery immediately opposite them. The bombardment lessened further, so that the moments of silence grew and became more frequent. Carr heard drums and trumpets, unquestionably from over the Portina. He sprang to his feet.
“Up! Up. Stand to and face your front. Johnny’s on his way.”
All along the line of the 105th men were obeying the order, so too were those of the 61st and the 83rd in the line before them, as were every British Battalion on the plain. At their feet, all along the line, remained the evidence of what they had just endured; prone figures remaining stretched or contorted on the dry ground.
Carr ran along the front rank.
“Check your flints! Check your priming!”
Few needed reminding, most had already done so. Bennet was helping Neape to his feet. His legs would not work.
“Lean on the flagstaff, Sir. It won’t be needed for a while.”
Neape grasped the warm wood and pulled himself up, then he tried his legs, one at a time. Both still shook, but each would take some weight off his clutching hands that were now around the leather casing of the Regimental Colour.
The Plains of Talavera Page 24