The Plains of Talavera

by Martin McDowell

  “That’s it, Sir. Give the lads a bit of a show, those around The Colours, like!”

  The sudden sound of musket volleys down at the Pajar, caused Neape’s legs to give way again.

  “Come on now Sir. We’n goin’ to need you soon enough. Wavin’ the Old Bits of Rag in the Frog’s faces. That’s where they looks, you see. They wants to see our Colours waverin’, even runnin’!”

  A larger crash was heard, from the same direction.

  “That’s our lads, Sir. Dishin’ it out. ‘Twill spread up to us soon enough.”

  From the distance came the sound of continuous musketry exchanges, then came the roar of cannon, soon continuous, as their crews sponged and loaded at their maximum possible speed. Then the cannonfire ceased and there came the unmistakable sound of a cheer.

  “That’s us, Sir. Frogs don’t cheer like that. ‘Tis all drums an’ ‘Old Trousers’, from them. I d’reckon that the lads’ve seen ‘em away!”

  Neape managed a weak smile and straightened and, thankfully, Bennet noted, he was no longer leaning on the Colour staff. On the other side, alongside Rushby, Deakin was looking between the 83rd and the 61st.

  “Time to get the cases off, Sirs. The monsewrs is on their way.”

  He could see the lines of blue now visible, but still many yards beyond the far side of the Portina. Rushby pulled off the stiff leather case from his King’s Colour and handed it to Deakin, then he hoisted it and set the but end of the staff into the holder slung around his shoulder. It took some seconds before Neape did the same with the Regimental Colour, but all along the British line, both front line and reserve, the huge Colours stretched out their defiance into the steady breeze. To the right front of the 105th the King’s Colour and buff Regimental of the 61st and, more over on their left, the King’s Colour and, the pale yellow Regimental of the 83rd. All down Mackenzie’s front, his Battalions formed a solid line, all stood steady at ‘Order Arms”. From further down line the order ‘lock on” could be heard and the second ranks of 61st and 83rd moved slightly to their right to reveal the heads of the first rank. This meant that combat was imminent and men took a last swallow of precious water and gripped the wood of their muskets, now sticky with sweat, brought on not only by the fierce heat of the mid-afternoon but by the heavy anxiety of the forthcoming combat.

  Stood forward of their own line between the 83rd and the 61st, Carr and Heaviside watched the French cross the Portina. The British skirmish line crackled with musket fire, but they were soon running back before the oncoming French formations. They were advancing in their customary columns, but there were so many that the French front appeared to be one continuous line covering something like three-quarters of a mile; this distance before the Divisions of Sherbrook and Campbell, the many Eagles above their heads, but set far back. This aroused some disdain in the mind of Major Carr.

  “You know, Joshua, it’s only a small point, but I do think it significant that our Colours are plain to see, in the centre of what is only a two deep line, sort of an honest challenge, as it were, ‘here they are, come and take, if you can’. Whilst theirs are held back, deep within their ranks, at their least vulnerable point.”

  Heaviside nodded.

  “For we aim at what is honourable not only in the Lord’s sight, but also in the sight of man. Two Corinthians. 8. Verse 21.”

  “Amen, Joshua, but I do believe it is time to get back.”

  The pair turned and trotted back to their positions, Carr off to the left, Heaviside to the centre, just as Sillery’s battery opened fire on the approaching French. The 105th could only stand, wait, and watch as Sherbrook’s men in the front line made their preparations to receive the French onslaught. This began with the order, unheard above the roar of Sillery’s guns, for the muskets of the 83rd to be raised to the “make ready.” In the spaces between the crash of the guns could be heard the standard sound of a French attack, the drums, ‘dum dadadum dadadum dum’, repeated endlessly and the equally endless shout of “Vive l’Empereur.” The French bombardment had not ceased entirely and shot still found targets amongst the British line, but the concentration of all stood in the line was on the approaching French.

  Sillery’s guncrews were straining every sinew, but the impact of their fire was hidden from most of the 105th by the line of the 83rd. It was also hidden from Carr on the left, but in his case by the smoke from the guns themselves. However, not for Carravoy and D’Villiers, stood with their Grenadiers on the far right. They could see much between the 83rd and the 61st and it was plain that Sherbrook was holding his fire until the very last moment. Anxiety grew within the pair, for, even back in the reserve line, they could pick out every detail of the first rank of the French column which they could now plainly see; the wide cross-belts, the bucket shaped shako, the heavy brass chinstrap and the epaulettes of each man, even if some sported a fine moustache. The French were within 50 yards when, finally, came the order, “Present”, obeyed by both the 61st and 83rd. Almost immediately they heard “Fire!” and the two lines fired, with the standard three second gap between front and rear. Carravoy and D’Villiers saw the French go down in swathes, but, oddly, there had been no sound of any musketfire from the Guards, further down to the right. Carravoy walked forward to where he was just in time to see the whole of the Guards Brigade charge forward, without firing a shot. Within a minute the 83rd and 61st, also charged forward into the smoke, following The Guards. There was nothing left to be seen of the British first line, but the dead and wounded of the previous hour’s bombardment.

  Lacey and O’Hare, in the centre before The Colours, looked at each other, but it was Lacey who voiced the deep concern of both.

  “This I don’t like!”

  The sounds of great tumult and mayhem came to them from beyond the curling smoke of the British volleys, but then it cleared. The 83rd and 61st were advancing steadily, their Brigadier clearly visible, mounted and leading them on, but of The Guards to their right nothing could be seen, and of the King’s German Legion to their left all that could be seen of them, were clumps of Germans pursuing the blue coated French before them to the slopes of the Cascajal. Sillery’s guns had ceased to fire, but Carr’s anxiety was as great as that of Lacey and O’Hare. He ran across and soon found Sillery, peering ahead, equally aghast at what he saw.

  “This will end badly! Get your guns loaded. There are too many oncoming French, they’ll soon push ours back and then be onto us again.”

  Sillery saluted and ran along his gun-line giving orders. Carr returned to his position where he found Drake, also in an agitated state of mind.

  “Henry! That was too soon. They’ll be damnably mauled.”

  “Yes! Count on it.”

  He looked around at the chaos, with even the 83rd and 61st now crossing the Portina.

  “And when it comes, it’ll be us in the way.”

  There was not one Officer in Mackenzie’s own Brigade that did not share the same sentiment. D’Villiers, looking anxiously all around, was only slightly relieved to see General Mackenzie with the 24th down to the right, moving the whole Battalion up towards them, to where The Guards had once been, also, some cavalry were moving forward into the place vacated by the 24th. However, what was now happening before him soon outweighed that slight relief, because away in the distance could be seen cavalry sabres rising and falling, almost certainly at the point where The Guards would have arrived after their headlong advance. For Carr, on the other flank, it was worse. Using his telescope he could see the King’s German Legion now on the slopes of the Cascajal but being terribly mauled by cannonfire from the same slopes above them and to their left. Worse again, masses of formed French troops were already pushing them back. Within minutes, the four fine Battalions of KGL were little more than a disorganised rabble, streaming back, a few groups holding momentarily as a rearguard, but standing for little more than the time for one volley. Carr spoke out loud, now very seriously worried.

  “They won’t rally! We’re
done!”

  He realised that there was now a huge gap between themselves and the 88th of Donkin’s Brigade far up on the slope of the Medellin. It was at that moment that Mackenzie came riding up and Carr automatically saluted.

  “Carr, isn’t it?”

  “Yes Sir.”

  “Dragoons, two squadrons, will be up on your left, behind Sillery.”

  “Yes Sir.”

  “We have to hold, and hope that he sends somethin’ down from the Medellin. If we can hold and be reinforced, we may yet see them awa!”

  He leaned forward in his saddle.

  “We’re in for a bad scrap, laddie! There’s just ma three Battalions! Do yere best and stand fast. Encourage yere men!”

  Carr saluted as Mackenzie rode off, but not far, soon to halt before The Colours of the 105th. He stood up in his stirrups, his fervour accentuating his Scottish accent.

  “One Hundred and Fifth! Ah said to youse lads awhile back that ah’ll be callin’ on ye, an’ the time has come.”

  He pointed over his shoulder.

  “Thone daft Reeks have gone after the Johnnies and they’ll be back soon, in no shape to do damn all, leavin’ the whole thing to us. Us bein, you, the 45th and the 24th. Just us. We hold here or we’re all off to Perdition or some French jail. Move forward an’ hold ‘em off lads! Ah told ye back then ye’re lads for a fight. Remember who ye are! The lads of the One-Oh-Five. Maida an’ Coruna!”

  Someone, somewhere caught Mackenzie’s mood.

  “Three cheers for old Jock Mackenzie!”

  The huzzas broke out and Mackenzie’s face broke out into a broad grin. He turned his horse to ride down to deliver the same to the 45th and then the 24th and, as he passed, each Officer of the 105th brought his sword up in salute.

  However, what all had feared was now happening. Even the 83rd and 61st were running back in some disorder, carried back by the headlong flight of The Guards and the King’s German Legion. Both Battalions would soon reach the 105th line, causing utmost confusion if they were not easily allowed through. Lacey filled his lungs.

  “Open by Companies!”

  The order ran down the line and, with complete steadiness, each Company swung back from the left to open their line. The 83rd and 61st ran through the gaps and not a few Guardsmen of the Scots Fusiliers. The looks of derision which they received in their passing were withering, not least those from RSM Gibney, contorting his face into his very best scowl of contempt at all who passed, including Officers. Choosing his moment Lacey again took a very deep breath.

  “Close the line!”

  The Companies swung around, even though some Guardsmen remained in their front, but the time had come to form a line, which these last few Guardsmen would have to push through. On the far left, Carr was looking left, remembering Mackenzie’s words that they could perhaps expect help from up on the Medellin and he could see it on its way, thus came hope but this soon ebbed.

  “One Battalion! He’s sending one Battalion.”

  He watched as the red column, formed in two’s, descended the slope at the double to arrive down on the plain where he could no longer see them. Clearly they would soon be in position, but he had already calculated that this one Battalion was to hold a line once held by four of the King’s German Legion. Then the sound of jingling horse harness distracted him, at which he turned to see two squadrons of Light Dragoons moving up behind Sillery’s guns, but there remained a huge gap beyond the six field-guns, that flank was exposed and ‘in the air’ unless the reinforcement he had seen descending arrived in time and came this far down.

  The two cavalry Squadrons were from the 14th and 16th Light Dragoons, the 16th including Tavender and Templemere. For the latter it seemed as though he were looking into a scene from Hell, all was noise, smoke, explosions from bursting howitzer shells, passing shot and the cries of badly wounded men. He leaned forward to lower himself a little more behind his horse’s neck, this providing a little more protection, then he looked across to Tavender.

  “What the Hell are we doing here?”

  Tavender was equally horrified at what he saw, but it was made worse, because he understood their role.

  “Filling a gap!”

  He said no more, expecting Templemere to work out the importance for himself.

  Meanwhile, Lacey had more immediate and pressing matters than those facing Carr, to bring his men into Mackenzie’s line. Placing himself before The Colours, he raised his sword.

  “The One Hundred and Fifth will advance!”

  He led his men forward to the position so recently abandoned by the 83rd, this now marked by the prone bodies of their dead, and there he raised his sword to halt. They were now on the front line, level with Sillery’s guns and the line at the Pajar, which had come under renewed attack and was again wreathed in smoke and din, but Lacey could see that the 45th had also advanced between themselves and the 24th, with Cavalry filling the last gap to the Pajar. However, he was anything but re-assured for all that stood between this huge French attack and victory were Mackenzie’s three battalions; his own, the 45th and the 24th. He turned to look at the French, crossing the Portina, and advancing in distinct columns, possibly a dozen in number. He turned to his men.

  “Men! You heard the General. It’s just us and the lads down to our right.”

  He took another deep breath.

  “This’ll be toe to toe, boys. Toe to toe. Who can take it, as well as give it out. But we, we, don’t give best too easily.”

  He raised his sword high in the air.

  “We are the fighting One Oh Five!”

  Cheers rang out and many brandished their muskets high in the air, then the order rang out from the Captains and all was as if on parade.

  “Lock on.”

  The heads moved in the rear rank.

  “Make ready!”

  All muskets were raised in the air.

  Lacey moved back to stand beside The Colours, between Deakin and Rushby. Lacey was breathing hard, something noticed by Deakin.

  “Are you alright, Sir?”

  Lacey turned his head to face him.

  “Yes, thank you, but perhaps a bit too old for this caper.”

  Deakin grinned.

  “You said that at Coruna, Sir.”

  This time he laughed.

  “Ah yes, so I did. I remember now.”

  He turned back to watch the oncoming French advancing steadily, accompanied by the same drumming and their upright Eagle Standards, now clear and prominent above their heads. Lacey immediately knew that these were veterans, not just by the campaign medals that could now be seen on the chests of the front rank, but by their steady, inexorable tramp forward to the beat of the drums, and the steady, levelled bayonets. Lacey had one more thing to say.

  “They think it’s going to be easy, boys! But they’ll find nothing easy about me!”

  Replies came back from all around.

  “Nor me, Sir!”

  “We can take this lot! Sir!”

  “Nothin’ diffrent from Vimeero, Sir.”

  At that moment Sillery’s guns opened up, firing the probable double charge of grapeshot loaded after ball, this ploughing lanes through the oncoming columns, but the gaps were closed and the columns came on.

  Carr took no notice of the advancing French; he had his own concerns and began running up towards the Medellin, hoping to meet the reinforcing Battalion. His running behind Sillery’s guns was noticed by Tavender, remaining on his horse with the 16th. He shouted across to Templemere.

  “That’s Carr! Running off! Where’s he off to?”

  Templemere was about to answer when he felt a burning pain along the outside of his right thigh. His hand went down to feel before he dared look and the first thing he felt was the opened cloth of his trouser, but, re-assuringly, his leg was still there. He looked down to see that his leg had been cut almost from knee to hip, a deep cut now bleeding profusely. Unsurprisingly, Tavender’s question was ignored. Instead, his w
ords were solely concerned with his own plight.

  “I’ve been hit. I’m bleeding! Get me some help.”

  The help soon arrived in the shape of a Trooper who dismounted and ran over, although him not immediately too concerned for his Officer’s life, because Templemere remained sat on his horse.

  “It’s a cut, Sir. Not too bad, some …………..”

  Templemere raged above the unfortunate.

  “I can see it’s a cut, damn you! What happens now?”

  “Bandage it up, Sir, wrapped around, until we can get you some more attention. Do you want to come out of the line, Sir?”

  Templemere remained enraged.

  “Of course. What do you think I can do, with all this happening?”

  The Trooper looked up.

  “Right Sir. I’ll get the bandage on and then you can get yourself back. If you could take your foot out of the stirrup, Sir.”

  Templemere gingerly required his leg to work and disengage the stirrup. With his leg straight out, the bandage was wrapped around and Templemere gratefully wheeled his horse and rode to the rear.

  Meanwhile, Carr was still running on at his best speed and he soon met the descending Battalion, these still on the move and, wholly breathless, he ran to the leading Officer.

  “Carr. 105th.”

  The Officer replied, him also almost as breathless, as they jogged on together.

  “Wilson, Sir. Grenadier Company, 1st 48th.”

  “Captain! If your orders allow, you should lead your men further down. Otherwise there will be a large gap, between yours and mine, about 200 or 300 yards further.”

  “Yes Sir. I can go a little further, but not too much.”

  Carr took a deep breath.

  “Good. Do what you can. We must have a continuous line, or the next best to it.”

  They jogged on together, until Wilson stopped.

  “It must be here, Sir. I can go no further.”

  “Very well. It will have to do. Good luck to you, Captain.”

  “And to you, Sir.”

  Carr ran on, soon to see Sillery’s guns through the smoke, but he was only marginally reassured. He knew, although he could not see, that on the plain down beyond the guns and facing the renewed attack, they had but the merest simulation of a continuous firing line, merely three Battalions. Passing along the rear of the gunline, Carr could say no more to Sillery than a few words, as he ran on.