“Bridie’s goin’ to have a fine time repairing this lot!”
The same observation regarding the spreading fires had not escaped Lacey, now acting as Brigadier, but the French were still in sight, which placed him in a quandary, ‘Should I send out parties to gather the wounded, or hold my line? They may try again.’ However, two things enabled him to make up his mind, firstly, that the French were collecting their own wounded and, secondly, he could also see that the fires were spreading, the dry stubble and trodden down corn burning fiercely. Soon came the sound of flat musketry, a dull subdued popping, accompanied by renewed screams. The cartridge boxes, still on the bodies of the wounded, were exploding in the heat, causing additional appalling injuries. He needed no further thought and ran up to the ranks of the 83rd, to find their Colonel, whom he knew.
“Davison, pleased to see you still here. Mackenzie’s dead, so I’m acting Brigadier. We must send men forward to get the wounded out of those fires, or put them out or do something. Are you in any shape to provide men? I’m sending mine, four Companies. We must do something.”
Davison nodded and answered as he turned away to carry out his own promise.
“I’ll send the same, assuming Johnny doesn’t start another show.”
Lacey looked at the French, now in the far distance, but Davison had gone and Lacey felt safe enough to now send out his own men. He ran back to Carr, still on the left.
“Henry. Get out there with four Companies, the Lights, seven, eight and nine. Do what you can about those fires and get the wounded back in, theirs as well as ours.”
Carr gathered his men and led them forward, but it was a hopeless task, the severely wounded were everywhere and any measure of command was impossible. His men were soon scattered across the area, doing what could inadequately be done, but at least the fires were soon extinguished. Within an hour almost the whole British army was out towards the Portina and beyond, carrying wounded back to their lines. Lacey was as horrified as anyone on seeing the line upon line of wounded, both French and British, now building up on what had once been the 105th firing line. He saw Surgeon George Pearce, moving down the line, instructing his Orderlies and he ran towards him, coming up to him soon enough to hear him say one of three things to his men as he came to examine each patient.
“Beyond help. On the table. Can wait.”
Lacey kept pace with him
“George. Have you enough men?”
Pearce looked at him.
“To carry to the table those I may be able to save; yes. To perform the operations, no! There’s just me.”
Lacey nodded, his face full of pity, not just for all the wounded, but also for Surgeon Pearce himself, whom he knew was now utterly overwhelmed.
Out towards the Portina, Sedgwicke and Reverend Albright were walking amongst the wounded, giving a last drink of precious water and saying the last Rites to both friend and foe. Incongruously, a French Priest appeared, having ridden on a donkey to the scene of conflict from the French lines, which were now a half-mile back in the middle distance. He saw Albright and recognised the Vestments that were part of his uniform.
“Ah, M’sieu. C’est mal. C’est tres mal!”
It was Sedgwicke who replied, Albright having no French.
“Oui, M’sieu Le Cure’. C’est mal, très certainement, très mal.”
The Cure’ walked around the small area, soon in a helpless daze and then reduced to merely kneeling and wringing his hands whilst chanting prayers.
Meanwhile, Pike, Davey, Byford and Saunders were out with the Light Company, under Carr’s orders, but hoping to get themselves back to their lines, under any pretext. It was Davey who spoke the reason.
“We’ve got to get back. Find out where they took Tom. We’ve spent enough time out here to keep Carr happy. If we pick up another and get him back, then we can find Tom.”
Davey looked around, but he was spoilt for choice as to severely wounded, before he finally choose a KGL Sergeant, him with a wound of unknown severity, but it had made a wide rent in his tunic.
“He’ll do.”
They gave him some water from a French canteen and then, despite his screaming, they rolled him onto their blanket, by now wet with blood, and each to a corner, they carried him back. Their burden, now in less pain, spoke to them, between gasps.
“Danke, meine Kameraden. Vielen danke.”
Saunders looked down, wincing from a wound of his own in the top of his left arm.
“Just doin’ what we can, mate, but you may not thank us so much when the Surgeon gets hold of you.”
Soon they could drop their patient at the end of yet another extending row, and then Davey looked around, for wounded that had their own 105th facings, the bright green. These were five rows back and so they picked their way over. Joe Pike soon began calling.
“Tom! Tom! Are you here, Tom?”
A tunic rose up, its wearer leaning on his elbows.
“Yer! Yer! I’m yer.”
They soon came to him and Byford examined his wound, first by cutting open his left trousers leg around a hole in the cloth that was much stained with blood, above his knee. A rope had been wound tight around his upper thigh. Byford carefully pulled back the cloth to reveal a bullet hole, some nine inches above his knee. Joe looked at the wound, then at Miles.
“Does it hurt, Tom?”
Miles gave him a look somewhere between rage and impatience.
“Course it bloody well hurts, you soft sod! Even more if that rope was took off, so leave’n be!”
However, Saunders was looking around, realising that they could take advantage of all the confusion.
“We can’t leave him here. The Surgeon will just take his leg off! ‘Tis quicker than fishin’ about for a bullet.”
Miles heard all
“Well, ain’t you the sort of cove as is just needed to cheer a body up!”
However, Saunders was ignoring him.
“We have to get him to where he just looks like minor wounded. Them as has no need for the Surgeon, at least for a while. Try to get the ball out ourselves.”
Davey nodded.
“Right. You’re right. An’ that’s back to our mess. Bridie an’ Molly will look after him, at least till we can see what can be done.”
Davey looked at Miles then at Saunders.
“Pick ‘im up and over your shoulder. Then back to Bridie an’ Nellie. Then we’d better get back out, afore Carr sees us.”
Then he looked at Miles.
“An’ you needs to keep your gob shut, like it was just a scratch or suchlike.”
Miles looked daggers at him, but his face grimaced with pain as Saunders dragged him to his feet and slung him over his right shoulder, then set off to cover the few hundred yards back to their camp. However, after but a minute Saunders was challenged by an Officer of the 45th.
“You! What are you doing with that man? The lines for the wounded are back there. Take him back and then get yourself back out to bring in the other wounded.”
However, Saunders had a reply.
“This uns just had a whack on his head, Sir. A ball passed a bit close. I’m gettin’ him back to our Followers, Sir. They can deal with this, an’ not bother the Surgeon. Sir. He’ll be right in a day or so.”
The Officer took a step sideways, still looking, but not enough for any kind of serious examination and he soon gave up. He had his own urgent concerns.
“Right, but then back out. There’s plenty more wounded that need to be brought in.”
“Yes Sir, As you say Sir.”
As Saunders jogged on, the Officer noticed the tourniquet, but was too pre-occupied with his own 45th wounded to call Saunders back. He soon reached the camp where Bridie and Nellie were trying to conjure a meal out of biscuit, meat bones and some herbs, but that soon stopped when Saunders lay Miles down close by the fire.
“He’s took a bullet in his leg, but we hopes to dig it out and save his leg. Sometime this evening, so can you
look after him, ‘till we can get back to you?”
Both women nodded and Saunders ran off. Bridie then brought some hot water, Nellie found a cloth and both then set about cleaning the wound. Eirin also arrived and she continued the cleaning, whilst Bridie held his hand and wiped his face, while doing her best to be comforting.
“We’ll get Jed. He’ll know what to do.”
Nellie than gave him some brandy mixed with water, which did most to improve his state of mind.
Meanwhile, Lacey continued to think about the whole Brigade. Water was the biggest concern after the wounded, who were being brought back in, now by the whole army, or so it appeared. Lacey saw Carr.
“Henry. Can we get any water from the stream?”
Carr shook his head.
“No Sir. All the to and fro across it, theirs and ours has turned it into slush.”
Lacey frowned.
“Any ideas?”
“Only a hope, Sir. Those houses behind us, they may have wells.”
Lacey nodded.
“Right. Go and see.”
Carr pointed to three Grenadiers.
“You! With me.”
In this manner was the rest of the afternoon and the evening spent, obtaining water from a handful of wells at the rear of their lines and the bringing in of the wounded of both sides, but to these poor wretches simply being moved made little difference. No one came to ease their suffering, but at least they were now amongst the living and those about to die, rather than being out with those already dead.
Carr had found a well and had left RSM Gibney to supervise the carrying of buckets to the lines of wounded, where the water was passed to one of Surgeon Pearce’s Orderlies for the precious liquid to be poured, via a cast iron ladle, into the parched mouths of those awaiting the Surgeon’s attentions. As the light faded, Carr was stood with Lacey and O’Hare, but it was the Irishman who voiced their next concern.
“With night the locals will be out, murdering both theirs and ours. There are still hundreds out there.”
Lacey shook his head.
“The men are exhausted. And starving. And few got any sleep last night. I can’t ask them to mount picket throughout another night.”
He stood, in sorrow, but still thinking.
“We can ask Donkin. He’s Division Commander now, and his Brigade were barely engaged.”
Then he released a deep sigh.
“And food! We’ve only had half rations today and the day before.”
O’Hare nodded his head.
“Quarter more like, but let’s get a message to Donkin.”
He looked around and found a Lieutenant of 4 Company.
“Gerald. Take a message up to the Medellin, will you?”
oOo
Through the growing dark the wounded continued to be found and brought back. Out amongst the casualties, Davey, Pike, Saunders, Solomon and Byford now listened more than heard, but it was Davey who stood up to see a new development, that the French had lit fires all along their lines.
“Well, Johnny’s still around, but ‘twouldn’t do no harm if they did their bit to get their wounded out of this.”
It was Saunders who answered, out of the gloom.
“Don’t speak too soon, keep ‘em here. You look through the haversacks of some of these dead Frenchers. They’ve been given, or stole, a good portion of rations. We should try to get some of it back.”
He shook a French canteen
“They got water, too.”
Davey agreed.
“Right. Injured back in, then, in the dark, same time, we gets rations off the French. Worry most about the injured, ‘tis easier to find a full haversack in the dark than tryin’ to discover if another poor sod’s half dead or close to dying.”
He released a deep sigh.
“On top, an’ I don’t know about you, but I needs to sleep. I can’t manage this for much longer.”
There came no disagreement, but, nevertheless, for the next hour and in the full darkness they examined the bodies still covering the ground, the only light coming from the distant French bonfires and the waxing moon for the coming August, but that shrouded in some thin cloud. Some lanterns were moving around, but they added nothing by way of light that could help. Many French haversacks were simply removed and hung around their own shoulders, or the contents stuffed into one, but often they took the time to give one last drink of water to a dying man. They left many where they were, because, Davey reasoned, that if they could last the night out there, then they could be saved next morning. The too badly injured would die anyway. The Humanitarian Byford objected, but Davey replied harshly.
“We’ve no food, John. The whole damn army! Come two or three days we’ll be marchin’ out of here, still with no food, an’ then we starves or drops out to be done in by the French or the peasants. We can’t leave this food on the battlefield. It may be all what keeps us all alive!”
Byford knew he was right, so held his peace. Davey had spoken the brutal reality of their predicament, but, on their return back they did agree to carry one more in. They let Byford choose and he was doing so, when they heard a scream but yards away. They all ran over to find a peasant who was going through the pockets of a wounded French soldier. Saunders kicked him to the ground, then drew out his bayonet to place the point up under the man’s jaw, at which point he began pleading.
“Por favor, Senores. Por favor. Sólo tomo de soldados franceses. No Inglese. No Inglese.”
“What’s he sayin’, Byfe?”
“He says that he only takes from French soldiers. Not ours.”
“We should kill the murderin’ bastard.”
Davey intervened.
“No! We don’t murder, an’ we don’t know that he has. An’ we knows full well what the French does to peasants who don’t give up their food.”
He now spoke to Byford, anxious that they finish their time away from their lines.
“You made up your mind yet?”
Byford walked off, but then Davey noticed the sack tied around the Spaniard’s shoulders.
“What’s in that sack?”
Saunders pulled off the sack and felt inside. All inside were hard objects.
“Plunder! Valuables of one sort or another.”
“Any rings? With blood?”
“Some, but too dark to see.”
Davey had now made his decision.
“Benefit of the doubt! Haul him up, kick his arse and send ‘im off.”
Saunders did just that and the man uttered his deepest thanks, even as Saunders boot lifted him off the ground to send him on his way.
“What to do with this, John? You can bet ‘tis worth a bit of coin.”
In the darkness, Davey shook his head.
“We can’t carry that back in. Food is one thing, booty is another. If we’n caught ‘twill mean a floggin’, maybe even the rope.”
A pause.
“Best leave it here. We’ve enough to carry.”
Nat Solomon then spoke up, somewhat appalled.
“Hang on, hang on! To carry back a sack full of loot is one thing, but a few bits hid in our pockets, like out of sight. Now that’s another.”
With that obvious statement, all dipped their hand into the sack and pulled out several articles each, which went into their pockets. That done, the sack was depleted, but still substantially heavy.
Saunders lifted his head. Had Byford made his selection of their final wounded man?
“John! You found one?”
“Yes! And some kind of French Priest, too. Mumbling prayers. Probably what they call a Curé.”
At which point, Pike had a thought.
“We could give the sack to him. It’s from the French after all.”
Davey was running out of patience.
“Right. To the Vicar. Then we’n back.”
He turned towards the direction from which they had heard Byford.
“John. We got a sack of booty here, off that Don. Give it t
o their Vicar.’
They all picked their way to where Byford had found a wounded Guardsman, with Pike carrying the sack, which he handed to Byford.
“John says give it to the Priest you found.”
Byford took the sack and placed it under the arm of the Curé, him still kneeling and still praying.
“Monsieur le Curé. Pour les pauvres, de soldats français.”
The words brought the Curé out of his trancelike state. He looked up at Byford, seeing only his silhouette against the few stars.
“Merci M’sieu. Merci beaucoup.”
Byford patted his shoulder and then left to take his corner of the blanket, which now contained a grateful Guardsman, who said little, lapsing in and out of consciousness, despite being given some water and French brandy. It was not long before they passed through an orderly line of Redcoats, obviously moving towards the French to form a picket line and no words were exchanged, everyone was simply too tired. However, Carr still sent them out again, twice more and, thus, it was past Midnight when their own particular wounded man could receive any attention, but this came in the form of a simple, blunt verdict from Jed Deakin, himself just come in from collecting wounded.
“Get George Fernley. He’s medical for the Lights an’ the one I’d trust. Get George.”
Toby Halfway climbed wearily to his feet and trudged off, but, within ten minutes George Fearnley was kneeling over the leg of Tom Miles, to then shake his head.
“Can’t do nuthin’ till mornin’. Better light, for one thing, and, if I’m to go pokin’ about for a ball, a few hours will let the swellin’ go down some.”
No-one felt able to argue and so Miles was given some food and some French brandy, for all around to then fall to the ground and immediately sleep, all too tired even to remove their kit, bar Joe Pike who half removed his backpack before succumbing to deep sleep himself.
However, not so for Carr, and also for many other Officers of Wellesley’s army. He returned to where his tent should be, expected to be stood welcoming and erect, to find all a wrecked shambles, with Morrison trying to restore some order by the inadequate light of a lantern.
The Plains of Talavera Page 27