The Plains of Talavera

by Martin McDowell

  “Ringwood. 88th.”

  “Carr. 105th.”

  “Try to draw them across to their left, across the slope. There’s a colossal column, split in two, each a full company wide, coming up. We are above you and, if you can draw them across, we will hit them in the flank. We’ve got to hope that they will follow in the direction of your fight with their Lights. Perhaps the fog will do the rest and they’ll get confused.”

  Carr did no more than nod, as Ringwood ran back up the slope, then Carr ran along the back of his line.

  “Ease right, men. Ease to your right. Draw them over, not up.”

  His men obeyed and the French skirmishers followed. Carr could not see the column but he was doing as asked, that being to retreat as much across the ridge as up. However, whilst Carr may feel at least satisfied with the movement of his line, serving in it was very much less so. Every muscle in the bodies of many tensed with the anticipated impact of a French ball as they became evermore conscious of the mass of French skirmishers crowding in upon them. No less Nat Drake, very satisfied with the way that his men were behaving amidst the growing desperation of their combat, but Drake himself now needed to use a rifle gathered from a wounded man of his Company, because too many had fallen. He was filing in with two of his men, when the man before gave a scream and fell to the ground clutching his leg, before rising and dragging himself off to the rear, using his weapon as a crutch. This man’s weapon had been loaded and he had come the front; the man who had been before him was already back behind Drake. The casualty and Drake’s unreadiness, because he was in the process of reloading, left a gap in their line, which a mounted Voltiguer Officer saw and was determined to exploit. He charged at Drake and he, with his ramrod in his hand and no-where useful, saw the danger looming above him, the raised sword and the contorted face. He raised the unloaded weapon to make some effort to defend himself, but a thrust down with the point meant certain death and, with his mind strangely resigned, there came from way back in his consciousness an image of Cecily. The next thing he knew was himself being knocked to the ground by the whirling hind-quarters of a horse, then he sat up, but his men were shouting at him, particularly Byford and Saunders.

  “It’s alright Mr Drake. We’ve spun him!”

  Drake blinked and looked around to see the French Officer dead on the ground, his chest now curiously concave from the impact of two musket balls. Even though to the rear of their files, the pair had swiftly made themselves loaded and ready. Drake looked at them, grinned and nodded his thanks. He then picked up the rifle and ran back to complete his reload. However, their fallback was now rapid and men were falling regularly, something not unnoticed by Joe Pike as he passed Tom Miles.

  “How much longer, Tom?”

  Miles had only one answer.

  “Just follow your drill, boy, and we’ll all get out of this.”

  Miles now headed the file. He immediately saw a Tirailleur already sighting on him and instinctively he took a large step to his right and knelt down. He knew that he had almost a second between the Frenchman pulling the trigger and the arrival of the ball. The French ball hissed past and Miles sought his own target, ignoring the Frenchman who had just shot at him, with an empty musket he was no immediate threat. Instead he fixed on two opposite, one was priming his musket, the other was returning his ramrod to the guides. He chose the latter, he would soon be a seeking a target. Miles quickly sighted on him and pulled the trigger. The Tirailleur bent double as the half-inch ball hit his stomach and he collapsed. That done, Miles ran back to reload at the rear and give Davey his turn, to then, once more, study all around for any French skirmisher fixing too much upon himself. He needed to look but once at his weapon, as he automatically completed his reload, this to prime the pan. His fingers alone being needed to feel the guides to return his ramrod. Tom Miles was fighting like the veteran he was, but even he could feel the press of overwhelming numbers.

  Meanwhile. O’Hare had arrived at the end of the 88th line. He left his Captain’s to organise the lines and went straight to Wallace, stood at the 88th’s centre. Wallace barely turned to meet him as he studied the oncoming French attack. In turn O’Hare could barely look at Wallace, the oncoming French were such a huge mass, over 10 battalions was O’Hare’s first guess.

  “Sir. We’ve been sent over. Half the 105th. Two Portuguese are coming to support, but I don’t know where Picton will place them.”

  Wallace now looked at him.

  “You are?”

  “Padraigh O’Hare, Sir. 105th.”

  “Right Major. At the best moment, I’m going to give those Johnnies a full volley into their flank and then give them the bayonet. No sense in setting up a firefight, there’s too many. You’ll add your men to mine?”

  “Yes Sir.”

  “Thank you. Please to wait for my order.”

  “Sir.”

  O’Hare ran back to his first Company.

  “Pass the word on, load and fix bayonets.”

  O’Hare could only stand, wait, and watch the oncoming wave of French. They were no longer in column or battalion formation, this had been much broken up by tramping through the thick gorse and heather, they were simply many large masses of blue uniforms. Carr’s firefight was now over on the right, barely heard but it did seem to be drawing the French mass that way as they followed their own skirmishers. They were thankfully tending to their left as much as ascending the hill. Then Wellington’s two guns fired from over on the left of Wallace’s line, their grapeshot ploughing two lanes through the massed crowd. There could be but minutes to go, when Wallace stepped out before his men. O’Hare turned his head to listen.

  “Now, Connaught Rangers, mind what you are going to do, pay attention to what I have so often told you, and when I bring you face to face with those French rascals, drive them down the hill - don’t give them the false touch, but push home to the muzzle! I have nothing more to say, and if I had it would be of no use, for in a minute or two there will be such an infernal noise about your ears that you won’t be able to hear yourselves”.

  O’Hare grinned at so paternal a speech, but whatever helped, then let it be so. The groups on the right flank of the French were now up to them and the 88th were taking fire from those on the edge of the French mass as they passed across from left to right. French balls began to buzz over his own command, but then O’Hare drew his own sword as Wallace raised his.

  “Make ready.”

  All along the line, of both Regiments, the muskets were raised in the air. Some French Officers, on the near edge of the blue mass, their faces revealing their deep concern at seeing a long, steady line of Redcoats on their flank, attempted to bring some of their own into position to reply.

  “Present.”

  The musket came down level.

  “Fire!”

  The full volley, both lines together, crashed out at full volume and the affect on the French, merely 40 yards away, was shattering. They fell in huge swathes as the half-inch balls thudded into and through their ranks. What came next was a howling moan as the 88th surged forward. O’Hare curved his own sword forward, Irish emotion and passion finally getting the better of him

  “Charge boys, charge. Into them. Hurrah! Hurrah for the One-Oh-Five. Hurrah for the fighting Rag and Bone Boys!”

  He ran forward, followed by his own men yelling insults at the devastated French.

  For Carr, the situation was becoming more fraught by the minute as he continued the desperate business of holding the French skirmishers away from the main line and also to draw them across the hillside. His attention was fixed wholly upon his own enemy, greatly outnumbering his own command and these elite French soldiers had become confident enough to crowd up to his own men and reduce the range even further. A reassuring volley of shots crashed out from his files of men, but when the smoke cleared, it seemed to have made little difference. The French were just as numerous and, if anything, closer, but then his total concentration on events before him was
interrupted by Ellis.

  “Sir. This is as far as we can go, Sir. There’s Portugee comin’ up behind."

  Carr turned and saw, to his huge relief, a long, two deep, brown uniformed firing line, coming across the slope, almost at right angles to the ridgeline. They were advancing at a good pace and soon they were up to Carr’s men. Just before they passed through the Portuguese ranks, he took a look back at his own foe, who were now retreating themselves in the face of the advance of two Portuguese battalions. Suddenly, from standing in the midst of mayhem and peril, all was calm and almost quiet, his three Light Companies now standing in groups, as relieved as he was, the Portuguese advancing on.

  O’Hare was now in amongst the French, but it was some time before they came to any capable of making any resistance, such had been the affect of the brutal volley. They first had to jump and stamp over the many dead and wounded, but that done, their momentum even increased. First resistance they proved to be wholly feeble, as the maddened Redcoats descended the slope, bayonets levelled against the French, who were still in shock from the terrible volley. O’Hare swept aside a weak attempt to meet him with a bayonet and then cut the man across the neck. Next was a young French Lieutenant, his face contorted in fear and terror, who was kicked to the ground. Then his men were with him, in amongst the more solid French ranks, killing and maiming with bayonets, musket butts and even their boots. All the while, equally terrifying was the eerie moan coming over from the 88th, a chilling background to the sounds and sights of the mayhem created as the Redcoats tore into the French.

  A few French stood to attempt resistance and it cost them their lives, for the rest were being driven down the hill and, plainly, they were pushing at the French beyond them, those who had not yet met any British bayonet. These were being pushed back down the hill by their own men from above these attempting to escape the ferocious 105th and the wild 88th. The sense that O’Hare gained was that the whole mass was giving way, being pushed back and down by the frantically battling Redcoats.

  “On boys, on! Don’t let them stand. Keep at them.”

  If any heard or did not, it made little difference. The Redcoats stabbed, kicked and stamped their way forward, O’Hare attacked a Fusilier Sergeant, pushing aside his bayonet with his hand guard to then deliver a vicious backhand into the side of his face. After this foe had been despatched, the French seemed to give way further. O’Hare gave himself the time to look over to both sides to see his men, everyone fighting like a demon, moving onward and downward as they pressed on, fighting forward over a carpet of French dead, wounded and dying.

  Meanwhile Carr, now somewhat at a loss as to what to do, suddenly found himself surrounded by Picton and his Staff, with the General giving instructions, looking down still somehow disapprovingly from his still skittish horse.

  “Good work again, Carr, but now get yours on the end of those Portuguese. If we’ve got it right, those Frogs that Wallace just saw off will be passing across your front. Make the whoresons feel your fire. Keep ‘em moving!”

  Carr saluted with his sword and then looked around for anyone with a semblance of authority. He saw Ellis and Fearnley, as nearest, then Drake and Sennet. Carson he could not see for smoke and distance.

  “Ned, Sennet! Rally the men. They must follow me. Bring the 74th.”

  Ellis and Fearnley knew that they were included in the order and soon the 105th Lights were in a group with the 88th behind and the 74th also coming after, or so Carr hoped. He ran forward and soon came to the Portuguese line, who were engaging with the head of the French columns, or so it seemed from the little that he could see. He led his men off to the right and found the end of the Portuguese line, to then place his men piecemeal onto the last file to extend the line further down the hill. The range was less than sixty yards and to each group as they took their place, he spoke the same words.

  “There’s your target. Fire as fast as you can.”

  Within minutes the three Companies were all adding their fire to that of the Portuguese who were, Carr noted, hitting the French before them with very disciplined half Company volleys and one look forward told him that the French ranks opposite were beginning to crumble, many now edging away to their left, some even running down the slope.

  O’Hare had now noticed that the slope beneath his feet was becoming steeper, but the French were now in full retreat and from his right he heard the incessant crash of disciplined musketry, this being hopefully from the Portuguese that Picton had mentioned. He worried briefly about his own men being hit from the side by this friendly fire, but the fight continued downward, his sword and an 88th bayonet despatching a huge Grenadier. Then, from somewhere came the order to halt, miraculously obeyed amongst the continuing noise and carnage. O’Hare screamed the word several times himself and slowly his men disengaged from the defeated French, all those in front of him now pouring down the hill towards San Antonio as a beaten rabble. French were still running on his right, but the firing from that direction had ceased. He realised that he and his men were now some way down the hill and saw that the 88th were forming a firing line, with his own men complying to extend it to the right, as they had before their charge from way above their slope. All stood breathless and bloody, some slumping to the ground as wounds, unheeded before, now got the better of them at last. Wallace came across to them, hatless, breeches all bloody, one epaulette missing, the other hanging by a thread and a large rent in his tunic. He placed himself before the panting men of the 105th.

  “One Hundred and Fifth! I’ve come to thank you all. I’ll not forget you, the 105th, the Rag and Bone Boys, and there’ll be a few French rascals tonight who’ll remember too, and for the rest of their lives they’ll feel the shivers, when called upon to write the numbers 105 or 88! You’re good lads all! And did we not give them one Hell of a towelling!”

  A ragged and hoarse cheer arouse from the 105th ranks as Wallace came to O’Hare, offering his hand, which O’Hare took and they exchanged a grip of appalling ferocity.

  “Well done, Major, but was that not the most madcap thing you’ve ever done in your life?”

  O’Hare grinned and nodded.

  “Can’t remember the last time, Sir, and I certainly hope there will not be another.”

  Both men shared a hearty laugh and leaned forward on each other, the disengaged left hand of each on the right shoulder of the other, in a gesture of relief that bordered on hysteria.

  The last of the French were passing across Carr’s front, so he judged the fight to now be done.

  “Cease fire! Cease fire!”

  Fatigue and relief overcame his small command and himself also. For some minutes they stood, catching their breath, with few moving anywhere, most drinking water. Then he saw what he took to be the 88th’s holding line retiring back up the slope, clearly because they were coming under fire from some French guns in San Antonio, but then Ellis once again called for his attention.

  “Sir. There’s another lot coming up this slope!”

  Carr turned to look and his heart sank to see that he was indeed right. Two columns were now ascending, each a Company wide with that on the right somewhat in the lead of that on the left. Leading them on foot was a high-ranking Officer, all blue and gold, obvious even at that distance, waving both his sword and hat and shouting at his men. They were heading straight for him. He took a deep breath.

  “I can see no skirmishers before them.”

  He spoke to Ellis again, who was now alongside.

  “Then we will be skirmishers for our side. Who have we?”

  Both turned to look and find that the 88th Lights had rejoined their Regiment now moving back up the slope, leaving him with the 74th and his own. Looking over on his left, he noticed that some of his own Regiment were on the end of the 88th holding line, their green cuffs and collars very obvious, but there was no time to make any use of that.

  “Ned. Carson. Skirmish line across here. Files of three.”

  Groans came from his own m
en and the kilted 74th, but the order was obeyed quickly and all formed in their skirmishing formation. Carr placed himself between two files and watched the French advance, now an easier march with the heather and gorse much trampled down. To his right was Davey’s file, with him in front, then Miles and then Pike, at five-yard intervals behind.

  “Davey. That fancy tailor’s dummy at the front. He’s yours,”

  “Sir.”

  Davey knelt down, the better to steady his aim, then he checked his sights and priming as Carr judged the distance. The 74th only had muskets and so he would leave their order to fire to Carson. He judged 150 yards.

  “Open fire!”

  The rifles of the first line barked out and the leading Officer fell, to be almost overtaken by the column, but he seemed to rise again and continue forward, albeit within the column’s ranks. Several others had fallen with the Senior Officer, but their bodies were soon covered by the advancing columns. Carr could now see the length of each column back down the hill; the right was three Battalions, the left was four. His men filed back in good order, each man, as he came to the front, sending a bullet into the column, but their advance was unstoppable by so small a force. Two Portuguese Light Companies from the 9th came down to reinforce but if made little difference to the French upward advance.

  However, it had not been unnoticed by Picton, riding forward on his even more nervy horse. He saw that the very first column to attack his position half an hour ago still remained stalled on his right and Wallace had removed all living French from his left. However, deeply concerned, he rode back to Mackinnon and Lacey. He had seen the size of the French attack himself.