oOo
Bridie and Nellie were in a very good mood. They had been four days on the road and another two would see them in camp at this place ‘The Lines’ and, now that they were so much nearer to Lisbon, full rations had arrived. The dogcart found by Tom Miles had been a real blessing, taking much of the weight that would normally be around their shoulders and it was now cleaned, greased and working as new. In fact, on the subject of Tom Miles, relations were at a better low-ebb, because Tom Miles being an expert wood carver, had made Nellie a new wooden spoon when her old one broke. He had carved it out of a table-leg found on the road, the left-overs from some minor looting. In addition, the pair being cooks for Light Infantrymen, these all being good shots with the excellent Baker Rifle, their meals were regularly augmented with rabbits and hares taken during the march, which was much to the good, as rations had dwindled during the previous days, but not down to ‘starvation’. In fact, it was this general subject of cooking which had added to the happiness of both, for they were now cooking in the proper kitchen of a well-appointed house.
This house was deserted, as were all the towns and villages that they had passed through, but the 105th being a Regiment favoured by Wellington for its good order and discipline, was allowed into the said towns and villages to bivouac, whilst less disciplined and less trusted Battalions regarding looting and plunder, were required to camp far away, in the bare fields and woodland. The final blessing was that this kitchen had a plentiful and varied stock of herbs and spices all around on the shelves and drying racks. Bridie tasted the stew and pronounced it good and Nellie gave her dough-cakes a final prod. Nellie looked at her three girls, Sally, Trudie and Violet, sat warm and content by the fire, playing with their rag-dolls.
“Youse three. Go around the house, now, and get the men to come. ‘Tis all now ready.”
The three girls scuttled off, leaving their three dolls sat on the bench, propped one against the other, which cause both women to smile. Soon, heavier footfalls could be heard coming nearer and each man stood his turn to receive the stew, the peas and generous doughcake. There was little conversation, for there were few real concerns, because the leisurely pace of the march had given ample opportunity for repairs and maintenance of their boots and kit, and there was little to complain about, despite the fact that they were retreating. Such issues were the concerns of Generals. The most common topic was that of their destination and most of the questions were directed at Jed Deakin, him being the most senior and therefore most likely to hear any rumour or even news. Most worried about his creature comforts was Tom Miles.
“What’s this place like, then, Jed? The Lines. Villages or open fields? Have you heard?”
Jed Deakin allowed himself the time to fully chew his mouthful, before forming an answer and speaking somewhat indulgently.
“Well, Tom. I can say, that all is but twenty miles or so from Lisbon and so I should say, this bein’ the capital of this Portugal, that there’ll be plenty of buildings of one sort and another existing all around.”
He looked at John Byford sat quietly in the corner, the acknowledged academic.
“Would I be right in sayin’ such a thing, John?”
Byford looked up, surprised at having been brought into the conversation.
“Yes, Sergeant, I’d say that you would be. The area around most large cities is usually well populated and they obviously must live in buildings, usually well appointed.”
Deakin nodded and returned to Tom Miles.
“There you are Tom. So I daresay that we’ll be able to find you your very own shed or stable somewer’".
From around came the additions, ‘Plenty far off’, ‘An’ he can bloody well stay there’, but there was no offence anywhere. All was more than well with the two Messes headed up by Jed Deakin and John Davey. The meal consumed, all the men went outside to smoke and sing and generally while away the last of the day with memories and experiences. The children, too, went outside to play, then came the last to be fed, Ensign Patrick Mulcahey and his Drummerboy companion Henri Rasenne. These were given a bowl and they took themselves outside to join the men. That left Bridie, Nellie and Eirin to clear away the plates and pots of the meal and it was at this point that Eirin burst into tears. Bridie and Nellie stopped everything to look at each other and then at Eirin. She was Bridie’s eldest daughter and so it was her Mother who spoke.
“So what ails you?”
Eirin collapsed into a chair and brought her apron up to her face. After four or five shoulder heaving sobs, she lowered it, to speak in gasps, her face running with tears.
“Ma! I’m going to have a baby!”
Nellie dropped her spoon and Bridie her tin pannikin, but it was Bridie who spoke, her voice flat and serious.
“How many have you missed?”
“Four!”
“Stand up!”
Eirin obediently stood and Bridie went over to her to kneel and reach under her skirt to feel her lower abdomen. The telltale curve was there. Bridie’s own head and shoulders fell with her own despair. Seeing her friend so brought down kindled a measure of resentment in Nellie towards Eirin.
“No need to ask who the Father is. Have you told him?”
This brought yet more floods of tears from Eirin and it was some moments before she could say anything and when it did, it came between deep sobs.
“Yes.”
Nellie again.
“And he said what?”
The apron was raised and the sobbing began again, louder than ever. Nellie was losing patience.
“Get a hold of yourself now. You think you’re the first! What did he say?”
The apron was lowered, then used to wipe away the flood of moisture that had issued from her eyes, nose and mouth.
“He said, ‘Are you sure I’m the Father?’"
Nellie’s spoon was picked up and thrown violently into the cooking pot, then she stood, arms akimbo, her face set in anger. Bridie, however, rose and took Eirin into her arms, then she looked at Nellie.
“Get Jed in. He’ll know what’s best.”
Nellie departed and came back in with Deakin, his face serious; he had picked up the storm signals from Nellie.
“What’s up?”
Bridie looked at him directly, but spoke quietly.
“Eirin’s pregnant.”
Deakin’s jaw clamped together and his face took on a deep frown.
“Maltby?”
Both Bridie and Eirin nodded.
“And he’s said what?”
It was Bridie who answered.
“That it may not be his.”
Deakin released a long hiss of breath, saying nothing, but his face conveyed all the anger he felt. Bridie looked pleadingly at him.
“Jed. What can we do?”
Deakin rubbed his face with his left hand, whilst he thought.
“Well, there’s one good thing. At least we’re not on some retreat and we’ll be at this Torres Vedras place for some while, but then we’ll be back out on campaign. That’s my guess, and that’s when real troubles will start.”
He paused, while the vital question came into his head.
“How far gone?”
“Three months is our best guess.”
“Well, we’ll not be six stayin’ down around Lisbon. We’ll be pushin’ the Johnnies back up country soon enough is my guess, after they’ve sat and starved. The question for us is where will she be during her final months, then givin’ birth and her time after that, with a babe and all.”
“What can you do, Jed?”
Deakin’s face set hard.
“Talk to Maltby. This b’ain’t the first I’ve heard of; Officers fathering childs in the Followers, an’ I’ve a fair idea of what to say. I should get something out of him and then we’ll go from there.”
He looked at Eirin, but when he spoke, it was with little sympathy.
“Thought you had more sense of how things are, Eirin. He’ll not marry you, never would of.
What we might get him to do is to see that you’m cared for.”
With that said, his tone became warmer.
“Whatever, girl, you’ve got us. All of us. We’ll see you through it.”
Bridie put her arm around her daughter and smiled, but Eirin was up and had flung her arms around Deakin and was sobbing again.
“Oh Uncle Jed!”
Deakin nodded, patted her head and then gently detached himself.
“Right. Meanwhile do what your Mother and Aunt Nellie tells you. They’re your best help now.”
Deakin took himself outside and sat amongst his friends, his face grim and telling its own story of trouble. His friend Halfway was sat beside him.
“What’s all that about?”
“Eirin’s pregnant.”
“Maltby?”
Deakin nodded once and depression fell immediately upon the once cheerful group.
That night brought misery of a different kind to the cavalry rearguard. At Midnight, it began to rain, not heavily, merely a steady, soaking continuum of slanting droplets, falling unseen from a black sky. These created the only sounds, as they fell on metal helmets and saturated cloaks, this mixed with the sound of the horses hooves churning through the soft mud of the disappearing road. None spoke, each too concerned with the arrangement of their collar, or the hem of their cloak, points at which the rain could reach their uniform and soak their skin, for it had also become cold. October was asserting itself, even in Portugal.
Templemere allowed his hands to remain on the pommel of his saddle, the reins slack, as his horse made his own way, instinctively following the mount in front. The 16th was in one continuous column of four, many half asleep in the saddle. Templemere drew his cloak tighter, grateful that he had spent the extra money on the best boat cloak that Bond Street could provide. When dawn eventually came, this fact because they could now see the rain descending from a slate grey sky, which, at least, was no longer an all encompassing black. Yet the dawn raised no spirits, because they all knew that this day would only bring what the previous had, a full scale charge onto their pursuing French counterparts, to drive them back, at least far enough for their Brigade, now only Anson’s, to resume their retreat. Templemere, in his misery, was seriously thinking of resigning his Commission. The cold, the hunger, the squalor and the danger were all taking their toll.
Perhaps less depressed, Tavender, in the light of dawn, received orders from Johnson.
“Hold here with five men. When you see them, let us know. And how many! Not just that they are back up with us!”
Tavender halted his mount to wait for Sergeant Baxter.
“Baxter! You and four men. With me!”
Tavender waited whilst Baxter called out four names, then they waited until the column had fully passed, the last being the wounded from the skirmishing of the previous days, these having inevitably fallen behind. Some were able to support themselves; others had comrades beside them, holding them upright in the saddle. With the passing of the last, Tavender and his picket remained alone on the churned up road and he took a look at his surroundings. The road was in a well-defined but shallow valley; their road in the centre, but the light was not yet good enough to see to the far end where the French would enter.
“Baxter, take two up there. I’ll take two up opposite. Send a man if you see anything.”
The picket split and the two parties of three splashed their way up the sodden opposing slopes and there they waited as the day gained strength. Tavender reached for his brandy flask from his saddlebag and took a long pull. It was immediately returned, with no thought of offering it to his equally chilled and wet companions, a non-gesture which did not go unnoticed, each raising their eyes skyward to the other. They managed some compensation, however, one tearing in half a strip of dried beef and both sat chewing, that at least partially taking their mind off the steady rain. It was one of these two who noticed activity from the far side of the valley.
“Sir! There’s a lad coming over.”
Tavender lowered his telescope from studying the far end of the valley, to look over and see the approaching Trooper.
“Mackleson. Go and see what he wants.”
The said Trooper swung over his horse and trotted down to meet his companion and soon the shout came up.
“Sarn’t Baxter can see them. Sir.”
Tavender swung over his own horse.
“With me.”
The remaining Trooper followed and Baxter took his cue to also descend from his side and all met on the road. Tavender addressed Baxter.
“Can you see how many?”
“Not yet Sir. Only that there’s a column of some sorts. Could be just a reconnaissance, Sir. Could be the main column.”
“Right, we have to find out. Back up to the tree line so’s we can see more from the side. Head on tells us very little.”
Baxter was instantly concerned.
“Sir. These are good Frog cavalry, Sir. They’re most likely to send scouts ahead along the tree line to see if any of them Spanish lancers is waitin’ up ahead. They’ll have learnt their lesson, Sir.”
Baxter was too likely to be correct to justify any argument.
“Possibly, Sergeant. So, take a man along the tree line for 200 yards or so, but my prediction is that we’ll see them, then they’ll see us and we’ll both ride back to report. No fighting. I’m sure that they are as wet, cold and sick of this as we are.”
“I do hope you’re right, Sir.”
Tavender detected insolence in Baxter’s tone, even if there was none intended.
“That’s enough from you, Sergeant! You have your orders.”
Baxter nodded and spurred his horse away.
“Jim!”
A Trooper spurred his horse and the two rode off to take a shallower angle as they climbed the slope, which would place them further along the tree line than Tavender, who rode straight up to a better vantage point and extract his telescope. The French cavalry emerged into the valley and from his angled position he could make a better judgment of the length of the column. He was estimating numbers when one of his companions pointed along the tree line.
“Sir. Sarn’t Baxter is comin’ back, Sir, and he seems in a hurry. His sabre’s out, Sir.”
A pause.
“There’s some in pink followin’ up behind.”
Tavender snapped his telescope shut and looked for himself, but by then Baxter was but yards away.
“Strong picket on their way Sir. We’ve got to go!”
Baxter and his companion galloped past and the four soon followed. A glance back revealed pink uniformed cavalry emerging from the trees in pursuit, but the six had enough of a start and, on superior horses, galloped off to gain the road about half a mile on. Nothing more was said and, within fifteen minutes they came to their Brigade, drawn up at the head of another valley with one flank on the tree line, the other on a group of rocks. It was a perfect position. Whilst his men rode to their Regiment, Tavender went to Anson and saluted.
“A strong column, Sir, about a mile behind us.”
Anson frowned.
“Strong! How strong?”
“I could not tell with any great accuracy, Sir. We were forced back by a patrol in strength before we could take a good look, but I think I saw one Brigade of horse, at least, with infantry some way behind.”
Anson nodded.
“How far back?”
“Significant, Sir. Perhaps a mile.”
“Good enough Captain. Now, back to your men. Give your Colonel my compliments and ask him to join me here.”
Tavender delivered his Brigadier’s compliments and Withers met with Anson and Durnfeld of the KGL. Anson was brief.
“We’ve got to hit them. They’re too close. We’ve got to knock them back, at least until tomorrow, when we do it again. After that we should be in The Lines.”
He turned to Withers.
“Your Captain tells me he can see infantry, Withers. And how many caval
ry, we’ll see in a short while. He says one Brigade.”
The two Colonels departed and rode to the head of their men. The rain had eased but was still falling and so Withers was forced to give an unwelcome order.
“Cloaks off and rolled.”
No one could fight whilst wearing a cavalry cloak and so, all along the line, including the KGL, cloaks were pulled off, rolled and stored behind their saddles. The sign was obvious to all, that today would see a combat much as that of the previous day. Meanwhile Officers were employing their telescopes to see the French force becoming clearer at their end of the valley and then they watched them deploy. Withers rode along his line to find Tavender and then study the French himself, this now possible with the naked eye.
“Seems you are half right, Lucius. There are two Brigades, I’d say.”
Tavender was not comforted by the half compliment
“What will he do, Sir, General Anson, I mean?”
“Hold here and then hit them as we did at Fornos and yesterday. What worked once should do so again.”
There was little comfort either in the mind of Captain Templemere, as the French deployed to equal their front, him sat before his own Squadron, his own thoughts and fears building significantly. The French came on, multi-coloured uniforms defining the various Regiments comprising their line, the pink most prominent amongst the blue and maroon. Telescopes revealed the tossing pelisse cloaks of the Hussars and the bobbing tassels beside almost every busby and so it was with relief that all concluded them to be Light Cavalry. Withers noticed Anson drawing his sabre.
“Draw sabres!”
The now familiar eerie scrape sounded from all along the line, from both the 16th and the KGL, for the French were but 500 yards away. Anson rose in his stirrups, sensing the unease behind him. All could now see by how many they were outnumbered.
“Steady lads! Steady. Let them come on.”
He turned in his saddle.
“These know that we can best them, boys. We saw them off yesterday and we’ll do the same now. Don’t get carried away and listen for the bugle.”
The Plains of Talavera Page 58