“Sound Recall.”
The notes sounded out and Somers-Cocks’ men detached themselves, but the French did not follow. Three Squadron rode back past Templemere’s and then Somers-Cocks, on his own initiative, drew up his men behind Two Squadron, a solid line in support of Templemere. Sergeant Baxter was sat just behind the said Captain.
“Sir, we should draw sabres if we’re to make those Johnnies think we’re going to charge.”
Templemere whirled around and suddenly realised that his men were just sat, as if on parade. He took a deep breath.
“Draw sabres!”
There came the scrape of steel on brass and all sat with their sabres at the ready. Again there was relief all around as the French made no further attempt to cross the bridge. Recall was sounded again and both Squadrons quickly formed on the road and trotted back, following the guns. Templemere and Somers-Cocks were together as they rode past Anson, him still studying the French.
“Well done you two! We’ll make cavalry Commanders of you yet.”
Templemere felt a small lifting of his spirits, but not much, as his stomach settled back into its normal state of hunger.
Merely a few miles down the road they found the Rearguard halted and reinforced, not just by the Field Battery just rescued, but also by the ‘Heavies’ of Slade’s Brigade, the 1st Royal Dragoons. Withers, as the Senior Colonel had allowed the whole Brigade to dismount and make themselves a hot drink and so, following the guns, it was into a cheerful encampment that the two Squadrons of the 16th rode to rejoin their Regiment. Half an hour later Anson re-appeared from his studying of the French and within minutes all fires were extinguished and his enlarged Brigade was back on the road, the guns in the lead, then the Royals, then the 16th with the KGL 1st Hussars bringing up the rear. They rode on through the morning and on past Noon and Templemere often heard shouts and bugle calls from the KGL behind, for him to turn and see KGL Squadrons returning back up to re-join their column. The only possible conclusion was that they had, once more ridden back to meet the oncoming French, who must be near and in close pursuit.
It was late afternoon when Templemere saw Wellington and his Staff ride down the column, to meet with Anson, who was again controlling events at the rear. After but a few minutes Wellington rode back, with Anson at his side and then the Brigade swung off the road, both to left and right, with the guns nearest to the road on the left centre, then the KGL beyond them on the far left flank. The 1st Dragoons formed on the opposite side of the road, the 16th furthest out on the far right. Within minutes, Withers was riding to meet each of his Squadron Commanders. He stopped at Templemere.
“The Peer wants a final riposte to the French, here. All ours are not quite yet within The Lines and will be entering through the night. He wants us to hit them once more to keep them off for the rest of the day and probably into the morning, when we will enter. With the Royals in the centre this will be easier than of late. Four ranks. We’ll go straight into the charge, Anson seems to think it the most effective. Good luck.”
Templemere had been hoping that the bridge affair at Alcoentre, rescuing the battery, had been the last of this God-awful rearguard business, but plainly it was not to be. He called wearily over his shoulder to the first of his Cornets.
“Form four ranks.”
He heard the shuffling and movement of the horses behind him as his men formed up, which made their line shorter, but the Brigade still covered the whole of their position, again at the head of a valley. A chill wind came from the East and he wished he could don his good cloak, but they were on the alert and must remain as so. When the French arrived, the pink uniforms were missing, instead it was a bottle green that stood out amongst the more common blues and maroons, but their intent was obvious, they were going to attack with the same vigour as during any engagement of the past retreat. There were two Brigades of them and one quickly formed across the valley for the second to then also form up across, but much further back than previously. That far back, the second would not be able to support the first when the two forces first clashed and this dawned on Templemere but any further significance escaped him. Whatever, his thoughts on French cavalry tactics were, they were immediately thrust aside as the Field Battery opened fire with what must be round shot, judging by the gouts of earth thrown up before the first French Brigade. The range was adjusted and some men and horses fell, but mostly, at maximum range, the heavy balls merely ploughed into the saturated earth and remained buried.
The French came on at a good canter and, very oddly, the second line followed, but at a trot and thus, the gap between them increased. From the centre of the 16th came the familiar, but no less stomach tightening sound of sabres being drawn. Templemere’s Squadron copied and so there was no need to give an order, but his own, now usual, deep anxiety had increased. How many more of these could he survive? The odds were shortening. The French came on and the situation was so familiar that almost every man in the line could give the order at the correct time. The cannons fired once more, but the range was wholly wrong and it did no damage at all, but there was no time to dwell on that. Anson had his sabre in the air and had spurred his horse forward. Templemere, by now almost shaking with fear, did the same, as did his men, only this time accompanied by a ferocious yell, as they spurred their horses into the gallop. The gap closed rapidly, but at 30 yards the French whirled their horses around and began galloping back. To many, Anson, Withers, Johnson and even Tavender this was not good, in fact deeply worrying, the French must have some scheme. All called to their men, and all along the line such could be heard repeatedly above the galloping hooves.
“Hold steady, boys. Keep the line! Listen for the bugle.”
However, to such as Templemere the sight of French backs and horses tails came as a source of huge relief, an emotion soon replaced by the need for revenge, the wish for dire vengeance to be visited upon those who had reduced him to such a state of terror. He spurred his horse into yet more speed which stretched out the distance between himself and his own men ‘holding steady’ and reduced the gap between himself and the French. Then he was in the French line, at enough range to stab at an exposed French back, but then he was nudged sideways by a French Hussar on his left and his horse lost momentum and fell back.
Then came the huge surprise. With admirable control and discipline the second French line opened to create gaps that the first line rode through, to then turn to follow. The second came on to meet the British. Templemere, because he was somewhat advanced from his own line, found himself surrounded by French because they met the British line someway behind him. He was alone, but not being fiercely attacked such as to threaten his life. They were merely fending off his blows, which completely distracted him, enabling one Hussar to seize his bridle and pull his horse out of the fight on the French side. He was now surrounded by four maroon uniformed Hussars, all with their sabres menacing him and a fifth still holding his bridle. He tugged at it uselessly, moving only the Trooper’s arm, not his own horse. He shouted something, but he knew not what, his mind was so far detached from his actions. All five, including him, came to a halt. He was a prisoner, this now confirmed by the individual Hussar to his right front menacing him with his sword and speaking.
“Ne vous se rendent, monsieur?”
He had no choice, either surrender or be killed. He nodded his head and the group began to move and canter back, leaving the conflict behind them, which seemed to be lessening. Once amongst many French cavalry, his head still whirling, his mind disbelieving and in fragments, they halted and one of the Hussars, who was plainly an Officer, dismounted and came to stand by his right knee and hold out his hand.
“Votre sabre, Monsieur, s’il vous plait.”
Templemere allowed the very fine and expensive blade to dangle from his wrist and the Officer detached the loop of cord to take the sword. Once in his hand, the Frenchman swished the sword to and fro, an expression of approval growing on his face.
“Mes co
mpliments, Monsieur. Un très bon blade.”
Templemere was both annoyed and distraught at the same time, his very fine blade, the best that Wilkinsons could supply and which had seen him safely out of many a duel, was to be his no more. What was more, two Troopers were now rifling through his saddlebags and a third was unbuckling his very fine cloak. Surrendering his sword was a necessary act, but to lose his valuable cloak was simply being plundered. He reached back to save the cloak at least, but the Trooper had only one strap left to run through and have the cloak almost for himself. Templemere managed to get one hand on it.
“I need that!”
The Officer now intervened, his voice sharp and angry.
“Laissez le!”
The Trooper released the cloak immediately and Templemere gathered the cloak to his waist, but the Officer was now speaking to him.
“Vous devez maintenant démonter.”
The gesture downwards with his free hand provided all the translation needed and Templemere dismounted, to find that he was a head taller than the Officer, who now gestured for Templemere to follow.
“Suivez-moi.”
Templemere followed the Officer, him carrying and further examining Templemere’s sword, with two Hussars either side, each with drawn sabres. The last Templemere saw of his fine horse and saddle, was of both being examined by another Hussar Officer. He was led back several hundred yards to a small cottage and taken up to the door, but not through it. The Officer turned to his escort.
“Lui tenir ici.”
A Trooper pushed Templemere against the wall, whilst the Officer went inside. Templemere, his ability to register his surroundings returning, saw three other British prisoners being marched past, two KGL and one of his own Regiment, but they did not look up and he did not call out.
Meanwhile, back at the British position, all was now peaceful and all three Regiments had returned back to their positions to simply mount picket, whilst the remainder rested and cooked their rations. It was at this point that Templemere was missed by one of his Cornets, Nathaniel Vigurs, who then approached Withers, now dismounted and following his horse, which was being led back to the tethering lines, whilst Withers carefully removed his gloves.
“Have you seen Captain Templemere, Sir?”
The final glove came off.
“No.”
Vigurs became worried and it showed.
“I have enquired of Sergeant Baxter, Sir, who told me that he last saw Captain Templemere out in front, amongst the French.”
“Have you checked the wounded?”
“Yes Sir. He isn’t there.”
Withers stopped, plainly somewhat irritated.
“Then post him missing!”
He paused, to give himself time to think.
“Then, for the time being, we need a new Squadron Commander. Which of you two is senior, yourself or Peterson?”
“I believe that I am, Sir. By three months.”
“Right. You’re Brevet, until a new Captain arrives or a new Cornet, I would assume, if you are confirmed.”
He walked on, but Brevet Captain Vigurs had an additional concern.
“Who takes over my Troop, Sir?”
“Who’s your Senior Sergeant?”
“Sergeant Baxter, Sir. A good man.”
“Indeed he is. Put him in charge, pro tem.”
Vigurs saluted and marched off, to first find Cornet Peterson and tell him the news and then Sergeant Baxter. This NCO worthy departed from his new Squadron Commander with a smile on his face and a spring in his step, which took him straight to his messmates.
“Seems we’ve lost Lord Huff-n-Puff!”
He sat down on a convenient ration box, smiling broadly.
“Where’s the French brandy?”
The flask was handed over and Baxter pulled out the stopper and raised the flask in the direction of the French.
“My best to you, Sir. May the French take to you as well as we did!”
He drank deeply, whilst all around laughed, then he passed the flask on.
At the time of the toast, the said Lord Huff-n-Puff was being ushered into the cottage where was sat a very elaborately uniformed Officer, with much gold braid and decorations, extending from his waist to the top of his high collar, these hiding almost all of the blue of his standard French uniform. This evidently high ranking Frenchman turned to one of the many Staff behind him.
“Une chaise pour cet Officier!”
A chair was brought forward and Templemere was motioned to sit, which he did, still clutching his precious cloak. Two Troopers stood behind him. Now down on the same level, this gave him the chance to examine his host, something that the said Officer seemed to be doing to him. In the silence, Templemere gained the impression of a man of handsome features, perhaps early fifties, but plainly at ease in his role and with clear eyes that told of a very capable intellect. He was sat forward, his chin supported by his hands folded together, his elbows on the table. He spoke good English, but with a thick French accent.
“I am Marshal Andre Massena. To whom do I have the honour of speaking?”
Templemere drew himself more erect. If this was to be a matter of status, he could compare as well as any French Field Officer.
“Captain Lord Frederick Masefield Templemere. 16th Light Dragoons. At your service.”
Massena smiled, mostly at the last three words.
“I am sorry for you in your present situation, Lord Templemere, mais c’est la guerre? Non?”
Templemere nodded agreement, but said nothing, so Massena continued.
“You are an Officer, Captain and as such, you will be treated well. If you agree to give your Parole, you will be moved quickly back to England. We have no wish to detain such as you.”
Templemere sat up further, now very interested, as Massena continued.
“If you accept your Parole for the duration of the hostilities between our two countries, then this can be arranged very quickly.”
Templemere nodded and began to speak, but Massena interrupted by holding up his hand.
“But first, before this can happen, there are some things which I wish to know. Things tres petite, of no real consequence and I will know sooner or later in any case, but I would prefer sooner, as you can imagine. But the speed of your Parole will depend on this.”
Templemere nodded again. He was indeed very interested, because, if he gave his Parole, then he was out of this war for good and out of it honourably. He had served, but been taken prisoner in combat and he would be honour bound not to return. In this case as described, he could have given his Parole at that moment, but native cunning told him not to be too enthusiastic.
“I’ll help. If I am enabled, as a British Officer.”
Massena smiled and nodded.
“Just so, Captain. First, your army at Busaco. How big?”
Tenplemere had no problem with this, this was past history, but he would not be too detailed.
“Forty to fifty thousand, give or take.”
“How many were engaged?”
Templemere sat back.
“That I could not say. I am cavalry and was held in reserve. We didn’t draw sabre once. I saw nothing.”
“But you can give me some idea. Half? Quarter? What?”
“Say a quarter.”
Massena sat back and turned to look at one of his evidently more Senior Officers, this one tall, younger than Massena and with a fierce gaze, which never left Templemere. His uniform had gold embroidery of less coverage than Massena’s but far greater intricacy. Massena spoke directly to him.
“Ils nous ont battus avec mais un quart de leur force, Reynier!”
Reynier’s countenance became even fiercer, as though he would wish to pounce on Templemere there and then, but he said nothing. Massena then turned to another Marshall, him older and his face somewhat kindlier, but he carried an indisputable air of authority.
“Ney?”
Marshall Ney’s face somehow saddened be
fore he spoke.
“Nos hommes ne pouvaient pas faire face à la vitesse de leurs tirs. Pas pendant cinq minutes.”
Massena turned back to Templemere, his face pleasant and his tone ingratiating.
“Marshall Ney has just paid your men a high compliment, Captain.”
Templemere allowed himself a slight smirk.
“Oh really! What did he say?”
“He said that our men could not stand before the strength of your fire. Not for five minutes, even!”
The smirk became wider.
“We train them for exactly that, Sir.”
“How many reloads each minute?”
“Some can manage close to four.”
Massena turned back to his two Marshals, to regard each quickly, saying nothing, but giving the pair a look which said ‘There! Now isn’t that something?’ He returned to Templemere, but this time his face was serious and his voice had a hard edge. The time for social niceties was over.
“Captain. I have offered you a quick Parole and my offer stands, but I need to know the object of your Wellington’s retreat. Does he mean to offer battle further South or what? Why has he gone so far South, so quickly, giving up so much territory?”
Templemere had long realised that to give Massena the information that he wanted, in the detail that he wanted was at least dishonourable, perhaps even treasonable, but he very much wanted out of this detestable war and away from the fear, the deprivation and the squalor. He reasoned that Massena would be finding out sooner or later and that no-one could know who had revealed what all in the British army now knew. Other prisoners could well be speaking what they knew as well as he, at that moment. If he was awkward and reticent, he could expect months in a French prison before arriving home. It was not worth the risk. He sat forward.
“We are retreating into what we are calling The Lines. They are called that, but it is really a series of forts and redoubts. Trenches too, I should imagine.”
Massena sat forward, seemingly surprised.
The Plains of Talavera Page 60