“How far from here?”
“My Regiment will be in sometime tomorrow.”
Massena sat back, even more surprised. Ney now spoke.
“Il importe que son infanterie est déjà en.”
Massena answered whilst still regarding Templemere.
“Oui.”
“Cela signifie un siège.”
Massena did not reply, but now sat forward, staring straight at Templemere. He was plainly highly displeased and not a little anxious over what he had heard.
“So! Your grand General Wellington means to sit behind piles of earth!”
Templemere sat back, inwardly content. The die had been cast.
“It would appear so.”
“Are they extensive? These Lines?”
“I can only say that they have been being constructed since the battle of Talavera.”
A dark shadow passed over Massena’s face and remained there.
“So, the thinking amongst your army is, that these Lines will hold you all?”
“Yes.”
“Do they run from the Tagus to the sea?”
“I can only assume so. I have seen no maps.”
“One final thing, and then you are on your way. Have you lost many men while you retreated back?”
“That I cannot say. My Regiment suffered some losses. You are probably in a better position to judge that, rather than I, who only encountered your cavalry.”
“Have you been fed and supplied?”
“Yes.”
“Well?”
“I’d say so.”
Massena sat back, plainly he had heard enough. He looked at the two Trooper escorts behind Templemere.
“Le sortir!”
One of the Troopers took a step forward and Templemere was pulled up by a rough hand under his armpit. Massena then turned to an Officer stood by the door.
“Le Jean! Voir à sa Libération Conditionnelle.”
Le Jean followed Templemere and his escort out of the door. He was marched to another building and pushed inside, where he saw his three fellow captives sat at a table, each with a bowl and spoon and a lump of very coarse bread. All were eating, or more accurately drinking, for the bowl contained thin gruel. Templemere found a place at the table as far from the three as he could and sat, when a bowl and bread of the same was placed in front of him. He picked up the spoon and fished through the scum of fat on the surface, to find nothing and so he dropped the spoon back in the bowl. This was noticed by one of the 16th.
“Begging your pardon, Captain, but if you don’t want that, may you pass it up to us?”
With a look of distaste on his face Templemere pushed the bowl and the bread up the table. The Trooper reached for it.
“Thank you kindly, Captain.”
The Trooper then broke the bread into three and poured an equal measure of the gruel into each bowl. He continued eating and the other member of the 16th looked down the table.
“Have they granted you Parole, Sir?”
Templemere felt like replying ‘None of your business’, but self-interest prevailed, these may be travelling companions for a while and he may be dependant on them during that time.
“Yes. They have.”
The Trooper nodded.
“Well, good luck to you with that, Sir. ‘Tis a nice thought to be goin’ home out of this. We’n for a French prison for as long as it all lasts.”
Templemere nodded and arranged his cloak across his lap, then he closed his eyes in the hope of sleep, but none came, other than a fitful doze. After an unknown period, he opened his eyes, because Le Jean had returned with a piece of parchment that was evidently his Parole. This document Le Jean placed in front of him, then came pen and ink. He pointed to the foot of the page.
“Il signe.”
However, before signing Templemere scanned the page. It was in poorly constructed English but the meaning was clear enough. He signed and, with that done Le Jean hauled him to his feet, leaving the paper on the table. Templemere saw in the gloom that his three fellow prisoners were now sleeping on the floor and that was the last he saw of them as Le Jean pushed him to the door. Once outside the pushing continued, only this time towards a small cart, in which were some wounded French Officers and a wounded English Trooper. Le Jean pointed at the interior.
“Monter dans le wagon.”
Templemere reached up with one hand for a rope that would enable him to haul himself up, but as he did so Le Jean seized the cloak that was now only held under Templemere’s left arm. Templemere, now halfway up, came back down to the ground.
“That’s mine. I need it!”
Le Jean pushed him back, his face and voice full of contempt. The cloak was now secure under his arm.
“Vous n'avez aucun honneur! Vous avez trahi vos camarades!”
Le Jean pointed again.
“Monter dans le wagon.”
Le Jean now had his hand on the hilt of his sword and so Templemere got in. The Trooper in the cart pulled down the back canvas and the cart rolled forward. Templemere was fortunate that in the darkness he could not see the expressions of his fellow travelling companions, who had heard and understood every word. He sat in the wagon glumly, seeing only five sets of white eyes, staring forward through the darkness.
oOo
Close to the town of Torres Vedras, Lacey was stood on a bank of earth overlooking the road that led past the first of the earthworks that they had seen had so far of The Lines. In his hand was a newly opened letter and on the road were his men, this last a very pleasing sight, all were marching well and easily, which told the story that all were well fed, healthy and strong. However, concerning the contents of the letter, these he was not so sure about, once he had read them. He looked at O’Hare.
“Staff have been busy, since we left Coimbra.”
O’Hare looked at him.
“Wellington’s re-organised again. Seems that he’s just received another Brigade, but they’re new from Walcheren, so must be considered to not be in the best of health and therefore suspect. They’ve been given to Erskine and we’ve been added. As a stiffener I shouldn’t wonder. So, we’re no longer with Picton’s 3rd, we’re now in Spencer’s 1st, in the Brigade of General Erskine, with the 1st 50th , the 1st 92nd and some of the 60th Rifles. More introductions to be made.”
He lowered the letter.
“I’ll miss Mackinnon and Wallace, but there it is.”
O’Hare nodded.
“But perhaps not so much Picton!”
Both laughed, before Lacey continued.
“However, one good result from prompt Staffwork is that we know where we need to be straight away, where we need to be with Erskine. We have not been required to march somewhere else with Picton and then march back. Our place is about ten miles further on from here, perhaps a bit less. Somewhere called Sobral. Good Staffwork, certainly. See, I’ve even been given a map!”
He pulled a neatly folded map from his pocket and pointed to the place on the map for O’Hare to take a look. That done he took out his watch.
“How long since the last rest?"
O’Hare knew immediately.
“One hour and one half.”
“Right. Rest now for 15 minutes, then push them on and we’ll be there for the evening meal and in camp.”
He studied his men some more, even waving at some.
“What’s the date?”
This O’Hare also knew.
“10th October. In the year ten!”
After the rest, his men rose up easily to reform on the road and three more hours of steady marching past well tended farms and countryside brought them to a large village, the largest since Torres Vedras. Lacey decided that they had arrived.
“Sobral may well be that village there. If this map’s correct.”
He pointed towards a group of white buildings tumbling haphazardly forward down the hillside from its summit, on which was perched the village church. At the rear was a deep valley, almost a
ravine.
“Best get the men into bivouac and await Erskine’s wishes. It would seem that this is his part of what we’re now calling ‘The Lines’.”
Excellent Staffwork was again apparent from the fact that supply wagons were waiting for them at the entrance to the village, with several members of the Royal Wagon Train, led by a Sergeant. Lacey rode up to him.
“Is this Sobral, Sergeant?”
The Sergeant replied in a very distinctive East End accent.
“Yes Sir. Sobral, Sir.”
“And your supplies are for?”
“General Erskine’s Brigade Sir.”
“Well, we are the 105th of General Erskine’s Brigade. Are we included in your orders?”
The Sergeant did not need to consult any papers.
“Yes Sir. You and the 50th, the 92nd and a Company of Rifles.”
“Very good, we’ll take our share when we’re in camp.”
The Sergeant saluted.
“Very good, Sir, I’ll get the wagons open and ready.”
Lacey slapped his gloved hands on his saddle pommel in contentment. All was exceedingly well. He looked back at O’Hare.
“Right. In the absence of anything to the contrary, we’ll put the Lights into Sobral, Carr in command, the rest to bivouac in these fields here, down in this valley. Make camp and get fed. We’ll take that farmhouse, there, alongside the hill with the semaphore mast. Get Bryce onto it. Carr should take a look at the French side, from this Sobral.”
Within the hour the pervading sound in the camp of the 105th was that of crackling cooking fires, their smoke filling the air as much as the chatter of the men and Followers. Half a mile away, Carr and Drake were stood leaning on a wall on the far side of Sobral, looking down the slope whose main feature was the main road that ran North. Each was eating their own bread roll filled with salt-pork and they were sharing a bottle of local wine. However, the road was not empty, it was the main road from the North and was almost full of the refugees from Coimbra and all parts between. The orders had been strict and thoroughly enforced; no single item of food nor animal was to remain to succour the French. People were to move also, for they could be tortured to reveal hidden stores or killed if they revealed nothing and these refugees looked what they were, sad creatures torn from their homes, destitute, ragged and exhausted. Within their number, and looking far from identifiable from the throng, were Portuguese and Spanish Ordenanza, distinguishable only by the fact that they were carrying a musket and there were various equipment straps about their persons. The pitiable column trudged past, then Drake levered himself off the wall.
“There’s some of ours coming. Cavalry!”
Carr reached into his pocket for his small glass, extended it and focused.
“Yes, Cavalry, and they look as beat up and knocked about as those they are travelling with.”
Drake borrowed the glass,
“They must be our cavalry rearguard. They look all in, even from this distance. Can’t we give them some food or something?”
Carr stood staring forward.
“I daresay we can. Our fellow Brigade Regiments have yet to come up from Lisbon. They’ve just landed and so won’t be here until tomorrow. I’m sure we can give them something, if it’s only dried meat and biscuits. I’ll see to it.”
He walked back through the village, leaving Drake to await their arrival, who then went down to the road, which brought him closer to the procession of misery that was the refugee column. They were also half starved and in need of food, but the responsibility of the Portuguese Government, or so he reasoned. He did not have long to wait, before the leading Officers of the cavalry arrived. Drake came to the attention and saluted, trying to be welcoming and cheerful.
“Captain Drake, Sir. Light Company, 105th Foot. You’ve reached The Lines, Sir.”
Stapleton-Cotton and Anson reined in their horses, Stapleton-Cotton looking first up at the buildings of Sobral.
“So this is The Lines, Captain?”
“Yes Sir, the start of it.”
Stapleton-Cotton nodded and brushed some dirt from his sleeve, as Drake continued.
“Sir, I can’t say if this will be of any use to you, simply that we are but one Battalion and we have supplies for three. As we speak, my Major is trying to organise a rations issue for you, Sir. Should you wish it.”
For the first time for days both Stapleton-Cotton and Anson managed broad grins.
“We most certainly do wish it, Captain. We have had next to nothing by way of supplies since we left Coimbra. We are very grateful. Your Major is?”
“Major Carr, Sir, and the supply wagons are just up the hill, Sir, just beyond the crossroads.”
“Very good, Captain, and my compliments to you.”
Drake saluted as the column continued past, 16th in the lead, then KGL, Artillery and 1st Dragoons. He was not there to see Tavender ride past, he was by then back up at his wall to finish his bread, pork and wine.
Carr, meanwhile, was busy applying his signature to a document given to him by the Sergeant of the Royal Wagon Train, him having continuously pleaded his case.
“You see how it is, Sir. These was meant for General Erskine’s Brigade and it should be his signature I get if I am to hand ‘em over to someone else, Sir. To show that I did at least get to the right place, Sir.”
Carr handed back the paper and pencil.
“I understand perfectly, Sergeant. Now please get your wagons up to the crossroads. There’s a whole column of cavalry now approaching who have been our rearguard for the past week or so. They are undoubtedly starving and so I think we should give them something, don’t you, especially as two-thirds of our Brigade are yet to arrive and so what you have here is going begging. As it were.”
The Sergeant stuffed the precious paper into his pocket and saluted.
“Yes Sir. We’ll just get these up a ways, then, Sir.”
He called to his fellow Waggoners and the horses were walked forward, just in time to meet the head of the cavalry column. Stapleton-Cotton rode his horse up to Carr, whilst Anson turned to Withers and organised the issue. Carr saluted as Stapleton-Cotton looked down, both hands on the pommel of his saddle.
“I understand that I have you to thank for this, Major.”
“These supplies are going spare, Sir, and I don’t doubt that you’ve not been too well provisioned over the past days.”
“You’ll get no argument from me on that score. You are Major Carr, I take it?”
“Yes Sir.”
“I’ve about 1400 men, Major. Will these suffice?”
“Well, about that, Sir. There are enough for two battalions, who have not yet arrived.”
“Very good, but where is your Regiment?”
“In the valley, Sir, the other side of the village. There are good areas beyond them to camp for the night.”
“Our cup overfloweth, Major. I bid you good evening.”
Stapleton-Cotton brought his riding crop to the peak of his shako and moved on. Meanwhile Withers had bade his men dismount and for the Mess Leaders to walk past the supply wagons to be given a portion of the food and then move on. The issue was rapidly made and the 16th passed by. It was then that Carr noticed Tavender and each acknowledged the other with a curt nod of the head, but Carr felt obliged to walk forward. Tavender looked utterly done in, which fact became more apparent as Carr came nearer.
“Lucius.”
Tavender leaned both forearms wearily onto the pommel of his saddle.
“Carr.”
The animosity between the two was plain, but, as far as Carr was concerned, Tavender was a fellow Officer who always tried to do his duty. He should be credited with that and therefore he had a duty towards him.
“You look as though something to eat would not come amiss.”
Tavender nodded, but his reply was curt.
“You’d be right.”
Carr turned to the nearest Waggoner.
“What do you have tha
t can be given to this Officer this instant?”
The man came to the attention.
“We have some bread and sausage, Sir. Bread baked yesterday.”
“Fetch a portion of each. And whose is that bottle of wine?”
Carr pointed to a bottle of red wine beneath the wagon.
“Ours, Sir.”
“Then I’m sure you can see your way clear to share a glass with this Officer here.”
Within a minute half a loaf and some sausage appeared, followed by a beaker of the wine. Tavender did not dismount, placing the food on the front of his saddle and holding the beaker in one hand. He did not look grateful, but politeness required that he say something, but it was spoken in an utterly flat tone.
“My thanks.”
Both rank and salute were omitted, but Carr felt that duty had been done towards an Officer in need. He was about to leave, when he had a thought.
“Lord Fred. What of him?”
Tavender took a drink of the wine, before lowering the beaker.
“Posted missing. Yesterday.”
“A prisoner?”
Tavender nodded.
“Most likely, but could be dead. We had no opportunity to examine the field.”
He finished the wine and tossed the beaker onto the nearest supply wagon. Saying no more, he rode on, his face of stone and not one backward glance at Carr, who stood watching until the figure was absorbed into the crowd, then he spoke softly to himself.
“So, no change, not even now, when I try to get you the food that you need. You try to ruin me at an Enquiry and do your best to wreck my wedding. With me and thee there really is not much point!”
oOo
Whilst the British were being supplied and thoroughly, the French were being thoroughly denied, at that very moment, in the form of a supply column being driven away by the men of Julian Sanchez’ Lancers, albeit that the pack-mules carried only sacks of flour, tubs of fat and sacks of beans, all very suspect. The Lancers had ridden out of the trees as one disciplined line, quickly overwhelming both the escort and the Waggoners and those who died in the short but honest combat were the lucky ones. Now, every French Waggoner and Dragoon taken prisoner was dead at the side of the road, with a deep axe wound in the back of his head, whilst their two Officers hung lifeless and eyeless from two nearby trees.
The Plains of Talavera Page 61