The Plains of Talavera

by Martin McDowell

  “Stuart.”

  “Very good, but tell him to keep a good watch. Spencer wants to know what Johnny’s up to, but how we’re supposed to know, escapes me. Nothing’s happened this past week. I’d say things have just about finished here, between us and them, fighting wise I mean.”

  “I hope you’re right, in fact I’m sure you’re right, but we keep a good watch and we keep the log.”

  Carr’s voice contained but slight sarcasm.

  “Most assiduous! But more time here, snug within The Lines, would not come amiss in any form. Sleep, food and good conversation. Present company excepted, of course.”

  “Of course! I’ve never counted myself as any form of raconteur. Well, not of the best, at least.”

  Drake looked up.

  “However, I do hope that you are not fleecing too many at backgammon?”

  Carr shook his head.

  “No. Small stakes and no doubling dice. Purely social only.”

  “Have you written?”

  “Yes. Twice.”

  With that he was gone, to cross over with Stuart Maltby in the communication trench. Salutes were exchanged and the pair walked on, each to their own destination. Drake now stood up to face the newly arrived Maltby.

  “There’s your spyglass and there’s your log. I’m for sleep.”

  Behind and also alongside, Sergeants and Corporals were organising the men for the change of Watch and soon all were settled, the men sitting and eating what was a second breakfast of apples, dried fish and biscuits. However, they had little time for more than a few mouthfuls before Erskine and Spencer arrived and all sprang to their feet. However, Spencer waved them back down and took the log.

  “Three last night, Erskine. Three. And there’ll be more, in greater number, I’ll lay a bet on it.”

  Erskine nodded.

  “No doubt. And from what we hear, the Ordenanza and El Charro’s crew are in behind them tight as a drum. Nothing’s getting in. Or out! On top, I’ll wager they arrived with damn all, what with Wellington ordering all destroyed on the way down or carried back.”

  Spencer nodded himself as he looked across at the silent Sobral, but with no telescope, for he was still holding the log.

  “Yes, but he’s fortified all that over yonder, blocked off doors, windows and what have you, but that finished days ago.”

  He placed the log on the parapet beside Maltby and turned away.

  “Yes. All we can do is observe developments, but that can wait until after breakfast. You’ll join me?”

  “I will.”

  With that the pair departed, leaving Maltby with thoughts of his own, mostly concerning Eirin Mulcahy and the words of Jed Deakin, these having been spoken but four days ago. The two subjects of his thoughts were some way back over the ridge, sat around their own mess fire, but it was Deakin who was surprised enough to comment on the thickness of his waist, as he buckled on his equipment.

  “I think I’ve put on weight!”

  John Davey was the nearest.

  “No bad thing. Be glad. A bit of extra will keep you going when we’re ordered out of here to go chasing Johnny again.”

  Zeke Saunders was buckling on his own equipment.

  “And the further off that is, that better I like it. Full sleep and a full belly, regular like, you can’t have too much of, is how I sees it.”

  However, the one anxious face was that of Bridie, even as she concentrated on preparing food for the Noon meal.

  “Jed. What about the Convent for Eirin, here? ‘Specially if there’s now talk of us movin’ out and back up country.”

  Eirin looked up from studying the ground between her feet to look at Deakin, but said nothing while Deakin answered.

  “I’m on my way now, to see Parson and the Reverend Albright. Such askin’ by Men of the Cloth at a Convent is more likely to get a better result, I’m thinking.”

  Bridie smiled up at her ‘Army Husband’ and Deakin smiled back, to then place his reassuring hand on Eirin’s head as he walked past her. A five-minute walk through the tent lines brought him to the small cart of Reverend Albright, where the senior of the Spiritual Pair was reading a book, and the junior going about his duties as servant. Deakin cleared is throat and the two looked up, but Deakin addressed Albright.

  “Excuse me, Sir, beggin’ your pardon, but I’ve come to ask a favour, if you’ve no objection.”

  Albright lowered his book and Sedgwicke lowered his dishcloth.

  “Yes Sergeant? Deakin, is it not?”

  Deakin nodded.

  “Yes Sir. Colour Sergeant.”

  “Then tell me, Colour Sergeant, what is it that you want of us?”

  Deakin cleared his throat again.

  “Well Sir, I don’t know how much of this you know, but one of our Mess, in the Followers, Eirin Mulcahy, my step-daughter and my wife’s eldest, well, she’s in the family way, Sir, four, five, months gone. If we has to march out on a new campaign, which is very likely, and with a Winter comin’ on, then I don’t give much for the chances of her, nor the babe. ‘Specially if it comes to a retreat, which is the most of what has happened so far in this war. So, Sir………”

  Albright held up his hand for Deakin to stop.

  “Is she married?”

  “No Sir.”

  Albright looked at Sedgwicke.

  “Did you know about this?”

  Sedgwicke nodded.

  “Yes Sir, I did. A very nice girl of good family.”

  Albright started upright in his chair. The gesture was clear, ‘So why is she pregnant?’. However, he returned to Deakin.

  “Go on, Sergeant. In what way do you want us to become involved?”

  “Well, Sir, I was comin’ to that. You see, the Father, as we believe him to be, is willin’ to put up a month’s pay and the lads’ve all chipped in to raise about 15 pounds, all told, which we hope will get her into a Convent for the child to be born and then grow up some. For ‘em both to be looked after, Sir, and then to come back with us, Sir, when they’n able.”

  He paused to gauge the reaction on Albright’s face, but it was blank, so he continued.

  “Well, you can see now where you come in, Sir. We was thinkin’ that a man such as yourself, goin’ to a Convent and doin’ of the askin’ would be much more likely to get agreement, rather than the likes of us knockin’ on their door and askin’ the same, Sir.”

  The Reverend threw his book onto the small table.

  “And this Convent is where?”

  “There’s a big one at Mafra, Sir. About ten miles back, as the crow flies.”

  Albright frowned.

  “And who is the Father?”

  Deakin took a deep breath.

  “An Officer, Sir. But I can’t say no more than that.”

  The frown did not disappear.

  “And does he acknowledge himself to be the Father.”

  “Well, yes and no, Sir. He accepts that he could be.”

  Thoughts now entered Albright’s head regarding the character of the said Eirin, placing huge significance on the words, ‘could be’. However, he did not pursue the idea, at least he would not do so with Deakin now present. He folded his hands over his generous stomach.

  “I will think on this, Sergeant. I have a concern that, if an Officer is involved, whose side should I take, regarding who speaks truthfully, and to what extent should I allow myself to become involved? Clearly there has been some sinful behaviour.”

  He immediately noted the concern on Deakin’s face.

  “However, I will give you an answer Colour Sergeant, before this day is ended. Please now allow me to think this over.”

  Deakin’s face darkened as he came to the attention and saluted.

  “Sir!”

  He executed a smart and thorough ‘about turn’, including a stamp of his right boot, which certainly conveyed his anger to Sedgwicke, if not to Albright, and then marched away. Sedgwicke, for his part was deeply concerned and upset. He knew the M
ulcahy family well and had found no flaw in any and he had taught Eirin to read himself. They were of the best of the Followers, good, kind, solid and reliable, who had certainly been nothing other than generous and welcoming to him. In addition, this was particularly so of Jed Deakin when Sedgwicke had been condemned into the Army after stealing his Bishop’s silver to pay for drink. He had been a rock of support for someone as utterly unfit for soldiering as ex-Reverend Percival Sedgwicke. All sorts of emotions played within him, not least the kindness and sympathy that Jed Deakin had shown him over the five years he had been in the Army. All the events from the past welled up emotions strong enough to cause him to speak out exactly as he felt.

  “Sir, we must help! It is both our Christian duty to help those who fall, but repent, and also Eirin being an expectant Mother following an army during a Winter campaign creates a huge risk to both herself and the child. That is a major concern. It seems that finance has been found for this, Sir, and all that we are being asked to do is to make the request of a Mother Superior. To use our good offices and position to bring this about, Sir, to a satisfactory outcome.”

  Albright was somewhat shocked by this outburst from his inferior, but there was logic in Sedgwicke’s words, yet he returned to his own suspicions.

  “This Eirin. Is she of good character? Nothing that could be termed slatternly?”

  Sedgwicke angered.

  “No Sir, absolutely not. It is my opinion that she is a good girl who has been led astray. Used, in fact.”

  “Is the Father known?”

  “I can only speak from rumour, but from what I hear, the Father is Lieutenant Stuart Maltby, of our own Light Company, Sir.”

  “And he denies that he is the Father?”

  “Not in so many words. He insinuates that the child may have a different Father to himself, which, in my opinion is a shocking slander, designed to deflect responsibility from himself.”

  The ‘Sirs’ were becoming less frequent. They were now speaking as equals and Sedgwicke was at least the intellectual equal of his military superior. He continued.

  “And Colour Sergeant Deakin is as good a man as you’ll find anywhere. He made himself responsible for the family when Eirin’s Father was killed in Sicily, which is why it is he that has come to us asking for help. And you may recall how well Eirin behaved amongst the wounded during Talavera. She, herself, should be given some credit for that.”

  Albright was moved, but not convinced.

  “And it is Lieutenant Maltby who is contributing to the fifteen pounds?”

  “Yes. And, as I see it, that is sufficient acknowledgment to dispel any fears we may have of supporting the least trustworthy party in this.”

  The ‘we’, in this case was plainly singular, applying solely to Albright, yet Sedgwicke spoke further.

  “And, as has been said, the requirement upon ourselves is merely to pay a visit to the nearest Convent, to help out this unfortunate girl. For us to act as forgiving and Christian men!”

  Albright looked at Sedgwicke, with no little concern showing on his fleshy face.

  “It will be Catholic. I know your views on such.”

  Sedgwicke knew that he was winning, but he remained stern.

  “I will pray for forgiveness, but, surely, in a cause such as this ………….?”

  Albright was no longer listening as he retrieved his book.

  “Very well. Inform Deakin that we will do as he requests.”

  Then a thought, as he searched for his place within the pages.

  “What’s the hospitality like, in a Catholic Convent, do you think?”

  Sedgwicke was already on his way.

  “Oh, of the best, Sir. Of that I am sure. Especially to one of High Church, such as yourself. I’m sure that they will make allowances for us being English and having broken with the Pope!”

  Deakin had not long sat down by the fire, sat in a pose which thoroughly conveyed the anger that he felt towards Albright, many times mumbling, “The likes of them and the likes of us.”

  All the Followers around had heard him tell of Albright’s reluctance and were equally cast down. Finally, Deakin spoke himself.

  “We’ll just have to get Eirin there ourselves. Then they can see her. I’ll go with her and, when they see her, they’ll not say no!”

  At that point Sedgwicke arrived and Deakin stood, more in anticipation than in greeting, but Sedgwicke spoke first.

  “He’ll go! I persuaded him. It didn’t take much, so he’ll go and ask on your behalf.”

  Several huge hands descended on Sedgwicke’s back and shoulders, such that he was grateful for Nellie ushering him to one of the few chairs that they had around the fire.

  “Good man that y’are, Parson darlin’, now sit you down and soon as sayin’ we’ll get you some tea and a dough cake.”

  Sedgwicke sat, plainly the hero of the hour and the sheer warmth and good will directed at him from the small camp around, lifted his spirits more than at any time that he could remember from his years in the army, especially when Bridie continued to refill his mug with the strong tea.

  oOo

  Julian Sanchez allowed the corn to run through his fingers into the French shako. It smelt mouldy and looked it, in fact it must be, the damp of the mould causing the grains to form clumps that remained within his fingers. The French foraging party must have found this in a poorly made clamp in the ground, yet they had brought it anyway, which proved how desperate they were for food. The remains of the foraging party were all knelt at the side of the road, the men silently awaiting their fate and hoping that it would be quick, whilst the Officer alone was shouting and holding up a despatch wallet, which he had taken from within his coat. Sanchez tipped the corn onto the ground, then pointed at the Officer.

  “Llevarlo a mí.”

  The Officer was hauled to his feet and brought over to Sanchez, at whom he immediately began shouting, several times.

  “Je suis un très important service de messagerie!”

  He knew that his life was in the uttermost peril and his importance as a Courier was all that could keep him alive. His terror was not helped when Sanchez nodded to his men guarding the French captives and one walked along the row removing French shakoes, for the next to deliver a massive blow on the back of the head of each with a hatchet.

  “Je suis un très important service de messagerie.”

  Sanchez made another gesture to his nearest man and the Officer received a vicious punch onto his mouth. Sanchez now had the pouch and he withdrew a single document of one single page. A study of top and bottom revealed that the sender was Massena and the intended recipient was a General Eble. He scanned the body of the letter, but could gather only two words, ‘Tagus’ and ‘Santarem’. He looked around for their French translator.

  “Dónde está Michel”.

  The reply came back.

  “Él está muerto.”

  Sanchez became deeply angry that a good friend and valued member of his band had been killed in the skirmish. He had wanted to ask the Frenchman why a Courier should be part of a foraging party, but that was now put aside. He punched the French Officer in the face, at which point the even more terrified man fell to his knees, to repeat his standard plea.

  “Je suis un très important service de messagerie.”

  Sanchez returned the unintelligible letter into its case and turned to one of his Lieutenants.

  “Haz esta carta y este desgraciado a Wellington. Esto es muy importante. Ir por el mar de Vimeiro.”

  The Lieutenant took the case and hauled the Frenchman to his feet. He hit him several times around his head as he was pulled to a horse, but the gesture to the Frenchman that he should mount instead of preparing himself to be killed did much to change his state of mind.

  “Merci, M’sieu. Merci!”

  Sanchez spat in the man’s direction, but shouted at his escort.

  “Ponerse en marcha. Con rapidez!”

  The small party escorting the Off
icer hurried away, leaving only the question of what to do with the few sacks of mouldy grain, still on the mules. Sanchez pointed at it.

  “Tomar esto para alimentar a los chanchos!”

  His men grinned, at least their capture would be put to some use, feeding their pigs.

  The following day, late afternoon, the consequences of the capture became to known to Lacey, when Spencer arrived, as usual with Erskine.

  “Lacey. How soon could your men move, if needs be?”

  Lacey’s brows came together; he was puzzled.

  “Two hours, Sir. A little more, if they need to be issued their own rations.”

  Spencer nodded.

  “Good. That’s reassuring.”

  He looked across at Sobral before continuing.

  “The Peer’s received a captured despatch, which came down by boat this morning. Sanchez’ men intercepted it. Massena’s trying to build a pontoon bridge over the Tagus at Santarem, about 40 miles up river. If he gets his men over, he’ll be in an area untouched by any army and there they’ll get supplies. Right now they’re starving, of that we’re certain.”

  He smacked his riding crop against his boot, but his face betrayed his anxiety.

  “He may pull out, overnight, if he gets that pontoon built. The Peer may go straight at them, now, as they are. We’d go straight through those over there, but we’ve little idea what he’s got further up country. They may be in better shape and able to fight a defensive battle against our advance. It’s a nice decision and I’m glad that it’s one that I do not have to take. It could be that remaining here and allowing the units opposite us to fall apart from starvation may be the better bet. Then advance forward.”

  Hunger to any degree was far from the mind of the Reverend Albright as they caught their first sight of the Convent at Mafra. The journey had been most pleasant, along good roads and through well-kept villages where, in each, there were stalls to sell food and other luxuries to the billeted British and Portuguese. Albright had required Sedgwicke to stop in almost everyone and now the sun was descending to join the Western horizon. Sedgwicke hurried the two mules on and the Convent grew larger, but not in any detail, for there were none, save the Crucifix over the gnarled double door, both seemingly too small in proportion to both the length and height of the high white wall, it being all of weathered, but clean, plasterwork. Sedgwicke halted the wagon in a dip of the road, which now hid them from the walls.