Talavera

by Griff Hosker

  No bugle was sounded. When Geoffrey had ascertained that all of his men were ready, he led off. The rest would follow. Our task was to lead the way to the ford and then silence any sentries we might encounter. Captain Minchin was heading for a landing to the east of the French positions but, in the last few days, who knew if the French had strengthened them? We rode in silence. The French were less than five hundred yards from us. They might hear the horses and the movement but by the time the news reached the bridge, we would already be over. The ford was in the open. I could see the ruts of wagons which had passed this way. This was an oversight on the part of the French. They should have guarded this section of the river too. Captain Minchin and Troop Sergeant Fenwick entered the water first. Sharp and I followed. The sound of the river would mask the sound of our hooves. Once on the other side, we listened. There was no sound of an alarm.

  The previous night I had discussed with Captain Minchin what our plan should be. I led, walking Donna. We would use my French to get us close enough to attack. I noticed that there was more farmland on this side of the river. It would allow the Colonel to deploy the regiment into lines. Sharp walked ten yards behind me and the rest of the troop followed in a column of fours. The open nature of the land suited such a formation.

  It was the smell of tobacco which alerted me. I handed my reins to Sharp and drew a brace of pistols. I walked ahead. In the dark, I might be taken for a French officer. I heard the two sentries talking to each other. It was still night and there was no moon. The two men had their heads together as they smoked their pipes. They were coming to the end of a duty and were anticipating breakfast. They were bemoaning the fact that they were stuck in the sticks and their comrades were enjoying the women and wine of Oporto. I saw a glimmer of light. There was a false dawn behind me and I could just make out their faces. They were facing south, across the river. I got to within ten paces before one of them turned.

  Before he could say anything, I snapped, “Smoking on duty is a flogging offence. Where is your sergeant?”

  My flawless French, cocked hat and confident manner made them both snap to attention, their muskets held before them. “In the camp, sir!”

  I had kept on walking and I whipped up my pistols putting one under each chin. “Drop your weapons and you live.” They did so. I whistled. Sharp arrived first with Donna closely followed by Captain Minchin and Colonel Hawker. “‘Pon my word, Matthews, that was smartly done!”

  I nodded, “Troop Sergeant, assign two men to watch these. And now Colonel Hawker, it is over to you.”

  He nodded and said, “Form lines!”

  I heard the French bugle from ahead. They had heard the sound of jingling horse furniture as the troopers mounted. The French bugle sounded boots and saddles. It was too little, too late. Sharp and I joined the right-hand side of the front line. We were next to Sergeant Parkinson. I had holstered my pistols and now I drew my sabre. I was impressed by the way the regiment formed their three lines. Colonel Hawker did not stand on ceremony. Dawn was breaking. He had the bugles sound the trot and we moved west. Positioned on the right we were in the more open fields. The ones on the left would have to negotiate trees and bushes. They would also have more men to fight. The French would be forming up for an attack across the river. They would not know we had flanked them. The French bugles and the shouts were more urgent now than they had been. When Colonel Hawker sounded the charge, I estimated that we were less than half a mile from the bridge and the road. Thus far we had seen no Frenchmen. Now we did. I heard the sound of the Horse Artillery as their guns struck the French gun. Muskets and rifles popped. The bridge was under attack.

  The Chasseurs’ camp must have been well away from the road. They had responded to the call and a squadron charged us at an angle. I shouted, “Wheel!” We needed to face them head-on. We would outnumber the troop three to one. They did not know that. We were in one line and galloping. They approached us piecemeal. We were closing rapidly with one another. I was not sure if the Light Dragoons had ever charged other horsemen. It was not a common occurrence. As Captain Rogers had found out, despite their smaller horses, the French were good cavalrymen. Sharp, Parkinson and I were on the right and facing an officer and sergeant along with three troopers. I drew a pistol and fired when we were ten paces away. I holstered it and watched a Chasseur grab his shoulder and then wheel away. It left a gap and I rode into it, swinging my sword as I did so. The officer swung his sabre at Sharp who blocked it. I backhanded my blade into the officer’s side. He dropped his sword and I swung my blade to my left. The French sergeant had almost managed to break through Parkinson’s defence. My sword struck his left arm. It bit through to the bone. It allowed Parkinson to hit the Frenchman with the hilt of his sword. The Chasseur fell to the ground.

  Our troop was through but our orders were clear. We had to secure the bridge. First, we needed to negotiate the infantry who were hurrying back to try to form a second line. When we loomed up with the sun behind us, some dropped to the ground while most of them held up their hands. Behind us was D Troop. They could take the prisoners. The Horse Artillery had destroyed the guns on the northern bank of the bridge and I heard the muskets popping as the light infantry crossed. If they had not mined the bridge then Sir Arthur would have his first victory. Donna was tiring but she still had enough energy to lengthen the lead Sergeant Sharp and I had over the others. The French were abandoning the bridge. I heard the bugle call for retreat.

  I reined in Donna a little and sheathed my sword, “Sergeant Parkinson, we will leave you here. We are about to join the French army and retreat!”

  “Good luck, sir.”

  We wheeled our horses and made the road. We followed some of the Chasseurs we had just defeated. I could see that they had been badly handled. They were not looking back. They had one idea in their head, get to the Douro before Marshal Soult destroyed the bridges and pulled all the ferries to the north shore. This was a race to Oporto. The losers would either die or be sent to a prison camp. Neither prospect was attractive. They did not even look at Sharp and me or, if they did, they saw what they expected to see. Our cloaks were brown and our arms covered in blue material. Sharp had discarded his hat and I wore the ubiquitous cocked hat.

  One of the Chasseurs said, “What a mess!”

  Another spat and said, “What do you expect, these were not Vrai Bougre who were on duty. They were the sweepings of Marseille.”

  “They were still killed by Les Goddams. They did their duty.”

  A Chasseur corporal said, “Aye you are right, my friend and we have horses. We might just make the Douro. The Marshal has many regiments on this side of the river. Perhaps we are stronger than Les Goddams!”

  His friend said, “We might be stronger but we will be lucky to reach them. Not on this road. It is already getting choked. Their light cavalry might be reckless but they could destroy us easily on this road. I think we leave the road as soon as we can. We overtake the donkeys on foot, the marche a terre!”.”

  As they argued with each other I nodded to Sharp and veered Donna onto a more northeasterly course. If we slowed down then others might take more interest in us than these four Chasseurs. I saw, ahead, that the land was a mixture of farmland and heathland. It was undulating. It was land where we could vanish if we left the roads. When I saw a farmhouse ahead, I rode to the east of it and we disappeared from view for it hid us from the road. The Chasseurs would think we were going to loot. We could slow down now. In the distance, I heard an occasional musket popping. The skirmish for the bridge was over. We had forty miles to go. We would now travel a little slower. We had two horses to conserve. The road would be packed. Eventually, others would take the route we had chosen but we would have a head start by then. It had been when we were close to the river that we were in danger. I was not heading for Oporto. The French rearguard would be heading in that direction. We were heading upstream. If Sir Arthur found the bridges across the Douro intact then all well and good. I did not t
hink that such a miracle would materialise! It was more likely that there would be a crossing upstream. We would have to find it.

  One advantage we had was that all the French between us and the Douro were running away and the locals, the Portuguese, were on our side. Donna d’Alvarez had given me the names and addresses of a number of supporters who were patriots and wished to help the English rid their country of the Bonapartist menace. The paper on which they had been written was now destroyed but the information was burned in my head.

  We passed few people. The disguise which had fooled the French also made the Portuguese wary of us. I knew there was at least one bridge over the Douro and that was at Oporto. Further upstream there might be others. I had to find them. We found a small village with a water trough. There were houses and farms dotted around but there was little else. It looked deserted although I knew that the villagers were watching us. We were soldiers and we wore blue.

  I spoke loudly and in English. I hoped that someone might be curious. It worked. As we were preparing to leave an old greybeard emerged. I nodded and spoke in Portuguese. My Portuguese and Spanish were getting better but I sometimes mixed words up. Occasionally I slipped an Italian one in. Luckily the words were similar in many of the languages. “We are English soldiers. Could we buy food?”

  Despite the mistakes, I had made he obviously understood me for he grinned and shouted for the others to come out. He rattled off some Portuguese; it was too fast and in a local dialect. I understood enough to hear the word, ‘friends’. We were given bread, cheese, ham and wine. More importantly, we were given information. Soult had regiments waiting south of the river. He was not relying on the defenders of the Vouga. Sir Arthur would have to fight to get to the Douro and that meant the bridges would be destroyed. There was one bridge close to Oporto and the nearest one to that was some days to the east and would involve mountain tracks which would not suit the artillery. I also learned that there were many ferries. Miguel, the head man of the village, suggested to me that the further upstream we went then the fewer French would be found. It sounded like a good plan.

  We passed no one until it was almost dusk. We came across a small village. We were walking our horses and we surprised four old men who were sitting on a wall and smoking pipes. I apologised and explained who we were. As in the first village, our story won us smiles and a welcome. This time we discovered that we were just five miles from the river. The men refused to let us carry on for they wished to fete the soldiers who were coming to save their country.

  “The French sent a cavalry patrol through yesterday. They took animals away and removed as much food as they could find.” I looked down at the bowl of food before me. He laughed, “We are not so foolish as to keep our food where they can find it. We have learned how to thwart the French but the animals,” he shrugged, “we cannot hide them.”

  We left the next morning with a different view of the Portuguese. They were fighting a war which was every bit as bitter as the war we fought. The difference was that they did not have guns and sword, they had to use their minds and their wit. As we approached the river road we descended along a twisting trail. When we neared the road I spied, upon its surface, horse dung. That had to be French cavalry. I cocked my Baker and removed my hat. I saw the river ahead. It was wide. The north side was definitely held by the French for I saw a French flag. Where they had mounted defences on the southern side I did not know. Oporto lay some miles to the west. We turned our horses and headed that way.

  We heard the wailing long before we reached the village. It was a nameless village. It was not marked on the map I had copied in Aspley House. There were just a dozen houses. They touched the river and rose up the slope of the valley. The terraces to our left showed that they grew grapes in this part of the world. I had learned that, in Portugal, that meant they had sheep and goats keeping the ground clear of weeds but I saw none on the terraces. The wailing hid our approach until we were almost in the village. I saw the reason for the wailing. The villagers were gathered around two bodies. Uncocking my Baker, I raised my hands and said, “We are English.”

  A youngish man stepped forward. He had a gashed face. “I am José. You are welcome.”

  I dismounted, “What happened?” The two bodies were much older men. They looked to be in their fifties. I could see the ligature marks around their necks and the cut ropes told me how they had died. They had been hanged.

  “French Dragoons. They rode from the east this morning. There were eighty of them. When they left they headed for Oporto.” The soldier in me told me that it was a troop. The Portuguese knew the differences between Chasseurs and Dragoons. “They gathered our sheep and goats. My father and uncle protested and they were hanged.” He touched his face. “For my trouble, I was struck. I remember the officer’s face. He will die.”

  I nodded, “I am sorry for your loss. We are scouts for the allied army which is heading this way. Our general brings an army north. We are here to find a way across the river.”

  He shook his head, “All the bridges but one have been destroyed for many miles along the river. The French general has ordered all boats to be moored on the north side. I fear that your general will be too late. There is no way across the river.”

  Just then a younger version of José said, “That is not true, brother. The ferry of Juan the boatman is moored upstream.”

  “Are you certain, little brother?”

  “I swear it is true. Do you not remember? He had an accident and the ferry was damaged. His crew brought him here.”

  “Aye, and his men took him to the nunnery but I thought they returned to their ferry.”

  “That was a week ago and they have not yet come back. I could show the officer. It is but half a mile upstream.”

  I dismounted, “I would be grateful if you were to do so.” We tied up our horses and took our Bakers. If the boy was correct then this could be the answer to the general’s prayers. As we walked, I noticed that the youth had a wickedly sharp knife in his belt. He could be no more than fourteen years of age but boys grew into men fast in this part of the world. He looked at my gun, “That is a fine-looking gun, sir. Have you killed many Frenchmen with it?”

  “A few.”

  “I should like such a gun. I wish to kill many Frenchmen.”

  “You had better leave that to soldiers like us. The French do not treat guerrillas well.”

  “A man cannot allow his family to be hurt. What is the point of life otherwise? The family is all.”

  I noticed that the river had a bend in it. There was a sort of wooden quay. There, moored to the bank, was the ferry. I saw that it lay canted at an unnatural angle. We slipped aboard. It was obvious that the damage was minimal. It looked like it had struck a branch or a tree and there was a hole the size of my fist just below the waterline. It could be repaired! It looked like it would take half a company. “You were right.” I took a couple of coins from my purse. “Here is for your trouble.”

  He shook his head, “It would be like blood money. Give me a weapon and I will be satisfied.”

  “I will try to get you one. Does the ferry normally come here?”

  He pointed downstream, closer to Oporto, “No, sir. It operates closer to the town. The bridges are often crowded. There are people who wish to cross the river but do not need the city. There are many farms which grow wines on both sides of the river.”

  I turned to Sharp, “This is the news the General needs. Let us go back to the village. I have an idea.”

  As we had headed upstream, I had noticed a small fishing skiff tied to the bank. As we passed it, I said, “Cristiano, to whom does the boat belong?”

  “Our family, sir. We use it to fish.”

  I nodded and began to speak in English, “Sharp, I want you to take the two horses and find Sir Arthur. Tell him about the ferry. There are no guns opposite. I think we could land a battalion in a short time.”

  “And what about you, sir?”

  “I am going
to cross the river. The General needs the Douro to be scouted and if there are no bridges then this is the only way!”

  Chapter 10

  Sergeant Sharp was not happy but he was a soldier and he obeyed my orders. I left my Baker with him and took a powder horn and a bag of twenty balls for my pistol. It was not a great number but I could always take French balls. They would do as they were, generally, of a smaller calibre than my pistols. He left after he had eaten. With two horses he could make the General in one long day. All he had to do was to avoid French patrols.

  After he had gone, I spoke with José. They were curious as to what was happening for Sharp and I had spoken in English. “Will you stay with us, sir? You are more than welcome.”

  I shook my head, “No José. Tonight, I would like you to take me across the river and land me on the north bank. Could you do that?”

  “Of course, but the north is filled with Frenchmen.”

  “Do not worry, my friend, I can pass amongst Frenchmen. Your enemies think you are a defeated people. When General Wellesley comes, they will learn differently.”

  I had an afternoon sleep. They called it a siesta. I knew that once I landed in French territory I would be in great danger and would need to be alert. I was woken by José’s wife. I was fed well with plain wholesome fare. Like the other village, the animals might have been taken but they squirrelled away food in all sorts of secret places.

  Cristiano came with José and me. I had my cloak wrapped about me and my cocked hat was folded into my jacket. I had nothing else with me save for my weapons. There was little point in leaving my sword behind. My boots and uniform marked me as a soldier. My cloak would just confuse any recognition and if there was a confrontation then I would have to fight my way out. The two Portuguese headed downstream; they knew the river well and the current would help us. They would have a harder journey back upstream. I wanted to be as close as I could to the city and I stared at the black shoreline with cliffs rising high above the water. José knew a good place to land. I had given him the address I had been given in Lisbon by Donna Maria d’Alvarez. She had said it was someone I could trust. He was a wine merchant, António José da Silva, whose father had died during the early clashes with the French. Donna d’Alvarez swore that he was a man, although relatively young, whom I could trust. His port house lay just a mile from the city. He had warehouses and I hoped that I could use them to hide during the day.