Talavera

by Griff Hosker

  I found Harris who held our horses. Brigadier Anson nodded, “Damned brave, Matthews. Not our fault, you know? Tell the General that. How were we to know there was a damned ditch there?”

  “How is Colonel Hawker? I didn’t see him.”

  “He was knocked from his saddle by an artillery shell. Damned unlucky. He and the Major fell. Wilberforce took over. Damned brave of him too, but reckless.”

  As we headed back to the Cerro de Medellin, I reflected that his recklessness must have cost the regiment more than two hundred troopers. I had not seen him following Lieutenant Colonel Elley and I assumed he had perished.

  By the time I reached Sir Arthur, the last survivors of the attack across the Portina had returned. They were shamefaced. “Well done, Matthews. What a waste eh? We have few enough regiments of cavalry as it is!” He peered across to the French, “And now what will they do?”

  I knew what he was thinking. Our combined allied army outnumbered the French but they had more than enough to attack again. He knew, from the captured reports, that Soult and Ney were on their way south. The document had made it clear they would not arrive until August. Would the French attack before the five Corps could combine?

  We had our answer when we saw the northern column begin to trudge east. As they dismantled the battery on the Cerro de Cascajal then we knew the battle was over.

  We stood to until dawn. By then it was clear that the French were pulling back to the Albreche river. I was sent to collect the musters after the roll call. It made for sad reading. General Mackenzie had paid the price for his mistakes and he was dead. Thirty-four officers, six hundred and forty-three non-commissioned officers and enlisted men had perished. More than four thousand officers and men were wounded and there were six hundred and fifty officers and men missing. We had lost a quarter of our force. Had we won the battle? The French had lost more and they had withdrawn. We had fought superior odds. History said we had but, on that July morning it felt like a draw, at best.

  Chapter 18

  The day after the battle General Cuesta rode into our camp. Once again, I was invited to the meeting. The Spanish General was in the best mood I had yet witnessed. That, in itself, was not a surprise. He had lost less than five hundred men for the French had concentrated their attack on us. He brought news that his fellow Spanish General, Venegas, was approaching Toledo. He urged Sir Arthur to attack Victor and march on Madrid.

  General Wellesley was not going to do that. He agreed, in the short term, for General Wilson to threaten Madrid. By doing so it would help the other Spanish Army. I explained to General Cuesta that, unlike his well-supplied army, ours was starving and the men could not fight without food. I also pointed out the large numbers of men in the hospitals. I chose my words carefully. Sir Arthur’s words had been, at best, terse. The argument gave Cuesta the opportunity to agree to wait a few days.

  When General Crauford’s Light Division arrived a day later then we all became more optimistic. They had marched over fifty miles in twenty-seven hours. It was a remarkable feat. Of course, after such a marathon march, they were in no condition to move. It would take a day or so for them to recover.

  Sharp and I took the opportunity to visit our wounded friends. We went to the camp of the 23rd first. Captain Minchin and Sergeant Parkinson were lucky. The musket balls had almost been spent when they had hit them. Sergeant Parkinson’s fibula had been broken but the surgeon had set it. He would make a full recovery. Captain Minchin, who was now the senior captain in the regiment, had had two musket balls removed from his right leg and he was walking when we saw them. Both men were in the sick bay at the camp of the 23rd as the hospital needed the beds for the more seriously wounded. The regimental doctor and his orderlies saw to them.

  Captain Minchin spoke for all of them, “Parkinson, Fenwick and I would like to thank you, Major Matthews. I have no doubt that we would have perished but for you and Sergeant Sharp’s brave action.”

  “You are brave men. I am sure that you would have managed somehow.”

  Captain Minchin shook his head, “No sir. You and I know better. Do you know what is going to happen now?”

  I could not tell the captain all for rumour and gossip would exaggerate my words. I was able to give him some news, however. “Your regiment has suffered so many losses that it is heading back to Portugal. It will escort the wounded who can be moved.”

  “And Troop Sergeant Fenwick? He is still in the hospital.”

  “He and the others will have to wait until they can be moved. Sharp and I will visit him this afternoon, after the siesta.” I did not mention that, if we had to move out of Talavera suddenly then the wounded would be left to the French.

  “Then we shall see you in Lisbon, eh sir?”

  Sergeant Parkinson nodded, “Aye, and Lieutenant Frayn will be glad to have the Captain back.”

  “He survived too?”

  “Oh yes sir, a game ‘un is Lieutenant Frayn!”

  Captain Minchin pointed to Sergeant Parkinson, “And this is the new Troop Sergeant.”

  Sergeant Sharp grinned and patted his fellow sergeant’s back, “Well done! Well done!”

  “Aye well, I have some big boots to fill.”

  The words of Acting Troop Sergeant Parkinson seemed hollow when we reached the hospital. Troop Sergeant Fenwick had lost his left leg below the knee and, from the look of it, his left eye. His left arm was also bandaged but I saw fingers; he had not lost the limb. He still smiled when he saw us. “Sir, this is an honour. I am pleased you came, sir. It gives me the opportunity to thank you for saving my life.”

  I nodded, “I confess that I thought you would succumb to your wounds.”

  “Old Joe Fenwick is tough, sir! I will survive.” His good eye lowered and his voice became thinner, “Of course, I have no idea how I will earn a crust back in England.” He sighed, “Probably join the other beggars in St Giles’ Rookery.”

  The mention of The Rookery suddenly gave me an idea, “Sharp, go and find me a pen and some paper.”

  “Sir!”

  “Troop Sergeant, you are good with horses, are you not?”

  His face broke into a proud smile, “Aye, sir. I have been around them all my life. I know how to look after them alright even in a hell hole like Spain.”

  “I have a small estate north of London, Bilson’s farm. At the moment it is in the process of being built. When time allows, I intend to return there and raise horses. I have another ex-soldier, Rafe Jenkins, as a caretaker. You could go there to recover and when you can walk again, you could look after the horses I intend to buy. You will be able to walk, won’t you?”

  He said, “Aye, sir. It might be a peg leg but a man would be a fool to turn down an offer like that.” Sharp reappeared and handed me the paper, ink and pen. “This is not out of sympathy is it, sir? That would not suit at all!”

  “No, Troop Sergeant Fenwick, I do need someone who knows horses. You would be doing me the favour. I need men around me whom I can trust. If nothing else you have proved that many times over on this Iberian adventure.”

  “Then sir, I will accept your very generous offer.”

  I wrote the letter and addressed it to Rafe Jenkins. I added a note to Mr Hudson to add Fenwick to the men he would pay. I folded the paper and addressed it. I had a sudden thought, “You can read, Troop Sergeant?”

  He grinned broadly, “My dad couldn’t so my mum taught me my letters. I have kept it up. Aye, sir, I can read!”

  I felt much better when I handed him the letter. If he could get back to Lisbon and thence London, he had a chance of a life. Otherwise…

  Reports came in from generals Wilson and Venegas informing Sir Arthur that they were both closing with the French and all seemed to be going well. Most of the wounded, including Troop Sergeant Fenwick, were evacuated. As we were uncertain about the northern road we had taken they were sent by a more southerly route and the fortress of Badajoz. There would be more than fifteen hundred who would remain in the
hospital.

  On the 1st of August, Sir Arthur sent for me. “Matthews, I need your eyes, ears, mind and your contacts with these guerrilla chaps.”

  “Sir!”

  “Now that General Wilson has headed east, we are blind about the road to the north. Head to Plasencia. Find that fellow who brought you the despatches, what was his name?”

  “Juan, sir.”

  “Yes, well, find him and see what he knows. I am not going to head east until I know that the road to the west is safe. Do not tarry. Time is of the essence.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Although our horses had recovered since the battle, the distance we would have to cover necessitated us each taking a spare. We set out immediately knowing we would have to halt for three hours in the heat of the day. If anything, the weather was becoming hotter! It took two days to reach the town. We rode mainly while it was dark for it was cooler. We rode into Plasencia at ten in the morning. They had a market and the town seemed to be agitated. Our British uniforms were recognised and information was easily gathered. Marshal Ney and Marshal Soult, it seemed, were heading for Plasencia. The townsfolk not only offered me that information they asked when General Wellesley would return to save them from the French devils. I could not give them hope and I told them that it would take time for our army to come to their aid.

  I turned to Sharp. “You must return to the General and give him this dire news. It changes everything. He will need to evacuate Talavera and take the Badajoz road. If these people know that the French are on their way then the enemy will be here sooner, rather than later.”

  “What about you, sir?”

  “I have to find Juan and to verify this news. It could be just a large patrol or the vanguard. I will use the back roads.”

  Although reluctant, the Sergeant was a soldier and he obeyed me. We bought food at the market and then, a little earlier than we might have liked, we separated. I took the trail over the mountains and Sharp headed back down the road to Talavera.

  I would be sleeping rough. It would take me a whole day to reach Juan’s village and I did not want to arrive in the dark. I headed up the trail which I vaguely remembered from all those months ago when I had scouted out Talavera. The land looked even more lonely now. The hot summer sun seemed to bake the landscape. The heat began almost as soon as the sun rose and it grew to be an oppressive blanket when men could not move and horses could die through heat.

  I camped in what the Spanish called an arroyo. It was a gully which would be deep enough to give me some cover. I chose it because there was water bubbling along the bottom. I reached it in the dark and I was drawn by the sound. Donna and my other horse, Goldie, hurried towards the stream. They could smell the water and they were thirsty; like me, they had been on short rations. I unsaddled them as they greedily gorged on the refreshing water. I saw that there was a little grazing. Sheep had been in the valley but they had not destroyed the pasture. Leaving them to graze I put the saddles on the ground and then I ate. I chose not to light a fire. It might have drawn Juan and his guerrillas to me but, equally, it could have attracted French patrols. I knew that Soult and Ney would have men ahead of them scouting out the land.

  It was as I lay down to sleep that I caught the whiff of woodsmoke in the air. That heartened me. I was close to houses and I wondered if I was close to Juan’s home. It was too late to investigate them but as the trail was just below a col, I hoped that when I rode, in the early hours, that I would see houses and, hopefully, find guerrillas.

  I awoke in the dark and I saddled my horses and then walked them up the long slope leading to the col. It was at least two miles away. The nights in Spain were never as cold as one might expect and I found myself becoming hotter as I neared the top. I stopped to unfasten my jacket. I even contemplated taking it off but thought better of it. I glanced behind me and saw the thin line that was the sun beginning its rise. Here the sun rose faster than in England. I could make out the col ahead. The trail passed between two jagged rocks. The trail looked a little flatter and so I mounted Donna. I had given them both adequate rest and I was becoming uncomfortably hot. As I mounted, Goldie snorted. I laughed, “I will ride you later, I promise.” She gave a whinny in reply and I moved on. As I reached the top, I looked expectantly to the valley below. I saw no houses. What I did see, just forty paces from the top of the col, were the barrels of six Chasseur carbines and they were pointed at me. I had stumbled into the camp of a French patrol. The Sergeant said, “We have a juicy treat to take back to the regiment. Brigadier, secure his weapons. If he moves his hand towards his gun then shoot him.”

  He did not know I spoke French and I did not enlighten him. I raised my hands cursing myself as I did so. I was slipping. The woodsmoke I had smelled the previous night should have warned me to be wary. I had allowed my animals to make noises. Worse, I had spoken.

  While the troopers kept their guns on me the Brigadier grabbed my sword, my pistols and then my Baker. He examined it. The first rays of the new dawn peered over the skyline. He shouted, “Hey, Sergeant, this is one of those rifles used by the Goddams!”

  “Let me see his face.” He strode over and, taking the Baker from the Brigadier looked closely at me and then my horse. Cavalrymen know horses. He began to laugh, “Boys, we have dropped lucky here. Do you know who this is?” Without waiting for a reply, he said, “This is the English Major who killed Major Laisse’s nephew in Portugal. There is a reward for him. We will treat him with kid gloves but watch him. He is tricky and he speaks French like a Parisian!” I had been recognised and escape was now a remote possibility.

  My hands were tied before me. They were well tied but it was a figure of eight the Brigadier used and I was able to hold the reins. This was a disaster. To fall into French hands was bad enough but to fall into the hands of a Frenchman who was also an enemy meant that my chances of escape were minimal. The Chasseurs were in no hurry to move. I guessed they did not want to risk riding in poor light. I was unfortunate to have ridden into their camp. The Brigadier rode next to me and a trooper led Goldie. These were veterans and knew their business. Each time we came close to a stand of scrubby trees or bushes the Sergeant sent a trooper ahead to investigate. He only began to relax when he saw the road ahead. It was a mile away and there was nowhere for us to be ambushed. In fact, the ground had been completely cleared of bushes and trees. It was so flat that it looked to have been swept. The only cover was four hundred yards up the slope where there was a large rock.

  Suddenly, even as I watched the rock, I saw a figure rise and raise a musket high above his head. It was a guerrilla. The Sergeant and the other troopers all stared in that direction.

  The Sergeant said, “What is he doing? Signalling?”

  I sensed, rather than saw Juan and the rest of his guerrillas rise from the holes they had dug in the ground and attack the horsemen. I watched the Brigadier as he began to pull his pistol out, I did the only thing I could do, I launched myself from the saddle. Putting my arms around his neck we both fell to the ground. The Chasseur’s horse galloped off. As we fell, I landed heavily below him but I had the ropes around his neck. I wrapped my feet around his legs and pulled hard. He wriggled but I held him tightly around the neck. This was a fight to the death. Unless I could kill him then he would kill me. The guerrillas had taken the Chasseurs by complete surprise. I heard screams and shouts. I heard the clash of steel. I could see nothing for the Brigadier’s head was in my face. I pulled the rope hard against his throat. He began to choke. I heard his breath rasping. What I did not hear was a pistol. The Spanish did not want to alert any nearby patrols. I kept pulling. The Brigadier’s struggles lessened. I gave one final pull and felt his neck snap. Rolling him from me, I removed my arms and stood, somewhat unsteadily.

  Juan was wiping his sword on a Chasseur’s tunic. He grinned at me, “Milord! It is you. We saw just the Chasseurs. We spied them last night when they camped and planned this ambush. It worked, eh? We now have horses, more swords and
more carbines.”

  I saw that they had kept three alive. “And what will happen to them, Juan?”

  He shook his head and walked over to sever my bonds, “Better that you do not ask, eh milord. And you? Why are you here?”

  “I was scouting for Sir Arthur. Are there any French troops nearby? An army perhaps.”

  He held up three fingers, “There are three armies. They are all heading for Plasencia. One of their armies is there already. They arrived yesterday afternoon and sent out patrols. We followed this one.”

  I collected my weapons and mounted Donna. She had not wandered far, “Thank you for the rescue.”

  “Now where will you go?

  “I must get back to Talavera and tell my general the news.”

  “That would be suicide. The roads are filled with French.”

  “Nonetheless I must go.”

  He nodded, “Miguel, take most of the men home. Keep the prisoners until I return. Sergio, come with me. We will escort this Englishman to Talavera.”

  He leapt on to the dead sergeant’s horse. It was the best of the Chasseur’s mounts and he led us due east. We rode the whole day. The only concession to the heat was that we walked our horses at noon. Juan seemed to find the shady defiles and tiny patches of woodland to give us some relief. We rarely went near to a road. As darkness approached, I wondered if we would sleep or keep marching on through the night. When the guerrilla turned to head south and east along the road, I had my answer.