“There’s rumour of a battle, so that’s bringin’ the lads in.”
Halfway shook his head.
“Sounds daft to me, to desert, then rejoin, wantin’ to fight in a battle. I’ve seen enough fightin’ since we landed in this Spain to last a lifetime.”
Deakin looked at his good friend.
“And there’ll be more! Of that you can be certain.”
He paused.
“And of all those lads comin’ back in, what can you say? I’ve heard it, so’ve you. Just give us a chance at ’em. There’s not a manjack as doesn’t think these French are no ways up to our mark and a good fight is one way to get things off your chest, after the past week and all. Take it all out on the Johnnies, like.”
With the following day, it did seem that a setpiece battle was building, at first, that is. The French arrived, but as Carr predicted, they arrived in small packets. First two Brigades of cavalry, then what looked like a Division of infantry, but all that day the two sides sat and looked at each other, stood or sat on the exposed slopes. It was full dark when campfires appeared on the French side and Moore allowed his men to stand down, behind a thick picket of Rifles. The next dawn found the British deployed once more to watch the arrival of more French, this time two Divisions of infantry and one Brigade of Cavalry. From their stonewall; which by now was boringly familiar, Carr and Drake observed their arrival. Once more Carr gave his opinion.
“I’d say M’sieu’s army is in no much better shape than our own. Soult must have had stragglers and fall outs, just as us, especially when they have to range far and wide to get food from the locals, and there must have been damn all of that to be found easily.”
Drake made no reply. The 105th were in reserve, back from the front line. Strictly speaking they had no business where they were and his appetite had reported in.
“Breakfast!”
Both left without a word, but, with breakfast thankfully inside them, the order came for the 105th to form column, the easier to advance should they be needed. They stood for 30 minutes, then Lacey allowed them to sit. The sounds of battle reached them, beginning with a furious cannonade to their right which finished almost as soon as it began. Shortly after, to their left, came a conflict involving musketry, but that also lasted but minutes. If there had been a battle it seemed over and done, as the day settled to little more than the sounds of odd engagements between skirmishers, then even that died away. Carr, Drake, and Shakeshaft were sat together, all listening to what was not happening and all were more than pleased to see O’Hare moving along their column, ordering all to draw rations and return to their mess fires. Drake passed judgment.
“Well that’s that, then!”
He was almost correct, as the next day proved. Lacey called all Officers to his tent and there, stood outside, he read out an order from Moore.
“A battle is at hand. Your men are to waste no ammunition on skirmishers. Leave that to the Rifles. Withhold your fire, saving ammunition for the supporting columns.”
Lacey lowered the piece of paper and regarded his Officers, with a “make of that whatever you like” expression on his face.
“Tell your men.”
As they returned to their mess lines, Carravoy spoke to D’Villiers.
“Well, that does not exactly fill me with confidence. I thought we had been re-provisioned at Lugo. We are about to fight a battle, but now it seems we are short of ammunition. What next from this incompetent, no ships, when we get to Corunna?”
D’Villiers grimaced. He had no reply; he feared too much that his Captain may be right. No sooner had they read the order to their men, than another order from Lacey arrived telling all to reform into their reserve column of the day before. Within ten minutes all were stood upon the same piece of frozen snow and slush as the day before, awaiting orders but listening intently for sounds from the main position. Lacey had forbidden his Officers to wander up to the main British line at their leisure, but he nevertheless took a walk up there himself with O’Hare. Across the valley he saw the French holding a position as strong as their own, the blue of their uniforms almost as prominent against the snow as their own red. Lacey folded his arms and slowly exhaled.
“There’ll not be a battle, Padraigh. If that’s all Soult has, he’ll not attack. We’re too strong and perhaps this one has learnt what happens when you walk up a slope to try conclusions with firing lines manned by the likes of us. He’ll hope to hold us here until his supports come up, which will happen, and in which case Moore would be mad to wait here at Soult’s convenience to allow him to build his strength.”
O’Hare looked at his Colonel and good friend.
“Could Moore attack?”
“No. If things look too dicey for Soult, if he sees too great a chance that he’s about to be beat, he’ll just fall back onto his supports and offer battle again, but this time reinforced. And where would that leave Moore, if he pursued? Further from Corunna and then with the bayonets of Soult’s whole army right in his back. To begin a set-piece here Moore would be an utter fool!”
He took a deep breath.
“No, we’re done here. Pass the word, but not too loud.”
The men of the 105th, standing along the edge of the main road, had drawn their own similar conclusions but they used the evidence of several battalions of the main army marching past them in columns, all to rejoin their own followers at their mess lines. The order from Moore to fall back, break camp and prepare to resume retreat had been speedily, if very reluctantly, obeyed. Another order came to Lacey, but this time from Paget. It was brief and told all.
“105th and 95th to form rearguard. 18th, 20th, and 91st, hold in support.”
Lacey showed it to O’Hare, who read it, then looked at Lacey.
“The Reserve Division continue in reserve!”
Lacey smiled wryly.
“It would seem so.”
For the rest of the day the army prepared for more marching and the preparations included the destruction of 500 cavalry and artillery horses who could no longer go on. For two hours it sounded as though a minor battle was taking place as each was shot, but canny followers were walking to and fro, carrying lumps of horsemeat. Fuel to boil the meat, the better to preserve it, was in no shortage either as the artillery caissons that no longer had horses to pull them were knocked to pieces. Bridie and Nelly had set up what was almost a production line of a whole series of various pots on fires, each boiling its fill of meat, to be wrapped in whatever, to keep it for a few days. Then another order arrived, ‘Reserve Division to maintain campfires until past Midnight’. Specifically, this would be the task of the 105th and 95th, spread along the ridge.
With the arrival of this order, Carravoy’s Grenadiers were despatched to gather any available fuel, which included the wood stock of the followers boiling their meat. The Grenadier who entered the “kitchen” of Bridie Deakin and Nelly Nicholls to purloin their wood, found himself being called all kinds of a ‘gobshite’ and had genuine fears for his own safety as Nelly described threatening curves with a huge metal spoon. He left with what he could carry and himself intact, for which he was grateful.
Deakin used his rank to absent himself along with Nicholls and Halfway and to go to a dump of stores that did not seem to be about to be loaded into any wagon. They were guarded, as before, by The Guards. Deakin approached a sentry.
“What’s the plan for this lot, mate?”
The sentry swivelled his eyes suspiciously whilst maintaining face front.
“To be destroyed.”
“How?”
“No orders yet.”
Now he did face Deakin.
“Can’t be burnt, no fuel. Just chucked around, would be my guess.”
“What’s there?”
“Flour and biscuit.”
Inwardly Deakin fumed. An army could march on biscuit and flour, if they had a little fat to make dough cakes, but he held his peace. Instead he reached behind his head to scratch his neck w
hilst at the same time pulling a silver piece from his pocket with his other hand.
“What’ll this get us?”
The Guardsman’s eyes fixed on the glinting silver guinea. He then looked up and looked all around, especially at the two Guardsmen on his side of the pile.
“Same for those lads?”
Deakin nodded and the Guardsman quickly took the coin.
“Seems like there’s a stack there as is soon to fall over. If you could just give us a hand, if you’ve a spare minute?”
Five minutes later, a bulging harvest sack, full of bags of flour and biscuit, was being carried back to the lines of the 105th by Deakin and Halfway, with another almost as full over the meaty shoulder of Henry Nicholls. Eventually, by a roundabout way, which avoided any tents occupied by Officers, they reached their comrades.
Staff Officers were galloping all over in the gathering dusk, despatching orders for an orderly withdrawal that would see an organised column comprising the whole army, progressed far along the road to Corunna by the time the next day had dawned. In the gathering gloom the battalions of the rearguard spread themselves over the whole British ridge to maintain the deceitful flames of the fires still burning to confuse the French. No one was exactly sure what “past midnight” meant, but all knew that campfires died in the early hours and so that was considered good enough. The followers were to leave with the main army and so Deakin and Nicholls bid their farewells to their families, all now with bulging haversacks and with extra on the travois and on Mary’s mule, now well established as the children’s pet, often being fed hard biscuits, which it seemed to enjoy, especially those most full of weevils.
Deakin, Halfway, Nicholls, Stiles and Peters took over a lonely campfire just as the Regiment that had kindled it marched away. Then it began to rain, heavily and constantly, with no hint of any cessation. The snow and ice melted in an hour and the fires spluttered and died, for they required constant feeding to stay alight in the heavy rain and the meagre wood supply was quickly exhausted. Soon the 105th were doing no more than squatting before cold, dead fires, listening to the raindrops spitting in the last of the embers. It was a miserable night, but all were now veteran enough to know how to keep reasonably dry, all by now had a piece of wagon tarpaulin and the rain raised the temperature to at least above freezing, often beyond.
When the first streaks of light came in the East, Paget gave the order for his four foot Regiments to close up, ready to march off. The 95th and 105th were to be the last to leave, the 105th grateful that they had been given the road to picket, whilst the 95th were to guard the far right flank, close to the river, which made them the furthest from the road. They would cause them an oblique cross-country trek reach it and then form for their own march. When Lacey saw the 15th Hussars trotting onto the road, he gave the order to “form fours” and the 105th set off. Drake was the last to leave the British position and he stood on the road, just at the point where it would disappear over the ridge for the French, and he gave anyone watching through a telescope a cheery wave, using his shako for extra emphasis.
Thankfully the road had not thawed, it was quite firm beneath their feet, but that was the only bonus of the dawn. All around it was plain that Moore’s orderly retreat had turned into a complete fiasco. Columns of Redcoats could be seen way out in the fields both to the left and the right, these being Regiments that should by now be way down the road towards the next town, this being Valmeda, as they had been told. Several times the Reserve Division was halted to allow such wayward battalions to regain the road ahead of them, because for them to join behind the rearguard would incorporate them into the Reserve Division, which would only cause extra confusion. The Officers of the 105th learnt later that day, when they took a brief rest and met some Officers of the 14th of Leith’s Division at a provision train, that the stone walls, so useful for defence had created total confusion in the dark, so that many Regiments actually marched in circles. In addition there were again hundreds of deserters and stragglers who had absconded once more when they had learnt that there was to be no battle and others who simply felt an overwhelming need to find some shelter from the rain.
On entering Valmeda, it was pleasing to see that the small town had not been torn apart as had Bembribre and Villafranca. Deakin, Halfway and Gibney noted such as they marched in, Deakin being the first to voice his thoughts to Gibney.
“Pleasant to see a place still as it should be, Sar’ Major. Nothing smashed up, even some people still here. Could be a market day!”
Such idle conversation did not sit well with the likes of Cyrus Gibney, but the sight of an undamaged, well kept town had done much to lighten his own mood.”
“Aye, that’s the right of it. But ah’m thinkin’ that’s because the sort as’ll do damage to such as this, is now off in t’ills, deserted and gone, dead, or dead drunk, most like.”
Halfway felt like making a point.
“Now having full haversacks must help though, Sar’ Major.”
Gibney leaned forward to look at Halfway further in the ranks.
“Aye. ’Appens as that’s true, n’all!”
This was said with such finality that nothing more was said, but Gibney’s deserters and drunks were not quite in either form of “dead”, at least not those close to the army. Hundreds came in from the hills, lost since Lugo, but now guided in by local peasants, who took their payment in biscuit and horsemeat and considered it a good bargain.
That night the rain began again in torrents and orders came from some Brigadiers that the men be allowed to seek shelter wherever they could find it, but nothing of the sort came from Paget. Lacey, also knowing the confusion this could cause, but wanting his men out of the rain, specifically ordered his Officers to find shelter for their men and make a note of where they were. Carr was leading just such a group of his Light Company into a deserted cottage on the outskirts of the town when he met someone that he did not expect to see again, at least not in Spain. Carr was carrying a lantern which he hung on a beam and the light fell further across the floor to reveal a figure sat hunched in the corner, head down, perhaps sleeping, perhaps not, wrapped in a thick horse-blanket which was now standard practice throughout much of the army. Carr walked towards him, feeling in better spirits, even enough to be jocular.
“Evening to you, my good fellow. Is there any objection that you can see to my men sharing this decent shelter with you?”
The head rose up and it was some time before Carr placed what suddenly struck him as familiar. The man was as dirty, dishevelled and careworn as any of them, but it was definitely Tavender. Carr was taken aback, but he was the first to find words and he remembered vividly the condition Tavender had been in when he was taken off the field of Vimeiro.
“Tavender! What a place to find you. How are you? What of your wounds? The last we saw of you, you were none too well.”
Tavender looked stonily at him and managed a reply.
“Better, I thank you. A month in Lisbon brought me back to some degree of health, sufficient to rejoin.”
Carr found his flask of Spanish brandy and offered it.
“Can’t speak for the vintage, but it does the trick, you know, straight to the spot where it’ll do some good.”
Tavender took the flask and drank. Having swallowed, he did manage a smile of sorts.
“Vintage! More like lamp oil.”
He handed back the flask, but Carr felt that sufficient human contact had been made to give him excuse to sit down besides the forlorn figure. This was, after all, a fellow Officer, severely down in his circumstances
“Your care in Lisbon must have been of the best!”
Tavender did not turn his head.
“Nuns! We, that is Officers, were sent to a Convent, and there our care was, as you put it, of the best.”
Carr now felt obliged to do what he could, for here was a Captain of Horse, a fellow Officer, squatting alone in a Spanish hovel.
“And now? Is there anything tha
t we can help you with?”
Tavender looked full at him, both his face and tone indulgent, the sentence both carefully spoken and carefully enunciated, but not quite to the point of sarcasm.
“Now, I am infantry. My horse gave up, a week or so past, so that now, I am making my way back, as you, on foot, hoping for passage home.”
Carr decided to be practical and ignore the tenor of the reply.
“Well, we can help, I’m sure. I’d invite you to attach yourself to us, but we’re rearguard and it’s none too pleasant and we, the 105th are, after all, infantry, as you say.”
He smiled at the half attempt at humour, but there was no reaction from Tavender, but Carr continued.
“However, I do know some of the 18th. They’re with us and I do believe that they’ve kept a string of spare horses. On top, they’ve suffered, as have we, and would not say no to a new recruit, I feel sure.”
For the first time Tavender’s face significantly brightened.
“You think so?”
Carr nodded.
“Why yes, I do, very much so.”
He paused and nodded his head.
“I think we should try.”
Without looking at Tavender for agreement, Carr looked up to his men, settling in for the night, and saw a Corporal he knew.
“Fergusson. Go and find where the 18th are. I do believe they turned off left, where we turned off right.”
Fergusson dropped his blanket, saluted and left. Carr then noticed that his men were lighting a fire in the grate of the room and preparing the ingredients for the pot. There was another that he recognised.
“Thomas!”
The Private sprang to attention.
“This Officer is to have some hot food. I will see that extra arrives for you tomorrow morning to make up your rations. Is that clear?”
Close to the Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regimen Book 2) Page 36
