CHAPTER TWELVE
THE SMOKE AND THE FIRE
Talavera, later
All morning the Spanish had filed past Cotton’s brigade on the road from Cazalegas three leagues beyond the Alberche, making for Talavera, which the Sixth had now learned was to be the right of Sir Arthur Wellesley’s line of battle. Indeed, for most of the morning the Sixth had been speaking of nothing but the admirable defensive position the commander-in-chief had chosen. He had selected, so to speak, a bottleneck, where the Tagus, flowing west from Toledo to Talavera, and thence to Alcántara and the Portuguese border, meandered north a little, nearing the steep escarpment of the Sierra de Seguilla, and then parallel to it for about seventy miles. By choosing to stand on the defensive at the top of the bottleneck rather than further down – further west – Sir Arthur Wellesley not only held the city of Talavera de la Reina, he gave himself room to withdraw, if that became necessary, with his flanks secure on the one side by the wide, deep Tagus, and on the other by the rugged sierra. That, at any rate, was the opinion of Joseph Edmonds. Prudent a choice it was, he told the subaltern officers, whom he had assembled by way of field tutelage. ‘A commander ought never to fight a general action unless he believe there to be a good chance of victory,’ Edmonds said. ‘But neither should he do so without the certainty of being able to retreat in reasonable order should victory be denied him.’ Nor did the commander have only the enemy to take into consideration; there were his allies too. With the Spaniards, Edmonds added, nothing could be certain. Some days they would fight like tigers; other days they had the stomach of a fat kitchen cat.
Hervey studied the trudging ranks – dirty white uniforms as far as the eye could see. Two centuries ago, the Spanish infantry could count itself the finest in the world; now they looked no better than a peasant levy. No army in retreat ever looked its best. Hervey knew it from Corunna; and there they had been retreating with scarce a shot from the enemy. What sort of a mauling these men had had he could only suppose. There had been no forerunners, bandaged and bloody, to speak of any action. The rumour was there were so many French that withdrawal to better ground – ground suited to the defence – was the only course. But that was the rumour before which they had retreated to Corunna, was it not? So the Moore-baiters had it yet. And this Spanish general, Cuesta – he was too old and obese, the word was. But he must know his business? In any case, with Sir Arthur Wellesley the two armies would be a worthy match for ‘King’ Joseph and Marshal Victor, would they not? The position on which they would give battle here spoke volumes in their favour. Hervey was sure there could be no occasion for dismay.
He had only to consider the ground. As the major said, it was admirably chosen – a battle line three miles long, its right, the walled city of Talavera de la Reina, resting on the Tagus, its left on a steep escarpment, and the entire front protected by the dry bed of the Portiña river. With so much cover of vineyards, olive groves and corks, as well as the natural entrenchment of the Portiña, it was a position made for the infantry. It wanted only for a better orientation, for the armies would be facing due east, into the sun. But then, what did that matter to the men in red coats, who wanted only for an opportunity to get to close quarters with the French? They had all seen the position when they came up the day before, and were relishing putting it to the test. However, the true genius of the place, as Edmonds pointed out, lay in the centre of the line, where a ridge ran east–west parallel to the Tagus on the right and to the escarpment, the Sierra de Seguilla, on the left. The ridge was cut in half by the Portiña, running north–south, and the western half, the Cerro de Medellin, was higher than the eastern, the Cerro de Cascajal. On the north side of the ridge was a narrow plain of heath, pasture and arable, and a few dry streambeds. Edmonds had asked the cornets what they concluded by this, to which Laming had at once correctly answered that the British guns on the Cerro de Medellin commanded the narrow plain to the north, the Cerro de Cascajal on the far side of the Portiña, and the greater part of the distance to Talavera, whose own guns would easily overlap.
‘Capital, Mr Laming!’ Edmonds had replied, slapping his thigh with uncharacteristic exuberance. Then he had narrowed his eyes. ‘And what else?’
Laming had had no answer. Neither had two further nominations. Bruce and Wyllie made attempts, but unsuccessful.
‘Mr Hervey?’
Hervey searched hard for what else there might be, other than the restatement of Laming’s conclusion in different form. He looked uncertain as he spoke. ‘If the French were to take the Cerro de Medellin, it would no longer be possible for us to hold the position?’
Edmonds smiled wryly. ‘Ah, yes, indeed, Mr Hervey. That is the material point. Mark, gentlemen, that the Cerro de Medellin is the very hinge on which this position turns. Once lost, the position will fall, exactly as the heaviest door will fall for want of a serviceable hinge.’
A smile came to the lips of Conway, the senior subaltern. ‘Then the commander-in-chief had better post the Fourteenth on the hill to fill it with screws!’
The laughter was loud as the lieutenant-colonel rode over.
‘I love a good joke, gentlemen. I would have the whole regiment share it on the morning of a general action. But I think there is little opportunity now, for if you look yonder . . .’
Hervey and the others seized their telescopes and turned towards the Alberche. He saw smoke spread for a mile and more across the front, half a league away, the very smoke of Ai: And when the men of Ai looked behind them, they saw, and, behold, the smoke of the city ascended up to heaven, and they had no power to flee this way or that way; and the people that fled to the wilderness turned back upon the pursuers. Were there Joshua-men out there, even now, he wondered. How were they to know what the enemy did beyond the smoke unless there were spies there – or cavalry? And when Joshua and all Israel saw that the ambush had taken the city, and that the smoke of the city ascended, then they turned again, and slew the men of Ai. But what burned? There was no city. Hervey peered through his telescope, but he could make out nothing at all.
‘The corn stooks, gentlemen – the shelters: that is what burns,’ said Lord George. ‘The question is, do we fire them to cover our withdrawal, or do the French to cover their advance? Either way, gentlemen, it is the time for cavalry. To your troops, please!’
A quarter of an hour later, the Sixth were ranked in two lines by squadrons. ‘Mark, Hervey, Lord George’s promptness in this,’ said Lieutenant Martyn. ‘For no orders have come from Cotton.’
Hervey did mark it. And he relished what it might bring.
Martyn continued to search with his telescope. ‘Our advance division is withdrawing, evidently. See!’
Hervey saw redcoats a mile away, marching towards them in good order, and unhurried. The columns of Spanish would be well past, now; just a few stragglers limping by. One of Cotton’s gallopers had said the main body of them were marching by the southern road, which meant that Talavera must be teeming with troops; and no doubt they were already hard at work fortifying the city. What was it that Sir Arthur Wellesley would ask of his cavalry, therefore? If the brigades to their front were not being pressed hard, as evidently they were not, there would be no need of cavalry to cover the withdrawal. Was it the intention, then, to wait for night, and for the brigades to come into the main position under cover of darkness? In which case, too, there would be no need for cavalry. Hervey sighed: that would be disappointing in the extreme, for not only would they be deprived of an action, they would have the indignity of being mere spectators to the infantry’s battle (and of bearing the taunts thereafter).
Just as Hervey was about to ask Martyn’s opinion, Lord George came up. The commanding officer’s charger, a liver-chestnut a full hand higher than Jessye, moved with an extension that spoke of both the animal’s quality and his rider’s purpose.
‘Sir Edward, send someone to see what goes there,’ said Lord George, giving the merest nod in the direction of the infantry. ‘It woul
d be well to know if we have given up the Alberche once and for all.’
‘Very good, Colonel.’
Sir Edward felt no need of elaboration, couched though his orders were in the most gentlemanly and imprecise terms. Lord George’s intention was clear, and he could trust to his captain’s discretion how it was to be accomplished. The infantry may have the most of the fighting, Hervey reflected, but they did it with enough words of command to fill a book. The cavalry had their own manual, with evolutions as complex, but there remained the imperative for prompt and independent action, requiring discrimination and celerity – the cavalry coup d’oeil. He sat a little taller in the saddle, and surveyed the field.
‘Mr Laming, Mr Hervey,’ said Sir Edward, without turning his head. ‘Take a serjeant’s detachment apiece and make contact with the infantry to discover what the enemy does and what the divisional commander’s intention is there. Mr Laming, take as your left boundary the road to our front, and, Mr Hervey, it is to be your right boundary, both to use it as you will. But the Alberche is to be the limit of any reconnaissance. I would have a first report within the hour, if you please.’ Sir Edward’s tone and manner reflected that of the lieutenant-colonel, but a degree sharper.
Lieutenant Martyn, though no order had been addressed to him directly, stood in the stirrups and turned his head. ‘Serjeant Crook, Serjeant Strange!’
In less than a minute, the two patrols – nine men each plus serjeant – were raising dust on the road down which the Spanish had marched all morning.
After half a mile Hervey swung north across the heath, which a few days before had supported so many sheep that it reminded him of Salisbury Plain. Now they were gone. Where, he had no notion. Not into the Sixth’s stomachs, that was certain. The smoke was getting thicker; he could see nothing at all beyond the Alberche. He could not even make out where exactly was the line of the river. If the French were crossing, they did so much further to the south, where it joined the Tagus, and where a bridge would save them wet feet. From his map he knew the Alberche ran south-west before bending more to the south for a mile until its confluence with the Tagus, and the road he had first ridden down, his boundary with Laming, swung due north at the bend, so if he crossed the road he knew he must turn half-right in order to come up to the river. Otherwise he would err north and find no one. He had never seen smoke so thick, not even in Wiltshire when the farmers burned the stubble. It had drifted so far that he could no longer see Laming’s patrol. He was becoming anxious about keeping direction.
Crack!
A dragoon clutched at his shoulder, with a look more astonished than pained.
Before Hervey knew what had happened there was a volley. Then bluecoats swarmed from the smoke, and his gut twisted so much that he near clutched it. ‘Draw swords!’
He heard them rasp from the scabbards behind him, then thought better of it.
‘Threes about!’
He turned, to see the movement already done, save for Serjeant Strange, who reined round calmly, keeping his sword vertical as if on parade.
‘Away!’
They spurred into an untidy gallop, Private Porter still clutching at his shoulder with his sword hand.
There was no time to worry for him. Hervey’s one thought was to put a safe distance between them and the voltigeurs. Musketry followed their every stride. A ball whistled through the crest of his Tarleton.
After two furlongs they pulled up, but it took Serjeant Strange’s bark to get them to front, sharp.
Hervey returned his sword and took out his telescope. The smoke was drifting again but he could just make out the French infantry turning south towards the road. Had Laming seen them, or heard?
‘We had better see what the others do, Serjeant Strange. We’ll make for that ruin yonder.’ He nodded to what looked to be a substantial farmhouse a hundred yards to their right. He could see redcoats to the rear of it, some of them lying down. ‘Can you ride back to the troop unaided, Porter?’
Private Porter could not speak.
‘Go with him, Corporal Welsh,’ said Hervey, shaking open his map. ‘Make your report to Captain Edmonds. Tell him that I intend standing at the . . . Casa de Salinas.’
Corporal Welsh closed with Porter to support him, and then turned back for the troop. Hervey and the rest struck off at a canter in the opposite direction. He felt the deficiency of the report all too well, but what more could he do than send word of first contact and what he intended? He could hardly speculate as to how they had collided with the voltigeurs: the French might have crossed the Alberche under cover of the smoke, or the ‘voltigeurs’ might even be cavalry come down the north bank from Escalona, dismounting to advance through the smoke. It seemed unlikely, but it was possible. Would wet feet not have run into Anson’s brigade, however? They were in close watch of the river for just such a crossing.
He soon had his answer. As they closed with the brigade resting behind the Casa de Salinas a heavy musketry opened from the trees a hundred yards beyond. Scores of redcoats fell to the first volley. Many who jumped to their feet were instantly struck down. The fire continued – increased – as more French poured from the woods, blazing away as they found their line. Order among the redcoats dissolved.
Hervey galloped for the ruins, head low on Jessye’s neck. He pulled up in cover, saw they made it without loss, dismounted and scrambled atop a broken-down wall to see what assailed them. Only then did he wonder if he exceeded his orders.
Serjeant Strange clambered up beside him. ‘Irish, sir, Connaughts,’ he said in the measured voice of Suffolk. ‘They’re good men packed tight in ranks with a serjeant’s spontoon to prod them, but the devil’s own without it.’
Hervey looked back. They were running now, as if the hounds of hell were after them.
‘They’ll not re-form until they gets behind a standing line, sir. Mightn’t we go and form?’
Hervey inclined his head. ‘I reckon we’re more useful to them here, Serjeant Strange.’ He did not add ‘if we ourselves aren’t cut off’.
As suddenly as the French had appeared there were green jackets on the far side of the road.
Serjeant Strange saw them first. ‘Sixtieth, sir, yonder! A welcome sight, they.’
Strange’s capacity for understatement was ever arresting: Hervey sighed with relief as he saw the other battalion of General Donkin’s brigade – Rifles, not so regulated as musket-infantry, and, resting in the cover of trees, evidently not thrown into confusion by surprise.
The Sixtieth opened a counter-fire. It soon told. The French checked and began falling back.
Here was their chance of escape, Hervey realized. If they galloped now, they would be clear away before the French could come on again. For all he knew, too, voltigeurs might already have worked themselves further round to the south. But where was Laming?
‘Look, sir!’ Serjeant Strange pointed up the road.
Laming and his men were galloping flat out for the ruin. Hervey saw what must happen, but hadn’t the slightest means of averting it. In seconds they were galloping across the Sixtieth’s front. Three horses went down, their dragoons hit in leg or side.
Hervey’s men began waving and cheering. ‘Here! Over here!’
Laming’s patrol pulled up hard in the cover of the ruin. Hervey jumped down from the wall and ran to his fellow cornet.
‘The French are pouring across the river,’ gasped Laming, for once not troubling to maintain a pose. ‘There’s no sign of Anson’s brigade. They must’ve crossed well to the north.’
‘That were our men firing, sir,’ said Serjeant Crook, jumping from the saddle, his horse in a worse lather than any. ‘Bell and Owens is down.’ He glanced at the others. ‘And Horncastle.’
‘Good God,’ said Laming, horrified by what he had just led them into. ‘We’d better go back.’
‘You and me, sir, and Corporal Hart,’ insisted Crook. ‘The others should stay here.’
‘Yes, very well.’ Laming was glad
of the advice, his thoughts still on what had happened. ‘Shall you wait here, Hervey?’
‘I shall.’ He did not add ‘unless we are driven out’.
The Sixtieth’s fire was slackening. Hervey watched as Laming, Crook and Corporal Hart galloped back to where the dragoons had fallen. He did not see the little group of staff officers galloping up from Talavera until they had dismounted and begun scrambling up the wall next to him. The profile of the foremost was unmistakable, however – hawklike.
Shots rang out from the right, almost behind them. Hervey turned to see French sharpshooters swarming through the scrub, out of sight to the Sixtieth. Sir Arthur Wellesley at once jumped down from the wall and turned and looked at him, though without a word. Serjeant Strange had fired his carbine by the time the commander-in-chief’s foot was in the stirrup, and he had reloaded and fired a second time before Hervey realized they could have no support from the Sixtieth.
‘Mount!’
Serjeant Strange fired both his pistols, deliberately and in turn, while the others eagerly complied with Hervey’s order.
As they edged round the rear of the farmhouse, Hervey saw Laming coming back down the road – and none too hurriedly – two of the dragoons lying lifeless across the saddle. He glanced back at the sharpshooters. The ruin stood in their line of sight: they could afford to take it at a trot and give Laming some support – but not for long.
‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ said Lord George Irvine, gravely but surely. ‘Admirably clear reports. I compliment you on choosing the position of observation, Mr Hervey. I am saddened by the loss of two men, and to our own fire, but I fear it is ever thus in our business. You acted very properly, Mr Laming. I commend your address in recovering them.’
The two cornets saluted, reined about and rode back to the right of the line, with Sir Edward Lankester leading. When they were halted again, Hervey turned to his troop-leader and spoke in a lowered voice. ‘Serjeant Strange acted throughout with very marked coolness, Sir Edward. He stood firing his carbine as we remounted at the ruin, totally unbidden.’
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