The Plains of Talavera

by Martin McDowell

  The army was less than campaign fit, a sea voyage, then weeks in Lisbon had taken its toll on their capacity to march at the pace Wellesley demanded. Over the first days, several could be seen at the roadside having fallen out with blisters or muscle cramp. However, it was much to the satisfaction of the Senior Officers of the 105th that not one man left their ranks. Lacey allowed a nod of congratulation to himself; the days of drill up in the Campo had been much to the good, his men were as good as any, better than most. However, what also helped was the veteran experience of the likes of Jed Deakin, Tom Miles and even Joe Pike. It was but the third day that found Tucker and Solomons suffering. The frame of their pack cut into the small of their backs and the cross-strap of it that connected the two shoulder straps was tight across their chests, making breathing difficult. Deakin told them to undo the buttons of their jacket and open it up, so that the thick wool and thick green facing bars were no longer beneath the cross-strap, thus making space. Pike told them to put the pack’s shoulder straps above their shoulder tabs, not under them, to give more thickness between their shoulders and the weight. Tom Miles gave them the benefit of his experience that night in camp.

  “Get a ‘Frencher pack’ first chance you gets. Theirs is made out of good strong cowhide and don’t come apart in the rain. On top, theirs don’t have no cross-strap and rides higher on yer back.”

  The problem with the frame was solved by Deakin.

  “On parade your blanket has to be a neat roll on top. Out yer, that’s as much use as your stock.”

  He pointed to his neck, now bare. The stiff leather collar that had held his head correctly in place whilst stood on parade was now at the bottom of his own pack.

  “Roll your blanket into a thin roll to run between the straps at the bottom. That’ll keep the wood away from your back. An’ keep yer blanket dry.”

  The next day saw all as advised on the persons of Tucker and Solomons. Sergeant Ellis made no comment about the irregularities. He was marching using exactly the same modifications.

  Stewart’s Battalion was managing a good fifteen miles each day and Wellesley’s orders that his army marches North with a time gap of often a day between Brigades was also producing dividends. An army marching through provides good business for the local population and the 12 or 24 hours gap gave the locals in the towns time to replenish their stocks, of whatever they may have to sell, it being a huge variety ranging from fresh fruit to horse fodder. They had reached Leiria, the main town between Coimbra and Lisbon and the 105th, as for the other two Battalions, had been allowed to fall out and were lounging in the shade. Spring had arrived, significantly warm.

  The filemates, Miles, Davey and Pike had obtained permission to visit the market stalls speedily put up on their arrival. Miles and Davey had been examining useful items, such as knives and small axes, while Pike concerned himself with more feminine items. He picked up a bracelet.

  “Do you think she’d like that, John?”

  Davey examined the workmanship, but it was Miles who spoke up.

  “Save yer money, boy. There’ll be plenty of such you’ll be pickin’ up for free if this jaunt goes right. Civilians is always quick to go and they always leaves behind what they can’t carry.”

  “But that’s stealing Tom!”

  Then from Davey.

  “More like lootin’, Tom. They’ll stretch your neck!”

  “I don’t see it as such, more like findin’ a good home for what’s been abandoned. ‘Sides, I don’t take nothin’ as won’t go in my pack and won’t need chuckin’ away as bein’ too bulky. On top, ‘tis we as is clearin’ the Frogs out of ‘ere, so I looks upon the odd ornament or whatnot as fair payment.”

  Meanwhile Davey had fixed upon a large knife and a handy sized axe. After much finger raising to indicate price, a bargain was struck and they returned to their companions, the axe to go into Davey’s backpack, the knife into that of Miles. Now it was time for food and all the group, which included Toby Halfway as Jed Deakin’s closest friend, were content to give over their rations to the wives of Jed Deakin and Henry Nicholls. This was because Bridie could work miracles with the indigestible saltbeef that was their ration. Few could match her knowledge of the herbs to be found along the wayside and Nelly’s doughcakes were unmatched within any one's experience.

  However, this occasion saw renewed hostilities between Tom Miles and Nelly Nicholls. The stew of beef, potatoes and peas, was ladled from the pot by Bridie, but the doughcakes given out by Nelly. Tom Miles received one that was significantly smaller than most others, three inches instead of four. He pointed to one of decent size.

  “Why can’t I have that one?”

  Nelly took instant umbrage, never far from the surface in the presence of Tom Miles, and Nelly had had a tiring day. Henry Nicholls looked up from his place amongst the group to judge whether or not his wife required his support, but, as usual, there was no need. The repost was fierce with the serving spoon not far from Miles’ nose.

  “First, because that’s the one as’ve come first to hand, and second ‘cos a gobshite like you don’t deserve no more than the next man!”

  Miles was about to hit her, but luckily Zeke Saunders, who towered over both, was next in line. His hand on Miles’ forearm was enough to prevent any blow, but Miles was livid.

  “You baggage! What the bloody Hell would you know about bein’ fair? Fair’s what’s best for thee an’ none other. Savin’ the best for last and thyself and they husband, you old ……”

  Henry Nicholls did now stand up.

  “Miles! You got a problem, you takes it up with me!”

  However, Saunders had pulled him away and was now in front of Nelly. He wore a stern look, unusual for him.

  “Which for me?”

  The question was full of undertone and even menace. Nelly gave him the biggest.

  “Well, such a size as y’are, I do suppose that ye should have a good one.”

  She felt under suspicion and thus felt the need to justify herself.

  “Sure, when you’re makin’ them up, ‘tis impossible to tell how they’ll turn out! None’ll be equal!”

  The last shouted at Tom Miles, but it was Saunders who answered.

  “I believe you, Mother. I’m sure you’re right.”

  The generous doughcake fell onto his plate and Saunders turned away, to then break off a piece and give it to Miles, who wasted no time in showing his plate to Nelly with the extra now on it, but Saunders ushered him away before any more could be said. When Miles sat down, a stern look from Jed Deakin was enough to signal the end of this particular argument. A long look from Sergeant Henry Nicholls also prevented any further outbreak of hostilities.

  Mayday saw the 105th march into Coimbra, a town of learning and culture, but there was little of such in evidence, for, although the buildings were open, there were precious few students nor many of their mentors. The allied army simply marched in and made the best of what was available, for there were no tents now, all remained in Lisbon, and so all had to shift for themselves, finding shelter in doorways, sheds, outbuildings, or simply in a narrow alleyway. Not so for most Officers who were found billets of various degrees of comfort, but at least they were under a roof. Carr and Drake, with Coimbra wholly unknown to them, after a decent supper, decided to leave their abode, which was merely a well appointed coach-house, to take a walk and a look at the town in the warm evening air, leaving Lieutenants Maltby and Shakeshaft in charge of the Company. They walked the narrow streets, as bordered by elegant buildings and, on passing one of the more imposing, found themselves confronted by Private Byford of the Light Company, exiting the building. He was well known as an educated man, yet none knew his history, but, him knowing that Coimbra was a University town with many libraries, he had decided to visit the nearest, this being but a few streets from where the Light Company were at their ease. Byford sprang to the attention, staring over Carr’s left shoulder, and saluted. The reply from both Officers was an airy wav
e of their hand, but Drake was less than pleased.

  “What are you doing here, Private?”

  “Visiting this library, Sir, Taking the opportunity to obtain some reading, Sir.”

  “Who gave you permission?”

  “My Section Commander. Sir, Lieutenant Shakeshaft.”

  This gave both Officers pause. Permission had been given and so, unless he was lying, there could be no disciplinary offence, other than the possibility of theft.

  Drake continued.

  “And did you? Obtain some reading?”

  Byford remained at attention.

  “With your permission, Sir.”

  Drake nodded and so Byford reached into his haversack and drew out a thickish leather bound book, which he held vertical, face to the Officers. The cover was blank, bar the picture of a Roman Legionary. Drake remained curious.

  “And this is a book of what?”

  Byford turned the book so that Drake could see the spine, but it was too small.

  “You read it.”

  Byford did not need to.

  “History of Tertium Bellum Servile, Sir. ”

  No response from either Officer and so Byford explained further.

  “It’s Roman History, Sir.”

  Drake got to the point.

  “Did you steal it?”

  Byford was incensed

  “No indeed not, Sir! I was lucky enough to meet a Latin Professor who engaged me in conversation, Sir. He generously gave me this copy. They have several. Sir.”

  He paused for reaction, but none came.

  “He’s just inside, at a desk. Sir.”

  The reply was a stony look from both Officers, but it was Carr who terminated the conversation. He knew Byford when he commanded the Light Company and knew that what he spoke was almost certainly the truth.

  “Byford. You know what this looks like. You, a ranker, coming out of a building such as this, for which you have little or no business in.”

  “Sir!”

  “You’re lucky it’s us and not a bunch of Provosts. If you want to visit academia, see me first, and I’ll give you a note. That’s how things are and that’s something that should be well known to a man such as you.”

  He paused, but nothing more from Byford.

  “Back to your Section.”

  Byford returned the book to his haversack, sprang to attention and saluted. He did not wait for a response, but skirted around the two and made off. Drake looked at Carr.

  “Rum cove that!”

  They watched him disappear.

  “Any idea what the book was?”

  “Haven’t a clue! History of some war of some sort.”

  Byford soon arrived back at their camp, to find a mood of misery. There was no firewood to be had anywhere, even with such as Davey, Miles, Bailey and Saunders as the search party. Supper was water and biscuits dipped in salt. Meanwhile, Carr and Drake wandered on to drink two glasses of wine at an open tavern, the both of which were given without charge. The good people of Coimbra well knew that all to the North of them was French territory and they knew who would be attempting to keep them at bay, therefore they felt obliged to be more than merely accommodating.

  French existing off to the North was a fact not unknown to Colonel Lacey. The order at dawn was for parade and inspection, to be undertaken by both Officers and Sergeants. Ellis, perhaps to maintain at least the merest of passable of relations with Miles paid no more attention to his kit than to any other member of the Light Company, but, inspection done, Lacey marched them off to a large open space with a pair of posts at each end of some ground covered in hoof marks. A polo field concluded his Officers and all were incredulous that it was played in Portugal, but here the Battalion practiced again moving from column to line and then to defensive square, then back again. This entertainment soon attracted an audience who cheered and applauded each change, accompanied to the sound of the drums, as beaten out by the Battalion Drummerboys.

  That evening there was wood. Foraging parties, Officer led, had gone out far and wide to gather from the wooded hills. Fresh wood was obligatory, for the order came that any wood taken from houses or any building would be regarded as looting. Wellesley was taking no chances with offending the local population, who would not have begrudged a few sticks of old furniture anyway, what with the town prospering immensely from the presence of so much hungry and moneyed soldiery. Thus, was much of the army occupied for the next three days, largely taking their ease. In the Deakin group, to maintain the peace, he himself made sure that where Nelly Nicholls was, Tom Miles was not.

  On the 5th May Lacey called his Officers for a meeting, using the floor of Carr and Drake’s coach-house. He wasted no time.

  “There are rumours of the French having evacuated Oporto. Ignore them! They are not true and I want the men in a state of mind as if they were going to meet the French this afternoon. The Johnnies are still in Oporto and all reports confirm that they are some way South, if only to monitor our progress and perhaps do us some damage, if we make a mistake, or at least delay us, whilst they fortify Oporto. We are manoeuvring to retake the city. Mackenzie’s Brigade, reinforced by Portuguese, have been sent back to Abrantes to hold off any French that may appear behind us. Tomorrow, General Beresford marches inland with two Brigades of British and Portuguese to get around the city that way if he can cross the Douro, or at least give Soult a headache if he learns of their presence. The day after tomorrow, we march out. Wellesley has put our Stewart’s Brigade and General Perry’s KGL into a Division under General Paget. I’m sure we remember him from the stroll we had back to Coruna !”

  Many smiled, not at the memory of Coruna nor even being commanded by the very able Paget, merely the absurd description of the Coruna retreat.

  “Ensure your men are ready!”

  oOo

  A similar military meeting was taking place away to the North, inland at the small town of Lamego, in the mountains above the River Douro. Fray Juan Delica had wandered inland after Oporto, deciding within himself what should be his response, whilst being fed and sheltered by the local population who knew his as a Man of God. Amongst his flock, talking, eating and listening, he had learned of the depravations of the French around Oporto as they gathered their food and supplies. A French army lived off the land, taking whatever they needed from the local population, and he now knew the consequences. He had heard of small bands resisting the French and the brutal reprisals exacted by their French occupiers. Gradually the conclusion grew within him that this invading army must be fought, it was almost a Crusade to do so, and that if those willing to fight could be brought together and led, then, as a co-ordinated force they could do far more damage than acting as little more than separate bands of brigands picking off the odd Frenchman.

  Thus, as he roamed he spread the word, for all those ready to fight to meet at Lamego Church on the evening of the 5th and so now he stood, as he so often had before, at the meeting of the transepts, the aisle and the chancel, but this time, very much not as a man of peace. Men were filing in and not a few women, all taking their place in the pews and up in the gallery above, but there was little talking; the habit of waiting silently for guided worship was too strong in such a place. When no more had entered for three minutes, and their number was approaching two hundred, Juan Delica threw up his hands and there was instant silence. He then spoke, not of patriotism, or love of their King, merely of the need to defend their homes and families and to make the French fearful of venturing out of Oporto in nothing less than serious strength. This would give time to prepare for their arrival, which meant hiding their food, women and children, and to fight and harass the French all the way. He spoke of a ‘guerrilla’, a little war, to be fought by them in aid of their own King’s army.

  This last brought forth rousing cheers and many cries of “Conduzir nos!”, but he did not want to become their leader, he had no military experience at all, not even from books. He asked if any there were ever in the army,
but none came forward. There was total silence as he looked around, then he slowly nodded and smiled as the cheering as renewed. What choice did he have? So, the first sensible task was to see who had weapons and who had horses. The former was done inside the Church, the latter outside. Fray Juan Delica’s guerrilla band had been formed.

  oOo

  The 105th led the infantry column that marched North on the Grand Trunk, but they were not in the lead for the whole army. This was undertaken by the Light Cavalry led by General Stapleton-Cotton and behind them came the Light Infantry screen composed of the three Companies of Stewart’s Brigade. All had been on the march for two days and all were in good spirits even if now apprehension was growing as they came nearer by the hour to the awaiting French. At the front of the Battalion on the road came the Colour Party and, as usual, the less experienced Ensigns were hoping for answers and predictions from the three veterans alongside, these being Colour Sergeants Deakin and Bennet and RSM Gibney, although most questions were directed at Deakin and came mostly from Rushby.

  “What happens if we encounter the French, say, in the next hour, Sergeant.”

  Deakin manipulated his chinstrap with his jaw.

  “We’ll stop, Sir, an’ await orders.”

  A poor answer, thought Rushby.

  “And then?”

  “We’ll wait what the cavalry have to say, Sir. ‘Twill be them as’ve spied the Johnnies, an’ so a parcel of they will come back to report. Then ‘tis up to the General. Sir.”

  “What would you hope?”

  “That we sees them, afore they sees us, Sir. Then we can do what’s best for us, without no hindrance from them.”

  “Do you think there will be a battle?”

  “Oh, there’ll be somethin’, Sir. Afore long.”

  Rushby leaned forward in order to view the giant figure of Gibney.

  “What do you think, Sergeant Major?”

  Gibney flexed his chin and twisted his mouth, movements emphasised by his magnificent whiskers. He was a man of few words and this occasion was no different, nor was his broad Yorkshire accent.