The Plains of Talavera

by Martin McDowell

  “Good luck to them with that!”

  Drake nodded.

  “Rather them than me!”

  Carr smiled, the euphoria of a successful combat still within him.

  “I’d rather them than you! I can ride better than you!”

  Drake made no reply. The judgment was probably true! Then, not now to Carr’s surprise, Stewart arrived and again came the whisky flask, but Carr felt able to refuse.

  “I’d prefer water, Sir!”

  Stewart motioned one of his Dragoons forward and he passed down his flask, another doing the same for Drake. As both pulled deeply from the flasks, Stewart spoke.

  “Get your men into the village, Carr, and await your Colonel. He’s coming up shortly. Tell him that the 16th Portuguese will be advancing on his right, the KGL on his left. The Detachments in reserve. Wellesley wants us pushing straight on to Oporto.”

  He leaned forward, his forearms on the pommel of his saddle.

  “Ye’ve done well! Best of all, the Portuguese, I’m riding over to tell them, but Johnny made no stand anywhere. The KGL pushed them back like an open door!”

  Carr nodded, the flask now back with its owner.

  “They’re hoping to stop us at Oporto, Sir.”

  Stewart was already moving.

  “I don’t doubt that, laddie. Not for a second.”

  Carr led his men into the village, but saw no dead French. The only life that arrived were civilians, crawling up out of cellars and other holes in the ground, grateful that their village had not been fought over. Carr led his men through and waited in the field beyond to take stock and estimate casualties, and it wasn’t long before his Regiment came up, Lacey and O’Hare in the lead. Carr saluted, as did Lacey and O’Hare, then Carr reported.

  “Two dead, Sir. Six wounded, three severely.

  Lacey nodded.

  “Leave them with the Surgeon. Meanwhile, we are in the centre for the next advance, so Stewart has told me. You’re in the rear, Carr. Yours have done enough.”

  Carr saluted.

  “Sir.”

  But Lacey had gone, leaving the two Majors alone and sharing a water flask, Lacey was making straight for Carravoy.

  “Captain! Get yours on a company front, two lines. We are advancing forward in column to see if Johnny has anything left in him today.”

  He stared into Carravoy’s face.

  “Five minutes!”

  That was clearly an order and so Carravoy ran off, to find his Lieutenants and Sergeants. His Grenadiers looked almost pristine having endured nothing bar a march up from Lisbon and, due to the efforts of his Sergeants, they were soon in a two deep line, 40 men across and all the remaining nine Companies in the same formation, drawn up close behind. When Lacey was satisfied, he looked over to his right to see the column of the 16th Portuguese, then behind to see the Detachments also with a 40 man front. A turn to his left saw a column of the KGL already in place, probably one of the four Battalions that had seen no combat so far. Lacey had only to wait for orders and they came from the highest level. Wellesley himself came galloping up, accompanied by his Staff, his escort and Brigadier Stewart. At the sight of the bi-corn hat, worn ‘fore and aft”, Lacey ordered Gibney to bring the whole column to ‘present arms’ which was in process by the time Wellesley arrived and he seemed to fully appreciate, lifting his hat as he passed the first rank. He recognized Lacey.

  “Afternoon Lacey! Pleased to see you are well.”

  Lacey saluted, which was acknowledged.

  “Afternoon, Sir.”

  “Move your men on, the rest will follow. There is a cavalry screen out in front of you, but I don’t expect Johnny to stand again, at least not this side of the river. He’ll be over his bridge at Oporto and then set about feeling more secure, probably by exploding the damn thing.”

  He sat upright in his saddle and looked at Stewart, then back to Lacey.

  “Can’t be helped.”

  He smiled down.

  “Two hours marching and you’ll be there.”

  He turned his horse.

  “Good to see you again, Lacey. And your men!”

  With that he was gone, leaving Stewart with Lacey and O’Hare.

  “Best march on then, Colonel.”

  The orders were given and they set off and soon they came to the results of the cavalry charge down the narrow road. All three men wordlessly passed the sight of rows of dead, both French and British, and several horses, now dead, having been shot because of broken legs caused when their riders had presumably attempted to clear the walls either side, the better to attack their enemy. Wellesley was correct with all his predictions, for they saw no sign of a retreating army, no equipment discarded, only a few French too wounded to continue. Within two hours they were at Villa Nova on their side of the Douro and almost at the exact moment when they caught sight of the wooden bridge of boats, it was blown up, sending a mushroom of white smoke and dark wood up into the sky. The last of the French were now on the quayside, having trodden upon the bridge but minutes before. There was nothing left for the Allies to do, but to make camp and await their Commander’s wishes. However, the last act of the day was for the energetic Colonel Waters, Wellesley’s Senior Intelligence Officer, Wellesley’s eyes and ears for any advance into unknown territory, to visit Juan Delica. By dawn three wagons of supplies, weapons and munitions were being shared out amongst his followers. Juan Delica and his followers were now truly in the war.

  oOo

  Chapter Two

  But One River to Cross

  Lacey and O’Hare sat their chairs, each purloined from a nearby abandoned house and both men perched high on the Serra Heights, but close to the walls of the Convent built on that significant summit. The solid sanctuary rose high to their right, somehow lowering over them; Holy walls, tall and white, with jutting parapet and Catholic crosses described in bis relief every ten yards, religiously ornate in black and gold. They each cupped a glass of brandy in their hands, the better to warm up the enlivening spirit before taking a grateful sip, now that night was fully fallen and the chill sea breeze fully woken. O’Hare was of full Irish descent, softly spoken and kindly to all in both English and Gaelic and few Officers dwelt as highly in the affections of their men as Padraigh O’Hare, except perhaps Captain Joshua Heaviside and their own Colonel. Despite the difference in rank, they were firm friends, a friendship born of respect and confidence, each in the other, and now, on their third campaign together, they sat and watched the last embers of the bridge burn themselves out, the aftermath of the late afternoon explosion. Also, close to the opposite bank, burned the last boats of Oporto, those that could not be drawn up out of the water, and so they burned down to the waterline, the crackle of the bursting boats timbers across from them adding to the sound of rumbling artillery wheels behind.

  It was O’Hare who spoke the question that each was thinking.

  “So, how to cross that?”

  The wide waters of the Douro showed shiny black against the dancing flames, but the power of both the river and tide were clear in the turbulence that showed both on the dark surface and in the sound of the outgoing current surging against the remains of the bridge of boats, this now merely shattered uprights protruding from the black surface. Both men were slowly shaking their heads, but Lacey began at least a train of thought.

  “An assault in boats directly across that doesn’t bear thinking about. M’sieu would line up his guns on the far bank and that would be that.”

  O’Hare wasn’t so sure.

  “We’d have our own guns up here, giving strong support. From up here!”

  “We would, but you saw what I saw. Fascines all along that bank opposite to give his guns cover from our fire. I can’t see how any number of batteries up here could make much difference.”

  O’Hare changed tack.

  “What about fording down stream at low tide?”

  Lacey had that covered.

  “We’d have to wait for a very low
one and again, you saw what I saw, Soult has marched almost all his force seawards. He has most of his strength between the bridge here and the beach.”

  Both took a drink of brandy, before O’Hare spoke again.

  “So what then?”

  But he answered his own question.

  “Outflank inland, where Beresford’s been sent?”

  Lacey replied, somewhat sorrowfully.

  “Yes, but he has only one Brigade, some cavalry and a few Rifles. Soult could hold us on this side of the river with but a quarter of his force, six men, a boy and a dog, and march out to crush Beresford or at least send him running back!”

  Both drank again, before O’Hare voiced the conclusion lodged within the minds of both.

  “Glad I’m not a General!”

  Such ideas were far from the thoughts of his own men, now spending the last two hours between their evening meal and bedding down for the night on the back slopes of the Serra Hill, hidden there from the French. The children were snug inside a lean-to shelter which they could all now make up, as instructed by ex-poacher Chosen Man Davey. The tasks at hand were mostly concerned with cleaning, especially their Baker rifles, and repair, but little of the latter. The day’s fighting had taken only slight toll on their equipment, but many in the group were considering how to use a French pack in place of their own. Did any there know anyone in the Battalion baggage train who could be bribed to store their King George issue in an odd space? Len Bailey thought he did. Thus, in the main, the group were in good heart, they had eaten a good meal and there was much French booty to be made good use of, but suddenly the mood changed as Deakin sprang to his feet followed by all the others. It was not Heaviside, he had come and gone with a mug of tea inside him; this was new, a visit from Reverend Albright, accompanied by Private Sedgwicke. The Reverend saw the end of this particular day as a perfect opportunity to visit ‘his flock’, despite the advice from Sedgwicke, that the men would all be busy making good after the long march and combat. The reply had been both stern and dismissive.

  “When, Private, is there not a good time to say a Prayer to the Lord?”

  Being deeply religious himself, Sedgwicke could fashion no appropriate answer and so around they went on their hopeless task of visiting each mess group before ‘lights out’ and each soldier wrapped themselves in their blankets to sleep. However, such mathematical considerations dwelt not in the ecumenical concerns of the good Albright and thus Deakin’s group were the fifth visited in the all encompassing dark, each identified by their bright campfires. The Battalion Chaplain came into the centre of the light and began as though he were bestowing the most uplifting and vital service to all within hearing, filling the gap that existed in the centre of all their requirements.

  “Men, I have come amongst you to lead you in a prayer of thanks. Please stand and bow your heads.”

  All already were, for an Officer had come amongst them, and all knew that the Reverend’s words were tantamount to an order.

  “Oh Dear Lord, we lift our hands and our hearts to give thanks to You for your granting that we be chosen to survive this day of trial and that we all meet here now in good fellowship and gratitude for the success of our arms.”

  He stopped, which all took as a good end to a short prayer, so they began to sit down, Miles being the most lithe and wiry actually achieving a sitting position, but the Reverend was just getting into his stride and so Miles had to regain his feet, which did not help his mood.

  “In the name of our Dear Lord and your Dear Son, Jesus Christ, we beseech you to keep us safe and to grant us victory over the Godless foe who do stretch their wicked hands across this Christian land. Grant, oh Lord, that we march always in strong Faith in thee and that our deeds and thoughts lie in righteous harmony with the teachings of our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ.”

  Another pause, but no-one moved.

  “Amen.”

  The response came from all around, some sincere, but some reluctant and with ill grace, but the Reverend still had not finished, although all were now sat as if he had. He stood his ground, hands clasped together before his chest, slightly leaning forward, his wide brimmed priestly hat tilting and rising as he spoke.

  “I trust that you all are in good heart and fine spirits after this excellent day for our cause?”

  He beamed around, the firelight red on his shaven cheeks and bright on his many buttons. It was Miles who answered.

  “Yes, Reverend. We’n all well fed. Now! None of us is hungry. Nor cold, not tonight, anyhow.”

  The irony and lack of spiritual content in Miles reply were lost on the good Reverend, but not on Sedgwicke. He knew that his superior had interrupted the only free time the men had and he knew that they now should move on.

  “I think we can manage one or two more before sleep, Sir. There is a camp just over here, Sir, if you’d like to follow me!”

  Still beaming and still holding the same pose and feeling well satisfied with his work, Albright followed Sedgwicke out of the firelight and into the intervening dark. Within a minute all of his prior congregation were wrapped in their blankets and a minute after that, fast asleep. The last light on the Allied bank to be extinguished was in the Convent as a meeting between Wellesley and his Brigadiers broke up. They had asked just the same questions as had Lacey and O’Hare and voiced just the same, unhelpful answers.

  The following dawn broke mild and overcast and began with no more military activity than opposing Officers studying each other through telescopes. When the light grew, Wellesley, up on his hill, even picked out Soult, and vice versa, Soult obvious on a balcony opposite. What purposeful activity there was, happened somewhat upstream and was centred around Colonel Waters, Wellesley’s Senior Intelligence Officer and now well established as a compatriot of Juan Delica. Waters and three others, in the growing light within the valley, were lying down atop a ridge, which descended to the riverbank. The three with him were Juan Delica, a barber from Oporto and a dockside foreman, the last used to dealing with English ships. He could speak some English and now belonged to Delica’s guerrillas. The barber had crossed the Douro during the night in a hidden skiff and found Delica, who had then sought out Waters for inclusion in their own discussion late the previous night. This had now resulted in the four staring intently across the busy brown/green waters. The barber now pointed forward.

  “Está vendo ali, quatro barcaças de vinho.”

  No translation was needed. Waters could see the four large wine barges, plainly used to ferry a wine cargo out to vessels too large to enter the harbour. Each was moored against the far bank and, as Waters studied further, the barber continued.

  “Não há nenhum francês aqui. Eles estão todos dentro da cidade.”

  Waters looked at the docks foreman, for interpretation.

  “He says that there are no French this far up. They are all in the city.”

  Waters continued looking over the river, this time studying a large, high walled compound with an imposing building within. Close alongside the river, it was also isolated by some way from the Oporto quayside by a wide, empty space, which was open to the river. A road ran up from the quayside, whilst on the far side there was nothing. Almost hidden by the walls and building, a scattered group of houses came down the slope to meet the very back wall. Waters pointed across the river, then addressed their translator.

  “What is that?”

  The reply arrived back, after translation.

  “The Seminary of our Bishop.”

  One more question.

  “Can you see the Serra Convent and the Bridge of Boats from the Seminary?”

  After translation, the reply from the barber was quick.

  “Si senhor. Muito claramente.”

  Waters needed no translation and slid backwards to leave, but he was stopped by the hand of Juan Delica on his arm.

  “Senor. Não há mais.”

  He looked at the interpreter.

  “He says there is more!”


  Juan Delica began talking rapidly and Waters listened and translated for himself as best he could, but he needed confirmation from the interpreter, and so he listened intently to what became vital information.

  “There is a ferry one and a half leguas upstream at Barca D’Avintas. It is being repaired and baled out by the people there.”

  “A working ferry?”