“Richard! Use you men and any others, to push those back. Right back!”
Hearing only the obedience of his orders, this shouts from the Redcoats, Carr had arrived within earshot of Lacey.
“Sir. I’ve left half the Lights and the three Companies above the Seminary.”
“Casualties?”
“Two wounded. Slightly. Here, Sir?”
“Same.”
Both smiled, both relieved.
“Any orders, Sir?”
“No, and I doubt there will be. At least, not for some time, we have a whole army to get across the Douro, so we’ll get the men settled here. I’ll find Burns and Ruskin and we’ll get ourselves into a camp beside the river, downstream. Make it easy for our Followers to find us and there we’re assembled as a Brigade, which Stewart will appreciate. Go back up and bring down the Companies you left. We’re at least a day here, probably two.”
oOo
The sounds of the conflict downstream came on the wind, rising and falling, either with the power of the gusts or with the ebb and flow of the fighting. The crossing using the ferry had been slow, but the only danger had come from the spatchcock nature of the repairs to its hull affected by the Portuguese, who had stood to cheer every Allied group of soldiers either marching aboard or marching off. With all his men over, Perry had felt it prudent to simply hold the section of bank now gained, but Withers had reminded him of the requirement to make contact and then make their presence felt. Now, with a visibly anxious Perry at their head, the column was advancing seawards along the North riverbank of the Douro, using the main road which they had found two miles after leaving the ferry. Immediately behind Perry and his Staff, came the two Squadrons of 14th Light Dragoons, followed by two field-guns and two Battalions of Kings German Legion infantry. Beside Perry, but just behind him, came Colonel Withers, Major Johnson, Tavender and Templemere. Portuguese civilians came out of their houses to clap and cheer, but this did nothing to ease Perry’s mind, especially when the sounds of fighting died away, finally to nothing. Perry’s anxieties heightened.
“Halt!”
The column halted behind him, which caused Withers to ride up, followed by Major Johnson, but it was Withers who spoke.
“Sir! We should push on and make contact.”
Perry turned to look at him, then he resumed his stare towards Oporto.
“What if Wellesley’s scheme has been an utter failure? What if we are the only Allied force on this bank? What if we were seen at the ferry and there is an overwhelming part of Soult’s army coming for us, now?”
“Agreed Sir. That is possible, but our orders are clear.”
Silence, and so Withers continued with an idea that may appeal to the doubly anxious Perry.
“Sir, if I may take our two Captains here, I’ll scout forward. Then you can proceed on, if circumstances allow.”
He knew that he needed to say something encouraging, even mollifying.
“Cautiously. I can give early warning if we are about to be attacked in force, then we can make a rapid withdrawal. Sir.”
Perry could not argue with the good sense in Withers suggestion, so whilst his anxiety waned, that within Tavender and Templemere waxed, but they had no choice as Withers turned to them.
“You two. With me.”
They walked their horses forward, but then Withers broke into a canter along the good road, a pace seemingly altogether too incautious for the pair. Withers then turned right to gain the top of a small hill and there he stopped. Across the valley, less than a mile beyond, could be seen a long blue ribbon, evidently on a road of its own. Withers drew his own telescope and studied the column, but it was too far to discern the detail he needed. However, he noticed that Tavender was using his and he hoped that he could see more.
“What can you see?”
Tavender waited a second.
“One long column, Sir.”
“Tell me. Are they in marching in Battalions? Blocks of infantry?”
“No Sir, it’s one long column.”
“Are their guns mixed up in the column?”
Tavender paused and studied.
“Yes Sir. I’d say so.”
Withers leaned over to him, holding out his hand.
“If I may?”
Tavender handed over the instrument and Withers focused for his own eyesight. Tavender was right, the infantry were in one long stream, with guns here and there, mixed in. He handed back the instrument.
“You’re right! And that’s a retreat, after a defeat. They’re pulling back and they’re all over the place. In no shape to do much to anyone.”
With no more words, he turned his horse and galloped back to the road, where the column had just come up to the point where they had left the road to surmount the hill. Breathless, they came up to Perry, where Withers immediately reported.
“Sir. The French are in full retreat, with no organisation at all.”
Perry’s brow became furrowed, but he said nothing, therefore Withers continued.
“If we get onto that ridge, Sir, we can cross the valley in column, then get into a firing line alongside their road, deploy our guns and cut off their retreat, Sir. We could capture thousands. There must be a pursuit behind them of some kind. They’ll soon reinforce us.”
Perry eased himself in his saddle. He had collected his thoughts.
“You recommend that we attack a whole army!”
It was not a question, it was a dismissal. Withers fell back onto his, safer, alternative.
“Sir. We should at least show ourselves to hurry them along and perhaps change their mind about attempting a rearguard. At least to deploy on that ridge up there, Sir. It’s a strong position for our infantry.”
He pointed to the hilltop that they had just left. Perry looked at him, but he had to agree.
“Agreed. But we remain in column. From the left, cavalry, guns, then our two KGL.”
He turned to Johnson.
“See to it, Major.”
As Johnson galloped off, Perry, followed immediately by the Light Dragoons, swung off the road and ascended the hill, the cavalrymen to soon become the leftward point of Perry’s deployment. There they waited for a good fifteen minutes, watching the French retreat through their telescopes, when Johnson spoke up.
“Sir. Someone’s coming, Sir, up from the road.”
All turned to see one rider in the lead, with a cavalry escort. The rider made straight for Perry’s group, but, by the time he arrived and had looked over the valley, he was visibly angry. He turned, face red and brow furrowed.
“Are you General Perry?”
Perry nodded.
“I am! And you are?”
“Stewart! Major General. And why are you not attacking that column?”
Perry realised that he was outranked.
“Because, Sir, I am vastly outnumbered. I had reason to believe that those over there are the whole of Soult’s force.”
The anger grew in Stewart’s face, but he wasted no time on argument, merely giving Perry a thunderous look, somewhere between contempt and astonishment.
“I’m taking one of your Squadrons.”
He looked at Tavender and Templemere as he rode forward, having noticed their distinctive Light Dragoon uniforms.
“You’re Cavalry aren’t you?”
The two nodded.
“Sir.”
“Then with me.”
It was Templemere who objected.
“But we’re 16th! Sir.”
The reply was dismissive and plainly brooked no argument.
“With me.”
They joined on the rear of Stewart’s escort and followed him as he rode up to the Commander of the first Squadron of the 14th that he came to.
“Name!”
“Captain Hervey, Sir.”
“How many men?”
“Just over 100, Sir, 110 to be exact.”
“We’re going to attack.”
Attack who was patently obvio
us, then Stewart rose in his stirrups and addressed the Troopers forming the line.
“Men of the 14th! Time to make our presence felt. There’s a French column over there who think they can wander off in their own time. Well, I’ve a mind to change their minds!”
He looked across the valley, then turned back to Hervey.
“Column of threes!”
As Hervey called back the order, Stewart drew his sabre, which was followed by all of the Squadron, without an order. Stewart spoke one word, heard by few, but the sweep of his sabre forward carried all the instruction needed.
“Forward!”
Forming a column three broad as they advanced, they crossed the valley. For Templemere this was a time of mounting disquiet, growing into outright fear. As the distance lessened, so the details grew, of individual men, guns, and Officers, these evidently taking charge to meet the threat coming their way. Stewart was leading them towards a gap in the column, which would give them access onto the road, but then any further prediction failed. Would he cross the road to attack those beyond in the fields, or strike directly along the road? For the Troopers within the column, all was dust and thundering hooves, no orders being given, simply to follow the man in front. For Templemere, effectively in Stewart’s retinue at the front, all was revealed only too clearly, especially the consequences of what Stewart’s decision was; he was on the road and leading them up it, to hit the rear of the group of French now marching along it. As they galloped up the road, Templemere saw that the wall on his left was lined with French, two and three deep, with their muskets levelled over it, but luck was with him. The French Officers preferred to wait until the main body of Dragoons, three deep and in close ranks, came up to them, whilst he and Tavender were merely in ones and two. However, as he passed, the Officer levelled a pistol at him and fired, but he was down over his horse’s neck and the ball went wide, passing unheard. The crash of the French volley came immediately, followed by the thinner crack of Dragoon pistols making a reply, but both Templemere and Tavender had other worries. The rearguard on the road were fully prepared for cavalry, all standing with bayonets fixed. From behind the pair came the same unearthly howl that they had heard at Grijon, but the French remained ready to receive the attack. Templemere’s mount baulked at the obstacle and slithered to a halt, but, by some miracle for both, the hedge of bayonets dissolved and then Templemere was caught in a torrent of horses that plunged him forward into the mass of fleeing Frenchmen.
All foes were scattering off the road, but Templemere was struggling to retrieve his sword, the cord of which had somehow worked up to the crook of his elbow. For him all was total confusion, but suddenly there was Tavender at his side.
“Come on Fred, this way!”
Forgetting his sword for the moment, Templemere followed Tavender over a low part of the wall, then into the fields beyond. There the scene was mostly of French lying on the ground, some stood motionless with their hands in the air, and of Troopers attempting to round up still more fleeing French or trying to subdue groups who were fighting back and edging their way to safety. Again, suddenly, it was Stewart at his side.
“You! Captain! Get some men and hit that group there.”
He pointed with his sword at a group of determined veterans who had formed a rallying square of about 30 men and were making progress towards an escape, fighting off with their bayonets any Dragoon who came too near. Templemere recovered his sword, but he was at a loss. There were only individual Dragoons around, all very busy and eager to attack any infantryman who was close at hand, rather than to stop, reform with others and then mount a disciplined attack. He soon decided that the order was impossible to carry out and instead he rode at a Frenchman who was running to join the group. He came up and noticed first, ridiculously, the bobbing blanket roll on the man’s back as he ran, but the pair had been noticed by the rallying group and so, at the perfect moment, some in the group called out, “Tomber! Maintenant!” The man fell and rolled to the right, out of reach of Templemere’s curving sabre and then the sight of several muskets levelled at him caused him to spur his horse away, but the fight all around was already ebbing away. The Dragoons, now barely 100, could do little more than had already been done. The French rearguard had been scattered, but the main body had escaped unmolested. Templemere then found Tavender, him having a bayonet wound in his leg attended to. A Trooper of the 14th had rolled up the trouser leg and was now applying a bandage. That done, and with no thanks given, Tavender kicked his horse into a trot to join Templemere, who was riding to join Stewart. They arrived at the same time as one of his Staff, who had a pertinent question.
“Sir. Men are arriving up from Oporto. Ours, Sir. To which should we hand over our prisoners? Those coming or General Perry, back there?”
Stewart looked in both directions, at Perry’s command, remaining back on their ridge and then at the arriving footsoldiers, led by an Officer, who approached Stewart immediately, but it was Stewart who spoke first.
“Who are you?”
The Officer saluted.
“Badgworth, Sir, Captain, 3rd Foot Guards.”
“Who’s your Brigadier?”
“General H. Campell, Sir.”
“Sherbrook’s Division!”
“Sir.”
“Very good! Badgworth, I’m passing these prisoners over to you, and I also expect you to look after my dead and wounded, 35 of both. My compliments to General Campbell. Tell him that, I, General Stewart, am ordering General Perry over there……”
A dismissive wave of his arm.
“……… to follow the French and keep them under observation.”
Badgworth saluted and Stewart and his staff watched as the French were transferred from the malignant gaze of the Light Dragoons to the more understanding attentions of the Guards, which mostly began with the trade of tobacco for brandy. Stewart then bade his bugler sound recall and his Dragoons fell in behind him as they all returned to Perry, him and his Command remaining at a standstill across the valley. Once within speaking distance, Stewart was the soul of brevity.
“These are your orders. I’m sending your Brigade after the French. Keep out of trouble but keep them under observation. I’ll inform Wellesley.”
He barely waited for any form of reply, but none came and so he terminated the meeting himself, most perfunctorily.
“We took two hundred prisoners and killed or wounded about 30 more. So! Good day to you Sir. And be damned!”
oOo
All through the evening and into the night, the army’s baggage train was ferried over, on and on, until the dawn of the next day, when by then the bridge of boats was repaired by a full mixture of craft of all sizes and the planking was restored, albeit with a variety of humps and gradients. Only now, with the whole army fully across could now come over those with the lowest priority, the Followers. Once on the North bank they immediately set up full camp, firstly because it was well into morning and no-one had eaten whilst they waited to cross, and secondly because an unwritten communication had filtered out of Headquarters that they would not be moving that day, but very probably the next. Supplies came over the bridge and cooking began, but much did not go into English mouths. The French, following their practice of living off the land, had picked Oporto clean of almost all food and provender, therefore the whole population was close to starving. It was not long before children especially, arrived at the British campfires and were given their first good meal in weeks. Then began a day of entertainment and jollity, mostly provided by the ecstatic population of the town, but not to the full amusement of the Redcoats, for they preferred to prepare for the pursuit, which they knew was to come and also to get some sleep. There was not a soldier in Wellesley’s army who did not appreciate the enormity of crossing the Douro and retaking Oporto with so low a ‘butcher’s bill’. Thus was spent a tranquil day of contented respite.
Not so for Perry and his men. He could only move at the pace of his infantry, slogging on in the foo
tsteps of the French, him only knowing that they were on the correct road because of the amount of discarded booty strewn around, thrown to lighten French packs, and also the occasional dead Frenchman. Some had plainly succumbed to their wounds, but some had been obviously murdered, with their heads smashed in or their throats cut. Perry was in almost constant conversation with Colonel Withers riding beside him, whom, it was now known, was a veteran of Wellesley’s campaign of the summer of the previous year, therefore, not surprisingly, Perry relied heavily on his experience. Withers was reassuring, mostly making full use of the words, “The French will not stand. Wellesley will be relying on us to keep in touch and relay information back.” Tavender and Templemere, riding behind with Major Johnson, particularly latched onto the final phrase, hoping for just such a mission, but so far none came. It was Noon and the force was eating on the move, as advised by Withers, eating biscuits, fruit and any other kind of food which was portable and did not require cooking. Both were chewing on biscuits, when from ahead, but distant, there came a muffled explosion. Templemere looked at his companion.
“What was that?”
Tavender shook his head.
“Johnny blowing something up. Probably a bridge; which will severely curtail our close pursuit. Perhaps even end it!”
The last delivered with a smile, but further progress, which included several bridges, continued at the same pace. Then they came to the first buildings and houses, which soon grew in density along the roadside, the more they rode on.
“Penafiel.”
Major Johnson spoke, in answer to no-one’s question, but he thought he should impart it all the same, for it was he, after all, who was custodian of the map. However, their entry into the town revealed a most extraordinary sight; on the hillside people were dousing large fires and pulling salvage from the black and sodden piles, but, when they entered the town proper, most of the population were all in the streets that surrounded the main square, not just on the ground but on the roofs and in the gardens around. As they rode closer, the purpose could be seen, for the people of the town were finding and picking up coins which were scattered all around. The black burn mark in the centre of the square explained the explosion and the eager, even frantic, people explained the reason for the explosion; this spoken by Johnson.
The Plains of Talavera Page 10
