The Plains of Talavera

by Martin McDowell

  “Sir.”

  “How many 83rd are still out here?”

  “Plenty, Sir.”

  “Right. Tell our men, face their front, but close in to me.”

  “Sir.”

  Nicholls ran off and Carr turned, to now see a sight which caused him the deepest anxiety, that the flame of combat was now ascending the Medellin and then it reached the summit, this discerned by its silhouette in the last of the Western sunset. Evidently, the French were on, and may even have won, the key to the British position. At the same time came the sound of another clash, only this being nearer, perhaps only half a mile further North up the Portina, but Carr’s mind and sight were fixed on the Medellin, where the flash of musketry could still be seen, continuous but disordered. However, what was worse for Carr was the arrival of an Officer of the 83rd, calling in his pickets. As they closed up to their Officer, Carr ran over to him. There were no introductions and Carr asked his question, anxiety giving pace to his words.

  “What’s happened? What do you know?”

  The reply was spoken with equal rapidity as the 83rd pickets arrived and formed up around their Officer.

  “I know very little. We’ve been pulled out of the line to get onto the Medellin. Seems the Frogs have attacked with two columns and broken the Germans. One is now on the Medellin, but the other, the nearest, seems to have been stopped somewhere. For now!”

  He looked at his men, gathered into but a shape in the dark.

  “Must get back.”

  The 83rd Officer ran off, as did Carr, but back to his own men still out on picket and, having found them, he shouted his orders.

  “Spread out, but keep in touch, by sight. Face your front and wait. Anything you don’t like, shout.”

  However, again his words were interrupted by sounds of conflict from the Medellin, but this was the sound of a controlled volley, at a volume matching the crack of thunder, seemingly up in the sky, but the height was gained from it coming from the top of the Medellin. “That’s British”, he thought, then came another to the left of the first, then another to the right of the first. He was reassured, “That’s a firing line,” he thought, “They’ll be pushed back,” which impression was confirmed by the flame of the continuous musket fire moving now rightwards and down, back towards the French Cascajal. Another minute passed, then another volley, but, reassuringly, further down the slope of the Medellin, giving birth to another comforting thought, “They have been pushed back.” Now he was looking upon individual musket flashes, now appearing and moving left to right. Three or four minutes passed of what must be confused fighting, then all died away into complete darkness. The only sound of conflict now was the second combat which had started, that further up the Portina and nearer, but soon that also ceased.

  Carr released a sigh of deep relief. He knew, that,had the attack succeeded, then the battle was over, the French would have held the dominating high ground and the British would have no choice but to withdraw the following day, but the return of near silence meant, surely, that the conflict up there, at least for now, was ended. Were the French still on the Medellin, there would still be sounds of combat. He returned to his men, to come first to Sergeant Nicholls.

  “No sleep for us now Sergeant. Now we’ll all be worrying about night attacks, both them and us.”

  “Right Sir. Just stay alert, then Sir. What else?”

  “What else indeed, Sergeant, but let’s hope the 83rd come back.”

  “Sir. But I’ll get off round the men, Sir.”

  “Yes Sergeant. Carry on.”

  The tension in the air was palpable and it affected both the French and British. For the next hour all could hear frequent ‘Qui vive!’, from the French piquets, disconcertingly within earshot, as they challenged their own patrolling Officers. The rumble of gun carriage wheels and the jingle of their harness could also be heard clearly, adding to the apprehension for the following day. All on the British side could follow the movement of French artillery into position, because it was accomplished by the light of myriad flambeau torches, which built the tension still further. Eerie to look upon, all moving seemingly disembodied in the thick darkness as though at the behest of some malevolent sorcerer weaving his malignant minions into place, using fire conjured from another world.

  After the fraught first hour had passed, Sergeant Nicholls reappeared out of the darkness.

  “Sir. I’ve made contact with the Guards, Sir. Their pickets are out, beyond ours, to our right.”

  “Very good, Sergeant. Carry on. Keep the men alert.”

  “Sir.”

  Then he was gone, this known only by his running footsteps across the crackling grass and stubble. Carr stood still, using only sound to guide his thoughts and decisions, or lack of them, for nothing had changed, bar the tension that was building for the following day, its dawn now but three hours away. Condemning as useless the idea of standing still at one spot, improving the lot of no one, least of all himself, he walked the 300 yards or so covered by his own pickets, responding to each softly spoken challenge with the simple words, ‘Major Carr.’ Beside each man he stood to exchange a few words, usually concerned with the proximity of their equivalent French picquets and usually parting to words from his own men, “Don’t like ‘em this close, Sir!” He walked on to eventually meet a fiercer challenge, which told him that he had reached The Guards. The challenge and the answer brought over their Officer, but it was Carr who managed to discern the human shape, the Guards Officer not being against the black of the Medellin, unlike himself.

  “Carr. 105th.”

  “Felsham. Coldstreams.”

  However, the conversation did not last long, the first words coming from the Coldstream Officer.

  “Anything new?”

  Unconsciously, Carr shook his head.

  “No, nothing, other than the obvious. Johnny’s building some force over there.”

  The Coldstreamer’s voice became more uncertain.

  “We understand that there are rather more than we had hoped.”

  “Judging by the noise from over there and that they are happy to waste men in a risky night attack, I’d say that was true.”

  With that, both turned to patrol again behind their line, and nothing more was said. Then, after what seemed another interminable hour, Carr heard shouting, from the direction of the Medellin, which continued for but a minute before Carr was brought stock-still from horror. From the top of the British line, but obviously below the Medellin, there began sporadic firing, which was soon taken up further down the line. From the muzzle flashes the British miscreants thought they were aiming at the French, but, crucially, this was in his direction and that of his men. Carr took a deep breath.

  “Down! Everybody down. Lie down!”

  To what extent Carr’s order was obeyed he did not know, for within the next seconds he was forced to concern himself solely with his own preservation, which meant lying flat on the ground, his cheek feeling the still warm earth, his hands grasping handfuls of stubble. The firing was progressing all down the British line, and soon he could hear the soft buzz of musket balls passing just above his prone figure. Soon Officers could be heard screaming to cease-fire and, when he was certain that the firing was not going to be repeated from any part of the British line, only then did Carr stand up.

  “Sergeant Nicholls!”

  From some distance he heard the reply and Carr ran in its direction.

  “Anyone hit?”

  “Not that I know of, Sir. Your shout probably saved many of the lads, Sir.”

  Carr nodded.

  “Right, but no change. Keep a watch as before, but now get the men to call their names to the next man, let’s see if anyone has been knocked over.”

  In the still inky darkness, he heard the naming begin and, to his huge relief, the word came back, via Sergeant Nicholls, that all were sound and unwounded.

  “All’s well, Sir. But I think the Guards, on down, may have lost a man or two.”


  “Very good, Sergeant. Give thanks.”

  “Sir.”

  It must have been in the last hours of the night, when they heard cannon-fire from the Spanish lines and Carr whirled around to, thankfully, see no more volleys rippling down the British lines. The sound, coming from the town area, echoed away to create the return of a silence which, somehow, was not silent but spoke of a lingering threat, dire and patient, out beyond the Portina. The final event of the night was Nicholls bringing to Carr a French deserter, him with no shako and plainly wet and dishevelled.

  “We heard’n splashing through the Portina, Sir, then crawlin’ to us on his knees, speakin’ “Mez amees. Dez soldats anglaze,” or some such.”

  Carr allowed himself a small laugh.

  “Your pronunciation does you much credit, Sergeant.”

  “Done a lot of tradin’, Sir.”

  At that point the cowering deserter, still being held by his epaulette by the meaty hand of Nicholls, repeated the phrase, but Carr asked his own question.

  “De nombreux Français derrière vous, oui?”

  “Oui, Monsieur. De nombreux soldats.”

  Carr turned to Nicholls.

  “Take him back, Sergeant. Make sure he gets to the Colonel or Major O’Hare and does not run off, which is what he wants to do. One of our Generals will want to question him.”

  “What did he say, Sir. Beg pardon.”

  “He said, yes. Lots of soldiers behind me.”

  Nicholls departed, almost dragging the Frenchman along, as Carr turned towards the French lines, where the first cracks of dawn were appearing in the Eastern sky. As the light strengthened, one by one the French flambeau were extinguished. The rumble of artillery wheels had long ceased. They had made their preparations.

  oOo

  There was just enough light for Carr to see between the lines of the 61st and 83rd as he brought his pickets back in, using this gap between the two Battalions holding the front line. His first destination was behind his own line, to the fire kept burning by Morrison, where he drank coffee, ate some bread and shaved, all at the same time. Then he closed his eyes, hoping for an hour of sleep. Close by, as the daylight strengthened, Lacey and O’Hare, were both stood together on a cart, behind the Colour Company, each with a telescope trained on the Cascajal. Lacey brought his down whilst O’Hare continued to study.

  “What can you see? My eyes aren’t what they used to be.”

  “What I don’t like. I’d put the number of French guns up there above 20. I can see a mass of troops above his gun-line, as you must have, but I swear to a huge mass below it, almost in the valley.”

  He lowered his own telescope and turned to Lacey.

  “Let me borrow yours. Mine’s a family hand-me-down.”

  He focused Lacey’s superior instrument onto the point of the forward slope of the Cascajal that he wanted and, after ten seconds of study, he made his pronouncement.

  “A big attack. He’s going to have another stab at the Medellin.”

  Lacey retrieved his telescope and tried again, this time seeing more.

  “I think you’re right. He’s going for another mass attack, up that slope, and against a formed firing line! Wellesley will be holding his men back, behind the skyline, just as at Vimeiro.”

  He lowered the telescope but continued to look North to the Medellin, now with no Redcoat line to be seen.

  “This French General, whoever’s running it up there, must have his brains in his boots!”

  He turned to O’Hare and spoke more in sadness than in any form of satisfaction.

  “Haven’t these damned Frogs learned one thing about fighting us?”

  O’Hare gave a short laugh.

  “Sure, now! Let them remain in ignorance, so long as they get thrown back.”

  At that moment a single gun fired from the centre of the Cascajal, this being the signal for every French gun either on the Cascajal or near it, to begin firing, at a range that was almost point blank, across the Portina Valley. Within a minute the space between the two hills was filled with smoke, the thick cloud hanging in the valley and this being added to by their own British guns replying from the Medellin or just below, but it was a counter bombardment that was paltry in comparison to what was being sent their way from the Cascajal and also from the next French battery down on the plain.

  Lacey’s face became apprehensive, him more listening than looking. Within half a minute he had come to his conclusion.

  “Nothing for us!”

  O’Hare was again using his telescope and, even at that distance, he could see the deluge of iron throwing up obvious gouts of rock and earth from the summit and upper slopes of the Medellin.

  “No! The whole lot’s onto the Medellin. Pray he’s pulled them back.”

  “He will have. If not Wellesley, then Daddy Hill will have brought them back out of harm’s way.”

  A sudden thought.

  “So, when did the Ball open?”

  O’Hare dragged out his watch, huge and ancient, another family heirloom. It took some effort to manoeuvre it into a position from which he could read the hands.

  “Five o’ clock.”

  O’Hare nodded.

  “God preserve us all!”

  “Mostly those up on that hill.”

  Both resumed using their telescopes, but Lacey spoke first.

  “Here we go!”

  Throughout the Battalions of Mackenzie's Division and also Sherbrook’s in the line before them, all eyes were on the Medellin, either naked, or with the use of the telescope. Stood in the centre of the Colour Company, Jed Deakin leaned on his musket, with a very agitated Ensign Rushby by his left arm and an equally wound up Ensign Neape one place beyond, against Rushby’s left arm. As usual it was Rushby who began the questioning, Neape’s mind being in a turmoil of thoughts, worries and contradictions.

  “What do you think will happen, Sergeant? Up there, I mean?”

  Deakin adjusted his chinstrap by flexing his chin.

  “The Frogs’ll get thrown back down, Sir. They’ve got as much chance as a snowball in a kettle!”

  Rushby turned his head away from the Medellin to look at Deakin, his face full of astonishment.

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Well, Sir. Them lads up there is no better nor no worse than us. If we was up there, we’d throw ‘em back, just like at Vimeiro. ‘Specially with them havin’ to slog their way up a slope like that ‘un.”

  At that point, those with good eyes or a telescope could see the red of General Hill’s Light Companies mixed with his green uniformed Riflemen emerging from the smoke of the French bombardment and reaching the top of the Medellin slope as they retired before the French attack. Their skirmish line down in the valley has done its work and within a minute emerging from the smoke could be seen what looked like a blue wave reaching for the top of a steep beach. At that point the French cannonfire ceased and, moments later, the lines of Redcoats came into sight along the summit. The sound of the first volley, which they delivered into the heads of the French columns, could be heard even by those beyond the 105th, towards Talavera, and then it became one continuous crash as the Company volleys ran along the British line. After studying what could be seen, which was mostly smoke, for two or three minutes, Deakin looked away and took a drink from his water flask, for the day was already becoming insufferably hot. When he looked again the Redcoat line had charged forward and blue-coated mass fell back rapidly. From somewhere in the valley the sound of musketry sprang up, but it was unlikely to have come from the Redcoats descending the Medellin. Even though they continued to press forward, these were no longer firing in any controlled way, Deakin surmised to himself, but most likely using the bayonet. The controlled volleys in the valley continued.

  “I bet that’s they Germans, givin’ Johnny the good-bye as they passes across their front.”

  Some ten minutes more came the last act; the Redcoats re-ascending the slope of the Medellin, in
seemingly casual manner, evidently unhindered, either by a counter-attack, or French cavalry. Deakin took off his shako and mopped his brow.

  “That’s that then! But ‘twill be us as they tries for next. That hill’s a no go, as it always was. It’ll be down ‘ere next.”

  Behind him, O’Hare had again hauled out his watch and agreed with Deakin, albeit out of his hearing.

  “Ten to six. A good start for us, but that’s all. He’ll be trying here at some time.”

  Lacey nodded, but looked down from the cart to where Bryce was stood, waiting patiently.

  “Bryce! Get us a drink of something will you?”

  Bryce saluted and made off, to return ten minutes later with a mug of tea for each. The pair now used the cart as a bench and they sat, taking their ease and drinking their tea. It was in this state that they were found by Mackenzie.

  “Johnny’s been smashed up on the hill! The slopes are covered in his dead and wounded. Thrown back like slops intae a pig trough!”

  Lacey and O’Hare conjured up the image described, then Lacey offered his mug to Mackenzie who took a drink, then returned it with only a nod of thanks. His thoughts were elsewhere.

  “He’ll try down here next. When, cannae say, but he’s plenty reserves back over the stream. He’ll come, sooner or later.”

  He took a deep breath.

  “One fact to cheer ye up. There’s nary one French musket opposite the Dons. He’s sending his whole damn army against us. Five, six, to one, easy, I’d say. An’ in his favour, I dinnae need to tell ye.”

  As his words died and he rode away, leaving the two to finish their tea, the guns began again an exchange between the Cascajal and the Medellin, started by the French, as though needing to make a repost to their thorough defeat of barely an hour previous. However, within the next hour the firing died away and the eerie silence that had ruled the night settled in again. The two stood again on their cart to study the French dispositions directly opposite their line, but, even using their telescopes, all that could be seen was merely a blue and white line, shimmering in the heat that rose up from the ground. Time went on, with nothing happening, bar the movement of men between the two hills either side of the Portina, carrying wounded from the recent conflict up the slope of their respective hills, back to their own lines.