The Plains of Talavera

by Martin McDowell

  “Morrison. What’s happened?”

  His servant was almost in tears.

  “Well, Sir, as much as I can gather from the Followers around, Spanish deserters plundered all during the battle, ‘cos no-one was around, Sir. I was in the firing line. The tents were deserted.”

  Carr stood aghast, then came another question.

  “Where’s Captain Drake?”

  “He’s up on the Medellin, Sir. With the Officer wounded. He was hit in the foot, Sir, so got took up there.”

  Carr was immediately concerned. A hit in the foot could mean amputation.

  “How bad?”

  “Oh, not bad, Sir. He may have lost a toe perhaps, but he stayed with his Company until all was finished. Then he hobbled off, Sir.”

  Carr felt much reassured but then he returned to the subject of their wrecked camp and he looked around at the scattered remains of many Officers’ belongings, not just his own.

  “Spanish, you say?”

  “Yes, Sir, so the Followers said. They didn’t bother them, just went for the tents, where they knew some valuables would be.”

  He let out a quick sigh.

  “I’m afraid they smashed open your chest, Sir, along with that of Mr. Drake, Mr. Maltby and Mr. Shakeshaft. I can pull out your cot, Sir, they did nothing to that, and I can get much of the tent back up, Sir.”

  Carr let out his own sigh. He was utterly tired, so much so that he could barely think.

  “No need. Drag it out and I’ll sleep outside. Get some sleep yourself. Tomorrow will be a long day.”

  oOo

  The next day dawned for yet another burning sun to climb into the arching blue of a Spanish July and, under it, Wellesley’s army again dragged themselves to their feet. Lacey, O’Hare and Carr immediately found each other in order to plan the day, for which they sat at a small table, purloined from a nearby building and hoping to begin with some breakfast, but all that was placed in front of them was a mug of coffee and some army biscuits. Lacey looked over his shoulder at Bryce, his Sergeant Clerk and servant.

  “What’s this Bryce? I was hoping for some bread rolls, at least.”

  Bryce’s face showed all the anxiety and disappointment that he felt.

  “Sorry, Sir, but those Spanish as deserted during the fight and plundered the Officer’s tents, did the same to a supply train further back, Sir, an’ took all the flour.”

  Resignedly, Lacey picked up a biscuit and dipped it into his coffee, this being black and bitter. All the sugar was now gone.

  O’Hare picked up the theme.

  “We can’t ask too much of the men. They aren’t getting much more than four or five mouthfuls to last them all day.”

  He took a sip from his own mug.

  “And, soon, in a couple of days, we will be marching away in full retreat.”

  Lacey nodded.

  “I’ll talk to Donkin. He’s Division now, perhaps he can get something out of Wellesley.”

  He paused, but had to push away his own black thoughts in order to sound positive.

  “Right. To business. What’s to be done today?”

  However, before either of his two companions could answer, they heard cheering building from the direction of the Pajar and then, when the cheering reached them, they could see the reason. First, came the fierce and dour countenance of General Robert Crauford, on a huge horse, then followed by the three battalions of his Light Brigade. However, Deakin was not convinced.

  “What’s the good of these? ‘Tis just more mouths to feed.”

  However, events of the late morning was to prove him wrong. Crauford had abandoned his baggage to increase the speed of his forced march, but late morning it arrived and the whole army could be given some rations, albeit very meagre, it being enough for three Battalions but now having to be shared over 36, somewhat deleted Battalions. However, the messes of Deakin, Davey et al, gratefully received the rations, although merely flour and biscuit, but these could be hoarded for later, because breakfast consisted of what had been gleaned from the French dead. Although it was mostly biscuit, garlic and chopped up cheese, it did included some sausage and plenty of French brandy, to accentuate or hide the taste, depending on your palate.

  Soon, the results of their Officers’ deliberations around coffee and biscuits were soon being spread around the Battalion and Sergeant Ellis arrived at the mess of Davey and Saunders, all in close proximity to that of Jed Deakin. Ellis went immediately to his Light Infantrymen, but stopped himself from speaking when he saw Tom Miles. The antipathy between the two men was deep, but Ellis knew the value of a soldier like Tom Miles, vicious and reliable in a fight and almost as good a marksman as John Davey.

  “How bad?”

  Miles pulled open the long slit in his trouser leg.

  “Bullet.”

  “Still in?”

  “Yes.”

  “You should be with the Surgeon.”

  Miles angered immediately.

  “An’ what will he bloody well do? Leg off and bugger off!”

  Jed Deakin had heard all and now intervened. He and Ellis were different kind of NCO’s entirely, but they shared no dislike between them and each saw the other as steady and capable.

  “We’ve got George Fearnley comin’ over, to see if he can fish out the bullet. Then we can only hope.”

  Ellis saw the sense. Keeping Tom Miles within the Company was worth the effort and trouble.

  “Right. But you’ll need lads to hold him down whilst all that is going on, and I’ve orders to get everyone out; collecting wounded and then burying the dead.”

  “I hear that, Ethan, and soon as ‘tis done, I’ll send them out. Carr nor Drake will complain if two or three lads is kept back awhile to save the leg of Tom Miles, awkward sod as he may be.”

  Most laughed, save Miles, who looked much pained and aggrieved, but then Deakin offered himself.

  “I’ll be one.”

  However, as fate would have it, Fearnley arrived at that moment and Ellis immediately asked him.

  “How many will you need to keep him still? You’ve got Jed and Zeke here, who else?”

  “Two should do it. ‘Tain’t that bad. Zeke and Jed can do his shoulders and leg. Nellie and Bridie the other leg. Twill be easier what we gets him drunk!”

  Miles was immediately incensed.

  “You ain’t wastin’ good brandy on that! I’ll hold still. B’ain’t no need to make I three sheets to the wind for such as this!”

  Ellis permitted himself a smile, then grinned malevolently at Miles.

  “Well, there we are then. An’ I hope that it don’t hurt much more than full agony!”

  “Sod off, Ellis!”

  This Ellis ignored, but he then led his men away and all wished good luck to Miles as they passed, leaving Saunders now kneeling at his head. Fearnley gave his instructions.

  “Zeke, hold down his shoulders, Jed, the leg.”

  He looked at Bridie and Nellie, stood nearby and waiting. Eirin was there also.

  “You three, each an arm and the other leg.”

  The five positioned themselves, at which point Nellie and Miles shared a look, not of dislike, but one which showed that a truce had been struck, at least for now. Fearnley arranged his instruments; a sharp blade and two more, but square and flat, and a pair of forceps.

  “I need clean water.”

  Bridie reached across for the bucket and Fearnley matched the two edges together of Miles trouser. His face became grim, the two edges did not match.

  “Looks like the ball took in some cloth, Tom. That’ll have to come out too.”

  Miles remained incensed.

  “Just do what you’ve bloody well got to do.”

  Then Fearnley cut apart the trouser leg, from the bottom to almost the top, almost up to Miles’ groin. He produced a flask of brandy, both French, and tipped it over the hole. Miles winced.

  “Never mind wastin’ my trousers, on top you’n wastin’ good brandy too.”


  “There’ll be plenty of both around here, to replace any used up. These trousers is French, b’ain’t they?”

  Miles nodded.

  “S’right. Got at Oporto.”

  But while Miles was talking, Fearnley had cut into the flesh either side of the bullet hole, deep and almost three inches either way.

  Miles’ fists clenched together, but Fearnley had only just begun.

  “This is going to hurt now, Tom!”

  “Oh yes! Like that didn’t!”

  Fearnley took out a piece of wood with a leather thong at each end. It was covered in teeth marks and it went into Miles mouth, between his teeth, to be secured behind his head by the leather attached. Fearnley looked at his companions.

  “Hold him.”

  Each took a firm grip and Fearnley inserted the forceps into the cut and Miles arched his back and gave out a stifled scream but he held himself steady. For a minute Fearnley searched down through the bullet hole and twice closed the forceps, but to no avail. Blood welled up which Bridie wiped away, but finally Fearnley close the forceps for the handles not to meet and he brought out the ball, which he placed on Miles chest.

  “Keepsake!”

  Even more anger arrived in Miles’ eyes and he spoke something unintelligible over the gag. Bridie took the bullet and dropped it into a skillet lid.

  “Zeke. Give ‘im a drink. Brandy.”

  The gag was removed and Miles given a good swallow. Then the gag was replaced and Eirin was given a small stick with clean rag tied around it.

  “Eirin. I needs you to wipe away the blood, while I tries to find the bit of cloth.”

  He took his two flat blades and eased the cut apart causing blood to flow immediately. He searched with his knife, whilst Eirin did her best to mop up the blood. Miles was tensed but lying still, with Zeke still holding down his shoulders.

  “Well done, Tom. The worst is over. The ball’s out, so not long now.”

  However, Fearnley was still searching and the full flow of blood caused Eirin to pull out her wiper.

  “This is soaked. Have you another?”

  Fearnley reached into his bag and found one, but then Eirin looked carefully at the first.

  “What’s this, stuck to the side?”

  Fearnley took the stick and examined it. Amongst all the clotted blood he could see what they were looking for, a shred of cloth. He offered it to the edge of the trouser that had not matched its opposite and it fitted. He grinned mockingly at Miles as he removed the gag.

  “There Tom. Eirin fished it out for you!”

  Eirin laughed and leant right over Miles’ face.

  “Yes Tom. And for that you owe me a big kiss!”

  It was of benefit that Eirin distracted the patient at that point, because Fearnley was pouring brandy into the wound which he had again prised apart. Miles screamed, but no-one was sure of the cause, either from pain or more probably the non-permitted use of the brandy. That over, he raised his head and, with the gag removed, he gave vent to his feelings.

  “When this is done, I’ll be bloody well up and punch you senseless, Fearnley!”

  Fearnley laughed.

  “You’ll be up no where for some time, never mind the punchin’, Tom Miles.”

  He returned to his task.

  “Right, now for stitchin’.”

  Again from his medical kit, he found needle and clean cotton. Miles had no need to be held as seven stitches were inserted. The wound was washed and more brandy tipped over, to Miles continued annoyance. Fearley then bandaged the leg, before giving two more bandages to Miles.

  “Change the bandage, every day. Which means washin’ what’s fouled.”

  Then he stared Miles full in the face.

  “An’ use the brandy. Infection now is your worst worry. It could mortify and that’ll be you gone, never mind the leg!”

  All nodded, including Miles, then to everyone’s surprise, incongruously Miles offered his hand to Fearnley.

  “Thanks, George. I’ll not forget.”

  Fearnley nodded and took the hand, then he replied, but not unkindly.

  “Sergeant to you!”

  Deakin stood up as Fearnley left

  “Right, Zeke. You’d better get out, like I promised Ellis.”

  Saunders departed and Deakin made to follow but first he gave a clear order to Miles.

  “Keep that leg still, or ‘twill start bleedin’.”

  The reply from Miles was a long pull on the brandy flask. Deakin looked at Nellie and Bridie.

  “Find a long pole and bind it to his leg, so’s he can’t bend it. An’ keep him still, but if he wants to drink himself out of this world, well, that’s his affair!”

  oOo

  Lacey and O’Hare were watching the last of the wounded being brought in, but most were now very near to death. O’Hare spoke the obvious.

  “We bring them here, but then what. The track down to Talavera is covered in wounded, the streets are full and the population, curse them, will not allow any wounded of any army, into their homes. On top, every Doctor and Surgeon has now been working for over 24 hours, with no break.”

  Lacey nodded, his face as much a picture of helpless despair as O’Hare’s.

  “I know. It’s hopeless, and we’ll be marching soon. How do we take them with us? We can leave the French, they’ll be back once we’ve gone, but our own?”

  He paused.

  “What’s our ‘Butcher’s Bill’? Any idea?”

  O’Hare shook his head.

  “Not yet. Not until we call The Roll, but it’ll be bad?”

  “Bad as Coruna?”

  O’Hare nodded.

  “About. But we can’t parade the men to find out until all this work’s done. We’ll be burying soon.”

  “What about Officers?”

  “Three wounded. One Captain, two Lieutenants. One Ensign dead, Trenton Neape. Through the head, he was dead before he hit the ground.”

  At that moment Rufane Donkin arrived, having ridden down from the Medellin. He dismounted wearily from an equally weary horse. He nodded his greetings to the pair and began his enquiries, his own fatigue making him terse and impatient.

  “What’s your situation?”

  Lacey answered.

  “We’ve many casualties, many more wounded than dead. The biggest problem is water and food. The men are practically starving and, as we speak, we are still bringing in wounded, from both sides.”

  Donkin nodded, but his comments remained terse.

  “Regarding water, the Portina’s running better, now it’s been cleared of dead and channeled through the mud. Wellesley tells me that some food is on its way from both our own supplies and the Spanish, but the latter is just a promise that will be broken, I feel sure. Cuesta will prioritise his own army. We’re now onto burying the dead, ours first, so get your men onto that. As for the wounded, that’s the tragedy of this battle, many will have to be abandoned. We’ll be marching back, probably in two days time, the day after tomorrow, or at least the day after that. Why, because the French are moving in behind us, which will place them between us and Portugal. The retreat won’t be easy and I can tell you now that there will be nothing like adequate transport for our wounded. There are over 4,000 just from our army. Try to make your own arrangements for your own wounded, I can probably find you some transport from our baggage train.”

  His face became even more dour.

  “I don’t need to tell you to take only those that can travel and have a more than even chance of surviving the march. And rejoining the ranks.”

  The last was spoken with emphasis, but then he paused, giving time for any comment or question, but none came.

  “Right, I’m on to the 45th and 24th. Expect to see me tomorrow, I’ll have more news.”

  He remounted and rode off, for Lacey to then speak his next question to O’Hare.

  “What of our wounded? How many?”

  “A hundred give or take, at a guess. Pearce is wo
rking his way through them. The man hasn’t stopped since we pulled back from the Alberche.”

  Lacey sighed.

  “We must give him what help we can. There’s a Sergeant with some medical training in each Company. Get them to him, then perhaps he can sleep for a couple of hours.”

  He paused to suck in a sorrowful breath and sigh again.

  “Meanwhile, you heard what Donkin said, we’re now burying our dead. Get that organised.”

  O’Hare looked fully at him.

  “And tools? What do we use?”

  Lacey pointed over his shoulder.

  “There are farms up behind us, beyond the houses. Get some from there. Get Carr onto it and, if we’re now burying, we’ll need Albright and that odd cove Sedgwicke, he can say a word or two. And Heaviside will fill the gaps, I’m sure.”

  As a consequence, close to Noon, Carr was leading a Section of the Light Company to the farms beyond the houses where he had previously found the vital well and at the nearest, he saw some sheds and barns beside a well appointed house. He noticed a face at an upstairs window, before he knocked on the door, and it took a minute for a man to open it.

  “¿Qué quieres?”

  Carr had no idea what the man had said but immediately motioned for him to follow. The man came out of the door and followed Carr to the barn, where Carr’s men had found various farm tools, all of which could help dig graves and were now in their possession. Carr pointed to the tools and then pointed back to the battlefield. If the man understood at that moment Carr knew not, but he did not care and he pointed with is thumb.

  “Back!”

  As Carr’s men began to move, the man then clearly understood what was about to happen and barred their way out of the barn. The burly Nat Solomon and the even bigger Saunders brushed him aside and they left, at which point the man began screaming.

  “Son ladrones! Le están robando mis herramientas. Mis herramientas!”

  Not understanding one word, and short of patience, Carr turned to him and spoke, whilst prodding a finger into the man’s chest, which intimidated him into silence.

  “We’ve just bloody well kept the French out of your parlour, so you can lend us your tools to bury our dead and, like as not, you’ll get most of them back.”