The Plains of Talavera

by Martin McDowell

  Donkin nodded.

  “The same. Now we are using their mounts as draught animals, and food later on, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  “That’s a help.”

  Lacey took a deep sorrowful breath.

  “So now I have to select whom I take.”

  Donkin nodded again, his face grim.

  “Yes.”

  With that single word he swallowed the last of his coffee and was gone, for Lacey to sit down and begin his calculations. Each cart could take eight wounded, that was 32, and four carts used up eight horses and two wounded could sit on each of the remaining four horses, adding another eight. That meant 40 wounded, not even half of what was needed. At which point, Carr arrived and it needed only one look at his Colonel to see that something was wrong.

  “Sir?”

  Lacey looked up.

  “We’ve transport for only 40 wounded!”

  Carr sighed, but he had his own thoughts on the matter.

  “Sir. Have we any money?”

  Lacey was hugely puzzled.

  “Some, yes, but we are going to need it, for buying food on the march back. There’ll be nothing from the Spanish. Why?”

  “The farmer I got the tools from. He had two carts in his barn, much worn out, but still serviceable.”

  “I wish I could give the money to buy them. I could give a crown or two, but with no money to buy the extra food we’ll need, we’ll lose many more from dropping out on the march from hunger. We’re in a parlous state now, before we leave.”

  Carr’s face was set.

  “Understood, Sir, but I think I know where I can gather a few items that would add up to the value we need if our Purser could manage one crown.”

  Lacey nodded his agreement and Carr marched off in a particular direction. He had been the Captain of the Light Company and he knew just where all the villainy lay. He soon marched into the camp of Saunders and Davey where all sprang up and saluted. Carr came straight to the point.

  “Saunders, where are the tools we took from the farmer?”

  Saunders pointed.

  “There, Sir, an’ none missing”

  “Right. That will help.”

  He looked around, giving a stern look to all.

  “This is the thing. We have over a hundred wounded and only transport for forty. The farmer that we took the tools from had two old carts in his barn, old, but workable. And bigger than those we use.”

  He looked around.

  “I cannot go in and haul them out and off. That’s robbery and Wellesley would hang us all, but I can buy and that will mean two dozen more of our wounded coming with us.”

  He took off his shako, found two crowns from his own pocket and then dropped them in. The gesture was obvious, but for a good few seconds no-one moved, then all went to their possessions and pulled from their valuables what they would give. Soon the bottom of the shako was covered in silver buttons and buckles, and gold rings and earrings. Carr looked around at each there, but said nothing and this hiatus lasted for a few seconds, while they looked at him and he stared back.

  “Right. All of you, those that can walk that is, follow me. Bring the tools.”

  He had eight men with him and they hurried to the farmer’s house. Carr hammered on the door and the same farmer appeared. The tools were shown, all in the hands of Carr’s companions, which evidently pleased the farmer. Carr pointed to the tools, then to the barn. The farmer understood.

  “Si. Volver a la granja.”

  However, Carr motioned for the farmer to follow, which he did. Once in the barn, Carr found a sack and tipped the contents of the shako onto the cloth. The farmer looked pleased but puzzled and remained so, even when Carr went and placed his hand on the two carts. Both were old and plainly had not been moved for years. Perhaps non-comprehending, the farmer shrugged his shoulders, but Byford now intervened.

  “Perhaps I can help, Sir.”

  He placed a hand on one cart and then pointed to the other.

  “Compramos estas dos.”

  The farmer shook his head. Carr was incensed. The carts had plainly not been used for anything for years, but he still wanted to bargain.

  “To Hell with him!”

  Carr re-wrapped the valuables and thrust the sack into the farmer’s arms, taking no time to see the look of shock on the man’s face.

  “Get these out and back to our lines.”

  The eight spread themselves over the two carts and began to haul them out of their long time resting places. Both carts creaked and protested, but they moved. Carr looked back at the farmer, who was examining the contents of the sack, not looking at what was happening to his vehicles. Carr was the last to leave the barn.

  “Done deal. Mucho gracias, Senor.”

  The farmer merely glanced up and quickly nodded in brief reply before returning to his absorbed examination of a ring. Carr followed his men back to their camp and, once back, he gave his orders.

  “Get these clean. Fit for wounded.”

  The eight began gathering tufts of grass and hay, there was nothing else available for such a task, and with that they began to remove the dust of years. Carr went back to Lacey at his tent.

  “Sir. I’ve two more carts. Farm carts, Sir, a bit bigger.”

  Lacey looked up and smiled.

  “Two more! That’s sixteen more that we can take with us. Well done.”

  “More like two dozen, Sir. They are large, as I said.”

  However, Lacey then sighed heavily.

  “That’s 54. Now I have to choose. We load them at first light.”

  He sighed again.

  “How do I choose?”

  Carr took a deep breath.

  “If you want my advice, Sir, you choose those that are still conscious. Those that are not will just drift off, and it’s best for that to happen with them in that state. Choose the least wounded that are still conscious. That’s where you start.”

  Lacey nodded resignedly.

  “That’s sense. Brutal, but sense. I’ll start with those with Surgeon Pearce.”

  He stood up.

  “Time to make the choice. The day’s ending. Please come with me.”

  They soon arrived at Pearce’s hospital and were guided by him. Pearce chose 22 out of his wounded that had a good chance of recovering sufficiently so that they could rejoin the ranks. Those that would never fight again or would not survive, were omitted from his list. Lacey and Carr then walked towards Talavera where the scene was utterly heart-rending, where wounded of both armies were strewn, largely unattended for three days, all along the road and in the streets of the town. Lacey looked at Carr.

  “Do you think ours were taken to a special place?”

  “That I doubt, Sir.”

  “So do I. Go back and get some men. Two Companies. Those that go with us tomorrow, we get out of here now, with 32 more.”

  Lacey walked back to the road, where he found 16 whose wounds were minor enough to meet Pearce’s judgment. There he waited until Carr returned and the wounded were helped or carried back to where the carts were assembled. That done, Carr and Lacey progressed into the town, to be met with a scene of unrelenting misery; dead, dying and suffering wounded, all of whom could be helped were there the time and the resources. Lacey was aghast.

  “These are all good men. From both sides. They deserve better than this.”

  Carr, not a man who could ever be called overly warm hearted, was as lost for words as his Colonel was distraught, at the sights and sounds from every street and courtyard.

  “We’ll have to call out, Sir. That will help us decide who to take. If they can hear and answer, they could be well enough to recover.”

  Lacey nodded, and the two patrolled the streets of wounded, calling ‘One Hundred and Fifth!’ Answers came from all around and these were carried back to the road, until they had over 60, more than Lacey had calculated. Pearce came to examine each.

  “They’re all fit to travel, Sir. What will you do? Dr
aw lots?”

  Lacey had had enough.

  “No. They all come. Given time some will be fit enough to walk, if we can feed them, or they can take turns in the cart if able to walk for a short time. They all come.”

  Pearce saluted.

  “Very good, Sir. But what of my wounded that are not going?”

  “Get them into the town. Or on the road into it. What else?”

  He turned to Carr.

  “Get that done. Before dawn. And use proper stretchers, no carrying in a blanket.”

  Across the early hours the job was done, with, mercifully, most now too unconscious to know what was happening, as they were laid on a blanket in a Talavera street. For those conscious, there was but a comforting word, delivered by a fellow line soldier. “We’ve got to leave you, mate. We can’t take all, but you’ll be alright. The Spanish will care for you, an’ the French too. The Johnnies aren’t so bad.” Finally, Lacey and O’Hare toured the dark and sorrowful streets by lantern-light, to say a last word to those able to listen, always speaking what seemed to be the only thing that could be said; thanking them for their service and re-assuring them, even if they were only too well aware that it was wholly unlikely, that all would be well in the care of the Spanish or French.

  With the first sign of dawn in the East, Wellesley’s army formed up and began their retreat Westwards, back to Portugal. Tom Miles’ kit and equipment had been wordlessly shouldered by his messmates and he now hobbled beside them, a wooden pole bound tight to his leg to take the weight on that side and a crudely fashioned crutch helping with the same. Shakeshaft looked suspiciously at him but said nothing, whilst their Captain Drake saw nothing, because he was riding at the back with the wounded, on a horse. Deakin had but one thing to say, marching alongside Toby Halfway.

  “Bugger off, Spain! Next time can be as long a time in comin’ as never, is all I’ve got to say!”

  oOo

  Chapter Six

  A Collection of Armies

  “Pyrrhic victory, that!”

  “You’ve lost me.”

  Drake looked at his marching companion and spoke, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

  “No Latin, was there, in your evidently lamentable education?”

  Carr let out a noise something between a sneeze and a laugh.

  “I take it that your reference has something to do with Roman history.”

  “Indeed yes, it has. In short, King Pyrrhus of Egypt lost so many men beating the Romans that he was almost knocked out of the Pyrrhic War, as it was called. He beat them twice.”

  Carr looked at him.

  “Very good. Now, wishing to fend off a tedious lesson in Roman history, I take it that, in your opinion, this obscure term applies to us, at this very time? More to the point, I find your levity to be somewhat off the mark. That was as dreadful a ‘toe to toe’, as I’ve ever heard of, never mind been part of! No subject for any joke, however academically astute.”

  Drake sensed the tetchiness in Carr’s reply, and so conciliation crept into his. He was now somewhat inclined to be more serious, now that they were leaving the dreadful plain of Talavera, for with the passing of time, more sober reflection had come upon them all.

  “No disrespect intended and, yes, no argument there, but what will they say back home? It is, after all, we who are retreating.”

  Carr sighed and nodded his head.

  “The papers will say whatever massages public opinion towards their own political inclinations. Although, so we are told, we are marching to confront yet another French army, which is on its way down from Salamanca, but, I’ll grant you, that is being done in order to secure our retreat.”

  Now it was Drake’s turn to be argumentative.

  “Well, is that quite so? I mean, if we get supplies from the Spanish, then we can stay in Spain. Stay and confront the Johnnies once more.”

  Carr sighed in exasperation.

  “You know as well as I do, that any promise from the Dons is a sculpture in smoke, gone after the first puff of wind. We’ll be back in Portugal next month; I’d put a hundred guineas on it. If we stay in Spain, relying on Spanish promises and generosity, we’ll fall apart.”

  Drake’s brows came together.

  “So what about our own Commissariat? We’ll be close up to the Portuguese border. Surely supplies could come up?”

  Carr repeated the odd noise from his nose and mouth together, this time dismissively.

  “Our good General Perry’s part of that, so there’s your answer.”

  Drake looked at him indulgently.

  “Plainly optimism wasn’t part of your wardrobe this morning!”

  This time Carr did laugh, genuinely, but it did nothing to change his mood.

  “We fought a veteran French army to a standstill. Gave them the bloodiest nose they’ve had since all this began. Outnumbered six to one, we just about wrecked their whole army.”

  He sucked in a deep breath.

  “And what’s happening? We are retreating. And why, because we are starving, beaten not by the damnable Frogs, but by simple lack of food. I know we could be about to fight another army of theirs and doubtless win, but its only purpose would be to hold open the door back into Portugal.”

  He paused, for another breath and somewhat changed the subject.

  “Then there’s all those wounded that we had to leave behind. In the care of the Dons!”

  The dismissive noise through nose and throat was repeated, but Drake had more sympathy for their Allies.

  “You may be right and probably are, but don’t forget that this country has been in a total shambles for three years. No effective Government or anything. No one should be surprised that they cannot supply their own armies, never mind ours. And also take from us, when faced with the stark choice and starvation the only alternative!”

  Drake looked at Carr, who was staring back, somewhat taken aback, but Drake continued.

  “Yes! But still they keep raising armies all over that always get smashed by the French, but they still come back for more, to keep the fight going. Also, this guerrilla war thing must be worth some credit, civilians rising up all over and having a joust at the French. And if they’re caught, it’s the firing squad or the rope. No status as a prisoner of war, like with us, but that hasn’t stopped them. Credit where credit’s due, I say.”

  Carr looked away, across the burnt brown fields.

  “No argument there. What you say is true, but we’re here, marching back, because of the false reliance that we placed upon them. That’s my point. And I remember that long supply train that they crossed the Alberche with, when we were living on coffee and biscuits!”

  “And no argument from me on that, but such as that is for Generals and politicians, way beyond the remit of the likes of us.”

  Carr returned his gaze to the road and reached for his water bottle. He lifted it up and gave it a shake, enough to gauge how much was in there and how much he could dare to take as a swallow.

  Simultaneously, at the front of the 105th column, Senior Major O’Hare was doing the same to his canteen, only with less optimism, even though he was shaking it next to his ear, the better to make a judgement, which turned out to be somewhat depressing. He brought up a subject which he hoped would distract him from his thirst and needed the opinion of his marching companion, Colonel Lacey.

  “We need another Ensign.”

  “Who did we lose? Neape wasn’t it? Regimental Colour?”

  “Correct.”

  “Who’s carrying it now?”

  Lacey turned around to look and answer his own question. The Colour Party were immediately behind and his brows came together in shock.

  “Is that a drummer boy?”

  O’Hare did not need to look.

  “Yes. Called forward during the thick of it.”

  He looked at his Colonel.

  “And didn’t flinch once!”

  This time Lacey’s eyebrows went skyward.

  “Is that so,
now?”

  He paused for thought.

  “A new Ensign?”

  More thought

  “What about a subaltern or somesuch? Do we have?”

  “No! Only Lieutenants, each with their own Sections and four of those are wounded. Marching with us, but wounded.”

  “A new and bona fide Ensign should come from our Militia, back in England, if we follow the proper form. Someone of the correct background. You know how it is!”

  O’Hare sighed.

  “Only too well.”

  “What’s his name, the drummer boy?”

  “Patrick Mulcahey.”

  Lacey was surprised and looked at O’Hare.

  “Son of the Mulcahey we lost at Maida?”

  “The same!”

  Lacey sucked in a deep breath. He was thinking the unthinkable.

  “Is there such a thing as ‘Brevet Ensign’ do you think?”

  O’Hare laughed.

  “It’ll be a new one on me, but we cannot demote anyone down to the lowest Officer rank, and we need someone to carry the thing, at least back to Portugal. Then, who knows?”

  He looked at Lacey, conspiratorially.

  “We still have Neape’s uniform.”

  “Right! Stick him in it. From what I hear, we could be in for another set-to with M’sieu before too long and going into that with just one Colour is, well, not to be contemplated.”

  O’Hare nodded and broke into a broad grin.

  “Right. Consider it done.”

  They fell to silence, but only after each had taken the smallest sip of water from their canteens, the discussion had added to their thirst. It was similarly so throughout the whole of the 105th column, for much of the time marching in silence, conserving water, sucking a pebble, trying to ignore their additional hunger. However, for one, silence gave no vent to his ill temper. Tom Miles shifted the pebble in his mouth just enough to speak, yet to no one in particular.

  “How long we been on this plod?”

  Marching behind, Zeke Saunders was the first to reply, him still carrying Miles pack, whilst Solomon carried his Baker and Pike the rest.

  “That French brandy you’ve been soakin’ onto your bandage now gone to your head? So’s you’ve lost track of time?”