Miles swivelled on his makeshift splint and gave him an evil look.
“No surprise if I have, sloggin’ down this Godforsaken dirt track. What’s a body to do?”
He took a glance to the far horizon, now with a column silhouetted against the burning sky as they climbed the slope and crossed the horizon. He waved his unoccupied left arm for emphasis.
“An’ what’s it like when we comes to a village, what do we get there? Evil looks, like we was the ones as got beat. You gets a load of Spanish jabberin’ even when you tries to fill your canteen at their well. Or even their muddy brook!”
Wry grins arrived all around. Tom Miles was recovering, but his question needed answering and this came from John Byford.
“Six hours! Six hours we have been marching.”
Miles looked around at his informant.
“An’ how come we’n on our own? If the Spanish was alongside, there’s a better chance of a bit more provender. From tradin’ like.”
It was Zeke Saunders who again answered.
“Tell you what, Tom. The next time we sees Wellesley, we’ll call ‘im over and get a full and good answer, just for you!”
Despite their thirst, laughter broke out all around, except from Tom Miles who adopted his habitual scowl, whilst all fell to listening to the double strike of Miles splint and crutch on the hard packed gravel. However, Tom Miles was not the only man in the 105th in an ill temper, this other being Captain Lord Carravoy, as often ill disposed to the world as was Tom Miles. The subject was the same, the march that they were now enduring, but for Carravoy the subject was his horse, or more accurately, the absence of his treasured mount. For some hours his indignation had been building, in direct proportion to the temperature of his feet and the weariness in his legs. It finally burst, with Royston D’Villiers the recipient.
“Retreat this may be, but we have not been defeated, we are not a rabble, all with us are still in good order.”
D’Villiers looked puzzled.
“Yes, Charles, that’s true.”
“True, yes, so, therefore Officers should be allowed to ride.”
“Colonel’s orders, Charles. All horses are being used for the wounded. Pulling carts and those travois things that he knows about.”
Carravoy’s mouth pursed and his brows came together. It was as though D’Villiers had not been listening.
“It’s not proper form and damn bad for discipline.”
D’Villiers looked away. His own horse was pulling a travois with two wounded men on it and he saw every reason why that should be the case. He changed the subject.
“What’s the next town?”
The reply arrived, reluctant and surly.
“Oropesa, as if it will make any difference!”
Thus, for Wellesley’s men it continued, in various states of mind, all enduring an exhausting tramp over a dry road rapidly being ground to dust by tens of thousands of feet and hooves and hundreds of artillery wheels, all under a pitiless sun. However, events were now in train, which would at least change the route of their march. At that moment Fray Juan Delica was staring into the terrified eyes of a fellow Man of the Cloth, but him mounted on what was very obviously a very good horse and riding fast and alone in the direction of a known French army. It was the quality of the mount that had attracted the attention of Delica’s band, then the saddle and harness and then finally the brand on the animal’s right flank: a large N. The well-mounted Friar was doing his best to explain.
“Este es un caballo francés que encontré vagando. Es un callejero, señores.”
Riding a French horse found wandering, ex-cavalry or not, Delica was unconvinced regarding the Friar’s business; where the horse came from being very secondary. He turned to his two nearest companions.
“Búsqueda de.”
The two quickly dismounted and dragged the now utterly petrified man from his horse, to begin the search. Within seconds they discovered a pouch attached to a belt under the cassock. The pouch was cut from the belt and handed up. The Friar now fell to the ground moaning and supplicating, wringing his hands together. Delica gave him but a glance before opening the pouch and extracting three pieces of high quality parchment. The writing was in French and, on discovering this; Delica now gave the cowering Friar a look of utter contempt.
“¿Quién escribió esto?
The Friar looked up, pleading with both his eyes and hands, but saying nothing. This time Delica shouted.
“¿Quién escribió esto?
Still no reply, but Delica turned to the end of the letter to discover the author and it was clear, ‘Le Roi Joseph-Napoleon Buonaparte’. Now, Delica returned to the to the top of the letter and there he was, equally clear, “Marshal General Nicolas Jean de Dieu Soult, Duc de Dalmatie.” This was a letter to Soult from the French imposed King of Spain himself, written to co-ordinate French movements. Delica called forward another guerrilla, one who had once been a University Professor, in, seemingly, another age, but this guerrilla could read French. Delica handed over the letter.
“¿Qué dice esto?”.
The guerrilla pulled out some spectacles and began to read and translate. After two minutes he spoke, in great detail. Delica looked down at the perspiring Friar.
“¿Dónde está Soult? Dile y yo te prometo una muerte rápida!”
At the sentence of imminent death, albeit mercifully quick, for revealing the whereabouts of Soult’s army, the Friar lowered his face to the ground and set up an appalling wailing. Delica lost patience and he motioned to one of his searchers. The man drew a knife, hauled the Friar’s head back using the chin and thrust the point of the knife under it, to the extent that blood began to flow. The result was wild and tearful eyes and one word.
“Plasencia!”
Delica had not finished.
“Cuando?”
The knife was thrust further, producing the same result.
“Lunes.”
Delica did the small calculation. Today was Wednesday, Soult was there on Monday. The French could be almost at Naval Moral as they spoke, across the road from Oropesa to Portugal. He had watched the combat of Talavera from the high battlements of the town walls and he was now convinced that only the British could match the French in open battle and inflicting defeats such as that was the only way the French would be expelled from Spain. Yet he also knew what the battle had cost the British and that they were in no shape to fight another so major, casualties and hunger dictated that. Delica did not know where Wellesley was, he may be over the Tagus and safe, but if he was about to use Oropesa as his route back, then he was in great danger of being caught between two French armies, that of Victor and now that of Soult. However, he did know the whereabouts of Cuesta and surely he could be trusted to get the information to Wellesley? Delica looked at his academic, still holding the letter. He threw the leather pouch to him.
“Hacer esto Cuesta en Talavera! Le digo que pase en Wellesley. Vaya con Dios.”
A small sack of provisions was thrown across to the man and he departed, in a flurry of dust and loose clothing. Delica looked at his searcher holding the knife.
“Matarlo!”
The knife was thrust upwards and the Friar’s eyes rolled for the last time. Delica gave one short look around his guerrilla band.
“A Plascencia.”
He led them off at a fast canter. However, as he rode off, leaving the dust to settle on the body of the Friar, events began to unfold which would confirm Delica’s deep concern for the safety of the British army, although it began as a minor argument, albeit a very one sided affair. Sir Robert Stapleton Cotton had noticed Captain Lord Templemere remaining with the 14th Light Dragoons as his own 16th rode forward down the road towards Naval Moral. Not one to mince his words, he gave full vent to his fully roused temper, this in the direction of Templemere.
“You Sir! You!”
Templemere instantly turned his head to then be pinned to the spot by an intense stare from his Brigadier.
>
“You, Sir! You are 16th, are you not?”
Templemere could but nod his head as the focal point of this wave of rage, and then find a small reply.
“Yes Sir. 16th, so I am.”
“Then why, Sir, pray, do you indulge yourself here, whilst your squadron rides forward?”
Templemere suddenly felt very diminished as the subject of such a description.
“I have a wound, Sir. Here.”
Templemere pointed to his right thigh, the cloth of his uniform somewhat disfigured by the bandage beneath. The reply incensed the cavalry Brigadier even further.
“And how many of us do not?”
The words whirled around Templemere like a vengeful banshee.
“You can sit your horse, can you not?”
Stapleton Cotton did not wait for a reply.
“Get yourself forward, now, this instant. Join your men.”
Templemere was by now only too eager to escape the baleful gaze and cutting admonitions of his Brigade Commander and spurred his horse forward, suddenly regarding as a mere irritation the pain this caused in his leg. The last words he heard as he rode on were words of disgust from Stapleton Cotton.
“Wound in his leg. Good God!”
Templemere cantered forward and was soon forced to endure the dust thrown up as he overtook the squadron column. However, it was not too long before he was alongside Tavender, who turned to look at the new arrival.
“Thought you were staying back. That you were having difficulty controlling your mount, what with that cut and all.”
Templemere did not look sideways as he made his reply. His temper and indignation at being so recently spoken to in such a manner had been amassing throughout the short journey.
“Changed my mind!”
Tavender smiled and nodded approvingly and, as if to cement his approval, he passed across his flask of brandy. Templemere took a deep pull at the flask and then passed it back, at which point Tavender got down to business.
“You know we are looking for the French? Rumour has it that they are making a raid against our communications back to Portugal, but, in that sort of strength, we can see them off and get out and back.”
Templemere looked across.
“Where’s back?”
“Truxillo. About two days march after Oropesa, but meanwhile, where are our foe? There’s a bridge over the Tagus at Almaraz on this good road. If we get over the Tagus on a good road, then we’re pretty much home and dry.”
Templemere made no reply, but shifted his weight in the saddle to ease the growing ache in his leg. Just ahead, leading the force of two Squadrons, 200 men, was a Major for whom Templemere had very little time, the Major Johnson of their pursuit of Soult after Oporto, riding beside their Colonel Withers. Johnson had risen through the ranks and had been mentioned in Perry’s report to Wellesley after the Regiment’s attack on the French rearguard at Salamonde, part of that pursuit after Oporto, back in June. The dislike had grown since then, with Templemere finding Johnson’s accent from the Fenlands of East Anglia highly irritating and his uniform being little more than standard issue with badges of rank sewn on. However, Templemere did concede that Johnson knew horseflesh and now rode a captured French mount of evident high pedigree. The two, Johnson and Withers were conversing intently, which discourse continued for the full 30 minutes during which they all continued forward. The pair were not even distracted as they progressed through Naval Moral, which was the usual collection of hovels gathered for sanctuary and spiritual protection around their solid and well-appointed Church. Peasants emerged from the low doors and dingy interiors at the sound of the clattering hooves, yet all they sent in the direction of the passing Dragoons were sullen looks and soon most had turned their backs to return to their dark homes to nurse darker thoughts on the approaching French. Once through the village, Withers turned in his saddle to motion Tavender and Templemere forward. They had halted at a fork in the road.
“We’re dividing our force. I’ll Tavender’s Two Squadron. We’ll go left to Almaraz, about 10 miles on. Your Squadron, Templemere, will go with Johnson here, and go right to Casatejada, about 12 miles. Keep your eyes open. The moment you see French, retreat back to here, send a messenger and hold this fork until I return. I’ll do the same for you. The French may have reached Almaraz from over the goat tracks.”
He turned to Johnson.
“Take yours on.”
Johnson motioned for his Squadron to follow and took the right fork, expecting Templemere to join on. Withers allowed the Squadron to follow Johnson then he diverted the next to follow him and soon all that remained at the fork in the road were hoof prints in the yielding dust. Templemere felt the need to ride beside Johnson, but said nothing and Johnson paid him virtually no attention, instead casting his eyes off to whichever high point may contain a French cavalry picket or even to examine the road in the far distance, when the terrain allowed it. They trotted on for some minutes until Johnson raised his hand and they all halted, the dust from their progress catching up with them on the faint breeze. Johnson rose in his saddle and pulled a telescope from his saddle pocket.
“There! Up there. What’s that?”
Templemere sat impassive, now thoroughly irked at being ignored, not having been even consulted once, all the way. Johnson stood up in his stirrups and focused the glass. Throughout the next half minute he sighed in frustration.
“Can’t see, can’t tell. This rising heat doesn’t help. Could be cattle.”
He continued his study, but came to no conclusion. Templemere looked contemptuously over, both at his Superior Officer and the inferior telescope that he was using. He drew out his own instrument. The best that money could buy, and thrust it in front of Johnson.
“Try mine.”
Johnson lowered his own telescope, examined Templemere’s being held before him, then closed his own and put it in his tunic pocket. He took Templemere’s, opened and focused it. Soon he made a pronouncement.
“Glad you’re here, Fred. This piece of yours does the trick. That’s a French vedette!”
He turned to the first rank behind.
“Michael. Up here, please.”
The Cornet of Horse walked his mount forward.
“Gallop back to the fork in the road, where we split, and ride after the Colonel. Tell him we’ve made contact and it looks …………”
He refocused the telescope.
“………. like our French friends are in some force. He’ll return and we’ll be holding the fork open for him. Go now. All speed.”
The Cornet wheeled his horse and galloped off, soon to be lost in his own dust. Johnson returned the telescope, raised his hand, circled it once and then wheeled his own horse around to follow the dust of Cornet Michael Vigurs. His command followed and soon, after a fast trot, they were back almost to the fork in the road, bar 200 yards. Johnson stopped and eased his sabre in the scabbard, which gave Templemere no small qualms of concern.
“Get the men across the road. Two deep. You take the left, I’ll come back to the right, after I’ve had a look from up there.”
He pointed to a small hillock and then rode off. Templemere now looked back along the road behind him. He was now in sole command of 100 men, alone with no superior Officer! Luckily, directly in front of him was a Sergeant of Horse, one of Vigurs’, and Templemere looked directly at him, not knowing his name, so he motioned with his left arm.
“Take yours off that way. Form a two deep line.”
The Sergeant started his own mount to move, but he was not quite clear.
“Facing back up the road, Sir?”
Templemere quickly angered.
“Of course! What else?”
“Sir.”
The fifty rode off left, then Templemere motioned to the remainder, Cornet Peterson’s Troop, to ride right. The Sergeants and Corporals got them into line and they sat and waited, but not for long. Johnson was returning.
“They’re coming down th
e road. In numbers, 200, 400, hard to tell. So, we have to make a show.”
He looked at his men, drawn up on either side.
“With any luck, they’ll do as us; be content at having made contact. On the other hand, they may decide that 100 men would be a good bag, if they have us well outnumbered. Time will tell.”
Something moved in Templemere’s stomach, just below his diaphragm. Johnson sat impassive, staring down the road, whilst Templemere’s mind turned somersaults, but he had one major question.
“How long will we have to stay here?”
Johnson sucked in a deep breath.
“Depends! How fast did the Colonel ride on from here? If at our speed, I’d say we need to be here for about 30 minutes. He’s got to ride back, remember, and only after Vigurs catches up.”
30 minutes! Templemere had bargained for no more than ten! He, too, stared down the road, but with a great deal more anxiety than did his companion. After ten minutes, the French appeared, an Officer first, at the head of what looked like a long column. The Officer raised his arm and the column halted. Within a minute another Officer arrived and joined the first. Johnson sat impassive, using his telescope.
“They’re making up their mind about having a go. We will have value to them as prisoners, who can be questioned.”
Templemere could barely think. He was a consummate duellist with both sword and pistol, but this was different, the pell-mell of battle. He remembered the confusion of the charge after Oporto, therefore no courage came; a battle was high risk, which his skill with both blade and bullet could not counter.
“What are they waiting for?”
“To see if we have any supports. Making a check around, with their good French telescopes!”
The small humour was totally lost on Templemere in his present state of mind, but then things changed, for the worse. Johnson folded his telescope and grinned at Templemere.
“Aye aye! Here we go.”
The reason for his conclusion was obvious. The French were deploying left and right, almost certainly to attack and their extending line, off in both directions, seemed to go on forever.
The Plains of Talavera Page 31
