“What we should do, now, is to unload the cart now and go back. To meet them. We could take some up into the cart, give them a period of rest and then take up another group. Yes. This we will do. Begin now, Private, there is not a moment to lose. We must help, as we are able, to give succour to those in need.”
Sedgwicke let out a sigh of his own. He remembered the appalling retreat to Corunna, just that Winter past, when all discipline had been lost and so he was almost certain that the only outcome would be both their mules being killed for food and them joining the wounded on foot, their cart abandoned. However, he held back the thought and stood up to obey the order of his superior.
“Yes Sir. I’ll begin now.”
It took but minutes to clear the small cart and minutes later they were rolling back over the bridge to soon view the straight road back to Oropesa. The mules trotted on, but with each step Sedgwicke’s anxiety grew as he remembered the ravenous gang descending on his then Chaplain, his wife and Sedgwicke himself, to kill their mule for food and dismember the cart for fuel. However, they continued on until they stopped to feed and water the mules, whilst Sedgwicke cleaned the cart and Albright stared down the empty road, hoping for an early sighting. The roofs of Oropesa came into view and still the road remained empty. When they came to the junction with the main trunk road and turned right to take the direction of Talavera, Albright began to have doubts.
“Do you think they could possibly have gone another way, Private?”
“That I doubt, Sir. In all probability, no one has told them that we have turned off the main road. If I’m any judge, that is. They will have begun their journey along this road. To follow us, in their desperation.”
Albright nodded, somewhat resignedly.
“Desperation. Yes. They must be. So, continue on.”
However, it was but minutes later that a red smudge appeared on the horizon, its outline changing as it shimmered in the heat, but eventually this vague shape came together as a single column on the road. Sedgwicke’s anxiety grew with every minute as the scene became clearer. It was a seemingly endless column, with no divisions, a red-coated serpent, filling the road, with a string of wagons at its head. Sedgwicke stopped the cart and allowed them to approach and soon they were within yards of the first wagon, which, to his huge relief, had its right hand horse being led on foot by an Officer of some kind, with a wounded man and a driver on the seat, but the wagon did not stop, so there was only time enough for a brief conversation, begun by the Officer.
“Are you one of the carts, we’ve been told about?”
Albright nodded.
“Yes, but the rest are not following. They are at Arzobispo.”
The Officer nodded.
“As we’ve been told.”
He then released the horse, whilst the wagon rumbled on, and he came over to the pair.
“How far is this place?”
Sedgwicke answered. He had a far better instinct for distance than his superior.
“About twelve miles. Sir. Can I ask how many wounded you have?”
The Officer was clearly a Surgeon who had taken command and was evidently holding the whole affair together. The leading carts rumbled past with their occupancy of wounded, few of whom could even move their heads to look at the new arrival.
“I could get about three thousand out. The rest had to stay.”
The Surgeon pointed over his shoulder to the passing carts.
“These are the worst cases who could travel, but there are plenty more almost equally as bad, following on foot.”
He looked at the small cart.
“Could you take six, eight, perhaps?”
Albright nodded.
“We’ll try.”
He nudged Sedgwicke’s arm.
“Get down and help.”
The Surgeon nodded at Albright’s words and said nothing more as the depressing convoy of wagons ground their way past, but, as if that were not disheartening enough, what came next certainly was. A continuous column, the end unseen, seemingly inched its way forward, each man with bloody bandages, many with crude crutches, some with heads bound such that they could not see their way, therefore being led by others, these with their own wounds, but at least able to walk and guide those now blinded. Many were supported by their fellows, but plainly these would not last long, for, all along the road was the heart rending sight of men who had collapsed and could move no more, their prone figures having been pulled out to the roadside. Sedgwicke pointed at the nearest.
“Should we collect such as those, Sir?”
The Surgeon shook his head.
“No. They came with us and took their chance, but it failed. The probability is that they’ll not survive anyway. I’ll select for you.”
With that he stood to watch the stream of wounded passing on foot, looking for those that could benefit most from a rest in the small cart. As they passed he selected six, who made their exhausted way to the cart to climb in, helped by Sedgwicke. The Surgeon looked over to them.
“Any more?”
Sedgwicke made his own judgement.
“I think two more, Sir. Yes.”
The two were selected and helped up to join the others, but then Sedgwicke went to Albright who remained sat on the cart.
“Sir. I think that we should not ride. The seat can take two more. We should walk, as the Surgeon is going to.”
Albright was somewhat incensed that such an initiative should come from his inferior, but there was no denying the truth in what Sedgwicke said. It was the Christian thing to do, therefore, saying nothing, he climbed down and Sedgwicke called over to the Surgeon, who was busy re-bandaging a wound.
“Two more, Sir. On the seat.”
The Surgeon smiled and nodded and soon two more were selected and climbed up. The last looked at Albright.
“God Bless you, Sir. Our thanks to you both, from all here.”
The uplifted Cleric nodded an acknowledgement and then stepped back from the cart, as Sedgwicke took down the reins and turned the cart to then guide the team from his position on the ground, beside the right hand mule. As they progressed on, within the column both heard the sounds that distinguished this as a column of wounded, for above the sound of the plodding feet and the cart wheels, could be heard the cries of those wounded in the foot or leg as they did their best to hold their place in the moving mass, but each step was an agony, and many more joined the prone and exhausted figures by the roadside, these who could walk no further.
It was full dark before the wretched column crossed the Tagus over the narrow bridge, for all to collapse on the first piece of vacant ground. Then all the Surgeons that were there with their Regiments, came to them and, by torchlight and lantern-light, administered medical help as best they could, which included more heart-rending amputations. A group of Nuns emerged from a nearby Convent and also did what they could, but the best medicine was to give some food, however little, to those most in need.
oOo
The next dawn found two British forces on the road that followed the South bank of the Tagus; Crauford’s about to enter the tiny hamlet of Meza de Ibor, three-quarters of the way to the vital bridge, and Wellesley’s main army about to leave Arzobispo and begin their journey to it. All of the latter army now carried extra burdens from the stores unloaded from the wagons which were now full of wounded and it was not long before all came to understand the appalling nature of the road which they were now on. For the 105th, it came when they were required to help haul guns and their limbers up the steep inclines of what was once a road, but had not been maintained for decades. For Stapleton Cotton’s cavalry the understanding came when Wellesley gave the order that they were to ride back to Arzobispo and recover the tools that they had abandoned there. A particularly bad part of the road had been reached which would have to be rebuilt and the tools were now needed. Stapleton Cotton sent the 16th under the command of Major Johnson, which included the Squadrons of Templemere and Tavender, and they found that, despite the
urgency, they could progress back at no more than a trot; the road was too bad for even a canter. Within sight of the Arzobispo, Johnson called a halt and quickly took in what was happening and made his decision. Not surprisingly, the population of the village were helping themselves to what had been abandoned by the army. Johnson turned to the pair.
“You two. Take dozen men and gallop for the bridge. Stop anyone from crossing.”
The pair looked at him in surprise, but Tavender reacted first, to then ride back three ranks and then raise himself in his stirrups.
“First twelve. With me!”
They galloped for the bridge, whilst Johnson took the remaining Dragoons in a wider sweep to the right. The pillagers took a while to notice the charging cavalry, but when they did notice the galloping Troopers it was obvious to them that the new arrivals were not going be too sympathetic to anyone making off with British property, abandoned or not. Within a minute all were running, carrying what they could, but quickly abandoning what was too heavy. The dozen plus Captains were too late to prevent all from crossing the bridge, but many ran along the bank, upstream of the Tagus, carrying what looked like blankets and clothing. Templemere had drawn his sabre and took a swing at a standing peasant, but the man took the blade on the handle of a spade, which shattered the handle but saved the man. When Templemere turned his horse for another attempt, the man was gone and all that remained was the broken spade. Then a bugle sounded recall and the Dragoons quickly regrouped for Johnson to issue his single order, with all Spanish now off over the fields.
“Find the tools.”
Tavender and Templemere felt justified in exempting themselves from so mundane a task, but Johnson would have none of it.
“You two! As well. As will I.”
For several minutes the Dragoons scoured the area and soon each had at least one navvy tool of some kind: pick, spade or shovel. Johnson gathered his command and led them back, each holding onto their awkward and possibly also heavy burden. Templemere found himself with the point of a heavy and awkward pickaxe lodged across the front of his saddle and he looked around, hoping to order an exchange, but he saw that this was the tool that most had and so he abandoned the idea. However, soon they were riding to the point of constriction, where stood Wellesley himself, watching the ineffectual efforts of some Grenadiers trying to remove a collapsed and rocky bank. The tools were dropped by each Dragoon at the place and a Grenadier then gratefully took it up to put it to good use. Wellesley was both pleased and relieved. The tools were still where they had been abandoned and could now be used to improve what was turning out to be a road that was almost impractical for the movement of an army. His words were brief, but sincere.
“Well done, Johnson.”
He then rode off ahead, to find the next obstacle to his army’s progress, but progress was a word that could barely be applied to the whole day. On occasions too many to count, the 105th were halted and O’Hare would come to the Company whose turn it was next, to require them to go back or go forward, to haul a gun, limber or wagon up an impossible slope. All were tired and tetchy, even O’Hare, but Carravoy, him most easily roused, certainly was when he looked up to see his own Company marching past, this completely unbeknown to him. He stood up as the Officer leading them marched past.
“Those are my men!”
The Officer was a Captain like himself, but of Engineers.
“Grenadiers are needed. For work up ahead. Orders from Himself.”
Carravoy could only sit and seethe, but most upsetting of all, and for everyone, were the occasions when a wagon of wounded had to be emptied of its suffering burden for them to make their own way up the slope that could only be ascended by their transport if it was empty. Those soldiers not on the hauling ropes took on the mournful task to get the wounded up to where they could once more mount their wagon, to again suffer the jerks and jolts of their vehicle over a road now improved but still too dilapidated for wheeled transport. The one relief that they could all feel was that, in the high hills, the air was cooler and there were some streams to provide clean water. The Noon meal came as a relief and found Deakin leading his Company back from hauling up a gun battery. He sat wearily, but was able to take a long drink from the plentiful water and Bridie then passed him his dinner. He dipped in his spoon and raised it for examination, when his eyebrows came together in puzzlement.
“What’re these?”
Bridie looked at him.
“Don’t know, but we was given them and that’s all there is. An’ they takes a great deal of boilin’!”
He looked at her.
“Do the Spanish eat them, or their horses?”
She became irritated.
“It might even be their pigs, but they taste not too bad and do fill you up well enough, though. So there y’are!”
“Interesting colour. Sort of orange.”
Deakin put the spoon into his mouth and began to chew. Bridie was not wrong and so the bowl was soon emptied, which was just as well because all too soon the order came to renew the march, but to no great success. Full dark found Wellesley’s command still out on the Mesa, with yet another work-party, by lantern-light, using the tools to both widen and repair the road. However, when a report came in that there were several more difficult points still to be passed before the hamlet of Meza de Ibor, Wellesley relented and gave the order to make camp, and so they did, to spend the night out on the Meza, sleeping or dozing to the cry of foxes, owls and wolves, which caused Bridie to inch herself closer to Deakin as they slept under their grey blankets.
However, for Crauford’s command there was to be no sleeping. Having cleared the hamlet of Meza de Ibor in daylight, they passed quickly over the last of the collapsed road and away from the poor collection of hovels to then reach the better road that led North to the bridge at Almaraz. This road could be followed in the half dark created by a half moon and so Crauford pushed his men on. During one of the infrequent halts, Crauford took the chance to approach Carr, now sat besides the sleeping figures of Drake, Ellis and Byford. It was not a social visit as Carr immediately discovered as the huge horse loomed up out of the dark, moonlight illuminating the bright points on its harness, and Crauford looked down. He was as blunt as ever.
“What sort of shape are your men in?”
Carr lowered his coffee cup to a point between his knees as he sat a low boulder.
“Not good, Sir. Not after Talavera. It was a hard battle.”
Crauford was not impressed.
“Mine marched forty-three miles in twenty-two hours to try and get up in time and play a part.”
However, Carr had more to say, on his own subject. He was not in the best of moods.
“And we’re starving and have been for two weeks, near as, since leaving Plascencia on our march to Talavera.”
Crauford paused for thought. He treated Carr’s words as the relaying of simple facts, not a riposte.
“So! Can I use them?”
Carr took a drink from his coffee and chose his words carefully before answering, knowing that this Crauford is about as sympathetic and understanding as a fox on a hencoop!
“You can, Sir, but they’ll serve better if they’re given a bit of a rest.”
“That applies to us all, Major!”
He paused to change the subject.
“Your men have Bakers.”
“Yes Sir, that’s correct, but only the Lights of my Regiment.”
Crauford returned to his horse.
“I’ll bear that in mind. Now, rouse your men.”
With that, Crauford adjusted his reins, spurred his horse and rode on, to the rear and presumably Donkin. Carr hauled himself to his feet, to then shake Drake and Ellis awake.
“Get the men formed up. We’re moving.”
Drake gazed up, sleepily.
“Who was that?”
Carr looked sideways into the dark that had swallowed Crauford.
“Our Commanding Officer. A most genial and accommodati
ng fellow!”
The sarcasm was not lost on Drake, nor Ellis, who moved off to perform his Officer’s bidding, but Byford, now roused, took himself to Carr’s possessions to pick them up and drape them over his shoulders. The sword he took to Carr to be buckled on, but Carr noticed the extra haversack, his, on Byford’s shoulders. He pointed to it.
“Give me that.”
“It’s not a bother, Sir. There’s not much in it, just as for the rest of us.”
“All the same, I’ll carry it.”
The haversack was transferred and Carr walked off to oversee the formation of his men, from all three Regiments. He had noticed Miles since they left Oropesa and could not help but be impressed. He saw him first.
“And how’s the leg, Miles?”
Miles immediate reaction was to exaggerate, because such could make him excused from onerous duties, but while he pondered this, Ellis answered.
“He’s thrown away his crutch, Sir, but keeps the splint. Bound alongside.”
Miles looked daggers at Ellis, but by now Carr was talking.
“So, it’s getting better, then, Miles?”
Miles nodded.
“Yes Sir. On the mend.”
“Well done, Miles. When this is done, I’ll owe you a bottle of something.”
With that he walked on, leaving the astonished Miles and his companions silently laughing, but, slowly, Carr was building a grudging affection for his men. He had stood beside them throughout the whole appalling firefight that had been the final act of Talavera, using a Baker rifle himself, and they had maintained their fire discipline throughout the entire close-quarters conflict, for almost half an hour, holding off French veterans at ridiculous odds. Yet now, with many carrying wounds, they were marching and keeping pace with Crauford’s famed Lights. Carr walked on, greeting his men and encouraging where he could.
Within mere minutes the march began, at a fearsome pace, North, to the bridge. The sun rose quickly over the clean edged horizon to begin yet another hot, bright day and with the daylight, Crauford called a halt and summoned his Officers to a well appointed farmhouse beside the road, where he wasted no time on introductions.
The Plains of Talavera Page 33
