The Plains of Talavera

by Martin McDowell

The road was in a slight valley, giving a rising slope on the side opposite that of the Spanish. Ellis gave his orders

  “Off the road, left. 50 yards. Single line.”

  He was obeyed immediately and the single line formed. Ellis stood before them

  “Loaded, but hammer down. Fix bayonets.”

  Within a minute all were loaded, but rifles not cocked for firing and Baker sword bayonets glistened at the end of every weapon. By now the Spanish were crossing the road as a compact group and Ellis watched them approach.

  “Byford! Near me.”

  “Already am, Sergeant. Right behind you.”

  “Up here, b’side me.”

  Byford joined him, as the leader of the Spanish foragers, a Sergeant, climbed the slope, grinning widely, but with a total absence of any sincerity or friendship, as though pleased with what he had found and was about to happen. He stopped some 20 yards before Ellis.

  “Hola Inglés. Lo has hecho bien, este día.”

  Ellis spoke sideways to Byford, without taking his eyes off the Spanish before him, all grouped just behind the Sergeant.

  “What’s he sayin’?”

  “Sounds like hello, we’ve done well.”

  Ellis smiled and nodded.

  “Si!”

  The grin died just a little.

  “Pensamos que debe compartirla con nosotros.”

  Grins and laughter arouse from the Spanish and Ellis was aroused.

  “What’s he say?”

  “No idea!”

  Ellis took a deep breath. Time to make things clear.

  “No!”

  The grin died, and then the Sergeant waved his hand in the direction of the pig, on the ground behind the centre rank.

  “Este es un cerdo Español. Nos dan algunos. Somos españoles.”

  Byford did his best.

  “It’s a Spanish pig. They should have some of it or all of it. I can’t be certain.”

  The reply came not from Ellis, but from Miles stood directly behind.

  “Tell ‘im where to go, Byfe!”

  Ellis said nothing, so Byford again made his best effort.

  “No. Todo ello es nuestro.”

  Ellis spoke sideways.

  “What did you say?”

  “I told him it was ours. All of it.”

  Ellis nodded satisfied and stared at the Sergeant, whose face was a blank stare, but from narrowed eyes. That was enough for Ellis. He took a deep breath to shout.

  “Make ready!”

  All rifles were raised in the air, ready to be lowered into the firing position. Expressions changed amongst the Spanish, even more so with the Sergeant, when Miles came forward to stand beside Byford and lower his rifle and aim directly at him. Things became even more tense when, in the silence, could be heard the load click of Miles pulling back the hammer. Ellis spoke quickly.

  “Get control of yourself, Miles. Nothing’s happened yet!”

  Miles had but one thought on his mind and he did not speak quietly. He wanted the Spanish to hear, if not understand.

  “Do you remember that El Navaja guerrilla bastard who wanted us to give him a Baker when we was cut off afore Coruna?”

  No one replied, but Miles continued.

  “Well, this is his brother. Same family ………….. What’s the word, Byfe?”

  “Characteristics.”

  “What he said.”

  He took another step forward.

  “I b’ain’t givin' up nothin’ to this scavengin’ crew of useless shite-auks! As can’t face the Frogs unless they’n stood behind two ton of timber!”

  He then thought of another insult.

  “Then buggers off anyway, to go robbin’ our camp. Gutless bastards!”

  The Spanish Sergeant was having his own thoughts; he had thoroughly picked up the tone of Miles’ words. To approach any closer to these British would mean a firefight, and in that he did not trust his own men. He had been at Talavera and he knew what these very same British were capable of. They were utterly steady under fire, unlike his own, and could manage almost four rounds a minute, whilst his own could just cover two. Also, unlike his own, they were not averse to a bit of bayonet work, after firing a well aimed volley. On top they were obviously ever-ready to die where they stood! A lot of his men would die and it only took one glance to see the malignant face at the far end of the smaller soldier’s weapon, to see that he would be the first casualty. However, he stood his ground. He had the advantage of numbers, over two to one, and that may well gain them something. The silence lasted, until broken by Ellis.

  “Zeke! Nat! Pick up the animal.”

  The three heard the slight commotion behind them as the two heftiest in the Section slung their rifles and picked up the pig. Miles was incensed at the possibility.

  “You ain’t givin’ none of it to these muckrakes. None of it!”

  “Shut up Miles!”

  Ellis took a deep breath.

  “Fall back! Hold your front.”

  Miles was livid.

  “Fall back! I b’ain’t takin one step back from this bunch of spineless scrapers!”

  Now Ellis was angry.

  “You fall back, Miles, or I’ll see you on the triangle! Fall back, and no-one gets hurt, nor killed, nor hung. Nor flogged! We’ve got these stopped. Just fall back and get out of this.”

  The good sense from Ellis had an effect, also did Byford’s hand on Miles’ sleeve.

  “He’s right, Tom. These won’t follow. Fall back and let’s get some of that pig cooked!”

  With his aim at the Sergeant’s head not wavering one inch, Miles stepped backwards, alongside Ellis and Byford. The gap grew, because the Spanish did not follow and soon it was well over 100 yards. Ellis looked at his men, holding their line, their rifles still at the ‘make ready’.

  “Shoulder arms and fall in.”

  Soon, marching at a rapid pace, they were back on the road and hidden from the Spanish by the intervening trees. Ellis, marching with Davey, gave voice to his thoughts.

  “That was close, but that bugger Miles could have started a war!”

  Davey laughed.

  “Perhaps, but on the other hand he made it very clear that them Spanish were getting nothing from us. Not without killing all round!”

  Ellis conceded.

  “Perhaps that did make a difference.”

  Within another hour they were marching through the camp lines to their own Regiment where the pig was quickly butchered and every piece of flesh and offal went into the Light Company’s cooking pots, including the trotters. After an hour the stew was cooked, lovingly prepared by Bridie and Nellie and a portion was sent to both of their Captains and to Major Carr. The following morning the leftovers served as breakfast, when Ellis took Shakeshaft’s Section out, hoping for the same, but it was not to be. Their haul of crows, rooks and squirrels, joined those of the previous day and that served as the Light Company’s evening meal, but at least there had been no confrontation with the Spanish.

  The following day, early morning, Crauford’s men came up from the bridge, but marched straight through to Jaraicejo. Lacey drew the obvious conclusion as he watched them pass, standing in the shelter of their door.

  “He’s sending us down the road. This won’t last much longer.”

  O’Hare dropped onto the table the piece of paper he had been reading.

  “And something else. He’s parading some of us, to take a look, surely that means we are leaving. Nothing’s come from the Spanish, nor is likely to. He wants to know what we are capable of, distance on the road each day, would be my guess as to the reason. You can forget our 20 miles!”

  Lacey looked inwards from the door.

  “A look at ours?”

  “More like yours. 105th, 45th and 24th. Also, Stewart’s and Kemmis’. Three Brigades.”

  “When for us?”

  “Noon.”

  “Right. Let’s see what we can do.”

  He took up his sword and went
immediately to find Carr, finding him with the Light Company as usual. Within minutes the word was around “Wellesley inspection” and all did their best to clean and polish, although all brick dust had long been used up, months past. When the hour came, the ten Companies of the 105th fell in and marched to their parade ground. Wellesley was perfectly on time and, as he rode past each Company, each gave a very acceptable ‘present arms’. He came to the centre, where both Colours were moving in the gentle breeze and where Lacey was stood with O’Hare. Wellesley leaned forward over his saddle horn, a rare smile on his face. He was in a mood for sentiment, perhaps because of feeling relieved, now that the die had been cast.

  “Lacey! I trust I find you well.”

  “Well enough, Sir. Thank you.”

  Wellesley looked left and right.

  “How are your men?”

  “Not what they were, Sir, when we left Abrantes.”

  “Can they march?”

  “They can, Sir, and fight, but not as well as we would wish.”

  Wellesley nodded. What he had thought himself had been confirmed, the harsh reality was evident all over. However, Lacey felt emboldened enough to ask a question of his own.

  “So, we are pulling back, Sir?”

  “Correct, Lacey. The only question I have now is how many miles can we manage, each day? What do you think?”

  Lacey looked squarely at his General as he thought.

  “Twelve, Sir. Each day.”

  “No more?’

  “No Sir.”

  “As I thought, Lacey. Thank you for your opinion. I value it.”

  He sat back in his saddle.

  “Well done, Lacey. I’ve not forgotten you from Vimeiro. I can have no complaints about your 105th, my old ‘Rag and Bone Boys’.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  Wellesley pulled on his reins to move his horse on, when something caught his eye, the distinctive Drummerboy uniform worn by Patrick Mulcahy. He stopped.

  “That a Drummerboy you have holding your Regimental?”

  “Yes Sir. That Ensign was killed at Talavera. He took over, just after Mackenzie was killed.”

  “So he held it up, all through that last damnable episode?”

  “Yes Sir.”

  “And not a waver?”

  “No, Sir.”

  Wellesley smiled.

  “So he’s doing the job?”

  “Well enough, Sir, as you see. His is a Regimental family. His Father was killed at Maida.”

  “Good enough. Make him an Ensign!”

  As Wellesley moved away, Jed Deakin chewed on his shako chinstrap.

  “Well I’ll be blessed and sent up to Heaven! Up ‘till now he’s been calling me uncle. Now I’ve got to call him Sir!”

  Halfway chuckled and even Heaviside, stood just in front, grinned as he overheard.

  “He shall reward every man according to his works. Matthew 16. Verse 27.”

  Deakin let out a deep breath.

  “Yes Sir. Just so, Sir.”

  However, back around their campfire, Bridie was anything but impressed, more like totally horrified and blaming Jed.

  “How could you let that happen? He’ll be stood right in the centre of the line. He’ll be kilt, for sure!”

  Deakin felt very much maligned, unjustly, or so he felt.

  “What could I do? Neape was knocked over and so they grabbed the nearest, which was him. And I stand in the centre of the line, how much worry do you have for me?”

  So pointed a question silenced Bridie and she sat down, head down, shoulders hunched, hands together in her lap. Seeing such a picture of worry and anxiety, Deakin relented.

  “Look at the good of it, Bridie. He’s an Officer now. An Officer!”

  The phrase came into his mind, ‘He could die a General’, meaning of old age, but she could take that the wrong way. He found other words.

  “He could end his days, back home, as a General!”

  She looked up.

  “Yes. Think on that. ‘Tis the boys chance in life. ‘Sides, Harry Bennet will look after him. He’s as good a Colour Sergeant as any you’d find.”

  Bridie stood up. She felt like continuing the argument, if only to give release to her feelings, but she knew it was hopeless. Instead she occupied herself with crushing some young acorns, for their next meal. With early afternoon, the order came to prepare for the coming march and in this manner were they occupied until the evening meal, the checking of boots, packs, strapping and crossbelts. Now knowing this, a better mood spread throughout the army, summed up by Tom Miles, now sat examining the livid scar on his leg.

  “Too long we bin yer! An’ for what? Nothin’ these past weeks, ain’t seen one Frog, near nor far. Time to clear off and get ourselves back to rights. We’ve given Johnny a bloody nose. Be happy with that!”

  The response from John Davey was simple.

  “Shut up and pull up your trousers, afore Bridie or Eirin comes along. Fine sight you looks, patched drawers and all!”

  Whilst delivering a highly aggrieved look in the direction of Davey, Miles did as he was told, and resumed the inspection of his kit. That night, Davey was on sentry duty, more to detect likely Spanish raiders, rather than any French, who all knew were now long gone. The Officer of the Watch was Joshua Heaviside, who came to Davey on his rounds and Davey reacted immediately, swinging his bayonetted rifle in the direction of the approaching figure.

  “Halt who goes there?”

  “Officer of the Watch.”

  “Advance, Sir, and be recognised.”

  Heaviside approached and Davey presented arms.

  “At ease. Anything?”

  “All’s well, Sir. Just the sounds of the night. Nothing more.”

  “He maketh peace in His high places. Job 25. Verse 2.”

  “Yes Sir. And long may it remain, Sir.”

  “I doubt that, Corporal.”

  Heaviside looked at Davey despite the darkness that held them both.

  “Hungry?”

  “Who isn’t, Sir?”

  “No indeed. Have some of this.”

  Davey saw the hand before him, holding what looked like a thin strip of leather. He took it, but Heaviside defined it.

  “Dried beef. I learned the technique whilst serving in the Americas. Mrs. Heaviside makes some for me to bring out and this is about the last of it. It’s quite good.”

  With no more words, not even a customary final quote, Heaviside walked on. Davey took a bite, or rather ripped off a section with his teeth and began to chew. It was hard going, but certainly the taste was very acceptable. The piece lasted until he was relieved by George Tucker, as the sun edged over the far horizon and with that dawn the army formed up to march away. In columns of Brigades they stood to, in readiness to take their turn to march forward and out onto the road. The Orders for March stated that the Brigade of Guards were to be first.

  Lacey and O’Hare stood at the head of their column with an unhindered view of the road, when the tedium of waiting was broken by a large group of Spanish Officers riding past from the direction of Truxillo. O’Hare read their purpose correctly.

  “Last pleading for us to stay.”

  Lacey gave no reply and Wellesley’s reply, although inevitably unheard, was soon made obvious, as the Guards marched onto the road and Lacey’s Brigade was ordered to follow. Wellesley had had enough, the Spanish offer, if that was what it was, had fallen on deaf ears. Out on the road, the Guards set a decent pace, as if having a point to make, but they soon slowed when they caught up with Fane’s Heavy Cavalry Brigade, the 3rd Dragoon Guards and the 4th Dragoons, these contentedly walking their horses and so the pace slowed. Jaraicejo was utterly lifeless, not even closed and shuttered; both doors and window shutters open at angles which showed their owners had been in too much of a hurry to leave. Halfway noticed the desolation.

  “All buggered off. Too many scavengers makin’ their lives a misery, both us and the Dons.”

  Deakin agreed. />
  “Up in the hills, shouldn’t wonder. Best place for their food. And their women!”

  The only life was outside the houses, this being Crauford’s men and two other Divisions waiting their turn at the roadside, ready to join the long column. Soon they marched on, the automatic rhythm of the march was now controlling their legs, tired as they were. The first night’s camp was in the open, but the second was at Truxillo. Here was an area unaffected by war and it showed because, as Deakin in the front right file came to a row of houses, half a loaf of coarse bread was thrust at him and, at later houses, some cheese and an onion. The Spanish people were giving what they could. The comment again came from Halfway.

  “They’re giving us this, even though we haven’t asked and they haven’t much. We must look fully starved, more dead than alive!”

  “On top, they must think us worth the cost to ‘em. These don’t look too well set up to me, but still feelin’ bound to make some kind of gesture.”

  He shook his head in both sadness and wonder.

  In their night camp they dined on what they had been given, acorns gathered from the nearby woods and any other odd scraps. Carr was sat with the Light Company Officers, as was his habit, and these were also chewing acorn porridge. Drake made the observation.

  “I wonder if English acorns taste any better? These are like, well, …….”

  He made a face.

  “……….. nothing comes to mind.”

  Carr finally managed to swallow a mouthful.

  “You can take it from me that I am never going to find out!”

  Shakeshaft swallowed a spoonful and spoke up, evidently wholly miserable.

  “Is there no food anywhere, throughout the army?”

  Carr looked at him.

  “From what I can gather, none! We march starving. Either supplies get to us in time, so’s we can keep marching, or we fall over at the side of the road and hope that something gets to us before we die, or we just drop down dead and keep it simple.”

  Drake’s brows furrowed.

  “We could eat the horses!”

  “That means abandoning our guns and neutering our cavalry. He’d never do that. He’ll see us flopped down at the roadside, waiting for rescue, before he does that. He has to get his cavalry and guns back to safety, or he has no army to speak of.”

  Carr reached for the bottle of wine, purchased in the town, took a drink himself and then passed the bottle to Shakeshaft.