The Plains of Talavera

by Martin McDowell

  “Here. Take the taste away with that.”

  All took a drink and then Drake looked at Carr.

  “Seriously Henry, is it really that desperate?”

  Carr took another drink.

  “It is, Nat. Touch and go. Between here and Badajoz, I expect the army to fall apart and go off roaming all over in search of food. Just as they did on the way to Coruna.”

  The night was spent in and around Truxillo, but few slept, because hunger and the effects of poor diet kept many awake. However, veterans as many were, they took comfort from the fact that they were at least resting. The next morning the army resumed its ordeal by marching, but as they left Truxillo there was a long line of its inhabitants either side. As Davey and Saunders, being in the outside files, came to the lines, each was given a cake, a simple affair, mostly plain cake with currants inside and perhaps honey across the top. Some words were spoken as the sweetmeat was passed over, Davey hearing his old woman clearly.

  “Gracias pastel.”

  Davey examined the item and broke it into pieces for distribution, then turned to Byford.

  “What she say?”

  “Thank you cake.”

  Davey nodded, but not content.

  “Thank you? For what? Could be the French are ready to march back in and we’ll have done nothin’ to keep ‘em away from these good people.”

  Saunders was listening.

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself. John. We gave it a bloody good try. Christ, what could be harder than Talavera, and, if the Dons could have given us some food from time to time, we’d have stayed. And the French b’aint here yet! Without us they could be here already. As ‘tis, they’n miles away! Miles!”

  There were no ‘gracias pastel’ for one part of the army, that which had been sent on ahead to meet and guard any supply train coming up from Miajades, some thirty miles distant. Stapleton Cotton’s Light Dragoons were far in advance of the infantry; progressing on at a slow trot, slow, in order not to over tax their horses. Templemere and Tavender were in their usual place, behind the leading three, these being their Brigadier, Colonel Withers and Major Johnson. They came in sight of Miajades, when Tavender rose up in his stirrups. He could see between and beyond the three ahead. He turned to his companion.

  “Something’s coming.”

  Templemere didn’t move.

  “A French army? Have they anything to eat?”

  By now Stapleton Cotton had raised his hand for the whole column to halt and await the approach of the newcomers, whoever they were, but they soon materialised into a supply train, over 100 fully laden mules. Tavender soon made the observation.

  “They aren’t French! At least, I know of no French Horse that are dressed in yellow.”

  However, in saying that, he had missed the point, this being made by Colonel Withers, just ahead.

  “This is a supply column, under the escort of Spanish cavalry. Dragoons, if I’m not mistaken. It may be food, of some kind.”

  Stapleton Cotton, growled his reply, his tone unmistakable for all that could hear.

  “Dragoons or not. Those mules are ours, intended for us or not.”

  He turned to the pair behind him.

  “You two. Split the column. Take two files each and get either side of them.”

  Templemere struggled to understand, but Tavender immediately did and he turned to the Troopers behind.

  “Both right files. In line, follow me.”

  The two right files cantered after Tavender, leaving Templemere with the two left files, but now he understood, having been taught by example He turned in his saddle.

  “With me.”

  The two files, over 100 Troopers each, followed him and soon, down both sides of the Spanish supply column, stood a fixed guard of Light Dragoons, two ranks deep. The leading Spanish horseman, an Officer, now plainly hugely concerned and also wholly offended, halted just yards before Stapleton Cotton. He rose up in his stirrups, the better able to swing back his arm towards the mules

  “Estas disposiciones son para el ejército español!”

  Stapleton Cotton did not take his eyes from the man.

  “Anybody any idea what he said?”

  It was Johnson who spoke.

  “Not exactly, Sir, but I can hazard a good guess. He’s saying that these are for the Spanish Army.”

  A dismissive growl came from deep within Stapleton Cotton’s chest. He turned to Johnson.

  “Give me pencil and paper.”

  Johnson opened his sabretache and withdrew the writing materials requested. Once receiving them, Stapleton Cotton, wrote, speaking out loud.

  “These supplies have been sequestered on behalf of the British Government. Any payment due can be collected from the British Representative in Cadiz.”

  He signed the paper with a flourish, rode forward, and thrust it against the chest of the astonished Officer, who took it and read it, but, of course with no understanding. Stapleton Cotton then spoke to the nearest Trooper on either side, who happened to be Sergeants of Horse.

  “Pass this on. Ride in and collect the reins of the pack mules.”

  The word was passed on down the line and soon the reins of the mules were being removed from the hands of the drovers whilst the Spanish Dragoons looked on, bereft of orders and very much intimidated by the numbers around them. Stapleton Cotton watched proceedings until he was satisfied.

  “Right. Were going back.”

  With that, he wheeled his horse, as did Withers and Johnson and the whole column turned back, British Light Dragoons in escort, with the pack mules in between. Soon, there was nothing left on the road, bar hoof prints, two dozen bemused Spanish Dragoons, the same number of drovers, one Officer incandescent with rage and Stapleton Cotton’s note a screwed up bundle on the road.

  That evening the British army had bread, and enough flour for bread again the following day, and so over those two days, with food inside them in some form, they gained Miajades, where they made camp, but all in Wellesley’s command remained close to starvation. As the day finished, Carr walked with Heaviside around the 105th camp.

  “What do you think, Joshua? Will they hang together?”

  Heaviside began with his own question.

  “Ours or the whole army?”

  “I speak of ours.”

  “Well, Merida, Montijo and Badajoz. They are all in the Guadiana valley, are they not?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Merida is the first and two days march away?”

  “About!”

  “It is not unreasonable to suppose, I should say, that in the Guadiana valley, a rich region, we should be able to obtain supplies. Perhaps even be met by a supply column of our own.”

  Carr took this as a statement, not a question.

  “I’m inclined to agree.”

  Heaviside now looked at Carr and posed the important question.

  “Do the men know?”

  Carr now looked steadily at Heaviside, before replying.

  ‘If we tell them that, and it will sound like a promise, and then there is no food, what then?”

  “Then you choose your words carefully, whilst passing on the good word. Make a promise of a better chance of being supplied. That we are entering a land where food should be more plentiful.”

  He waited for a reply from Carr, but none came, so he continued.

  “The men aren’t stupid. Just tell them we have high hopes. Nothing more.”

  However, at that moment, Carr noticed a file of Guards, marching around the camp perimeter, but leaving behind single men at intervals. They were led by a Captain who soon came within earshot of Carr, who was immediately much aggrieved, even insulted. These Guards were forming a picket, with the French a hundred miles away.

  “You! What is the purpose of all this?”

  The Captain halted and saluted.

  “Commander’s orders, Sir. To prevent desertions.”

  Carr reared up at the insult, despite the doubts he had
expressed but a minute earlier.

  “You take your men to Hell, Sir. There have been no desertions from the 105th, nor will there be!”

  The Captain was astonished at the outburst, but it was Heaviside who quelled Carr’s temper.

  “Easy Henry. He’s only following orders. If Wellesley wants it, then it has to be.”

  Carr looked daggers at the Guards Captain, but said no more and turned his eyes away from the Guards pickets. After a minutes silence and more walking, he returned to the subject.

  “So. We just tell them that soon, in fact two days, we will be in a better place where hopes for food can be higher. Is that it?”

  “Yes. Give the men hope. This is a good Regiment. You know that and so do I. Give them hope and they will remain.”

  “Right. We must get that passed around. And hope ourselves!”

  “Just so!”

  “Very well, Joshua, that is something we can both do.”

  Silence fell between them, and then Carr had a thought.

  “Is this conversation, Joshua, about to be the first between us, that has not included a quote from the Good Book?”

  “No. It is not.”

  Heaviside composed himself.

  “Ye shall be sorrowful, but your sorrow shall be turned into joy. John 16. Chapter 20.”

  Carr smiled.

  “Not ‘Hope springs eternal, in the human breast?”

  Heaviside growled back his very forthright reply.

  “I take my inspiration from the only book I read!”

  Such finality caused Carr to break off the conversation. In addition and very conveniently, they had reached the tent of Drake, Shakeshaft and Maltby, before Heaviside climbed into his pulpit over the merits of certain texts as sources to inspire the human condition. The two parted company with no more words between them, but agreement had been reached and it was acted upon as orders to Sergeants, who traversed the mess camps of the 105th. Ellis arrived in the camp of Deakin, Davey, Miles et al.

  “Word is we can have high hopes of food at Merida, day after tomorrow, if we reaches there.”

  It was Davey who replied.

  “How high?”

  By now Ellis was moving on, but there was just an edge of cynicism in his voice.

  “Higher than usual!”

  With the following dawn, breakfast consisted for most of a dreadful porridge made from stale bread and smashed army biscuits scooped from the bottom of the sacks, this washed down with some kind of coffee made from ground, burnt acorns. That consumed the 105th paraded on the road and resumed their march, behind The Guards. The porridge sustained them for that day and they made their camp in the barren hills, but the slope before them now led down to the Guadiana. All were in better heart, despite their hunger being as severe as at any time, for the word had circulated that, with a good march, they would reach Merida, where chances were higher of some supplies. Thus, was the conversation around the Deakin campfire as they ate the last of their rations. It was Miles who broached the subject, holding up his last crust.

  “No more of this tomorrow!”

  The reply came from Saunders.

  “Perhaps, perhaps not. You’ve heard the rumour about supplies in this Merida place. One good push and we’ll be there tomorrow and that won’t be your last crust for the day!”

  Miles waved the crust at him.

  “So, should I save it?”

  Deakin joined in, with a finality that none could argue with.

  “Eat it now, better a night’s sleep not broke by hunger. Tomorrow we marches with empty stomachs, nothin’ new there, but with luck we sleeps tomorrow with full bellies!”

  Miles ate the crust and rolled into his blanket. On the morrow all came onto the road with a certain eagerness to complete the last 12 miles and, with the sun well into the West the houses became more frequent; they were reaching Merida. Lacey looked ahead when he heard shouting from the Guards column ahead and it did not take him long to discern what was happening, the Guards had picked up the step and were intent on properly marching into Merida. Lacey’s brow furrowed at the next possibility and was determined to avoid it. He turned in his saddle.

  “Sar’ Major!”

  Gibney came running up to reach Lacey.

  “Sir!”

  “We’re entering Merida. Have the men pick up the step. We are not marching in like some defeated rabble!”

  Gibney saluted and stood still, but the ranks of four soon reached him.

  “Raht lads. Pick up the step. Get th’selves smart! We’re no pack of half-arsed Militia. Let ‘em know oose come to tahn.”

  Many came together immediately, but Gibney wanted every foot in the correct rhythm.

  “Left ………. left ……….. left, right!”

  The marching habit spread back through the 105th and then the whole of Wellesley’s army and so it was in this fashion that they entered Merida, to applauding crowds, and their hopes were not dashed, far from it. Not only were there supplies available for purchase in the town, but a British supply train had made the long trek from Lisbon, via Badajoz. Thus, as the day died, pots were bubbling all over the camp full of salt beef, peas and biscuit, whilst, as though that cooking aroma were not enough, Brigade bread ovens were in full production. Again, it was Miles who broached the subject as he consumed his second bowlful.

  “Now we’n back in the land of the livin’, another pair of boots and socks won’t come amiss!”

  All around his comrades shook their heads in bewilderment, again it was Saunders who answered, with more than an edge to his voice.

  “If it means a full belly, I’ll march to Badajoz with straw wrapped round my feet. Carts comin’ up loaded with food, suits me a whole lot better than any number full of boots!”

  The looks that Miles received from his companions told him that he was very much on his own with that opinion and so he edged over to the cooking pot for yet another helping, this doled out by Nellie Nicholls, who fiercely thumped the ladle into his dish and gave him a look which unequivocally conveyed the fact that full hostilities had been resumed.

  However, they were not to reach Badajoz. Orders came the next day, passed on over a substantial lunch at 105th Headquarters. With all thoroughly replete on pork, chicken, peas and potatoes, Lacey reached for the folded paper by his side.

  “He’s breaking up the army over the three towns. Sherbrook’s Division will remain here, Hill’s and the Cavalry go on to Badajoz and we will be staying in Montijo a bit further on with Campbell’s, where I suspect we can expect a new Divisional Commander and, above all expect a few month’s rest.”

  With that the gathering finished and Carr and Drake walked back together, with Carr in the more thoughtful mood.

  “My understanding is, that Wellesley will make no further moves into Spain in conjunction with the Spanish. Too big a risk.”

  Drake sucked in a deep, well satisfied breath, as much to clear his head somewhat of too much red wine.

  “Amen to that!”

  “And for another expedition to take place, independent of our allies, there must be some time given to preparation, not least the improvement in our Commissariat.”

  “Amen to that, also!”

  “Right. So. That will take some time. Months perhaps!”

  “I consider you to be perfectly correct.”

  There was a pause.

  “I’m going to apply for some leave. I’ve written to Jane and asked if she agrees, for us to be married, that is, whilst I’m there.”

  Drake gave out a loud laugh.

  “Wonderful! And I see no reason at all why you should not be granted a month or so during which you can stitch things up.”

  Then, a thought.

  “But who will be your Best Man?”

  Now it was Carr’s turn to laugh.

  “I care not! A tiny wedding with none but Jane, myself, a Vicar and the necessary witnesses will suit us fine. But if there is to be any kind of ceremony, then you can write the sp
eech. To be delivered by proxy.”

  Another thought.

  “I’ll visit Sophie. I may be there for the birth!”

  By now they had reached their tent and within 30 minutes, both were sleeping the sleep of the dead, induced by exhaustion, wine, and a deep satisfaction with their hopes for the future.

  The following day, the army, minus Sherbrook’s Brigades marched into Montijo to meet a similar reception to that at Merida and the following day, now only in the company of Campbell’s men, they settled into what was probably going to be Winter quarters, the Officers in houses, the men in barns, buildings and tents for the less favoured. Carr sent off his request to their acting Divisional General Donkin and eagerly awaited a reply.

  However, one morning in their second week, D’Villiers woke and looked across the room to the bed of Carravoy. He sat up.

  “You know, Charles. I don’t feel too well!”

  Carravoy rolled himself out of the bed and sat on the edge, his head in his hands.

  “You know, I don’t feel too well, either!”

  oOo

  Chapter Seven

  Concerns Martial

  “I’ve done it!”

  “Done what, exactly?”

  “Written to Jane, telling her that I am applying for leave, which I’ve said I’m certain will be granted, and when I get home, we’ll be married!”

  Drake sat back, causing his ancient chair to creak alarmingly, and treated Carr to his ‘wearied’ look, this used when he suspected that something had been done badly, which could easily have been done much better.

  “So that’s that then! All done and dusted, orders issued. Much the same as if you were ordering a new pair of boots!”

  Carr looked puzzled and not a little surprised.

  “That’s wrong?”

  Drake rocked his head from side to side.

  “Well, yes and no. It’s just that I have the deepest suspicions that there was nothing in your letter about you desperately looking forward to being man and wife, nothing you want more in this world, undying affection. That sort of thing.”

  Carr adopted a pained expression.

  “I am much maligned! Unjustly! I did, include such as that, perhaps not as much as you would, but it was there! Yes!”