Supplies were also plentiful, this now evidenced by the arrival of a mule train, with the food for the next four days, although there was little chance of anything perishable going rotten with the temperatures as they were. With this arrival to their particular part of the plateau, came Sergeant Ellis and, as Bridie and Nellie took their rations, Ellis kicked the line of boots to rouse his Company.
“Eat! Then we’n marchin’. ‘Twill be into the night. That’s orders, to get us out these Godforsaken mountains!”
Within the hour the food had been cooked and, as the men prepared to don their packs and weapons, Ellis fished into his pocket and looked for Davey. He had stayed there to eat, but he wanted nothing to distract anyone from preparing for the march, but now the time had come.
“John. Letter’s arrived. Come up with the mules.”
He placed the letter in the fingerless-gloved hand of John Davey and moved on, leaving Davey to examine the cover in the fading light. He now turned to Bridie.
“Bridie. Can we get that lantern goin’? Here’s a letter. Looks like from Tilly.”
At the sound of the momentous name, all preparations ceased everywhere and hands stretched out for their single lantern. A cartridge was broken open and the candle lit in the priming pan of Joe Pike’s rifle. By now the letter was in the hands of the ‘Mess Reader’, this being Byford, and the letter was out and opened well before the yellow light of the lantern fell on it. Byford cleared his throat.
“Dear John and Joe. We are all well and healthy here and hope that you are as well. Molly and Mary have both given birth, Molly had a girl and Mary had a boy. They were only a day from each other and so we call them the twins.”
At this point Byford had to stop, all now being drowned out by shouting, cheering and congratulations, Joe Pike subsiding under a welter of back slapping and being jumped upon. Hearing all the joyful commotion, Cyrus Gibney and Captain Heaviside wandered over and when all had subsided, Byford continued.
“Molly has called your new daughter Rachel, this being a good Bible name and Mary has called your new son Thomas, because she quite liked Tom Miles, he always talked good sense and was helpful and sensible.”
However, all were looking aghast at Tom Miles who was wearing a very self-satisfied smirk on his weatherbeaten face, but John Davey simply exclaimed one word as he stared hard at the grinning Miles.
“Thomas!”
As the laughter died down, at this point came a quote from Captain Heaviside.
“Let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works. Matthew 5. Verse 16.”
With this now replied to in standard fashion by Jed Deakin, Byford continued.
“Both children are bonny and healthy and will be baptized next week. The Reverend Blackmore said he would do it for free as you are both away fighting the Godless French who killed their own King. The farm is doing well and we have rented some more land. The eggs and chickens are the best for bringing in coin, but we have bought some more cows and the milk is steady coin as well. We sell all in Devizes. Your Mother, John, thinks that we will soon have to spend some money making the cottage bigger, now that the twins are here. We have already made it better, putting in a wooden floor, a good door and a kitchen range which makes all warmer and dry as well. We have all been saying what we would like to happen, but I think two more rooms, one up and one down.
I go to school most days, paid for by the Reverend, and I am learning about all kinds of things, too many to tell you, but my teachers are pleased with me. Give my best wishes to Parson Sedgwicke. I know that it was him that started me with my learning and I am very grateful.
All our love to you both, very much. We miss you terribly and cannot wait for this horrid war to end and to have you back with us. Keep yourselves safe.
Tilly.”
Byford, his own voice shaking over the final sentences, lowered the letter in total silence. Many were fighting back tears and others wiped them away, especially Bridie and Nellie. It was left to Heaviside to have the last word before they all formed up to march once more on the frozen road.
“Beloved, we are God's children now, and what we will be has not yet appeared. One John. 3. Verse 2.”
oOo
Chapter Nine
The Hills of Busaco
Henry Carr turned once more at the now very familiar corner to undertake yet again the 152 steps down the very familiar street along which he could remember every building as it came. He was just returning from yet another routine inspection of the pickets mounted by the 105th around their sector of the Battalion perimeter, there to protect the small Portuguese town of Trancoso. This was a town they had occupied for so long now, that he could greet by name almost every Portuguese whose regular business it was, to frequent the dry, rutted highway which served as their main street. After reaching the familiar butchers shop, with its grubby sign ‘Talhos’ above and its habitual trickle of blood managing no more than twelve inches across the hot, parched earth, Carr turned into the welcome shade of their billet, shared, as was habitual, with Nat Drake, and Lieutenants Richard Shakeshaft and Stuart Maltby. He found all three lounging in the downstairs room, a bucket of fresh water on the table, the bucket still wet showing evidence of its trip down the nearby well. Beakers were arranged all around, these also wet, giving evidence of their recent use. Greatly relieved to be inside and duty done, Carr removed his tunic and loosened the cord tie at the top of his shirt.
“God, it’s hot!”
On hearing that, Drake pushed across the bucket and a beaker, the latter being eagerly picked up by Carr.
“Any of that wine still going, to give this a bit of a lift?”
A bottle of local white wine appeared around the paper that Richard Shakeshaft was reading and Carr tipped in a measure before filling the beaker to the brim. He took three swallows and then looked at Drake, who was idly looking at nothing.
“What’s going round today’s rumour mill?”
Drake sat up. At last something to do, if only to converse.
“Us specifically, or the army in general?”
“I’ll start with us.”
“We’re going to attempt another play. Sheridan’s ‘A Trip to Scarborough’ and I’ve volunteered you for something.”
Carr hurried his beaker to the table, the sound waking up Stuart Maltby and some of the mixture slopping onto the wood of the table with the impact.
“Oh God, no. I can’t stand it! We’ve already done ‘School for Scandal’. No more, please no more!”
Shakespeare moved his paper to one side.
“Don’t you complain! We had to The Rivals whilst you were away!”
The paper moved again to reveal Shakeshaft with an accusing expression.
“And that was before we had to slog our way over the Sierra de Gata, at the summit of which we spent Christmas!”
Carr had every sympathy. They had returned from England to find that Wellington had moved his army North, to defend the ‘Northern corridor’, this containing Cuidad Rodrigo and Viseu, the latter having the army now concentrated around it, including Mackinnon’s Brigade, which the 105th were now part of. He rotated his beaker in the spilt mixture of wine and water. Frustration and boredom was as enervating within him as with anyone.
“Seven months! I marched our new recruits to here last January and here we are, late July. We’ve practised everything until our boots wore out. The men can move blindfold from closed column to line to defensive square.”
He looked at Drake.
“And you must’ve nearly worn out those new Bakers from exercise in the hills!”
“You exaggerate, but that brings me to the general. Cuidad Rodrigo has surrendered!”
Carr was no longer lounging.
“Just over the border? Crauford’s up there with his Lights, at Almeida, just on our side.”
Drake nodded.
“Massena and Ney are now on the border.”
Carr perked up further.
> “May they hurry and cross, if it gets us out of this place.”
“Be careful what you wish for. Rumour has it, that he has over 60,000 men, pushing onto 70. Boney made peace with the Austrians late last year and so he’s given Massena a sizeable force to come down here and sort us out. Once and for all!”
Silence dwelt for a few moments as those facts were digested, then Carr replied.
“And just over 50,000 is all we can manage. If, and a very big if, you count in the Portuguese.”
Drake nodded.
“A very big if. Beresford’s been training them up, but what they’ll be like in a set-piece, God only knows.”
“Anything else to speak of?”
“Not much, other than there’s now some different guerrilla chap, one Julian Sanchez, operating up and around here. Mostly over the border, him being Spanish. Bit of a ‘cut above’, by all accounts.”
Carr lifted his head, as if to aid his memory.
“You know he came through our picket line last month. With a crew of vicious looking cut-throats, all mounted on French horses. He showed me a letter from Wellington requesting any British Commander reading the note to supply arms and food and whatnot. I sent him on down to Picton’s Headquarters. He must have gone out a different way, because I never saw him again.”
He lowered his head.
“And he’s on our side! Glad to hear that. The man was an evil scowl sat on top of a malignant block covered in sheepskin.”
“Well, there you are! Because, as I understand it, what I’ve just told you came from him! He’s our eyes and ears out there, watching all and reporting it to Wellington.”
At that moment, Maltby rose from his chair.
“Must go. Time for school.”
Carr’s head rose again.
“You mean that thing that Lacey ordered? To keep us all from dying of boredom.”
Maltby looked squarely at him, although two ranks his junior.
“Yes. For all our youngsters, Drummerboys and whatnot, and a few more besides. Four buildings down the way, the big building with ‘Escola’ on the top. Bit of a giveaway really. That’s Portuguese for School.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“Since late May.”
Drake joined in.
“Yes. Since then, but you’ve been too busy being important. They’ve started a school for our youngsters.”
“They?”
“Yes. Him and Eirin Mulcahy.”
A huge grin spread across Carr’s face.
“And the very comely Eirin Mulcahy! Well, of course, there’s nothing in that, is there, to be speculated upon.”
Maltby turned, now very indignant, as he reached the door.
“She was taught to read when we were in Spain last. By Chaplain Prudoe’s wife and that Sedgwicke assistant of his. She is very useful and can read quite well.”
His sole reply was from long, knowing stares from his three companions, and so he left, indignation undiminished.
Events over the next few hours rapidly created the need for fast horses. The first, to carry one of Sanchez’ guerrillas to deliver the message to Wellington that Massena was gathering his men around Cuidad Rodrigo, having recently taken it and the second to deliver a message from Wellington to Picton that he was to move up to Pinhel and support Crauford. The minor message reached Maltby in his schoolhouse, carried by Richard Shakeshaft.
“Sorry Stuart. School’s out. We’re moving up, in two hours.”
Within that time, Picton’s whole Division was marching East, Lightburn’s in the lead, followed by Mackinnon’s and then Champlemonde’s Portuguese. Deep within the column, in the centre of Mackinnon’s marched the 105th, Chosen Man Davey in an outer rank, marching besides Sergeant Ellis, him marching beside the column.
“What do you know, Ethan?”
“Not much, apart from the common that most knows. The French are up on the border, tens of thousands and they’ve took Roger’s Town. I do know that ‘tis only Crauford’s as is in their way, so we’re on our way up to support. Forced march I’d say. Sleep when we gets there.”
Davey looked at him.
“Just ours and Crauford’s, now in the way of a whole French invasion!”
Ellis nodded.
“If you can’t take a joke you shouldn’t have joined.”
Davey raised his voice.
“I didn’t join! King’s Hard Bargain, me!”
“Then you should’ve let they pheasants run off alive!”
“Bloody useful source of comfort you are.”
Ellis chuckled as they hurried on, but it was a good road, mostly gentle hills and yet it was full dark as they entered a dormant Pinhel to be directed into some fields by a member of Picton’s Staff. All quickly took off their equipment, rolled themselves into their blankets and slept the few hours until full daylight. After a mid-morning meal, they were re-assembled on the road, where they were required to stand for almost an hour, when they heard the sound of cannon-fire in the far distance. Lacey sat his horse, beside O’Hare.
“How far would you say?”
O’Hare listened to the continuous rumble for a few seconds before answering.
“Eight, nine, miles.”
“Then that must be Crauford at Almeida, getting pushed back over the River Coa. Obviously, he can’t hold onto the Almeida side. We will either cross to support or he’ll be ordered back.”
“Cover a retreat more probable! Crauford’s will be in no shape to add his to ours, and we’ll be one Division against a whole army.”
They sat for a further half hour listening to the sound of the combat rising and falling as the wind and heat thermals dictated. Finally, Mackinnon came riding back from his 74th. Over the previous months of idleness, the three had gotten to know each other very well.
“Lacey. O’Hare. We’re pulling back and not going up to reinforce. Picton’s gone up to the bridge, seen Crauford, but refused to move us up to reinforce. Damn poor, I think, but then it was damn stupid for Crauford to keep his whole Division on the French side of the Coa, with just one narrow bridge to retreat over, so on that score I have some sympathy with Picton. He’s leaving Lightburn to shepherd what’s left of Crauford’s, if and when they get back over, but we’re back to Trancoso. I’m on to tell Wallace.”
He had barely halted his horse as he passed on the order to the pair, then for him to ride further back to tell the Colonel of the 88th Connaught Rangers. All along the column could be heard the order, ‘About turn’, and then all began to retrace their steps of the previous day. It was left to Drake to pass comment, marching besides Shakespeare.
“Oh well, it was a pleasant stroll. A quick polonaise to the next village and then a leisurely waltz back!”
However, whilst the 105th settled back into more days of active boredom, this being training and inspections, over the border in Spain hostilities were intensifying, with none more responsible for this than the guerrilla leader Julian Sanchez. Riding at the head of one of his columns at the beginning of yet another August day on the border he had little idea what the day would bring, but it would contain something, either intelligence of French movements, or a chance to ambush a foraging party, or to surprise a French force with a hit and run. His men, 200 strong, were all now adopting a grey/blue uniform, provided by the British, and they had now begun to call themselves the ‘Lancers of Castile’. Sanchez, named by his men as ‘El Charro’, meaning simply ‘cavalryman’ to any bemused Englishman taking the trouble to translate, had built a formidable force and there were two other similar columns which named him as their ‘Comandante’ also out roaming the countryside of the Spanish/Portuguese border around Almeida and Pinhel. A fourth was now escorting a mule train over the highest and safest hills carrying muskets and ammunition supplied by the British. Sanchez had higher ambitions than to be the leader of only mounted Guerrillas, he had hopes for his newly formed armed Ordenanza; Militia infantry, would be the basis of a Spanish force that co
uld do more than attack for merely minutes before riding away. These would assault a French outpost for perhaps longer than a day, before melting away into the hills, when French reinforcements approached. He had both plans and ambitions.
That day brought no contact, at least none that Sanchez would risk, but that evening he did pen a despatch to Wellington informing him that the French were massing over the Coa. It would not be long before they moved, with Viseu or even Coimbra as their objective. In this way, up to the end of August he maintained his patrols, harassing and gaining information, whilst tensions built in Wellington’s force, not 20 miles away. His Ordenanza were now becoming the best of Light Infantry, trained by the British and able to march at speed and skirmish with any French force, before melting away into the hills, outrunning any French infantry and being careful to avoid French cavalry. They could use Sanchez’ ‘Lancers of Castile’ as a source of information to ensure that none ever came too close. August became September as Massena’s army assembled and built up its strength, but what also built was their fear of Sanchez and his men. El Charro’ was becoming a legend across the Province of Salamanca.
On the 5th September, two men had their fears confirmed. One was Sergent de Cheval Marcel Lemar, now busy covering himself with the blood smeared body of a comrade, whilst the mounted guerrillas drove off the remaining escort of a convoy of corn brought up with great difficulty over the mountain roads from Plascencia. The other was Colonel Pavetti, stood in consternation in the village square of Nava d’Avel amongst his five Gendarmes escort. Pouring out from every side street and front door came fully armed Ordenanza and so the six Frenchmen had little choice but to stand with their hands high in the air, there to rue Pavatti’s decision to ride into the village and enquire directions. Now, several of these evil brigands were advancing on them, each drawing a wickedly pointed and curved knife, such that for Pavatti death was plainly imminent and so he took the only chance he had of saving his life. He took the despatch satchel from his shoulder and waved it in the air.
The Plains of Talavera Page 47
