“Importantes dépêches. Prenez-moi à les Anglais!”
The knives were not used, not on any of them, but one man, certainly their Commander, from the edge of the square, shouted to the knife-carriers.
“Llevarlo a mí.”
The two nearest seized Pavatti and hauled him in the direction of the Commander, one roughly snatching the satchel from Pavatti’s grasp. The Commander took the satchel, opened it to look inside and then uttered a grunt of satisfaction. All six Frenchmen were then stripped of their equipment and then, at bayonet point, forced out of the village and up into the hills, leaving six Gendarme shakoes rolling in the dust.
Two days later Sanchez, at the head of one of his columns, rode into the same Nava d’Avel to find it raised to the ground, every building a smoking ruin, but worst were two mutilated and abused figures hanging from ropes suspended from the nearest tree. His men immediately dismounted to cut them down, whilst Sanchez went to the tree trunk, because pinned to it was a notice, hand written, in large words in Spanish. It said simply that all Ordenanza were to be treated as brigands and rebels and would be executed. By the orders of Marshal Massena. Sanchez carried the notice to the centre of the square and read it out to his men. He had to shout the final sentence; such was the anger the first had aroused. They buried the two men in the Churchyard and then rode on to complete their day’s mission. However, over the following days, Sanchez force grew as many more local Spanish and Portuguese came to join, carrying tales of French killings and brutality, meted out to anyone who resisted, no matter how minor. Sanchez now issued his own order; ‘Ningún preso!’. Certain death now awaited any Frenchman unfortunate enough to fall into their hands.
It was the exact middle of September when Carr got his particular wish, orders came to move back to the town of Alva, fifteen miles North of Viseu. The French threat was now too great. Most were pleased to leave, bar many of the Followers, which included Bridie Deakin, who looked around as Jed Deakin and the others strapped their equipment onto their packs.
“Ah now, Jed, isn’t this a cryin’ shame to be leavin’ such a place! Haven’t we now got this hut fixed up just fine, and now we’ve got to move on. ‘Tis the Lord’s pity, so it is!”
Jed had little patience for such complaints.
“Never mind all that wailin’ and moanin’, get ours packed up and ready to carry. French cavalry could be in here in two hours and they’d just love a portion of the rations we gets sent up these days and then amuse theirselves in God only knows what terrible way. Get yourself and the youngers ready to go. I’d not be surprised if there were orders to fire this place along with all the food that we can’t carry or the locals can’t take into the hills. Any food we can’t take is to be destroyed.”
Bridie said no more but hurried to do his bidding and within the hour they were marching down Trancoso High Street to see it no more.
oOo
Whilst the 105th were executing their orders to retreat, the 16th Light Dragoons were executing theirs to move forward, with Tavender and Templemere riding side by side as usual and, as usual, the less experienced enquired of the more so, concerning what they were about to do. The latter gave a brief reply.
“Scouting is what we’re about! No combat, that’s to be avoided. Find the Johnnies and then ride away!”
Templemere was much relieved.
“Hooray for a good horse!”
However, Tavender was in a teasing mood.
“Unless, of course, they get in behind us. Perfectly possible in these hills, in which case we’d have to cut our way out.”
Templemere was suddenly much more apprehensive.
“So, where are we going?”
“Town of Guarda. Nice little place, so I’ve heard.”
“How close to the Coa?”
“Oh, 20 miles to the West, give or take.”
They rode on, using the good road that led East from Viseu, and, with the Westering sun now throwing their shadows fully before them, they at last came to Guarda. All the way there, coming in the opposite direction, had been displaced Spanish, their column a mixture of refugees, carts and mules, all heavily laden with food and provisions. By Wellington’s orders, Massena’s route to Westwards from the Coa was to be stripped bare of any sustenance that could support his substantial army. When the 16th reached Guarda, they found it practically deserted, with even those that still remained now preparing to leave, loading carts and animals with their own stores of food. Their last optimism that they would be untroubled by the French, was now thoroughly evaporated. What had finally brought on their decision was the presence of a column of Chavez’ Lancers, now occupying many of the buildings and making themselves warm and comfortable. Templemere looked around with distaste at the groups of guerrillas, all grouped around fires, eating, singing and generally in the best of moods.
“Are these brigands the best the Spanish have got?”
Tavender had formed a higher, more professional, opinion of what he saw and felt inclined to put Templemere right.
“I’d back them in a fight. And one of them saved your bacon back at Grijon. Remember?”
There was no time for Templemere to argue, before their Colonel Withers rode up.
“Templemere. Get half a dozen men. I want a picket a mile forward. You’ll be in the dark, so keep your ears open. On the other hand, you may be lucky, last night there was a decent moon. You could find anything riding at you; Spanish regular, Chavez Spanish or French Light.”
Now with some sympathy, Tavender looked at the worried Templemere.
“You’ll need a good Sergeant. I’ll pick him and your men.”
Half an hour later Templemere was sat his horse, within a copse of fir trees, peering forward into the growing gloom, sat debating within himself whether to send a man forward to form a picket for his picket. His ‘good’ Sergeant was mounted beside him, staring forward equally intently. Finally, Templemere began to make his decisions.
“Where are the men?”
“100 yards back, Sir. Where we left them.”
“I’ve a mind to hold here.”
“Makes sense, Sir. We’ve a good view forward, but what matters is open ground, so’s we can hear, when it gets full dark. The sound’ll carry better over open ground, cavalry can’t help making a lot of noise, Sir.”
Templemere was grateful. That was something that he had not thought of, but he was not going to admit it.
“What about infantry, Sergeant?”
“They make noise, too, Sir. But not as much, and they’ll still be way back, Sir. It’s cavalry we can expect.”
Templemere felt that too much of his ignorance was on display and so he made up his mind.
“Right, we’ll both go back to the others, then you bring one man back to here. I’ll get you both relieved in two hours.”
The Sergeant was now confused.
“Perhaps you should send a man up yourself, Sir, beggin’ your pardon, so that I can stay here, to keep the watch.”
Templemere had to agree.
“Very good. Keep looking.”
The Sergeant sighed, it was ears that mattered now, but at least their arrangements were settled. Templemere rode back and arbitrarily pointed to a Trooper sat by their fire.
“You. Up to join Sergeant Baxter. You’ll be relieved in two hours.”
He pointed to two more, again arbitrarily.
“Relieved by you after two hours. Any problems, I’ll be over here.”
He walked to his horse, unbuckled his blanket and sat, miserable, annoyed and alone. Tavender was no-where to be seen, probably snug in some fully furnished, abandoned house. He was not going to sit with the men, even though they had the fire. He dozed, but for how long he had no idea, when he was awoken by a hand on his shoulder. It was the first Trooper sent up to Sergeant Baxter by him less than two hours ago.
“Sir. You’d better come forward. Sergeant Baxter thinks he can hear something.”
Templemere allowed his bl
anket to drop onto the ground as he mounted his horse and then walked him forward the 100 yards to the pine trees.
“What Sergeant?”
“I swear I can hear something, Sir, not too far off.”
Templemere listened himself, but could hear nothing of significance.
“I think you may be somewhat overwrought, Sergeant.”
Baxter took no notice of the insult, but continued to concentrate.
“There Sir! There’s something.”
Templemere became irritated, but he knew he had to ask the right question.
“So, what, and how many?”
“Cavalry, Sir. Full squadron, I’d say.”
Templemere was now in a quandary. And fearful! He now listened intently himself and discovered that he could faintly hear something that sounded like large pebbles rolling around in large waves, but far distant.
“Right. We ride back to Guarda and tell the Colonel.”
Baxter turned towards him.
“Sir! We have to find out who they are! That’s our job. We cannot just ride back and say there’s a bunch of horsemen coming down the road!”
Templemere was now annoyed.
“And your suggestion, Sergeant, is what?”
The reply was instant.
“Get the men up, Sir, and mounted. Send one back to alert the Colonel. The rest of us challenge this lot and if they’re Frogs we ride like Hell out of here. But we have to find out, Sir.”
Templemere hesitated, but Baxter was right. He turned to the spare Trooper.
“Get the men up and ready to ride. Send one back to Guarda with the message that cavalry are approaching. Then come back up here to me.”
However, Baxter had something to add on.
“And we are trying to find out who!”
The Trooper wheeled his horse and rode back, leaving Baxter and Templemere to listen to the now much more distinct sound of pebbles in the surf. Soon shapes could be seen on the road ahead, but Baxter was not going to wait for any orders. He filled his lungs.
“Halt! Who goes there?”
The sound of hooves on the hard dirt road rapidly fell away, then the reply came back.
“Lancers Castellana! ¿Es usted inglés?”
Templemere was puzzled.
“Who are they?”
“Sanchez’ men, Sir. It’s what they call themselves. I think they’re asking if we’re English.”
Templemere was much relieved.
“Right! So that’s alright, then.”
“No Sir. Careful Sir. The Frogs tries that trick, callin’ theirselves Spanish. They tried it at Talavera, so I’ve heard.”
Baxter’s picket companion returned.
“All done, Sir.”
Templemere ignored him, whilst thinking furiously; he was after all the Officer in command, then blessedly an idea arrived. He reasoned that the Spanish language that was required here, really could not be that different from the English and he did know some words of Spanish.
“Uno Officer. Advance.”
It was good enough. A lone rider came forward and, whilst little could be seen of his uniform, he spoke sufficient English, even though mixed in with the most obvious of Spanish.
“Buenos noches, Inglese! Uno compania Lancers Castellana. We come de Pinhel.”
Templemere was growing in confidence.
“What news?”
The reply came out of the dark, but plainly his command of English was not that good.
“Lo siento, Señor, pero no entiendo. We see the soldados franceses come to here.”
This was vital and Templemere knew it.
“When?”
Baxter shouted, “Cuando?” and the accurate reply came back.
“Tres horas. Muchos los soldados franceses.”
“Caballeria?”
“No Senor. La infantería”
“I’d say they were alright, Sir. We’d better get that back to the Colonel.”
“Agreed. I’ll go.”
With that Templemere wheeled his horse and spurred it away, leaving Baxter with the Spanish Officer. However, it was the latter who broke the silence of the full dark.
“Venga adelante, si?”
Baxter did not fully understand, but ‘yes’ seemed appropriate. After three minutes the Spanish column was riding through, with Pearce now in command of the picket and he turned to his companion.
“Harry! Get on back and send up our relief, both, then stand the lads down as’ve been woke up and get some sleep yourself. I’ll stay. I don’t like this, but I feels better with Lord Huff-n-Puff now out of the way.”
The Trooper smiled in the dark at the use of their nickname for Templemere. Baxter had reasoned that any French infantry would wait for dawn before advancing on a town and he was correct. With the dawn came a French mounted infantry Officer with an infantry column in view, but far back and so, at the sight of both, Baxter retreated back with his two companions to gather the entire picket and ride the mile back to Guarda. Within 15 minutes Guarda was abandoned; the 16th Light Dragoons riding West for the River Mondego, and two columns Spanish ‘Lancers de Castilla’, taking sidetracks to go up into the hills.
At the same time, Picton’s Division were on a leisurely march on the grand trunk to Coimbra, the 105th led by three horsemen; Lacey, O’Hare and their Brigade Commander Henry Mackinnon. It was the latter who dominated the conversation, him considering it to be his duty to keep his Senior Officers informed of the movements of both armies, at least to the extent that he had been made aware.
“This is what I’ve got from Picton. Wellington’s ordered his whole army to retreat, not just pulling back but also pulling in. He wanted to offer battle at a place called Ponte de Murcella but Massena’s having none of it. He’s over the Mondego and going for Viseu, then perhaps Oporto, hoping to draw us up North and out of the hills. We’ve no chance of getting across his path, but Wellington knows that Massena daren’t leave us in his rear, if it is Oporto he’s moving on.”
He pulled out a spirit flask, took a drink from it, then offered in round, before continuing.
“So, he’s banking on drawing Massena down, him hoping to knock us out and push us back, back down South. On the other hand, Massena may want Coimbra and that’s what Wellington believes, so in that case, with Massena now on the North bank of the Mondego, Ponte de Murcella won’t serve, he’s already around it. So I’ve heard talk of a ridge called Busaco, about ten miles North-West back from Ponte de Murcella, running up from a place called Penacova. Wellington’s ordered all Divisions up to there.”
Such a dialogue of high strategy was of no immediate concern to a mere Colonel and a Senior Major, bar the fact that a major battle was imminent, but politeness required some response, this from O’Hare.
“So, a major set-piece is in the offing, Sir?”
“Count on it. Massena’s here to deal with us and that means all of his against all of ours.”
“Right Sir, but we’ve marched now for days unmolested. They must know where we are. That’s not like the French, with the quality of cavalry that they have.”
“Believe it Major, and that’s down, not to ours, but to that Spanish chap Julian Sanchez and his Irregulars. If the French want to find out anything, even such as where we are, they have to do it in some force.”
It was just such a French reconnaissance force that Julian Sanchez was watching enter a shallow valley, but he was more than a little worried by what he could see. Through his French telescope taken from a long dead French cavalry Colonel, he could see that it was a substantial force; in front were Hussars or perhaps Light Dragoons, supported behind by what were plainly Heavy Dragoons. Their distinctive uniform told all, a green coat with scarlet section at the front and wide white crossbelts, but most significant was the butt of the shortened musket prominent behind each saddle. However, the Hussars looked little better than his own, even worse, many wearing tunics of brown cloth, much the same as a prosperous peasant, but the Heavy Dragoons w
ere the worry, because these could act as infantry, if called upon. The Ingleses cavalry had ridden through, but with these he had made no contact, trusting his own men to know the roads better than any Ingleses to carry the letter that was already on its way to the Convent of Busaco to inform Wellington of the whereabouts of most units of the French army. Most of these Franceses were up around Viseu struggling with the areas appalling roads, which meant that Wellington would have several days within which to make his own preparations. However, for Sanchez himself, now it was time to do some damage of his own. His own hatred for the invader had grown, as had that of his men, as the tales came to them of French brutality, as narrated by all new recruits. It was this desire for revenge, burning within these newcomers, that continued to swell the numbers of his own forces. In the face of this eagerness he could no longer confine them to merely scouting and searching. If they did not start to hit the French hard, they would begin to question his position as their leader.
His plan was simple. On his side of the valley were his Lancers, just inside the tree line and out of sight. Equally hidden were the Ordenanza infantry on the far side. His Lancers would attack the Hussar squadrons, taking them on their left, bridle hand, but engage very briefly, instead riding straight through, having inflicted some casualties with their lances, but then draw the Hussars up the other side onto the waiting guns of the Ordenanza. The Dragoons, dismounted and fighting as infantry could ruin everything, but he could not cancel and withdraw his men. They wanted their chance at the French and by withdrawing at such a moment, he would lose face as a worthy leader, brave and ready to take risks. He had no choice and so he waited until the Hussars were directly below his men, when he gave the word for a flag to be waved and his Lancers issued silently from the trees. For a full minute they were unnoticed by the Hussars and when they were, it was too late. They turned to meet the oncoming threat, which broke their ranks and then the Lancers were onto them, stabbing once and then riding through to ascend the hill beyond. Many brown shapes now lay stretched on the yellow stubble with riderless horses scattering in panic in all directions. However, the remainder soon recovered and followed, but in no particular formation, to chase his Lancers up the slope. These disappeared into the trees, where the Hussars were met with heavy musket fire, not like the volleys of the Ingleses, but enough to empty even more saddles. The combat continued, with the Hussars attempting to enter the wood, the Ordenanza keeping them out, firing from behind ready prepared barriers. The French Hussars continued to suffer.
The Plains of Talavera Page 48
