“You’ve seen them off, boys. The best they’ve got. Time to rub it in!”
It was already happening; the 105th and then the 88th rose up out of the heather to jeer and catcall after the retreating French, some of whom turned to shake their fist in anger, to then receive the standard English two-fingered salute in return.
Carr noticed some riders above him and a quick look identified them as Picton and Mackinnon, sat there with their Staff. They had ridden over to investigate the sound of firing. Carr now needed new orders and so he climbed the 150 yards to where they were, but he didn’t have time to salute before Picton was jumping about in his saddle.
“Damn fine work, Carr! Damn fine! Can’t remember the last time I heard of those damn Frog skirmishers being given such a bloody nose! You must have downed almost four dozen!”
He turned to Mackinnon.
“What say you, Mac?”
The 105th’s Brigadier gave a Fatherly smile.
“Good technique, Picton. We talked about that a while ago, did we not, Major?”
“Yes Sir. Good technique and a Baker rifle, Sir, but what’s possibly more important is that they’ll not come marching up here tomorrow with quite so much of their Gallic confidence! As I’ve heard it, this is a veteran French army.”
Picton beamed all over his naturally ill-tempered face, whilst somehow it still retained its irascible edge.
“Just so, Major. As I’ve heard. Now, hold your men here. They may try again, so hold them here.”
He turned again to Mackinnon.
“See they get a rum issue.”
He jumped again gleefully in his saddle.
“Ha! Hold that! Frog bastards!”
All the Senior Officers turned their horses, whilst Carr saluted and then descended the slope. His men, and those of the 88th, were already far down the slope, examining French haversacks for food, brandy, general plunder and replenishing their stock of silver buttons from Officer tunics. Boots also were carefully examined, one pair being spotted by Miles.
“John! This Frog Officer yer. He’s about your size an’ve got a nice pair of cavalry boots!”
It was a happy hour for the 105th Lights, who soon returned to their original positions and began to carefully examine the items that had been found on the French dead and to eat their looted food. Soon after that, as a surprise to them, the rum arrived, from Division stocks. It was doubly a surprise as explained by Miles and the reason why none had touched the looted wine or brandy.
“This is a turn up. Unofficial drinkin’ in the front line. That’s a floggin’ offence!”
With that he seized Joe Pike’s mug from him and poured in some water, before the issue.
“Nothin’ full strength for you. We don’t want to be carryin’ you back up the hillside.”
Joe Pike grinned and did not argue. He, and they, well knew the impact that strong drink had upon him and happily sipped his watered down portion. Thus, in great contentment sat the 105th Lights, as morning became afternoon, watching events below, although none were in any way belligerent, merely some of the 88th and some of their own, making a last inspection of the French dead. Some of the 88th, passing close, seemed to recognise them and came closer and one, now seen as very familiar, wore an ingratiating grin on his face.
“Well now, boys, we all meet up again. Michael O’Donnell; surely you remember?”
Davey looked up from cutting down his cavalry boots.
“Oh, it’s you! Yes, we remember, the one as chiseled us into a wrestling match with the All Irish Champion. Yes, we remember and we found out who he was.”
The grin stiffened, just a little.
“Ah, come now, boys. ‘Tis all in the spirit of the thing. It would have been a good contest, all the same, would you not have thought?”
Davey was unmoved.
“Aye! With all the odds on your side.”
“Well, perhaps we can make it happen all the same, sometime in the future!”
He then noticed the very substantial amount of loot spread around, waiting to be evaluated and shared out amongst the Light Company.
“Sure now, boys, haven’t you done powerful well out of the gleanings!”
He allowed his eyes to pass over all.
“Now, don’t you think there should be a bit of the share out comin’ our way? Now didn’t we hold your flank, all through?”
Miles was becoming increasingly irritated. Irish diddykites were a bad memory from his Bristol childhood.
“And didn’t we hold yours! And if we’ve got more, ‘tis because we brought down more of ‘em!”
Each side now looked coldly at the other, but it was broken by Captain Sennet, seeing his own men idling with those of the 105th, and not where he wanted them.
“O’Donnell and the rest of you. Form up. Now!”
The Irish slunk off, taking no good wishes with them, but the 105th Lights grinned, one to the other. They felt that they had got the best of the exchange and they gave them not a glance as the 88th Lights marched away, up the slope. Within an hour the 74th Lights arrived to take their place, the 88th were now due their turn in San Antonio.
The afternoon wore on with the two Light Companies holding their positions. The Officers of both Regiments grouped together, attempting conversation to relieve the boredom, which was not broken even by the sounds of firing from their left, where they knew the main French strength lay, opposite the Convent. The sounds of conflict also came to them from their own front, from the direction of San Antonio, over to their right. However, with the growing dusk the sounds of both conflicts died away. The last act of the day for them, was the arrival of Mackinnon with the Light Company of the 88th. They had been pushed out of San Antonio by an overwhelming French advance, which had been the source of the sounds of fighting on their right front. Mackinnon went straight to Carr.
“Peer’s orders. The army sleeps in position, which means you remain here. Keep a good watch, they’ll be up with the dawn to start things off. I’ll get some rations sent down.”
“Can we cook, Sir?”
“I dinnae see why not. M’sieu knows we’re here. Why double the misery?”
Mackinnon was as good as his word, for within half an hour rations arrived on a string of mules; salt beef, beans, peas and bread. Soon cooking fires sprang up, using the thick stems of the gorse and heather as fuel. The Officers dined with their own Companies, but with that done, they congregated together, again for conversation, but, all the while they stared out into the black void beyond them, where could be seen the myriad bivouac fires of the French. Three great masses, each mass a whole Corps, the single largest before their own position, but two more over before Busaco Convent.
oOo
Sedgwicke’s cosy dream suddenly took a turn for the worse. He was in an Inn with some of his old friends from Ecumenical College, all sat at a table replete with food, but someone was now pushing him vigorously from the side. He awoke to find that the hand doing the pushing was very real. It belonged to his Chaplain, the Reverend Albright, who was shaking him awake.
“Private!”
Sedgwicke sat up, but not enough to knock his head on the floor of the wagon under which he slept, but his head remained much befuddled.
“Sir?”
“Private, there is about to be a battle.”
“Yes Sir.”
It now registered with Sedgwicke that all around was pitched dark. The light was coming from the Reverend’s candle lantern, but Albright was continuing.
“Should there not be some kind of Service? For the men? Before a battle?”
Sedgwicke rubbed his eyes.
“Yes Sir, if possible, but sometimes circumstances do not allow it, such as this time, Sir. The men went straight into their positions with the coming of darkness.”
“So, what can be done? Something should be done.”
“Well Sir. The men slept in line. We could simply go along the line and wish them luck, Sir. And the blessings of The Lor
d.”
Even in the poor light, Sedgwicke could see the disgust on Albright’s face.
“That’s very paltry, Private. Nothing at all adequate for men who may, come this day’s end, be stood before their Maker.”
“I’m sure that’s true, Sir, but the men are in their battle positions. Colonel Lacey, good God Fearing man that he is, would simply not allow any form of distraction, Sir, in the face of the enemy, such as calling the men around for a Service, Sir. That’s the way that it is. With respect.”
Sedgwicke saw Albright’s shoulders slump down, but he conceded.
“Well, yes, and I do suppose that we could say a lot more than just good luck.”
Sedgwicke was relieved to hear Albright concede and, despite the unwelcome awakening, could not stop himself from warming to this ignorant but very well intentioned man.
“Yes Sir, we could. We should go now, Sir, and make a start. The Grenadiers are on the right and are just up there, Sir.”
‘Just up there’ was a huge exaggeration, which became very evident when their left the shelter of their cart, for not only was it still full dark, there was a thick fog. Nevertheless, by going up hill, they blundered into the backs of the Grenadiers, already stood to and all eating. They walked to the right and soon came to the end of their line, where stood Captain Carravoy. Albright went straight up to him.
“Good morning, Captain. I thought I would move amongst the men, along the line, that is, and tender my good wishes for them during this coming conflict.”
Carravoy could see no objection, nor did he want to find one.
“By all means, Chaplain. I’m sure the men will appreciate it.”
“My thanks to you, Captain and may you be the first to receive my best good wishes and hopes that you may safely see the end of this day.”
Carravoy saluted.
“My thanks to you, Chaplain.”
Thus began the spiritual mission of the good Chaplain Albright and his assistant, Private Sedgwicke, along the two deep firing line of the 105th Foot. All in the line appreciated both the effort and the words that he spoke to them and, in addition, Sedgwicke was universally popular, being frequently greeted by the simple words, ‘Hello Old Parson’. Such were the exact words used by Colour Sergeant Jed Deakin when the pair reached the centre of the line, this being the Colour Party. All came to the attention to acknowledge their efforts, even the unfathomably deep Low Church Captain Joshua Heaviside, who made a respectful, even helpful, reply.
“We are not of them who draw back unto perdition; but of them that believe to the saving of the soul. Hebrews 10, Verse 39.”
Albright’s face lit up, even in the gloom.
“Just so, Captain Heaviside. Be not moved away from the hope of the Gospel.”
“No Sir. Colossians 1. Verse 23.”
Albright moved on, much uplifted, which was much more than could be said for the Senior Officers of the 105th, these being Lacey and O’Hare, Lacey asking the key question, sourced from his deep concerns.
“Are the pickets out? This fog could not be worse for us, nor better for them.”
“Yes they are. Doubled!”
“Good. Then we can do nothing but wait.”
Such thoughts were uppermost in the mind of Henry Carr, only with double intensity. He was stood with Captains Drake, Sennet and now Carson of the 74th.
“They’ll try here again. This is the easiest ground for a column. With their Lights out in front and now able to come a damn sight nearer with this pestilential fog.”
The visibility was down to 20 yards, although the sky above was reasonably bright, but 20 yards visibility completely nullified the long-range advantage of the Baker rifle. Carr made his decision.
“Right. When they come, we’ll meet them in two firing lines, a 10-yard gap between back and front. The first gives fire, then files back through, for the second to fire. Then we go to files for the pull-back. That way we slow them up, which is the best we can do. It won’t be just Jumping Johnnies this time, but an assault column also, coming up behind.”
The three laughed and Carson asked the question.
“Jumping Johnnies Sir?”
“Yes. Voltiguer means ‘leaper’, or so my educated ranker informs me.”
“Right Sir. Jumping Johnny it is.”
“Good. At least we’ve got the names of our foe sorted out. So, as we mean to retreat anyway, we’ll start from lower down. 100 yards further down, two lines across.”
Within minutes it was done, the 105th first, the 88th in the second, with the 74th split and extending both lines, both further down the valley that cleaved the slope of the main ridge. That done, the same as those in the main line above San Antonio, they could do little but sit and wait. Until Carr had a thought, so he turned to Drake.
“What’s above us?”
“The 88th. Minus their Lights, of course.”
“Just them?”
“As I understand. I’ll go look.”
He ran up the hill, soon to disappear into the mist. At that moment came the sound of approaching French, the dum dada dum dada dum dum, came up the hill, distinct, even though suppressed by the fog.
“Stand to! Stand to!”
This came from Ellis, running along the line and immediately all were on their feet and loading their weapons, carefully wiping away any fog damp in the priming pan to make it perfectly dry before tipping in any powder. The minutes stretched out, as the drumming grew louder, then Drake returned.
“Yes. Just the 88th, as infantry that is, but they’ve heard the drumming and Wallace, their Colonel has readied his men. But, one good thing. The Peer himself is just over and has moved a pair of guns to
support us. He must have heard the drumming too.”
“Oh fine! Two guns, one battalion! A whole French Division, I don’t doubt!”
Every man in Carr’s line now stood, peering forward, staring into the mist and wishing for some form of superior eyesight that could give better warning. It came, not as sight, but as sound, that of gaitered legs swishing through the wet gorse and heather. Shapes appeared, vague at first, then more distinct, and the men of the 105th, 88th and 74th subconsciously gripped their weapons a little tighter. Carr was stood at the centre and behind the first line. There were enough targets now, but the French did not seem to have reacted, perhaps not expecting to meet any opposition so soon and so far down. Carr gave his order quickly, whilst the French seemed still unaware. Surprise was never a bad thing.
“Make ready. Present.”
He gave time for each man to find a target.
“Fire!”
The muskets crashed out and many shapes fell in the fog before them and then the screaming of the wounded began.
“Fall back!”
All turned to file back through the second line. Carr took charge again, and produced the same result. The French stopped, surprised to find a firing line so far down, but their Officers soon discovered that it was merely a skirmish line and so their advance continued. Carr gave the order to form files of three and soon the French were suffering from the British Lights executing their file drill perfectly and using the fog as cover, but it was they who were retreating and the French who were advancing.
High on the ridge, the main line of the 105th could hear the drumming of their own approaching column, coming up the hill to their immediate front, on the their right of the road up from San Antonio. The 105th were, if anything, in reserve behind the 74th who were immediately at the summit of the slope and close to the road. They all could also hear the thin volleys of Carr’s skirmishing line, over to their left, as could Picton and he soon arrived, on a very agitated horse.
“Lacey, get one wing of yours over to aid Wallace. I’ve sent for both Battalions of the 8th Portuguese on the end of Leith’s line, beyond our far right They’ll come to your support. Go now. No time to lose. Who knows what’s coming up that valley?”
Lacey and O’Hare were stood in the centre of their line and
O’Hare immediately offered himself, so that Lacey could remain with The Colours.
“I’ll go with half. Carr’s already there.”
He ran off calling to each Company Captain as he passed and soon one half of the 105th had disappeared into the fog. Picton had gone over to the San Antonio road, because the immediate threat was a French attack directly up it, onto the lowest point of where they were stood; the San Antonio pass. Lacey looked forward into the fog, now thinning, but it remained an advantage for the French. At that point the Portuguese battery, Captain Arentschildt’s, at the head of the road, opened fire, their crash drowning out all other sounds and their smoke adding to the mist. Lacey remained with his men and looked behind him.
“Uncase The Colours.”
The leather sheaths came off, pulled away by the Ensigns and handed to their Colour Sergeant. The heavy Standards were lifted into their leather holders and set. Ensign Mulcahey had a big grin on his face, which brought a smile to that of Lacey’s. Then Lacey’s returned his attention to events before him, as from behind him he heard the two battalions of the 8th Portuguese Line passing over in obedience of Picton’s orders, using the ridge track just down from the summit. Lacey saw The Colours of the 74th before him raised up and set, then their line advanced forward. The fog was thinning as he saw them bring their muskets to the ‘make ready’. The Portuguese guns crashed out again, then the 74th's muskets disappeared as they were lowered to the ‘present’. Lacey could see no French, but the 74th opened fire, a volley from each line and then their half-Company volleys began, they had been trained just in the same way as the 105th. He heard the sound of another Battalion volley from the far side of the road over on his right, and then the firefight began, the endless volleys crashing out from the Allied line. The 74th took not one backward step, telling him that this first French attack, in whatever strength it was, had been halted and was most certainly taking punishment, now held up by two Battalions and one battery.
However, for Carr, life was nothing like so simple and life itself was growing more tenuous by the minute. His small force was hugely outnumbered by the oncoming French skirmish screen and so they had no choice but to retreat. The Tirailleurs were causing casualties and the necessary speed of retreat by Carr’s men was growing by the minute. Relief of sorts came in the form of a Major of the 88th coming down the hill alone. Introductions were brief before the Major made his suggestion, amidst the buzzing French musket balls.
The Plains of Talavera Page 51
