“There’s another coming up and it’s yours, Mac! Your 105th in the centre, Lacey. I’ll bring the 9th Portuguese up on your right, Mac get their 8th back up to form the left. I’ll move Arentschildt’s guns at the top of the road to support you, then I’ll bring up the Portuguese Thomar Militia from reserve.”
With that, he was gone and Lacey and Mackinnon looked at each other, the latter the most worried. The looks they exchanged spoke volumes about their confidence in the Thomar Militia and even the Portuguese, but each said nothing, until Mackinnon looked forward.
“Yours will be the only British in the line, Lacey. Do your best. I’ll stand with you!”
Lacey saluted and ran back to his men and once there, was grateful to see Gibney almost immediately, for he was now too much out of breath.
“Sar’ Major. Advance the men.”
Gibney took a deep breath.
“Paraaade!”
Each musket came beside each right boot.
“Shoulder arms!”
All muskets swung up to right shoulders in unison.
“Forward march.”
The single wing of the 105th marched forward, with Lacey in the lead, forward for 100 yards until they could see easily down the slope and to the point where Mackinnon was waiting. Lacey peered forward through the thinning smoke, to see Carr’s skirmishers slowly giving ground. Lacey raised his sword and his men halted, then he turned to Heaviside, the nearest Captain.
“Is that Carr, out front? Down there?”
Heaviside nodded, the morning’s growth of his beard scraping his collar.
“Yes Sir. I do believe it is.”
Lacey nodded, but his attention was drawn to the 8th Portuguese, running back up to form on his left. He wondered how steady they would be after their efforts against the column fought by the 88th, they had already been in one firefight, would they have the stomach for another, probably more severe? However, the two Battalions formed up well enough and set their Colours and then, quickly forming on his right, down came the 9th, also in their brown Portuguese uniforms. Then Lacey looked ahead, to immediately see a problem. The French were in two columns with a gap between them approaching 100 yards and this gap greatly coincided with his own line. The two French columns were heading directly for the Portuguese; his line only slightly overlapped the oncoming right-hand column. Remaining where they were would greatly reduce the impact of their own fire.
Meanwhile, as Lacey pondered, once again Ellis gave Carr the warning.
“Sir. We can’t go back up much further. Our line’s just behind.”
Carr now looked back to see a long line of brown uniforms, then the red of his own, then brown again. The Light Companies of the 9th were already running back to their main line and so his men should also now retire and form on one end of the main line. He chose the shorter of the brown, the right. He called out.
“Fall back. Follow me.”
He led his men over, his Lights of the 105th and the 74th, to where the end of the 9th just met the road where Arentschildt’s guns were still astride it, but now trained left to meet the oncoming French. Carr then ran along the line, deeply anxious, ensuring a two deep line, but mostly to instruct his Captains. In Drake he has every confidence, but his knew little of Carson.
“Half Company volleys? Do your men know?”
Carson looked at Carr with utter disdain at such a question and Carr was reassured. He ran back to Drake.
“Not long now, but this is getting a mite tedious.”
Drake grinned and drew his sword.
Lacey, stood with Mackinnon, needed a rapid decision; would he need to divide his line? Could he leave the two Battalions of 8th Portuguese to deal with the left-hand column and support only the 9th against the right? He had five Companies, the Grenadiers, Nine, Eight, Seven, and Three, the last the Colour Company. British firepower into the flank of both columns could make all the difference. He ran to the centre of Eight, to find its Captain, John Digby.
“John. Yours may have to split if we are to get onto the flanks of both. One of your Sections with the Grenadiers, one with The Colours. But I may bring all ours around onto that right-hand column. I’ll be with you to give you the word.”
Digby saluted as Lacey ran on, to then find Carravoy.
“Charles, our line may well divide to come onto those two columns. This half I give to you. You will be in command!”
Carravoy theatrically brought his sword up to his chin in acknowledgement and Lacey ran back, and just in time. The French columns were within 200 yards, and Arentschildt’s guns opened fire, ploughing lanes through their ranks with grape shot, but the oncoming French ranks stepped over their fallen comrades and came inexorably on.
Lacey and Mackinnon stood together, both with drawn swords, stood before Digby’s Eighth Company. Lacey turned around to face his men.
“Half Company volleys. Make Ready.”
Along his whole line, the muskets came to the vertical, as did those of the 8th and 9th Portuguese very soon after. The French came on, the left-hand column tending more leftwards, reducing further the effectiveness of any fire from the 105th. He turned to Mackinnon.
“I’ve a mind to take mine round and onto the flank of that right-hand column. We can do more from there.”
Mackinnon shook his head.
“Don’t do it Lacey. You break the line and these’ll run. As long as we stand, there’s a fair chance they’ll do too.”
He pointed with his thumb towards the 8th Portuguese.
“Those lads have had enough. I see the best we can do is a fighting withdrawal until support arrives. We’re not going to do this Lacey, there’s too many. I’ll need your men solid, here, in the centre.”
Lacey took a deep breath. His Brigadier had made his choice, he could do no more now than hope.
“Target right. Present!”
The muskets of the front rank came down as one.
“From you, Heaviside.”
The Captain took a deep breath.
“Fire!”
The half Company volley crashed out and then the others rolled on down the line; the firefight had begun. The volume of noise told Lacey that the Portuguese had joined in and he tried to peer through the smoke to gauge the impact, but little could be seen. The noise increased again, meaning the French were returning fire, but no casualties were being inflicted amongst his men, which could only mean that the French were concentrating on the Portuguese. The smoke was hiding all, but there could be no doubt that the drumming from within the columns was growing more distinct within the short space between the Allied volleys. Lacey’s 105th continued to fire right, blindly into the smoke, for nothing could be seen of blue uniforms or blue shakoes, but he was becoming more worried. So too was Carr. His French column tramped on, their advance continuing, even though taking severe punishment. Worse, Arentschildt’s guns had almost ceased firing; their ammunition becoming exhausted, or so Carr reasoned. He was right, they had been in action since the opening of the battle. Carr was stood at the junction of his 74th and the 9th Portuguese and his anxiety increased as it became clear that they were becoming detached from the 9th. The Portuguese were falling back. Carr gave the inevitable order.
“Edge left. Fall back. Maintain fire.”
At the opposite end of the 9th’s line stood Carravoy and he, directly opposite the French, could see all too clearly that their oncoming advance was coming ever closer. In addition, it took but one look over to the Portuguese to see that what had once been a regular firing line was now breaking up and giving ground. The 105th were becoming isolated and in great danger, if left facing the French column alone. He, also, gave the inevitable order.
“Fall back. Hold the line. Keep firing.”
With perfect discipline, and with control maintained by D’Villiers and Ameshurst, the Grenadiers slowly gave way. It was no different for Lacey on the left of the 105th, because, just as he had feared, the 8th Portuguese were now dissolving to his left. L
acey looked around for Mackinnon, hoping to see him, because some minutes before he had gone to bring up the Thomar Militia. He did return and Lacey looked at him.
“The Militia?”
“Gone! We’re on our own. Give ground, Lacey, or we’re done!”
Lacey looked across.
“Heaviside! Fall back, but hold the line and maintain fire.”
Within less than a minute, Lacey’s 105th, now almost alone on the desperate ridge, were taking backward steps. So too were Carr’s men, only his was perhaps more rapid. The 9th were offering no resistance to speak of, bar the odd group under the command of a brave Officer.
“Form two ranks. File back.”
His men obeyed and it was too soon altogether that one rank filed back through and found themselves looking down at the ridge track, just down over from their position, before they then turned to their front to take their turn. The French were almost over the ridge.
Lacey was of the same mind and ran to the end of his line, to the Colour Company.
“Heaviside! Get The Colours behind our line. The men will hold as they fall back. I leave it to you!”
Heaviside saluted, his face grave, but Lacey left him to it and soon Deakin and Rushby were falling back, both very anxious, but Ensign Mulcahy having to be dragged back by Colour Sergeant Bennet holding onto his epaulette.
Lacey had no idea if support was going to arrive, but the French had at least to be delayed or they could roll up the whole Allied line in whichever direction they chose, probably right, towards Busaco Convent. Mackinnon was still out front and so Lacey ran into the middle of the disintegrating 8th Portuguese Line, where he found their Colours and then an Officer. Lacey knew no Portuguese and so there was only one gesture that he could make, he jammed his sword down into the turf! The Officer looked at the sword, then at Lacey and then his face changed as his jaw clamped together in determination. He turned to his own Colour Company, all edging backwards.
“Retorne, camaradas, retorno. Permanecem com os ingleses.!”
The Colour Party edged back up and a few Officers each brought back a group of men. A ragged firing line was established, but too short to provide a weight of fire. It could do no more than bring down a few more French, whilst the rest marched on. Lacey pulled his sword out of the ground and stood with the Portuguese, he had made up his mind, ‘I’ve asked these lads to stand and die and so they are. The least I can do is to stand and die with them.’ His Portuguese line began a stuttering fire, but then came the shattering sound of a full volley, from over on the right.
Carr was busy controlling his retreat, when the next thing he knew was a two-deep Redcoat line arriving from behind his right shoulder. He turned in astonishment to see the Captain of a Light Company, who casually introduced himself.
“Howarth, Sir. Light Company. 9th Foot. 5th Division.”
The 9th then halted and poured their first volley into the side of the French column. Their presence announced, they advanced 10 yards, whilst reloading for a second. What looked like a Senior Officer was on horseback before them, waving his hat. The 9th’s first volley had damaged the leading French battalion, now very much reduced from the mauling it had received all the way up the slope, and from their long line, which extended someway down the slope, they had also hit the second and third Battalions of the left-hand French column. The second volley was duly delivered with the same shattering effect and the process was repeated twice more as they advanced against what was now the flank of the whole French column. Carr watched, as from somewhere came the command, ‘Fix bayonets’. This was also quickly done and then the 9th advanced forward against the French column opposing them, now completely brought to a halt. Then cannon-fire began again from the position of Arentschildt’s battery. Carr looked over and saw that another whole battery was alongside Arentschildt’s. He turned to his men and called to those he could see.
“Nat! Ellis! Bring the men back. We’re finishing this going forward!”
Drake ran off to the 74th, leaving Ellis with his Company.
“Get in line! We’re going back!”
Miles was near.
“I’ve had less up and down than this in a bloody barn dance!”
“You shut up Miles! You just think of all they nice silver Officer buttons there must be, just over yonder!”
The 74th and 105th Light Companies advanced forward, but now against nothing. The nearest French column, once three large Battalions strong, had now reeled sideways and over to crash into the second French column, in order to escape the irresistible advance of the 9th. This was felt by Lacey over on the left as he stood with his Portuguese; the advance of his French column had now shuddered to a halt. The 8th’s Officers saw this also and began calling their men forward, such as were remaining and could hear.
“Para a frente. Para a frente. Avanço com o inglês.”
Heaviside, whose line still remained closer than any other to the French, saw the column to his right collapse into a rabble, but that to his left still held their ground, despite their comrades from the supporting column now joining their ranks in panic or running back down the hill. A push at this last column, he reasoned, from whoever was still capable, would see this thing ended. He looked behind him at the Colour Company.
“Sarn’t Deakin!”
“Sir.”
“We are going to advance.”
He was not the Senior Captain, but Lacey was elsewhere and Carravoy at the far end. He walked forward to stand before his own Company and raised his sword to shout what his men now knew word for word.
“Let no man's heart fail because of him; thy servant will go and fight with this Philistine. 1 Samuel 17. Verse 32.”
He then turned to face the French and curved his sword forward.
“March on boys!”
The wing of the 105th started forward, taking their lead from the Colour Company, with the Colours now returned to the front rank, but just as before Carr’s Light Companies, resistance was melting away. The head of the final French column was now the target for Arentschildt’s cannon, the Portuguese were rallying before them, a line of red-coats was approaching from their left front and something terrible was coming over from the far left. The column’s Commanding Officer, plainly a Senior Officer of very high rank judging by his elaborate uniform, and himself wounded with his arm bound against his body, stood for a moment at the head of his men, him plainly stood in despair, his men had done all they could. Unsupported at the top of a high ridge; the attempt was now hopeless and so he turned and motioned them back. Thus they retired, faces still set towards their foe, taking with them the very first column to attack the ridge, these having been held back all the while by the 74th and the 21st Portuguese. They had now seen the final assault fail and, with this, they also quit the fight and descended the slope.
All along the Allied line came the call to cease-fire and all did. Then came the final sounds of battle, the groans of the wounded and the dying. For the Allies, this was nothing like Talavera, because all their wounded were along the ridgeline, very much unlike those of the French, whose wounded were scattered all across the hillside. However, compared with the tumult of the previous hour the silence was eerie as though the very air had been beaten into frozen submission. Then came the sounds of yet another conflict, seemingly of equal ferocity to theirs just ended, and coming over from their far left.
oOo
Picton galloped up to Lacey and Mackinnon and fiercely reined in his horse.
“Lacey! Who’ve you got that can get over to the Convent and see what’s happening? If we’re beaten there, I need to know. I’ll need all my Staff here, getting us back organised, in case we need to retreat.”
Lacey and Mackinnon looked at each other, both puzzled, but then Lacey noticed O’Hare leading his wing of the 105th back up the hill.
“There Sir. My Senior Major, Padraigh O’Hare.”
Picton looked at O’Hare, then at Lacey, then he turned to one of his Staff.
<
br /> “Fenton. Dismount. Give that Major your horse.”
Within a minute, the surprised and bemused O’Hare was galloping along the ridge track towards the sound of the guns at the Convent. He covered the near mile after about two minutes to arrive at the junction of his track with another that ran along the foot of the ridge back to San Antonio. It was very obvious that there was, as yet, no conclusion that he could report on, because a full-scale conflict was now in progress. He had arrived at the rear of a formed up Portuguese Brigade of four battalions, these holding the road that led off right to San Antonio, whilst to their left was the edge of a deep, bowl shaped, ravine, the road running on left along its very edge. On the far side of the ravine, on the road, O’Hare could see two more Battalions of Portuguese Infantry, whilst further beyond them were two Battalions of British infantry, all lying down. Just before these last was a lone figure wearing a huge bi-corn hat, fore and aft, and mounted on a huge horse. Where there were no infantry on the road, there were cannon, all firing at maximum rate, their gunners serving their pieces like men possessed.
O’Hare dismounted, tethered his horse and went to the edge of the ravine, there to look down and see masses of French troops, fully covering both sides and in Division strength, one advancing on the Portuguese near him, the other climbing the slope to meet the lone horseman. However, the Division attacking this lone figure was being fiercely resisted by a thick screen of green clad British Riflemen and brown clad Portuguese Cacadores. Consequently, the progress of the French on that side was painfully slow and very costly, judging by the number of prone, blue uniformed bodies littering the slope all the way down to a small hamlet halfway down and many bodies even further below that. The hamlet must be called Sula, because he could see a sign just up the road, pointing down right towards it. O’Hare placed himself at the end of the leftmost of the four Portuguese Battalions and looked downwards. 300 yards below them, the slope was thick with French assault troops in what must also be Division strength, their blue shakoes stretching far back down the hill indicating their large number. O’Hare looked over at the nearest Portuguese to him, a Captain, and received back a confident grin. The guns all across the head of the ravine continued to roar their defiance, inflicting appalling casualties on the densely packed French on either side.
The Plains of Talavera Page 53
