O’Hare looked over to the other conflict which would begin first and, despite the smoke from the guns, he could see that the skirmishers on that side, the Riflemen and the Cacadores, had at last retired to the top of their slope and were spreading either side of the still prone Redcoats. The French, now unopposed, came on and the first of them finally placed a foot on the road at the top. O’Hare became very anxious; they were but 20 yards, or less, from the prone Redcoats. The roar of the cannon blanked all sound, but he saw the lone horseman take off his hat. The Redcoats sprang to their feet and immediately delivered a full volley at what could be little more than ten paces. The French attack, now at the top, crumpled with the impact, then the two flanks of the British Battalions closed in and the French survivors, many still climbing, were trapped within a fearsome semi-circle of fire, but with incredible courage that O’Hare could scarcely credit, the French column continued their attempt to take the summit. O’Hare could see little, because of the smoke, but he knew what was happening inside that semi-circle; death flew over those few yards eight times every second. The French endured the blizzard of musket-fire for less than a minute, before the whole gave way and tumbled back down the slope, many falling away to their left to tumble helpless to the very bottom of the ravine.
The two Battalions of Redcoats charged forward and pushed the whole assault, a whole Division, back down the slope to the hamlet, where they halted. Then came a smaller encore, very similar, just back towards O’Hare on the same side of the ravine as the earlier repulse. What must be a smaller French force was attempting the even steeper head of the ravine and waiting for them was the nearest of the two Portuguese Battalions. They poured one full volley down over the edge to then fix bayonets and charge. Within five minutes, displaying admirable discipline, they had returned back up to resume their place on the road. The clearing smoke enabled O’Hare to see that the Redcoats had remained at Sula and that the skirmishers had run forward to hold the lower edge of the houses. It had taken but minutes, but a full Divisional assault had been thoroughly beaten to pieces by only two Battalions, with some help from a third. Despite the ongoing noise of the cannon, O’Hare took off his hat and cheered, which was taken up by the Portuguese Battalions near him and then the two further along, one recently victorious themselves, supporting the earlier triumphant Redcoats.
O’Hare now knew that, for the French here, there could be nothing other than failure. He was tempted to return with his joyful message but he held his place to observe the final French Division, this on his side of the ravine, now the only target remaining for the merciless cannonade. These were doggedly hauling themselves up the slope immediately below him, opposed by the four Portuguese Battalions waiting at the top. The French eased left, away from the incessant grapeshot but were now within range of the Portuguese. Then came the order.
“Prepare-se.”
All muskets came to the vertical.
“Presente.”
All were lowered to point down the slope.
“Disparar!”
The half Company volleys began and the French began to take casualties, but did not fall back, the range was just too great. However, any group that did come too close was quickly brought down, but the French continued to attempt the summit with a series of determined assaults at various points, led by Officers of suicidal bravery. However, each time concentrated Portuguese musketry blew away the head of the advance for it to then fall back and, finally, even these individual assaults became less frequent. The Portuguese then began to shout insults down at the French, evidently with much glee and enthusiasm, in between the stuttering musketry and the slackened, but regular cannonfire that still continued
O’Hare was now certain that the French assault at the Convent had been defeated; his side, his army of allies had won, at both points. His final look, from the saddle of his horse, was of a blue rabble milling around at the throat of the ravine, these being the remnants of the main French assault through Sula, but he could see, further back and still in formation, Brigade after Brigade of blue-coated French infantry. He thought to himself, ‘They may try here again, but they surely cannot be that stupid. They’ll move to get around us, and so we’ll move as well. We’ll have to!’.
He urged his horse on and soon returned to the pass above San Antonio to see Picton in the centre in deep conversation with two other Generals, one whom O’Hare knew to be General Leith, Commander of the 5th Division, the other he knew to be General Hill, the popular and avuncular Senior Divisional Commander, second only to Wellington. Whilst this significant and nervous conversation continued, Picton’s Staff were studying and controlling events, these being to reform his Division. Picton noticed him from far off and watched him as he approached, his face anxious. O’Hare rode up and saluted, but Picton’s answer was one word.
“Well?”
“A complete repulse Sir. We still hold at the Convent.”
Picton frowned.
“But I can still hear it all going on!”
“It’s petering out Sir. Two French attacks have been held, one utterly defeated, the second with no choice but to give best. They’ll soon be pulling back completely. Sir.”
It was at that point that the cannonfire did die away, to leave the faint bickering of muskets as the only remaining sound. Picton nodded, but was clearly discomfited that his statement had been so thoroughly rebuffed. Hill, meanwhile, having rode over from his Second Division on the far right where they had not fired a shot, remained thoroughly in high spirits having so recently heard of Picton’s and Leith’s triumph at the San Antonio pass, and now he was being told of the complete success at the Convent. He beamed down at O’Hare.
“A complete repulse Major, you say?”
O’Hare came to the attention and saluted.
“Yes Sir. Beaten back everywhere. Thoroughly.”
Hill grinned at Leith on his right, then Picton on his left, but the latter remained somewhat fractious.
“Anything else to report?”
“Yes Sir. The French still have huge reserves over there.”
Picton sat back in his saddle and, whilst pointing down the hill, he looked at Mackinnon, stood silent nearby.
“They still have a Brigade down there, before us, and those that they can rally, of course. What do you think Mackinnon?”
The Scotsman’s face showed no emotion as he replied.
“He’ll not try here again, Sir. That’s for certain.”
Now Leith spoke up, whilst Hill nodded agreement.
“He’ll try to find some way beyond our flank. How else will he get us off this ridge? There must be roads at both ends that he could use.”
Picton nodded his agreement.
“And he’ll do it. He’s too strong.”
He looked around, to almost absentmindedly study his men attending to their own wounded all along their line and also bringing up some French. There were also many burial parties all along his position, as each Battalion interred their own dead.
“Right! Assume that tomorrow we will be falling back. Get all ready.”
Picton looked across at Hill and Leith.
“We are agreed? Prepare to fall back?”
Both nodded and spoke no more, but pulled their horses heads over to begin their ride back to their men. Picton gave his final order.
“Mac, I leave you to handle things here. I’ll tell Lightburne and Champlemonde.”
He pulled on the reins of his horse to turn him away, but Mackinnon had a question.
“What do we do here? About the French wounded? Come nightfall this place could be covered in marauding peasants.”
Picton’s face was as stone.
“Set pickets for tonight. What else? A strong screen. Come nightime tomorrow this will belong to the Frogs. Let them take care of their own wounded. They were mad enough to try us at the top of a ridge, let them carry the consequences!”
For the rest of the day the survivors spent their time dressing their own m
inor wounds, eating and carrying the wounded to the Surgeons, who this time, unlike Talavera, had the time to probe for bullets rather than carry out a swift and simple amputation. Lacey allowed both his Majors some rest and both gratefully slept for some hours whilst the preparations for retreat continued and so, for that particular task, Lacey relied on his Captains to prepare their men for marching and for the Reverend Albright to supervise the wounded. Both he and Sedgwicke bustled amongst the rows of injured men, offering water, kind words, and the willingness to fetch anything asked for, but the useful ministrations were carried out by the Followers, all with long experience with wounds of all levels if severity. It was not long before Bridie, Nellie and Eirin had blood up to their elbows as they prepared the wounded for the Surgeon, but Eirin had an extra concern, which she asked of any Light Company member that passed.
“Lieutenant Maltby?”
The first answer was grave.
“He was with Carr. They had it rough.”
This depressed her hugely, but the repeat of the question eventually lifted both her face and her spirits to one of open joy and relief.
“He’s back over, with Drake.”
“Unwounded?”
“Looks so!”
Bridie and Nellie looked at each other and shook their heads.
All those to whom the Surgeon had attended, were carefully carried back down the hill to waiting transport, which then took them into Luso, the pleasant Spa Town, behind The Convent, and just back off the ridge. Just as he had granted rest to his two Majors, the Light Company was also allowed to rest and so picketing duties fell to the Grenadier Company. Either side were the pickets of the 88th and the 74th, but there was little interaction between them as dusk fell. All simply stared forward, studying the French bivouac fires growing more numerous and distinct in the dying light.
Carravoy, with a candle lantern, patrolled the whole of his line and it was not long before he was stood next to D’Villiers. It was their first opportunity for any conversation since the fighting ended, this begun by D’Villiers, staring ahead.
“There are still thousands. Tens of thousands!”
It was a few seconds before Carravoy answered.
“Yes. So, damn lot of good this did. Rumour is, we’re pulling out tomorrow. They’ll call that a defeat in England. Wellington should have followed it up.”
D’Villiers sighed, somewhat exasperated.
“He’d have to be a damn fool to come down off this ridge and attack what Johnny’s still got down there. British troops amount to only half of what he still has, so would you trust the Portuguese for an assault? You’d have to!”
Again the long pause, before the unconvinced reply came back.
“All the same. It’s us pulling back.”
D’Villiers now thought to mention what he very much felt.
“Well, I think our men did damn well today. You saw the numbers that Johnny brought up to take us on and we saw them away, good and thorough, although badly outnumbered.”
No reply and so D’Villiers continued.
“And the Portuguese did all right. In defence, that is. I know they were pushed back a little, but not broken.”
Again silence.
“The Peer has to hang onto all the force that he has, in the face of an army of that size. No risks. Keep us together as a force that Johnny has to be very wary of. Over at the Convent I hear that two whole Divisions were absolutely wrecked by not much more than a few Battalions of ours. That’s given M’sieu something to think about.”
Again no reply. D’Villiers could feel that something was seething inside his Captain, but what it was he could not say. And so he waited until it came.
“And what of Carr?”
D’Villiers irritation increased and it showed, a least as much as he dared.
“What of him? If I’ve got it right, he faced up three times and led his men well. I’d be surprised if that were not noticed.”
He paused.
“I’d leave Templemere and Tavender to their schemes, were I you. Whatever bee is buzzing in their bonnets is their affair. I’d leave it as so. None of ours, at least not mine.”
He lifted his scabbard in his left hand, prior to walking off.
“But you must decide for yourself, Charles. Now I must be amongst my men. See what’s what!”
The ‘what’s what’ turned out to be candle lanterns coming up the hillside. D’Villiers found his Sergeant, Nathan Ridgway, or more like Ridgway found him.
“Sir. There’s Frogs comin’ up the hill, Sir. Collectin’ their wounded. What to do, Sir?”
“Let them up and pull ours further back up until they can be moved. Give them the room. So far, we’ve acted well towards each other. I, for one, would like to keep it that way. Sometime in the future it could be ours down there. But keep a good watch and don’t let them too far up.”
“Some of the lads have been carrying their wounded down to them. Sir.”
“Turn a blind eye to that, until they make it their main task and do little else. Manning a picket is what we’re here for. They are, after all, our enemy down there, and M’sieu is not beyond a little deception.”
He watched the lanterns move then stop, as a wounded man was found still alive, then he changed the subject.
“Many Spanish, out plundering?”
“Very few Sir. Hardly any. Probably on account that we’re just about in the middle of no-where, Sir.”
“Very good, Sergeant. Carry on.”
Came the very depth of the darkness at 3.00am the Grenadiers were relieved by Number 4 Company and Carravoy’s Grenadiers climbed wearily up the hill to cross the ridge track and sink to the ground for some grateful sleep. They were not woken, for Picton allowed his whole Division to rest, anticipating the arduous march to come, but Wellington’s Staff were thoroughly awake and a group arrived at the high rocky outcrop above the San Antonio pass anxious for the dawn and full light. Two remained in their saddles and even stood in their stirrups to gain extra height as they used their telescopes. Lacey, O’Hare and Carr, sat drinking coffee and eating bread rolls, gave both a lazy examination, but it was Carr who spoke.
“Why are they here where we are? All those before us have pulled back. Way back.”
O’Hare looked at him and spoke somewhat indulgently
“I think you will find, that this is the highest point of our line, thereby providing the best vantage point to study our friends over yonder.”
Carr started another roll as the two galloped off, but within fives minutes Wellington himself arrived to adopt the same pose as his two Staff had earlier, again but yards from the trio. O’Hare looked at Lacey.
“Should we offer him some tea, or something?”
“Seems the right thing to do.”
He turned to Bryce.
“Bryce. Get a cup of something to the General, will you?”
Bryce looked rapidly from Lacey, to the coffee pot and then to Wellington. He was required to give a cup of something to the very man himself. It was poured and he carried it over. By now Wellington’s own telescope had been collapsed and handed back to an Orderly. He had seen enough, then he looked down at the approaching mug of something black.
“Compliments of Colonel Lacey, Sir.”
Wellington took the cup and drank one swallow, before looking over at the three, who immediately sprang to their feet. Wellington actually smiled. He was clearly in a good mood.
“Ah Lacey! How were things over here?”
The use of the past tense clearly meant the battle of the previous day.
“Well enough, Sir. It became a bit anxious at one point, but we saw them away.”
“Who did Lacey? Yours or Leith’s?”
“Sir?”
“There seems to be a bit of a contretemps between the my two Divisional Commanders as to who did what and unto whom.”
“Can’t comment, Sir. All I know is, we sent them back down the hill.”
Wellington laughed w
hilst finishing his coffee.
“Too much smoke and hullabaloo, eh?”
Lacey grinned himself, as did Carr and O’Hare.
“Exactly, Sir.”
Wellington handed the cup down to Bryce, who held it as though it were some form of treasure, but Wellington now noticed Carr.
“Carr! I hear you did well!”
Carr saluted.
“I did my best, Sir. Tried to do as required.”
Wellington was now pulling his horse’s head around.
“As do we all, Carr. As do we all.”
Bryce was still holding the mug.
“Sir, can I keep this? I’ll pay for it.”
“You’ll not Bryce. The mug’s yours.”
For all on the ridge, all nine miles of it, the rest of the day was spent in tranquil relaxation, eating, but mostly sleeping, for many still felt the strain of the previous day’s exertions. For those with telescopes the movements of the French provided additional diversion. Lacey gave a warning for kit inspection, which was carried out during the mid-afternoon, but there were no defaulters. As all was examined, Miles gave Ellis a challenging stare, the reply to which was a loud sniff. Miles’ kit was perfect.
That negotiated, One Section Light Company took it upon themselves to return the old couple to San Antonio. Maltby’s permission was gained and the two were chaired back to their home, both exchanging cheery waves with any Redcoat they passed. Their home was much dishevelled, it was the Church that had received cannon hits, but they both looked around seemingly pleased, for nothing had been smashed. Grins and waves were exchanged as they parted and Saunders was the last to leave, at which point the old man noticed five silver buttons and a silver buckle remaining on the table.
Late afternoon the orders came, Picton’s Division would be part of the main column under Wellington and would march for Coimbra, Hill would command another and march direct for Lisbon. The explanation was brief, the French were all moving North West, to where a road existed that could by-pass Busaco ridge and so Wellington was taking no risk of being cut of from Lisbon. Therefore, with the arrival of darkness, the army moved off the ridge. Bivouac fires were left burning on the French side and they found their way down the back slope by torchlight and candle lantern. Come the dawn there were no British left on the ridge, bar the 52nd and 43rd of Crauford’s victorious Brigade, these remaining on the site of their triumph of the previous day, above the ravine and the small hamlet of Sula. With them was Anson’s cavalry Brigade, part of Stapleton-Cottons cavalry Division, including the 16th Light Dragoons and so, through most of the morning, all sat above the ravine and there was not a moment when some telescope, somewhere, was not studying the remaining French force acting as a rearguard half a mile off.
The Plains of Talavera Page 54
