The Plains of Talavera

by Martin McDowell

  Finally, these last moved even further back and some Officers took it upon themselves to filter down through Sula and examine the French positions. These, inevitably, included Tavender and Templemere, both equally curious, but Sula and beyond proved to be no place at all to boost their relaxed mood, because French dead being stacked up in every yard and corner. It became worse when they heard shouting from some Officers of the 52nd and so they went to investigate and found the source of the commotion to be a large barn. A Captain of the 52nd came towards them, obviously deeply angry.

  “Frog bastards! In there and out the back are hundreds of badly wounded French. Too bad to move without carts and so he’s left them for the Spanish. They’ll be lucky for a quick death.”

  He took a deep breath to calm himself down.

  “So, we, that is the 52nd and 43rd, are going to get them up to the Convent. There’s nothing else we can do. Can you ask your Colonel if he can provide some help?”

  The pair looked at each other but said nothing in reply, only that Tavender nodded before they turned their horses to return to the heights. Once through Sula, Tavender spoke his thoughts.

  “If Johnny’s left those behind knowing that we’ll look after them, to slow us up, that the worst, lowest, trick I’ve ever heard of!”

  Back on the ridge they found their Colonel Withers and Tavender asked the question.

  “Sir. Down there has been found hundreds of badly wounded French, wounded he could not take with him for whatever reason. The infantry have asked for our assistance in bringing them back up to the Convent, Sir.”

  Withers studied the pair, then gave a terse reply.

  “Organise it!”

  Then, for some hours the mournful and painful process continued. Some of the French wounded were able to mount horses and were brought up easily, but some had to be carried on stretchers which gave a long, heavy journey. However, there was not one Frenchman who did not breathe his thanks as he was laid onto the ancient flagstones inside the Convent. All had heard of the treatment meted out by the Spanish, of all types and levels, to any captured French. The Nuns bustled about, responding to the need that had been placed upon them.

  Finally, all was done and Crauford and Anson came together above the ravine and orders were issued. Within 30 minutes their column marched off, Anson’s cavalry in the lead, then came Crauford’s Rifles, Cacadores, 43rd and 52nd. As they passed each saluted the fresh, mass graves that held their erstwhile comrades, whilst Spanish peasants moved across the battlefield looking for any saleable souvenirs. The last acts and sounds of the battle of Busaco were the groans of the badly injured French soldiers issuing from the open windows of the Convent.

  oOo

  Chapter Ten

  The Lines of Torres Vedras

  The shouts from the alleyways and houses that they passed were disheartening but all too familiar.

  “Ingleses cobardes! Ingleses cobardes!”

  Luso was being evacuated, all the transport carrying the wounded and supplies had gone in the night and so, mostly unencumbered, Picton’s Third Division, second in the long column, marched through the sullen streets with even the windows and doors seemingly morose in the returned fog. The citizens stood and watched, saying nothing, content for the catcalls from behind to convey their feelings. The pace was fast, faster than normal, something not unnoticed by John Davey, marching in the right-hand file of the first rank of the Light Company. Beside him, as usual, was Sergeant Ethan Ellis, and Davey was as mystified as anyone in the long column.

  “What do you know, Ethan?”

  “Not much, other than what I heard Carr and Drake sayin’. Seems the Frogs have found a road as’ll take ‘em round the end of that ridge what we’ve just come off of. There’s still a powerful lot of ‘em, and so ‘tis a race back to Coimbra. After that, God knows. Could be another set-to.”

  “What if they beats us to it? We all knows they marches faster than us.”

  “Don’t even think on it! This time we has to be fast. Faster!”

  With that, all who heard hitched up their kit into a more comfortable position and leaned forward, just slightly, to match the pace.

  The road as mentioned in connection with the French was that which linked Aveleira, Boialvo and Sardao, a halfway decent road for any army, which climbed and then descended the passes of the Serra de Carramula. All these names were known to Julian Sanchez, as he watched whilst sat on his horse with his Lancers, the French army pour down the road from the final pass towards Sardao. He cursed the ‘Ingles Wellington’ for not holding the best of the passes for defence. If Sanchez had more Ordenanza, perhaps better armed, he would have tried himself, but he did not and so now he saw, from his high vantage point, the town of Sardao on his left, the French on his right, and beyond them, where they had come from, the smoke of burning buildings. The French were employing the same methods, which they had used since leaving Cuidad Rodrigo, these being to burn and pillage, and persuade through terror, the surrender of the food and supplies they needed. For this reason did ‘El Charro’ curse the British. There would be yet more burning and murder before the French were stopped, wherever that was to be.

  It would have been useful for ‘El Charro’, and it would have tempered his feelings towards Wellington, were he attending at the table that lunchtime shared by Mackinnon’s Senior Commanders, these being Lacey, Wallace, Champlemonde and their Senior Majors. They were all assembled in what could only be described as an outhouse of an abandoned farm, the farm itself having been wrecked, by whom no-one could tell. Before the food arrived, the question strong in the minds of all was asked and Mackinnon answered the question simply.

  “He had no choice. We’ve not the men to hold the ridge of Carramula same as we held that of Busaco.”

  He looked at the Commander of his Portuguese Battalion.

  “All respect to you Champlemonde, but half our army, more, is Portuguese. Wellington doesn’t know yet what you can do. If he detached a force to hold the passes and it was beaten back, being too weak, then he’d be in a helluva fix. That force would probably be lost to him and it would have had to retreat off to the coast. He must keep his army together. Despite so many of his Divisions being smashed, day before yesterday, M’sieu is still immensely strong.”

  The next question occurred first to O’Hare.

  “So where do we stop him?”

  Mackinnon’s answer was to turn to his Orderly.

  “Fraser. Get the map.”

  The food arrived, but the Orderlies were required to stand waiting, whilst the table was occupied with the map of Southern Portugal. Mackinnon picked up a knife and drew an imaginary line across the wide promontory that had Lisbon at its foot, from the coast across to the estuary of the Tagus.

  “Here. Since Talavera he’s been building a defensive line across this tongue of land. Redoubts, forts and all sorts. Better roads too. We’re back to there and there we’ll hold him. He’s callin’ it The Lines of Torres Vedras.”

  All saw the strength of the position, but all also saw the length of the retreat that they now had to make. The most optimistic there estimated 100 miles, the most pessimistic 150. With that the map was folded and handed back to be replaced by the food, giving much relief to the servants who had been stood with burning fingers.

  “Make good use of this food, Gentlemen, it’s the weapon he’s chosen to use, to draw the Johnnies deep down into Portugal where they’ll sit starvin’ unable to get supplies. For us too, we’ll be on short commons afore we gets much closer to Lisbon and our supplies. He’s given the order that all crops, stores and animals that we cannae take with us on the way down are to be destroyed. All the civilians are to come with us, drivin’ the animals an’ the supply wagons. As Johnny comes down he’ll find himself deeper and deeper in a deep hole, with the cupboard very much bare!”

  All looked at each other before they began eating, the same thought, although in different guises, on the mind of each. This was total war that th
ey were part of, using scorched earth and starvation as weapons.

  At the same time, total war as it applied to them, at least the rigours of retreat, was uppermost in the mind of Jed Deakin and his good comrades, all sat with their Followers in their own wrecked farmyard, but all were listening to the Good Man Deakin.

  “Now listen, Ladies, we’n in for a retreat, not a very hungry one, like last, but ‘t’as to be quick. We has to get back down to Lisbon, or near enough, afore the French. More urgent, we ‘as to win Coimbra afore the French gets in. Once there and through, we’m safe, ‘cos the French’ll spend days pillagin’ the place. So, what sort of shape are you all in?”

  Bridie looked at him, she both puzzled and slightly irritated.

  “What sort of a question is that? Same shape as we’re always in, for any kind of a march.”

  Deakin was neither appeased nor re-assured.

  “But this’ll be at a quick pace. Over 20, each day. ‘T’as to be.”

  Nellie was now in the same mood as Bridie.

  “What’s needed, we’ll do. That’s how things’ve always been.”

  Deakin looked at Henry Nicholls.

  “What can we do? What with the burdens and the youngers and all?”

  Nellie’s husband looked straight back.

  “Lighten the load. Unburdened they walk quicker. Lighten the load.”

  Nellie knew what this meant and looked fiercely at her husband.

  “I’m not leavin’ but one cookin’ pot for those Heathen French. Not one!”

  However, whilst they talked about ‘lightening the load’, Tom Miles, well aware of the future’s requirements, had been taking action, this heralded by a loud and disturbing crash from within the barn. Deakin looked over.

  “What’s he up to?”

  This was soon answered as Miles emerged from behind the unhinged and perilous door, pulling some kind of cart.

  “Found this! Don’t know what it’s called, but it has four wheels and moves. This’ll help.”

  Byford had the answer.

  “It’s a child’s toy, a dogcart pulled by a dog or a small pony. It’ll take about four infants.”

  Deakin was not listening, he was examining the wonderful item.

  “Good find Tom. This’ll fit the bill and perfect.”

  He pointed at the cart and looked at Nellie and Bridie.

  “There! Cleaned up a bit, this’ll carry all your pots and pans and whatnot. All you’ve got to do is pull it.”

  The two were not listening either, they had already tipped the vehicle onto its side and were brushing it out. The following morning the cart was on its way to Coimbra, but a few hours march away, in the middle of the Followers at the rear of Mackinnon’s Division. However, they were unmolested by even the sight of any French, for two reasons, not least, as Deakin predicted, the reason of the French scouring all villages and farms for food, but also the actions of their rearguard, these being Stapleton-Cotton’s Cavalry Division, usefully aided by Julian Sanchez Lancers. In this role, Colonel Anson’s Light Cavalry Brigade, comprising the 16th Light Dragoons and the 1st Hussars King’s German Legion were formed up on a bare ridge, the best place available to make a visible demonstration to deter any French cavalry advance. They were looking back at the burning town of Fornos, many using their telescopes to pick out the detail available from their high perch. Templemere lowered his and looked at Tavender.

  “Good Lord! They’re slaughtering just about everybody within reach. I know about their edict on the Ordenanza, but this is simply appalling!”

  Tavender’s reply was flat and laconic.

  “Thought you knew! This is warfare Boney style. Live off the land, but there’s not much living for any civilians in their path, even those who give them food. They still think that they’re holding out, no matter how much they give.”

  He raised his spy-glass again, but quickly lowered it, the killing and beatings were unabated.

  “Especially as us and the civilian Dons who left, have already stripped the place, so now they’re taking it out on the poor fools who stayed, instead of getting themselves up into the hills.”

  Templemere said nothing, but folded his own telescope and carefully placed it in the holder attached to his saddle.

  Meanwhile, not so high and far to their right, Julian Sanchez was also observing events with far more aggressive intent. Arranged either side of him were his Lancers, now 500 strong, and both he and they were waiting for the first French to emerge from Fornos. They waited for over an hour, but Sanchez and his men were determined in their patience. The first to emerge was a continuous column of what looked like a mixed force of cavalry, both Light Cavalry and Dragoons, and on their saddles could be seen the results of their depravations of Fornos; fabrics and garments of all kinds and all had suspiciously bulging saddlebags. Sanchez waited. His men were in plain sight, but above the road. He waited but a while longer then walked his horse forward to bring him in advance of his men. Sanchez drew his sword and spoke softly in a wicked hiss.

  “Venga, muchachos”

  Within seconds he and his men were charging down the slope, for this was to be no ambush, this was an attack to win or to lose, but the result was foregone; the Lancers crashed into the head of the column, many of whom could barely ride from the drink they had consumed. The Lancers rode through and on, attacking further down the column, their lances emptying almost every saddle they came to, the screams of the wounded and dying French adding to the noise of the terrified horses. The French broke and ran, horribly surprised. Some Lancers pursued but not far, their disciplined obedience to bugle calls brought them back. The road was theirs, however temporary, and so now there was just time to despatch the few prisoners, both whole and wounded, this being completed, whilst still remaining up in the saddle, by shots from their heavy British Dragoon pistols. That done, they quickly reformed and took the road upwards that would take them past Anson’s men on their ridge. They passed by near enough to hear the cheers and applause of the 16th nearest to them, which were acknowledged by the merest lift of a lance. These were anguished and angry men, who had very mixed opinions about the retreating British. However, Templemere felt moved enough to turn to Tavender.

  “My word, but that was smartly done.”

  Tavender looked at him but said nothing, then he heard the order, 'Form column'. Soon they were following the route of ‘El Charro’s men, but they did not see them, for the Lancers had soon turned off when they arrived at another potential position for another attack.

  oOo

  Coimbra was a madhouse as the 105th marched through, the whole in utter turmoil as the population prepared to march South with the army, or float down the Mondego in boats, or take themselves up into the hills. An assiduous forecast would conclude that all the wheeled vehicles would be used for the first possibility and the beasts of burden for the third, but the result would contradict such a conclusion. All the side roads leading off the main highway were jammed with vehicles of all kinds and the main road was choked with carts, carriages, laden people and beasts of burden of every possible shape. The first Allied Division to arrive, these being Spencer’s Division including the Guards Brigade had cleared the road, none too gently and so the space occupied by the passing army added to the congestion and panic. From all around came the uproar of shouts, screams, imprecations and bellows of animals, all echoing and bouncing off the walls of the fine buildings. The richer citizens had left during the previous days, obeying their Governments edict to leave and leave nothing behind that could support an advancing army. Those remaining, but now departing, were the poorest, clinging to the fading hope that the French would not arrive and take all that they had. However, the whole Allied army marching through told its own dismal story.

  For the 105th there was no alternative, but to close their ranks, lower their heads into their collars and push on through. One incensed citizen stood but a yard from the passing Redcoats yelling at each from a range close enough so t
hat they could smell his breath, yelling what all now knew the meaning of.

  “Ingleses cobardes! Ingleses cobardes!”

  The Light Company were approaching and Ellis could see Tom Miles slinging his musket onto his shoulder to free at least one of his hands for a blow at their tormentor.

  “You hold your place, Miles!”

  Miles did as he was ordered and it was Ellis himself who used his musket to shove the man aside. This was no good day for the Allied army, nor the Portuguese civilians, beginning their route to the South. When the 16th Light Dragoons rode in later that morning, they passed first through the lines of the final rearguard, Crauford’s Light Brigade. These hard soldiers gave not a glance to the society Light Cavalry passing through. There was only one Brigade that they had any respect for, and this was their own, that which had beaten into pieces a whole French Division by the force of their firepower and the ferocity of their bayonet charge. They now saw themselves as even more of an elite.

  Once in Coimbra, any hope that Templemere and Tavender had of any rest and sustenance was quickly dispelled by the mournful sight of the elegant town square littered with all manner of rubbish and abandoned possessions, most of some worth. What none of the Allied soldiers could know, was that there had been a shortage of wheeled transport and all that any of the town’s citizens wished to take with them had to be carried on their own shoulders. Many had abandoned the idea before they even began and had left much lying on the stone pavements. The only humans to be seen were Portuguese scavengers, searching the abandoned town for anything of any value, and there was plenty, before they took to the hills and woodland themselves, or slunk off into the holes and cellars of the outskirts.