The Plains of Talavera

by Martin McDowell

  For the 105th, now out of the town and onto the chausee’, the whole day was spent passing a never-ending column of refugees, all carrying whatever they could. However, as the day wore on, more and more possessions could be seen dumped at the roadside as many, especially the old and infirm, gave up the task of carrying such a burden on the seemingly endless trek. Both Deakin and Halfway were moved by the continuous column of misery that they overtook, mile after mile, these refugees having been pushed to the roadside by Spencer’s Division to ease the passage of the army, giving them even less room on the good surface of the main chause’ South.

  “Don’t seem like we scored much of a victory back there, Tobe. From what I hear, ‘twer easier even than Vimeiro, specially over at the Convent, but now we’n the ones fallin’ back, fast as our feet’ll carry us.”

  “You’m not wrong, Jed, like ‘tis us as’ve been beat.”

  He re-hitched his pack, while he searched for the correct words.

  “Outmanoeuvred’ I do believe the Generals calls it, and I do believe it sticks to us. The Frogs still has a very powerful army and they got round. So, Nosey might turn to face ‘em again if he can find a ridge like Busaco. What you think?”

  “Could be, but from what I’ve heard from Bert Bryce, we’n off to get way down to a bunch of forts an’ trenches and whatnot. But we has to get there first.”

  Halfway’s thumb pointed towards the burdened refugees.

  “Right, but all the same, the Frogs’ll overtake this lot, even after a day or two riflin’ through Coimbra. What then?”

  Deakin had no answer and hitched his pack and musket into a more comfortable position. Even with the ending of that day, they had not come to the end of the sorrowful column and so, when they drew their rations that were waiting for them, which turned out to be disappointing, much was shared with hungry children, which went some way towards silencing the ongoing cries of “Ingleses cobardes!” What was in many ways worse was the evidence throughout their march of Wellington’s ‘scorched earth’ orders, for all was desolate and forlorn, with neither people nor animals to be seen and all barns and storehouses gaping wide as if in outrage at the thorough removal of their contents from their safekeeping. Most dwellings were wrecked, some thoroughly consumed by fire, their contents scattered and broken apart, all exposed on the ground for any to examine, the sad remains of the individual stories of individual families, that had been gathered and treasured over generations. This was a good time for Portuguese scavengers, who could often be seen, skulking around during both day and night.

  Far behind the 105th, the sound of gunfire in the afternoon caused Anson’s men to remain in Coimbra, and await developments. The next event was the belligerent Stapleton-Cotton arriving in the town square, conveying his orders around personally to the individual Colonels of Anson’s Brigade.

  “Withers! Get back out and take a position before the town. Durnfeld’s KGL will be with you. Don’t think you’re alone; De Grey’s Heavies and Fane’s Lights are off to your left, Slade’s Heavies over to your right. When you see any French, when, mark you, pitch into them. Slade’s will come in support. The same goes for the KGL, but if any of them go in, you follow!”

  Withers, with Johnson, Tavender and Templemere close by, looked blankly back at their Divisional General, whilst Templemere stared at him horrified. Then Withers answered.

  “Hit how hard Sir? Enough to stall, then withdraw?”

  Stapleton-Cotton was already swinging over his horse’s head.

  “You’ve got it! Our job is to make sure that Wellington’s gets to Torres Vedras unmolested and intact.”

  Templemere was appalled! He was being ordered to take part in 100 miles, or more, of rearguard! However, Stapleton-Cotton had one more joyful fact of encouragement.

  “We had it easy at Busaco. Our turn now.”

  With that he was finally gone, followed by Anson and the few Staff of both. Five minutes saw the 16th riding back through the Light Brigade, these now occupying walls and houses and even suffering sporadic cannonfire from some way off. Despite this, they rode on back the way they had come and ten minutes further brought them to a low ridge where Templemere immediately drew out his telescope to train and focus it on any likely point of a French approach. He was much relieved to see no sign, bar the inevitable smoke of burning farms and hamlets. The KGL came up and rode behind to take position on their left. Thus, they sat for almost an hour, peering forward with naked eye, or telescope, expensive or otherwise. The gunfire ceased; presumably the French field-gun battery had now been driven off, perhaps by Fane’s Light Dragoons. On the hour Johnson turned to Withers.

  “Can the men dismount, Sir, and make a hot drink, at least?”

  Templemere was only too pleased to hear the positive reply. It meant a hot drink for him, from their servant, and also, perhaps, it meant that there would be no action that day, as the light faded. Soon after, darkness did reign over them all and Withers ordered a kind of camp, allowing bivouac fires on the reverse slope. His men cooked whatever was in their saddlebags, then they slept, wrapped in their cloaks. Dawn broke over the pair of Captains, both damp and stiff. A hot drink came from their servant, then came Johnson.

  “Tavender! Get on watch, just you. I’ll inspect your men and send them up. Templemere, inspect yours then stand them ready, but dismounted.”

  Tavender dragged himself to his horse, held by a Trooper. He forced one stiff leg up into the stirrup and then swung over the other. He decided that he may need a messenger.

  “Maguire. With me.”

  The said Trooper Maguire, much dishevelled, but at least fed, levered himself up from his campfire using his sabre and mounted his horse, to then follow Tavender to the brow of the ridge. The light was not yet sufficient for half a mile beyond the ridge and the pair, Maguire a respectful half a length behind, watched as features emerged from the ever receding horizon. At first they could see only the mundane olive groves and storehouses, static at first, but seemingly closer as the light grew. Then came anxiety followed by definite alarm, because whole columns of French cavalry were riding forward, each little more than 200 yards apart. The first thought that came to Tavender was the totally correct one, that Massena’s whole cavalry force, untouched by Busaco, had been sent forward. His next thought was wholly to the point.

  “Give the alert and then get the Colonel up here. Then find General Anson. Make sure he knows.”

  Maguire whirled his horse and was gone. Within minutes Withers was up with him and behind came the sounds of the Regiment coming to readiness. Johnson soon arrived also and the discussions began, Johnson speaking first, needing but a second to form his opinion.

  “I’d say that was his whole cavalry force, Sir.”

  Withers lowered his telescope.

  “Get the men formed up. I’m not going down there to face them without orders and certainly not alone. Formed up across here, we can certainly give them something to think about and perhaps slow their advance. Then we wait, either for Anson or Stapleton-Cotton.”

  Johnson at last involved Tavender by simply turning to him.

  “See to it.”

  Leaving his superiors to study developments, Tavender rode back and gave the simple instruction to every Captain he found, then he came to his own Troop and led them forward. Soon the whole of the 16th were formed on the ridge, in full view of the oncoming French and a glance left saw the KGL Hussars formed up also. The French slowed and finally halted and the tension grew. Movement leftwards drew the gaze of all on the ridge, to see Stapleton-Cotton and his whole Staff galloping across the front of the KGL to halt at Colonel Withers. He wasted no time.

  “If they stay down there, for the day, then we’ll pull back. I’ll consider our job done for today. If they move forward, pitch into them and hold them back. Come night, we’ll pull back through the town, but if before then, we keep them out. That’s crucial. I’ve got my whole Division now formed, all with the same orders. We are to keep them
out of Coimbra.”

  He looked along the line of the 16th, nodding his head with approval, then he rose in his stirrups, turned to look behind and took a deep breath.

  “Are you up for a go at the Johnnies today, boys?”

  There was no cheering from the line, but many who heard gave a good reply and many others simply waved their sabres in the air. Stapleton-Cotton turned to Colonel Withers.

  “I’m over now to see Slade and his Heavies. Good luck Withers.”

  With that he was gone, yelling ‘Good luck’ to all down the 16th’s line, which most responded to. However, Anson had remained.

  “So, let’s hope we all just sit here and them down there, staring at each other.”

  However, it was not to be. Another study of the French saw an Officers’ conference, taking place immediately before them, which then broke up and the French columns again began their advance. Withers raised his telescope whilst obviously addressing Johnson.

  “Can you see any Cuirassiers down there?”

  Johnson used his own glass to look for the telltale steel breastplates, which meant Heavy Cavalry, perhaps even the famed French Cuirassiers.

  “No. All Light. Like us.”

  Withers snapped his telescope shut.

  “Right. We have three columns opposite and four Squadrons of our own. I’ll take two against the centre. One and Four. Johnson, you take one against the left, Tavender, one against the right. No heroics, keep your men in hand, we are here to stop, not rout! If mine hits back the centre badly enough, then their two outside will not come on, may even fall back. When I’ve pushed back the centre far enough, I’ll split and come onto the flanks of yours. Good luck to you both.”

  Both Withers and Johnson immediately wheeled their horses, leaving Tavender to anxiously study his task for a few more seconds, then he turned to ride past One Squadron, this commanded by Templemere.

  “Yours are with the Colonel, Fred. You’re going against the one immediately below, in our centre. My Squadron’s for the one next over. Good luck!”

  Shock came over Templemere’s face, but Tavender was gone. He rose in his stirrups to better see the wide and dense columns now approaching with evident serious intent, but he had no time for any more pondering, courageous or otherwise. His Colonel had appeared just to his left.

  “Draw sabres! Advance walk.”

  The eerie scrape of steel on brass came to him from all around and then the line advanced. Withers shouted over.

  “Keep your men in hand, Templemere, and don’t get carried away yourself. We’re a rearguard, we stop and hinder.”

  At that moment the idea of him getting ‘carried away’ surrounded by French cavalry columns seemed patently absurd, but what did ease his mind were the words ‘stop and hinder’. However, Withers had quickened the pace to a trot, then a canter, he was mindful to preserve his horses, not gallop yet. Before them the French were belatedly spreading out to widen their front, but the British were now but yards away. Withers raised his sword.

  “Charge!”

  All spurred their mounts to full speed and the 16th hit the French line. The sound was like thousands of pebbles being hurled against a wooden fence, the screams of the horses adding another layer of sound. The most damage done to the French was by the heavier and stronger British mounts colliding with their weaker French counterparts and unseating their riders. Templemere’s mount was no exception, a shoulder-to-shoulder collision sending the French horse skidding sideways as Templemere blocked the rider’s swinging sabre. Then all was noise and a riot of confusion. Where to go next? The choice was made for him, a French Hussar Officer spurred his horse at him and they met stirrup to stirrup, at first exchanging ineffective blows. The confusion of a melee combat always reduced Templemere to near desperation, but this was a single combat one to one and he was no dunce with the blade. From only a yard apart the exchange was rapid and ferocious but first blood was to Templemere, who cut his opponents sword arm and then despatched him with a thrust through his left eye. The sounds of intense combat all around renewed his fear, but a look around revealed more 16th close to him than French Hussars. Then Withers appeared, having cut his way through a group locked in combat, leaving a French Hussar reeling in his saddle.

  “Templemere. Get some men and follow me!”

  With that he was gone, his sword held aloft and him shouting above the din of horses, men and clashing steel.

  “With me, 16th! With me!”

  Templemere remained confused, how do you gather men in the middle of this mayhem, but his ‘Good Sergeant’ Baxter was nearby.

  “Sir! We’ve got to follow the Colonel.”

  Templemere looked at him, still yet confused and so Baxter advised again.

  “Just follow him, Sir, shouting for some lads!”

  At that moment Baxter himself was attacked, but he leant into his attacker, moving inside the swinging sabre to then punch the bellguard of his sabre into the face of his opponent, who then fell senseless to the ground. Templemere was nonplussed at the sight of so easy a despatch, but Baxter was moving.

  “Come on, Sir.”

  He was off, yelling for support and gathering men. The centre column had been pushed back and Withers was keeping his promise of support to Tavender. With him, 40 to 50 men cannoned into the side of Tavender’s opposing column and, again, most of the damage was done by their horses crashing violently into the side of the French mounts, who then saw fit to carry their riders off and away. Templemere had no time to exchange more than a few blows before, from somewhere on the British ridge, a bugle sounded recall. The 16th inflicted a few more hits and slashes on the retreating French before disengaging and then leisurely returning to their former position.

  The recall had been sounded by Stapleton-Cotton, remaining on the ridge and now well content with what had been done. The 16th reformed, at least those that were whole, for many were helping back wounded comrades. Anson rode up to Withers.

  “Well done, Withers, but what’s the time? How much daylight left?”

  Withers reached for the chain in his waistcoat, but withdrew it empty. His brow furrowed.

  “One of those bastards has relieved me of my watch!”

  Anson could not help but laugh.

  “I’ll buy you two more.”

  He looked at Johnson.

  “Can you help?”

  Johnson could, and he hauled out a plain steel timepiece.

  “Pushing up towards three, Sir. Plenty more time yet.”

  Withers was still studying his severed chain, mightily aggrieved, but now mindful of his men.

  “Allow the men a drink.”

  He thrust the chain away.

  “This isn’t done yet.”

  Johnson turned his horse to obey the order, leaving Tavender, him binding a cut, in the company of Withers and Anson, the latter now giving his judgement.

  “He’ll re-form and reinforce. Likely to bring up some Heavies, if he’s got any.”

  He turned to Withers.

  “Get yourself a drink, and sending one up for me would be much appreciated.”

  Withers turned to Tavender.

  “See to it!”

  Tavender did nothing himself to achieve compliance, other than ordering a Trooper in his command to do his Colonel’s bidding. His cut now doctored, he felt able to ride over to see his fellow Captain and friend of circumstance to find Lord Templemere dismounted and examining his sword.

  “Lord Fred. Pleased to see you in one piece!”

  Templemere looked up, but his face still showed the shock of close combat, his eyes wide, his mouth turned down.

  “Will that be it, do you think?”

  Tavender shook his head.

  “Not by a long shot. Expect another. Get a drink, then get yourself ready.”

  He dismounted himself, as Templemere continued to worry at the notch in his sabre.

  “Don’t worry about that, Fred. The armourer will take care of it, this evening, when we
’re back and out of it.”

  Templemere returned a blank stare, somewhere between hope and disbelief, then some coffee arrived, one mug only, but he was in no mood to share with anyone, even Tavender. Templemere growled an order, as much to vent his own feelings as to provide Tavender with a hot drink.

  “Get another, damn you!”

  Another soon arrived, Templemere added some brandy, and the pair stood together drinking and watching the French. Their wounded and dead had now been retrieved so that all that remained on the field between both sides was the detritus of combat, mostly shakoes and Hussar busbies. Thus, it was gone Noon before formed-up French cavalry re-appeared and came forward again, this time at a trot. This time there was to be no leisurely advance. Anson and Withers used their telescopes together and spoke the word together.

  “Heavies!”

  The action required to stop such as Heavy Cavalry was one of shock, not hit and disrupt, but Light Dragoons would be unlikely to match such as Cuirassiers in such an action. However, an attempt had to be made. Anson folded his telescope.

  “Right, we stay here and use the slope. That’ll give us some push against them, us charging downhill.”

  Withers nodded.

  “Same again! That’s their Heavies in the centre. Lights either side. I’ll take two Squadrons against the centre, one either side.”

  Almost as soon as the words were uttered the French changed formation, the columns breaking out, in good time, to form continuous lines with the Cuirassiers prominent in the centre.