The Plains of Talavera

by Martin McDowell

  The French front matched their own, but his was only two deep, whilst that of the French was four, at least. He was as irritated as any at this useless skirmishing, but this was his allotted task, therefore he would hit them at the full gallop. He raised his sword.

  “Charge!”

  He spurred his horse forward and the whole line sprang forward to achieve full gallop within seconds. The yelling Troopers, the waving sabres and the horses at full pelt caused many in the French line to slow almost to a halt, which was totally fateful. The 16th and KGL crashed into the French line with no less a fearful shock than any of the actions before and such was the impact that the first two French lines were forced back onto the third. Then it became a fight as much between horses as men, and soon the weaker French gave best, turning to escape the dominant British mounts. Templemere, as trapped as anyone in the melee, exchanged wholly ineffective blows with a Hussar at maximum sword length, but then the Hussar’s mount decided that enough was enough and turned, enabling Templemere to stab the man in the back. He fell and his horse careered off to the side.

  All along the line, the French were giving way, especially against the ferocious KGL, and soon all were retreating back in flight. With superb discipline, Anson’s men reformed their line and cantered on, pushing the French before them. The race lasted but half a mile before the French split to reveal at least a Brigade of infantry, drawn up in four squares to receive them. Anson had kept his Bugler close and he now touched him with the end of his sabre, the signal to order withdraw. The notes sounded and his men halted to quickly turn and ride back, leaving Anson alone, facing the French infantry just within musket range, but no fire came. He studied them for a short while, before bringing his sword up and across his face in salute. Some could say that it was a mocking gesture, but it was returned by an infantry Officer sat on his horse between two of the squares, which made it a gesture of respect from both. Anson then turned and rode back to follow his men, very content with a job well done and at little cost, this being no more than a handful of wounded throughout his whole Brigade. There were French dead stretched across the wet turf, but none of his own. Withers and Durnfeld were waiting for him and he was characteristically brief.

  “Back on the road. Now!”

  His two Regiments quickly formed up and joined him on the dark brown strip of rutted soil that doubled as a road. Then the rain came on harder.

  Although marching in bright sunshine some 20 miles ahead, the mood in the Light Company of the 105th was dark. All by now had heard of Eirin’s condition and all knew who was responsible and with no word as to what was to happen next, all drew their own conclusions. Inevitably, they were of the worst, because Lieutenant Maltby was an Officer and Eirin merely a Follower. That she was to be abandoned to her fate, used and discarded, was the general conclusion. Most incensed, inevitably, were the men of the Messes of Davey and Deakin, but it was those of the former who marched within One Section of the Light Company, this commanded by the Officer in question, Lieutenant Stuart Maltby. He was in his place, marching alongside his men and it was not long into the morning before Zeke Saunders, marching close but behind, thought of something significant to say, pointed, but sufficiently anonymous.

  “Who was that Officer, Byfe, what we saved back at Busy Co?”

  Private John Byford, having no idea what his good friend had in mind, did no more than answer the question.

  “Captain Drake. We brought down a French Officer who was, well, about to suffer him great harm.”

  Saunders sniffed.

  “Captain Drake, wer’ it? I’ve a memory that it wer’ another, and if it was this ‘un I’ve in mind, then I’m of the opinion that we shouldn’t have bothered. This man bein’ of the sort that you’d want to do no favours for.”

  Byford caught on immediately.

  “When you say ‘no favours’, in fact you mean not aiding that someone out of any form of difficulty! If you had the choice.”

  “You’ve got my meanin’ entirely.”

  John Davey was not slow to pick up on what was being constructed.

  “This ‘other’ you’m referin’ to, you mean he weren’t no good sort of comrade? Even though an Officer!”

  Saunders continued, as much uncaring of the consequences as emboldened.

  “No, he was worse. This ‘un. He dabbled amongst the Followers. The girls it wer’! Now that’s bad.”

  “The girls you say? In the Followers? Now he must be some piece of work!”

  Davey paused, but all knew there was more coming.

  “A man should pick up on the things that he does. What happens from it, like. An Officer ‘specially. ‘Specially if it means someone’s whole life gets all changed around and sent down the drain.”

  It was Tom Miles who had the last words, each carefully spoken, their threat little hidden.

  “You’m right there, John. The finish of such can be ‘specially dire! Like if such a man were to cross your sights in the middle of some set to, well, you’d not be too sorry after you’d pulled the trigger sort of by instinct, like. One of them things!”

  There was no further sound other than that of marching feet. All four were astute enough to realise the benefit of saying no more and allowing their words to remain large within the space of silence. For Lieutenant Stuart Maltby each word registered its impact and each gave cause for some thought, but, him feeling thoroughly secure as an Officer of King George, it registered as being of no great significance.

  In fact, with the day’s march done and himself, Carr, Drake, and Shakeshaft now snug in yet another good billet, what had been said on the march had been all but forgotten, as Nat Drake pulled the cork from a very decent bottle of wine. As he poured the contents equally into the four beakers, it was Maltby who asked the question.

  “Should not all of that, wine and such, I mean, have been destroyed, as The Peer ordered, along with any food?”

  Drake grinned and looked at him.

  “True, Stuart, very true, but have you not noticed some of our more enterprising refugees carting along all kinds of supplies and setting up a stall at the end of each day. Most enterprising, most laudable and most convenient for us, I’d say, for those of us who appreciate a fine bottle.”

  He held it up to the candle light.

  “Such as this. One we’ve not had before. Now, a toast.”

  All picked up their beaker.

  “To The Lines and comfort and security to us all!”

  The toast was repeated and Morrison brought in the food, in plentiful quantity, stewed pork, peas, potatoes and new baked bread. With each plate full, the conversation was resumed, as usual by Nat Drake.

  “So, in The Lines tomorrow. What’s the prognosis for what comes next?”

  Carr swallowed his mouthful.

  “Rest and comfort will suit me.”

  “Militarily, I mean.”

  Richard Shakeshaft, usually the most belligerent of the four assembled, spoke of his hopes.

  “I want them to take a crack at us! Give us a chance to deliver another Busaco. Behind trenches and redoubts or not, wherever we are, it doesn’t matter.”

  Maltby was more thoughtful.

  “My betting is that he didn’t lose a fifth of his army, a dreadful mauling though we gave those he sent up. He’s still a lot left, of a veteran army.”

  He rested his forearms on the edge of the table, knife and fork erect.

  “And don’t forget. Half our army is Portuguese!”

  Drake tilted his head to one side in thought.

  “True, but they did pretty well, is my impression. A bit mixed with us above San Antonio, but at The Convent they did as well as any of ours, that’s what I’ve heard it. You may be too harsh in your judgement. They’re coming on is my impression. Unlike the Spanish!”

  All gave a short laugh and then Carr spoke.

  “For me, I’d rather sit in some billet and let them starve. For those that he sent up that hill, their defeat was crushi
ng, but without that ridge, who knows? Boney tells his Marshals to send forward Tirailleurs to soften you up, then a column with guns either side. Then cavalry. All that we got, pretty much, were the columns. That’s all he could get up that ridge against us.”

  He paused.

  “If he can mount a full attack, on good ground, it’ll be another Talavera, and I’d prefer to sit in boredom than have the excitement of another like that!”

  He blew out his cheeks.

  “Time to count our blessings, I think!”

  He turned his head.

  “Morrison, another bottle. Do we have one?”

  Morrison was standing by.

  “Oh yes Sir. Several!”

  Before inserting a mouthful, Drake looked at Maltby.

  “Once in The Lines is school back on?”

  Maltby nodded.

  “Colonel’s orders.”

  “With the charming assistance of Eirin Mulcahy?”

  “Anything’s possible!”

  Not 20 yards further down the road another meal was being assembled, but the atmosphere was far less convivial, although the rations were plentiful. Eirin was in better spirits but still morose, yet the unburdening of her secret had lifted her somewhat and the pledged support of all around had given her some comfort. Jed Deakin was sat with his ‘wife’, Bridie, and she was studying him carefully.

  “What are you going to say, Jed?”

  To whom was obvious and Deakin stretched his mouth over his face in thought.

  “’Twill need careful handlin’, that’s for sure, tacklin’ an Officer over such.”

  He turned to look at her with a kindly smile, one just for her.

  “But I’ll get it done and I’ll get something. Don’t you worry, we’ll see her cared for, one way or another.”

  Bridie put down her plate and curled her arms around his neck. Then she kissed his bristly cheek and rubbed it with the palm of her right hand.

  “Tonight you has a shave!”

  Deakin allowed his eyebrows to lift a full inch!

  20 miles further back down the road all was anything but convivial. Templemere and Tavender sat in the remains of a hovel, which now was not even that, now that half the roof had collapsed after a fire caused by Portuguese looters. The building, if such an exaggeration could be applied, was part of what remained of the neat village of Aloentre, but was now an assemblage of wrecked cottages, many destroyed by fire, most without a roof. The only comfort for the 16th was that some rations had been waiting at the end of the day and the pair’s Servant, Trooper Ted Robinson, had a stew of salt beef, peas and potatoes boiling over a large fire, large for cooking but barely adequate to provide any warmth. The pair sat huddled and wrapped in their cavalry cloaks, both sat on a crude bench under the only part of the roof that remained. Their horses were tethered in the open area of the house walls, this conforming to Withers orders, that mounts were to be no more that 10 yards from any bivouac. At last Robinson judged the tough meat to be edible enough for those with good teeth and so a bowl of the stew was handed to each along with two biscuits, although not Army, these had the Navy stamp in the centre. With Robinson departed, conversation could begin, first from Templemere.

  “I’m thinking of resigning my Commission!”

  Tavender looked at him and swallowed, prematurely, making this difficult, before he spoke.

  “Not what you expected, eh?”

  Templemere had not taken a mouthful of the gristly meat.

  “This is little more than perpetual misery. On top, we are the Rearguard, outnumbered and under assault, day after day. And the Army’s falling apart. You saw those two Royal Dragoons hanging from a tree in Leiria. Caught looting. Royal Dragoons!”

  Tavender dropped his piece of meat back into the bowl. The foppish, complaining nature of his companion, when it arose, always irritated him.

  “We are fighting the French. Fred! They are the best led, the best equipped and the best trained army in Europe. They have crushed everyone, except us. It’s only us, led by The Peer, who’ve given them any trouble. What did you think it was going to be like? A jolly Foxhunt with some society acquaintances?”

  He allowed his words to sink in, then he changed his tone somewhat.

  “We are on campaign! And retreating, what’s more. You get looting on any retreat, but one more day, probably, and we’ll be in The Lines, which are pre-prepared defences. A whole chain of strongpoints and redoubts, so I’ve heard. Once behind that and manned by our good infantry, damn fine infantry, I think you’ll find that life will pick up, somewhat, in fact I’d say considerably. Now, eat your stew. Some of it will be edible.”

  Templemere selected a piece and began to chew, but at that point, not four yards away, Tavender’s horse staled onto the rotten straw that had once been the flooring. Templemere dropped his spoon into his bowl and lay himself down on the floor, his cloak brought tight about him

  Predictably it was a disturbed night. Sleep was interrupted either by one of the mounts moving around or the heavy showers, these carried by the wind blowing in under the edge of the shattered roof. With the dawn, Robinson arrived with some coffee and rolls just as the final note of Reveille died away. Each sat up, keeping their cloaks close gathered, then Johnson arrived, attempting to be cheerful.

  “Up you get, Gentlemen. Let’s see if we cannot see them off, this last day. Keep them far enough back for us to ride in triumph into these ‘Lines’ that we’ve heard so much about.”

  The pair did their best to grin a reply to their superior Officer, but it came across more as the rictus grin from a pair of corpses. However, the Regiment was awakening and preparing for the rigours of the day and they could do nothing other than follow suit. Both stood and stretched, pushing out stiffened limbs, then Tavender walked forward.

  “Right. Tackle up and saddle up!”

  As a good horseman, he saw to his own bridle and saddle and Templemere, somewhat reluctantly, followed in his direction to do the same. That done they led their mounts out of the hovel to immediately encounter Somers-Cocks, the Captain of Two Squadron.

  “Morning, you two. Dry day for once. And we’ve been given some guns, a whole Field Battery. They came up in the night. Bit of a lift, what?”

  His cheerfulness depressed both and the best reply that they could manage was each to raise his left hand, then Johnson found them again.

  “Get to your Squadrons, we’re pulling back. Anson wants a better position for today’s Society Ball.”

  The thought of almost certain combat, yet again, did nothing to raise their spirits, but soon, at the head of their men, they were on the road beyond the village, awaiting the order to move. This came and lasted but a minute, for then came panic, beginning with Anson riding fast along their column, halting at Withers.

  “Where are the guns?”

  Withers looked astonished.

  “Up front, Sir. Surely?”

  “They are not. Where did they camp, last night?”

  “Back down in Alcoentre, the far side is my guess. I saw them move through myself, last night, led by one of your Staff.”

  Anson’s face grew desperately worried, even fearful.

  “Whose is your last Squadron?”

  “Somers-Cocks. Three.”

  “Whose is this?”

  He was pointing at the Troopers immediately behind Withers.

  “Templemere’s. One.”

  “Right. I’m sending Somers-Cocks back to get them and this in reserve. Send these after me!”

  He galloped off and Withers turned to Templemere.

  “You heard your orders. Back to the village. If you are called into action, keep your men together. Four ranks.”

  Templemere felt his stomach jump as he saluted and rode back the way they had come, his men wheeling into position behind him. This being a dry day, visibility was adequate and soon they were close behind Somer-Cocks squadron cantering through the village, with its nearby bridge over a river as its reason for
being. Templemere decided that his place was with his Commander and so he galloped along Two Squadron’s ranks to join Anson and Somers-Cocks, then his stomach did tie itself in knots. The Field Battery had been established, wrongly, far back from the 16th‘s bivouac of the previous night and they were frantically limbering up their guns. The cause for their haste was a whole Regiment of French Light Cavalry approaching the village from the far side, but they were not yet at the bridge, which was the only point where they could be held and allow the guns to escape. Anson lost no time and pointed at Somers-Cocks.

  “Get yours down there! Jam the bridge. Forget formation, get down there!”

  Somers-Cocks drew his sabre and turned to the his men, standing in his stirrups as he did so, the better to make himself heard.

  “With me!”

  He galloped forward and his Squadron followed. The next minute was one of great anxiety for both Anson and Templemere. Who would win the race to the bridge? If the French got over in strength then the battery was lost. Two Squadron hurtled down the slope and past the Battery who had at least put their horses into harness, but no team was hitched to any limber nor any limber to any gun. The French were over, perhaps twenty, when Two Squadron crashed into them, Somers-Cocks in the lead. Anson watched all through his telescope, anxiously chewing his lower lip, but, after much subconscious punishment of that part of his mouth, finally he was content that the bridge was now thoroughly jammed with men and horses. He turned to Templemere.

  “Get yours down there, just off the road, to the right. Give the guns room to get back, using the road.”

  He used his telescope again, giving Templemere excuse for delay.

  “Hold formation up the slope. Three deep line. You making a threat may be enough to cover Somers-Cocks coming back.”

  Templemere certainly hoped so as he rode back to give his orders to his two Cornets of Horse. Within a minute his Squadron was trotting down to form a line three deep, off the road, but threatening the exit of the bridge. On the bridge continued the cavalry equivalent of a rugby maul, but the French were being held. Then there were sighs of relief all round as the Gunners mounted both their gun-limbers and horses and were now whipping their teams into a frenzied gallop to escape. Anson turned to his Bugler.