The Plains of Talavera

by Martin McDowell

  “Least mounting picket gets us out of manning that barrier! We’re on the slope before that mast, that’s us occupied. The 60th’s already at the barrier, so, when they comes off, the next nearest is you!”

  The brutal accuracy of the reply silenced Miles. He sat back down.

  “He’s right! Lovely job that’ll be, with a whole French army comin’ down that road.”

  He rolled himself in his blanket, touched his Baker rifle in the dark to reassure himself and fell immediately to sleep. Thus he could not hear what the 50th could, all through the night came the sounds of French guns being moved up and walls demolished to provide firing positions. Miles was the first to be woken by Ellis.

  “Form up. Now! Bring what food you can.”

  Within ten minutes the Light Company were formed on the road, in fours, with Carr and Drake at their head. They marched forward through the chill, but growing dawn until, 200 yards before their ridge, the barrier became clear, with the still resting figures of the green uniformed 60th gathered on the British side. The order came back from Drake.

  “Halt! Rest and eat. Breakfast time.”

  The 105th Light fell out and then sat or rested against the walls that bordered the road, drinking cold, very weak tea and eating biscuits, sausage and salty dried fish, which needed the tea to wash it down. Drake and Carr continued forward to find the commanding Captain of the 60th, but he found them, walking back to meet them. On seeing Carr, he saluted.

  “Morning, Sir.”

  Carr knew most of his Officers from their time together in their shared billet in Sobral.

  “Morning. Shepherd, isn’t it?”

  “Yes Sir.”

  “How many have you?”

  “Sixty-two, Sir.”

  “And what do you suggest at that barrier?”

  “Four ranks, Sir. Take position, fire, fall back, reload, then back into firing position.”

  “A spread of 15 at the barrier each time.”

  “Just so, Sir.”

  “They’ll send a column down the road, after giving us a taste of round shot. I’d put mine in advance of your barrier, to get onto their flanks, but I fear we’d be dreadfully exposed.”

  “You’re right, Sir, you would be, but if I may say, Sir, our job is to give them the barrier, but only after we’ve broken them up in taking it. Then reinforcements will finally push them back.”

  Carr nodded. His own thinking remained what it had been in Sobral, to minimise casualties.

  “My thoughts entirely, Captain. Draw them onto the redoubts and a waiting firing line.”

  He looked behind him. The only sheltered area was before and after the barrier, on the road itself at the head of the ravine, as it ran between two low banks surmounted by the walls. He turned back to Shepherd.

  “When it looks like bayonet work, fall back, past mine. We’ll be 30 yards back and we’ll give them a few volleys as they come over your furniture there. Then it’ll be up to our supports.”

  Shepherd smiled and nodded.

  “As you say, Sir.”

  Carr leaned forward offering his hand.

  “Good luck, Shepherd.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  Drake offered his hand also and they exchanged the same words, then the two walked back to their men.

  “Right, let’s get ready. One Section each side, ready to close after these 60th have gone through. What time have you got?”

  Drake pulled out his ornate watch.

  “Just gone seven. Ten past.”

  Almost the same words were being spoken behind them, on the ridge. Wellington himself was bringing forward the 105th as Lacey spoke to O’Hare, the former with his watch in his hand.

  “Ten past. Must be soon now.”

  Wellington now approached the pair.

  “Pleased to see it’s yours, Lacey.”

  Lacey could not quite bring himself to answer with similar words. He was not at all pleased that it was his Battalion once again in the way of a French column.

  “You can depend on us, Sir.”

  “That I know, Lacey, but there’s support if you need it. The 50th will be on your left.”

  Both men saluted as Wellington rode to the Semaphore Station, then Lacey looked for Spencer or Erskine, to see neither.

  “He’s placed behind the ridge, out of harms way. Good, but there’s no one to call us forward, at the right time. Even The Peer’s gone. I’ll not wait. Best get yourself up there and give us the signal.”

  ‘Up there’ was the top of the ridge, where all could be seen and so O’Hare trotted forward until he could see the barrier, almost hidden within the stone walls. He barely had time to take in the scene before the French guns opened fire, all concentrating on the barrier. Then the guns in the redoubts doubled the noise when the French column emerged from Sobral onto the road and their roundshot began to damage the leading French Battalions. However, in order to do any damage to the barrier, first the French guns had to lower the walls beside the road before it and so the 105th Lights, 30 yards back, found themselves being showered in dislodged stone, some dangerously large. The Section most exposed was Maltby’s, under the wall to the right, because being there they were more in the line of fire from the village than Shakeshaft’s. Men were being injured, but if the Section raised themselves to fall back, this would mean even more casualties. Drake called out.

  “Stuart. Get yours over behind Richard’s. All lie down.”

  Hearing Drake’s order, One Section rolled over the road to the opposite side and, thus, they endured some minutes of bombardment, all prone on the damp earth, watching for any large lumps of masonry that came bowling down towards them. Shepherd’s men were sheltered from the flying stones by their barrier, but the 105th had to endure what came, all lying prone within the angle of the wall and road, some lying on others in some places. John Davey and his Captain, Stuart Maltby, found themselves side by side, but any amount of camaraderie was plainly absent on the face of John Davey and also by the flat tone of his voice in his reply to Maltby.

  “I’d prefer the French column to arrive, Davey. Would you not?”

  “As you say, Sir.”

  Nothing more was said for the remaining minutes, then the French bombardment stopped, their own column was now too near and then, but a minute after, the 60th began their volleys, only 15 men at a time, but it was almost continuous, although barely heard as the British guns behind fired at maximum speed. With no more pieces of wall coming their way, Carr looked back.

  “As you were. Each side. Get the wounded back.”

  There were several, most with head wounds from the flying stonework, but each Section now crouched and waited on both sides of the road. On the ridge, O’Hare needed no telescope to see that the column was taking heavy punishment from the Rifles at the barrier, with no let up from the Monte Agraca redoubts. However, there was no halt to their progress, it was merely slowed. What worried him most was the size of the attack, three Battalions, a whole Brigade had been sent forward out of Sobral.

  Carr and Drake both looked forward to watch the continuous round of Riflemen falling back a short way to reload and then await another turn at the barrier. The minutes ticked by and then there was cannon support from only two Agraca redoubts, these far over to their left, because the French were now masked by the 105th and 60th from the redoubts in line with the road, but still there came the non-stop sound of the defence of the barrier. Then a whistle sounded and all the 60th turned to run back. Carr looked back at his crouching men.

  “Up! Stand up. Make ready.”

  All checked their flints and priming as the 60th ran past.

  “Now!”

  All ran into the road to form a three deep line, all standing at the ‘make ready’.

  “Present.”

  Carr waited through the dreadful seconds before any French began to climb the barrier. Then shakoes appeared, then heads and then white cross belts.

  “Front rank. Fire!”

>   Thus it began, Drake counting the ten seconds needed between each rank’s volley to give time for the reload. Many French fell as they continued to come over the barrier, but it was being demolished from the far side and then the whole column came on, now reformed, easily striding over the remains. Drake allowed one more volley, which felled many in the French front rank.

  “Back! Fall back.”

  As the barrier was abandoned, so O’Hare signalled the 105th to come forward, stood patient in their two deep line. In the centre, Lacey turned to his men, his sword half aloft.

  “The 105th will advance.”

  Also in the centre, Colour Sergeant Deakin remained dubious.

  “One more turn at Shy at the Cockerel! All the fun of the Fair.”

  Equally sceptical was Toby Halfway, stood immediately behind.

  “Aye! But at this Fair the cockerel can shy back!”

  However, at this moment Captain Heaviside turned to inspire his men in his customary fashion.

  “The wicked flee when no one pursues, but the righteous are bold as a lion. Proverbs 28. One.”

  All in the Colour Company grinned as Lacey led them forward, the smoke from the conflict at the barrier issuing gently back over the ridge towards them. Over on the road, also issuing back, but vigorously, Carr was met by General Erskine, him pointing over with his right arm.

  “Form on the right of your 105th, Carr. Over there. When they come over the ridge.”

  The 60th were already on their way and so Carr stopped and pointed after them with his sword.

  “Follow the 60th. Form on our Grenadiers!”

  Now unmolested by any French fire, they ran to meet their own Battalion now arriving. Leading all, the first Officer Drake met was Carravoy, Captain of the Grenadiers, at their place on the right of the line.

  “Hello, Charles! This is a bit of a turn up. Us on the right, up alongside yours!”

  Carravoy gave but a glance past his sword as he led his men forward, but Carr, last to make the journey, took the time to take a look at the majestic double line of his own Regiment, muskets all at the ‘make ready’, both Colours standing out straight and clear in the steady breeze. Thus inspired, he felt the need to bring his sword up in salute to The Colours, which was returned by Lacey, advancing but yards in front.

  Stood where he was, Carr could see that his 105th, were not alone, for over the higher part of the ridge came what he took to be the 50th, their black Regimental Colour providing the obvious proof. Appearing on the left of the 105th, they provided an equally intimidating sight. Now seeing both British Regiments now before them, the French gunners lifted their aim and soon round shot was ploughing the earth before and parting the air above, but the range was too far for accuracy and, besides, round shot gave no anxiety to veterans such as the 50th and the 105th. What anxiety there was existed in the minds of the oncoming French, these being the battalions of Menard’s Brigade who, at Busaco, had observed and absorbed only too clearly what happened when an unsupported column met a British line, in that case, Crauford’s Light Brigade. The sight of the long line of the 105th, with the 50th in support, by itself halted all progress on the road. Their hesitancy was not lost on Lacey, nor the reason why.

  “We’re going right up to them, boys! Right into their faces!”

  He led his men to within 40 yards of the first of the French, who were trying to deploy into line. Lacey then gave his flanking Companies time to lap around the French column, which they did.

  “Volley by ranks. Present.”

  All muskets came down level.

  “Fire!”

  The whole first rank fired with an appalling crash. Lacey allowed the smoke to thoroughly clear before repeating with the second rank, then, in the smoke he gave his final order.

  “Fix bayonets!”

  There was a frustrating delay of seconds, but not a period that the thoroughly disordered French column could use. Lacey raised his sword.

  “At double time. Advance!”

  The whole line moved forward, at a jog or a quick walk and, at this sight, the numbed survivors of the French column turned and ran. Lacey was the first onto the remains of the barrier.

  “On! Keep on boys. Don’t let them stand.”

  Lacey had seen that the final Battalion of the three was still intact and knew that the remnants of the first two must not be allowed to rally on them. He shouted at the top of his voice, a repeat taken up by O’Hare and his Captains.

  “Follow close. Don’t let them stand.”

  The double time advance had become a run, yet no British bayonet was used. If the third French Battalion made any attempt at resistance, it was not felt by the 105th, because it was swept up in the rout, as the whole French force fell back and divided itself into the streets and alleys of Sobral. Still at the front, but breathless, Lacey was grateful to see Bugle Bates, who had remained close to his Colonel. Lacey was worried, Sobral must be full of French and their guns were still there, in fact he looked over to see some of his men engaging with those very gunners on the edge of the village in hand to hand combat.

  “Sound recall!”

  Bates took a much needed deep breath of his own and the notes sounded out. Lacey now had enough breath of his own to shout his order, which was repeated all down his line.

  “Retire. Double time. Reform on the ridge.”

  Like a wave receding from a sea wall, his men fell back, to turn and run back along the road and across the ravine, to reform on the ridge. The whole had not taken fifteen minutes. Lacey stood panting amongst his breathless men, but, although in full view of the French, they came under no fire. Spencer himself now came down, on foot.

  “Well done Lacey.”

  He turned to the reformed ranks.

  “Well done, 105th!”

  There were a few cheers in reply, but Spencer had turned back to Lacey.

  “Get your men back over the ridge, Lacey. I’d say that’s that, for us around here!”

  oOo

  Four miles to the East, General Crauford was stood atop the parapet of Redoubt 120, acknowledging the end of the combat at Sobral by the sound of the cannonfire dying away, whilst massaging upwards his own irascible mood caused by the continued inactivity at his section of The Lines. On either side Portuguese gunners polished the barrels of their new pieces, checked touchholes for cleanliness and chipped rust from roundshot. Beside him stood Colonel Beckwith of the 43rd, one of the two Line Battalions of his Brigade. Crauford raised his telescope for the 25th time to examine the doings of the French opposite, but all that could be seen were a few French picquets, most almost a mile away, leaning on fence posts or against the trees and the walls of buildings. He turned to Beckwith.

  “Who was it, that the Frogs just tried conclusions with?”

  “I believe Spencer’s, Sir. Probably at Sobral.”

  Crauford grunted, his ill mood in no way reduced.

  “Would that they should try us here.”

  Beckwith fully appreciated his Brigadier’s taste for action and his hatred of inactivity, but he remained silent. Crauford raised his telescope yet again, but this time it seemed to Beckwith that Crauford saw something, evidenced by his very careful focusing of his instrument.

  “What’s this?”

  He passed the telescope to Beckwith.

  “What do you make of that group, coming along the main road, our left centre?”

  Beckwith did his own focusing, then made his own judgement.

  “They’ve left the road and are coming towards us, Sir, and, if pressed for an opinion, I’d say that it is Massena himself and his whole Staff. And alone, Sir, no troops anywhere, of any sort. He must have come to take a look, at us and what we’re about.”

  Crauford seized back the telescope and studied the group for himself. With the distance now reducing he could clearly see the elaborate uniforms of all in the group, identifying them as definitely Generals and Staff. The group continued to approach and therefore it was not long bef
ore Crauford began to feel much affronted by the impertinence of their continued approach to his Lines. He looked down at the Officer commanding the redoubt.

  “Give them a gun!”

  He pointed at the group that were the target, now within plain sight. The orders were given and promptly obeyed. The Officer sighted the gun himself and himself took the lintstock. A last look, a blow on the ember to make it glow and the end was applied. The gun crashed out and recoiled back. All was smoke but Crauford already had his telescope up and ready. What he saw was not the arrival of the shot, but the leading Officer in the group had stopped and was raising his hat, to plainly acknowledge that he had trespassed too far. This man turned his horse, as did the rest of his entourage and rode back. Crauford grunted his satisfaction.

  “That, Beckwith, may be the most important shot of this whole damn war!”

  oOo

  Chapter Eleven

  Leaving The Lines

  “How many is that?”

  “What?”

  “Deserters come in this week?”

  Drake looked at his logbook. They had been ordered to keep a record of all events opposite Sobral.

  “Seven.”

  “Most last night?”

  “Yes. The three you saw.”

  Carr lowered his telescope from his daily study of Sobral.

  “Nothing new that I can see.”

  He closed the telescope and looked down at the log, displayed on the parapet before Drake.

  “I think they’re starving over there. Seems to me that it is they who are the besieged, rather than we. Those last night looked half dead!”

  Then a thought.

  “Were they regular French, or conscripts from conquered countries? I didn’t notice.”

  “Regular! Two were Voltiguers.”

  Carr raised his eyebrows and screwed his mouth sideways.

  “Elite! Seems that things are getting a mite desperate for our near neighbours.”

  He yawned.

  “Right. I’m for some sleep. Night picket must be about the most tedious of all possible duties, I am of the strongest opinion. Who has Sentry after you, come this dingy dawn?”