The Plains of Talavera

by Martin McDowell

  The result was a single tear and so Deakin shut up.

  The Convent Church was arrived at, Sedgwicke tethered the mules and the group entered to find Byford and Saunders waiting inside, stood before a solemn Priest, him with huge hands folded across his chest, this overhung by a hooked nose which held apart two deep set and very dark eyes. Two nuns stood by, one being Sister Consuela. Deakin led Eirin down the aisle to stand beside Byford and, whilst he took a long look at her, she but glanced up at him. With the raising of one of the hands to describe the sign of the Cross, the Ceremony began. Deakin and Saunders understood not one word, Byford a little more, because the Service was all in Latin. Sister Consuela provided the necessary prompts, for Deakin to himself ‘the man who brings this woman here to be married’ and Saunders to produce the ring, which fitted very well. Both Bridie and Nellie cried silently. With the final ‘In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, Amen,’ the ceremony ended and the Priest disappeared out the front door. Deakin handed the money over to Sister Consuela, then the five congregation, himself, Saunders, Sedgwicke, Bridie and Nellie walked back to the main door as used by the Priest, leaving Byford and Eirin standing awkwardly at the Altar. Byford, however, smiled, which Eirin faintly responded to, then he took both her hands and they kissed briefly, for Sister Consuela to come forward and try to usher Eirin out through a side door, but Eirin ran to the four stood at the back and embraced her Mother, then Nellie and then Deakin. That done, she took herself to the side door where stood Sister Consuela and passed through, leaving the six, now including Byford, standing there alone. The whole affair had taken little more than fifteen minutes. Deakin waved them out, his voice resigned and sad.

  “Away and back!”

  oOo

  “I can’t see this doing anything to ease their state of mind!”

  All three, Lacey, Erskine and Spencer were staring out into the darkness at the myriad French bivouac fires, whilst behind them, in full swing, were the celebrations for Guy Fawkes Night. Bonfires were burning merrily all along the British positions and Congreve rockets, condemned as useless by Wellington, were being put to a more celebratory purpose. As another rocket burst high above them, a servant arrived with three glasses of rum punch and each toasted the other in the light of the nearest bonfire. Erskine looked Heavenward, concerned for a falling rocket shaft, but none came.

  “It won’t be long now!”

  His words required no further explanation. All three, in common with almost all other Senior Officers had spent the past days studying the French lines through their telescopes, mostly observing foraging parties leaving and returning, almost certainly they concluded, empty handed. However, the memories of the past days were soon dissipated by the goings on behind them, of much merriment, where fiddles, squeeze-boxes, fifes and penny-whistles were all blasting out popular tunes that the men and their Followers could dance, or at least, sing to. Wellington himself could be seen riding amongst his men, enjoying an evening away from the pressing concerns of when, or how, to attack Massena.

  However, with the following day, all returned to their duties, either major for Wellington and his Staff, or minor for those manning The Lines. Telescopes were re-employed, especially at Sobral, where O’Hare and Lacey scanned the far distance, each requiring all that they could see to be logged by Colonel’s Secretary, Sergeant Herbert Bryce. O’Hare touched Lacey on the shoulder.

  “What’s that? On the ridge to our slight right front? By the clump of trees in line with that far mountain.”

  Lacey adjusted his own instrument.

  “Looks like cavalry. But rumour has it that Massena’s sent all his cavalry and guns back up North. He can’t feed the horses.”

  He studied the scene through his telescope further.

  “I’ll bet that to be Spanish irregulars. El Charro’s brigands. If it is, they’re now coming mighty close to the main French army. Their confidence must be growing.”

  He turned to Sergeant Bryce.

  “Get that in the log and make sure that a copy gets to General Spencer.”

  He drew out his watch and consulted the time.

  “When we’re done here, that is.”

  O’Hare was still on the original subject.

  “They can have every confidence, because if what you say about his cavalry and guns is true, then they are the only ones out there with horses fit for any purpose.”

  He paused.

  “There’s more! I swear I can see French running back, and ………………… Look, there’s smoke coming from that nearby building. Farm or whatever. They’ve just driven back a foraging party and now they’re burning the buildings that the French are using for shelter.”

  He now turned around.

  “Got that Bryce?”

  Bryce put down his army biscuit and picked up his pencil.

  “Sir!”

  Noon arrived on the 6th November to the sound of poles being hammered into the ground at the top of the slope beneath the Semaphore Station atop Mount Agraca, and to the British left of the remains of the barricade, this now held by Number Six Company. It was Maltby’s Section who were doing the hammering and relations between this particular Lieutenant and his men were now much more convivial, in this particular case between himself and Joe Pike.

  “What are these for, Sir?”

  “We’re going to hang food on them, Pike. In full view of the French. To tempt a few more to desert.”

  “Yes Sir. Makes sense, Sir.”

  However, it made little sense to Tom Miles, overhearing all with Zeke Saunders, Miles holding the pole, Saunders smiting the top with a large mallet.

  “Won’t do nothin’ bar give food for the birds. Hanging loaves of bread out in the middle of nowhere!”

  Saunders gave a last mighty blow.

  “Ah now, Thomas, that could be just where you are wrong. Clumps of birds are more obvious than a loaf and lots of birds means food. That’s what the French will see.”

  Miles gave a dismissive guffaw.

  “You think our Officers has got enough sense to work that out?”

  Saunders looked directly at him

  “If they have or not, that’s what’ll happen. They’m comin over in droves now, so, better as prisoners than some more that we has to fight our way through.”

  He picked up another pole and moved away about 12 feet.

  “Here. Hold this.”

  Miles did as he was told and Saunders raised the mallet to strike yet more blows, the sound of which, unbeknown to anyone on the British side, reached the ears of French sentries in Sobral. Their curiosity held their attention to what was happening and so, when the food arrived at the top of the poles, and then some birds as Miles had predicted, their stomachs pained them even more.

  The evening sentry watch was to be held by Maltby’s Section taking the first two hours, but they were accompanied by Captain Drake and also a whole array of lanterns along the top of their position to guide in any French. Drake had taught his NCOs what he hoped was the correct French to challenge any French deserters and he now stood, content in his optimism, studying the buildings of Sobral as they disappeared into the growing dusk. He walked back behind the row of lanterns, now lit and throwing their yellow light onto the faces and uniforms of his men. There he sat and pondered, ‘Do I eat my sausage, or drink some wine?’

  It was not long after full dark when there came a hoarse shout from out of the darkness, subdued, but enough to be heard.

  “M’sieu! M’sieu. Es-tu là?”

  None of his men answered, as ordered. The deserters were to be tempted closer. The next words did indeed sound closer.

  “Rosbifs! Rosbifs! Es-tu là?”

  Miles rose up, incensed.

  “Rosbifs! I’ll give that bastard ‘rosbif’ with my bayonet through his backside!”

  Davey turned to him.

  “Shut up1 We do this properly.”

  Davey stood up and spoke the first French of his life.

 
“Déposez vos armes et de se presenter.”

  The reply came out of the dark.

  “Nous n'avons pas d'armes.”

  Davey spoke the second phrase he had been taught, having understood not one syllable of the reply.

  “S'avancer lentement.”

  All Davey’s comrades were stood at the ready, bayonets fixed, and almost immediately a large group of French soldiers walked slowly into the lamplight, as ordered. Drake came running over.

  “Continuer à marcher!”

  The French did as ordered and walked on, all the while menaced by British bayonets, but soon they were over the parapet and into the shallow trench. There waited more men of One Section, including Tucker and Solomon, all holding either a haversack of biscuits, or lumps of bread or dried fish. Seeing the sacks, plainly offering food, all the French rushed forward to plunge in their hands and extract whatever the haversack contained. Then they fell to their knees or sat, voraciously consuming whatever they had found. The sight was moving, even to the likes of Tom Miles and Zeke Saunders, both speaking simultaneously.

  “Poor bastards!”

  Even in the poor light of the lanterns, it could be seen that the French soldiers were utterly destitute, not just by the way that their wolfed down their food, but by their ragged uniforms and haggard faces. Some were even barefoot and several were obviously ill, coughing and choking between mouthfuls. Many of the watching British, veterans who could remember the privations of their own desperate retreats, offered their new prisoners a drink of rum or wine and the responsive thanks were profuse and continuous. The French could have sat there forever, or so it seemed, but they had to be marched back. Drake came into the trench and began gesturing with his sword, something that was quickly copied by his men, in their case gesturing with their bayonets and repeating his words.

  “Venez. Rapide.”

  The French rose and all those who could reach, took another dip into the haversacks as they passed by. With all gone, the watch was resumed. One more group of deserters arrived before the watch was changed and One Section then filed back, subdued in some ways to see men, whom they did respect but would never admit to, in such appalling circumstances. However, in other ways they were buoyed up and the reason was obvious, these starving and diseased French would make little resistance in any coming conflict.

  It would seem that much the same conclusion was arriving in the minds of Wellington and his Staff, conveyed as usual to Lacey by Erskine, some days later after the number of French deserters had topped two thousand, to that date, 13th November.

  “They can’t stay much longer, but Wellington’s not going at them, he’s going to let them pull out, as they choose, then push them back up and see where they make a stand. Then tackle them there.”

  Lacey nodded.

  “The longer they stay, the fewer there’ll be!”

  “Exactly! Massena’s army is falling apart by the day. You’ve seen the state of the deserters coming in. I’m amazed he’s hanging on as he is. The man must be as stubborn as a mule!”

  “And his men are paying the price.”

  “Yes, but it will lower the price we’ll have to pay to kick them back into Spain.”

  Erskine paused to take a long look over at Sobral.

  “There’s one worry! This pontoon bridge. All the prisoners speak of it. If he gets it built and gets over the Tagus then it’s a different kettle of fish altogether. The Peer’s got Portuguese guarding every bridge over the Tagus up as far as Abrantes, 100 miles up. He’ll not get over anywhere that will allow him to hang on to Portugal, unless that pontoon gets built. At Santarem, so we are informed.”

  Lacey said nothing, waiting for more. It soon came.

  “He’s sent over Fane, with 1500 Portuguese, some Cacadores Rifles and a few guns. And a Rocket Troop. Apparently Sanchez is over there to give some help, although what they’ll do from the wrong side of the river is anyone’s guess.”

  Exactly that question was being pondered at that moment by the same General Fane and Julian Sanchez, both well mounted and sitting their horses within a clump of trees that hid them both from Santarem opposite, but did provide a good view. From across the river, the sound of hammering reached their ears, telling of urgent activity. Both men were using good telescopes, but it was Fane who was speaking, entirely to his own Staff, most of whom were English, the rest Portuguese. Fane was pointing, using his telescope for added emphasis.

  “There, alongside that large grey building, there’s some kind of dockyard.”

  His Staff all raised their own telescopes, whilst Fane continued to speak.

  “I believe I can see boats, or at least pontoons. What say you?”

  All the telescopes began to bob up and down with the nodding of heads in agreement before they were lowered. His Senior Colonel then spoke.

  “Yes, Sir Henry. That’s how it appears to me.”

  General Fane folded his arms over his broad chest, while his pleasant face became troubled. He looked at Sanchez, and then spoke, through an interpreter.

  “What to do? Any suggestions?”

  Sanchez had seen all he needed to and his answer came, in full detail from the interpreter.

  “Use your guns and rockets from here. Fire until you have nothing left. Do what damage you can.”

  Fane nodded. There was little that could be disagreed with, but the interpreter was speaking further, in response to more from Sanchez.

  “El Charro says that just being here will be enough. Even if they build what is needed, they know they cannot set the bridge over the river with us here. If they do that, we will throw them back as they come over. It will be over a narrow bridge, impossible against an enemy already waiting. We have only to show them that we are here.”

  Fane nodded again.

  “Can anything be done from the French side? Do you have contacts over there? The more we worry them, from whichever direction, the more likely they are to give up the idea.”

  For some minutes Sanchez studied the far bank with his telescope, then he lowered it and spoke. The interpreter passed it on.

  “My men have some French grenades. I will send some over and, if they can throw them from the downstream side, then they will.”

  Sanchez spoke further.

  “But it will add little to what we are trying to do, to show the French that they cannot cross on their little bridge of boats. Better to parade your men, and mine, to make them think that there is a large force over here.”

  Fane looked across at Santarem and then turned to the interpreter.

  “Tell Senor Sanchez that I agree. There can be no point in risking his men to no real gain. Keep them all on this side. My men are not yet all here, but they will be tomorrow.”

  All withdrew from the copse to make camp, whilst Fane’s command arrived throughout the day. However, during the night, Sanchez’ men built good fires and danced and sang around them well into the small hours, which convinced all under Fane’s command that the French could not fail to realise that an enemy force was now opposite them, on the far bank. However, lanterns could still be seen illuminating the French dockyard.

  Fane waited until full daylight to make his target as clear as possible in the November gloom, when he gave his orders.

  “Parade the men in a single line, then we’ll appear as a larger force. Tell Captains Pearce and Morgan that they can open fire at their leisure.”

  The Staff Officer rode off and Fane continued to study the far French bank. It seemed to him that the more of his men who came into view, the more French appeared on the far bank to study them. Then the first British gun crashed out, to be followed by the first rocket. The ball passed over and the rocket hit the large grey building to the right of the target. If the aim was adjusted it was difficult to tell, for approximately one in five rockets hit the dockyard and about four out of five for the cannonballs. The most effective was the single howitzer which sent spluttering shells through a very high arc to land accurately amongs
t the boats and pontoons This started some fires, but they were quickly put out and all the while the Portuguese Regiments and Cacadores cheered wildly, whilst El Charro’s men sat their horses silently, looking stoically on.

  At Noon all ammunition had been used up and the men were allowed to stand down by Companies and cook their meal. Through telescopes the French were observed to be scurrying about throughout the afternoon, but then night fell. With the dawn, Fane and Sanchez sat in the same small copse, when a Staff Officer approached.

  “Parade the men, Sir?”

  “No.”

  He looked at his Officer.

  “Tell me, Vickery, what can you hear?”

  Vickery lifted his head.

  “Why nothing, Sir.”

  “Exactly, Vickery. No more hammering. The French have stopped.”

  Both men grinned at each other, but Sanchez merely looked at both.

  “Muchas gracias, General Fane. Dios está con nosotros.”

  With that, he swung his horse’s head over and was gone, his men following him in neat sections of four.

  Fane watched him go and then turned to Vickery.

  “I think a few earthworks about here would not come amiss, Vickery. Our palisades from these trees. The more obvious the better. I feel we could be here for some time, at least the foreseeable future“.

  On the evening of the same day, Carr, O’Hare and Lacey were summoned to General Erskine’s Headquarters, a nearby farmhouse, but inside they found not just Erskine, but Spencer and Wellington himself. Their Commander looked thin and care-worn but he spoke with a smile on his face, addressing the three together.

  “I’m fearful that the French are pulling out, now, as we speak, in fact I’m convinced of it, but I want us after them, right on their heels. I need to know if they are still holding on, pulling out, or even gone.”

  He looked directly at Lacey.

  “Sobral is a key position, Lacey. At your first suspicion that it’s deserted you get some of your men over there to take a look.”

  The order was brief and brutal and Lacey knew the risk, especially as his was a Line Battalion, not raised for a purpose such as this.