The rifles crashed out and smoke obscured all. Stood back from the wall, Drake looked left and was much relieved to see that many of Maltby’s Section had emerged from the farm to man their paddock walls. Together, they could all now mount some form of effective resistance to the oncoming counter-attack.
Meanwhile, on the left of the farmhouse Carr assessed his situation. He knew that French resistance was stiffening, but not so much that a push from a whole Company would not clear the farm. His nearest men were holding a line by manning the walls and fences, but they were mainly 50th using the less accurate Brown Bess musket. It seemed to him that the number of French putting up resistance were almost as numerous as when they first attacked, so they must be receiving reinforcements, but there was nothing organised about their defence. He decided; ‘We can take this place!’ so he looked for his runner, the kilted Scotsman of the 92nd.
“Get back to your Captain. Tell him to come forward at his best speed.”
The man saluted and ran off, then Carr looked to his right, to see that Drake’s Company were now manning paddock walls on their edge of the farm. There was nothing beyond them, but Carr had a final barn in front of him. Then he turned when he heard shouts and yells in an undeniably Scottish nature coming from behind him, to see the Lights of the 92nd vaulting the walls and fences. He decided that their momentum must not be lost, so he waited until they were almost level with his own men and then he stood.
“Forward, boys, forward. Come on the Dirty Half Hundredth. That barn and it’s done!”
The 50th, now with the men of the 92nd beside them all rose up, climbed the last wall and sprang forward. They were met by a spluttering fire but their charge was irresistible. MacConagle led his men straight into the barn, Bright around the far side and Carr took a mixture of 50th and a few 105th around his side. There was a final wall running across their path from the back of the barn but it was lightly manned. The few French there quickly fled and Carr took his men up to the rough stonework.
“Reload and hold here. No further!”
He peered through the thinning smoke and knew that he had given the correct order. A strong Company of Voltiguers, now reinforced by the retreating French, were forming a firing line 100 yards beyond, but beyond them there was more, but it was difficult to see at ground level. He ran into the barn and climbed the rough wooden steps to the loft floor, stepping on a dead Frenchman as he did so. Once at the top he used a ventilation slit to look through to the French and saw the reason for their holding beyond the farm. The French line was covering a battery of six field-guns, all positioned to enfilade any advance by the British, in this case Crauford. He ran out of the barn and over to his own 105th, where he found John Davey.
“Davey! Gather as many of ours as you can and get into that barn. Our rifles can do some damage from there. Go for the artillery. Tell either Captain Bright or Captain MacConagle to get their men down to these walls to replace yours. But, if you see them turning one of those guns on you, get out. Clear?”
Davey saluted.
“Sir!”
“Next, who’s our best runner?”
“Private Miles, Sir. None faster.”
“Where is he?”
“There, Sir.”
Davey pointed to an almost maniacal figure, firing and reloading at absolute maximum speed. Carr allowed him his final shot.
“Miles!”
Tom Miles turned to the direction of the sound, his ill temper at being interrupted very evident on his face, but this changed when he saw that he was being called by his Regiment’s Junior Major. He jogged up to Carr and saluted and Carr wasted no time.
“Get over to General Crauford at your best speed. Tell him that we have taken the barn, but the French have six field-guns behind it. With reinforcements and some cavalry we can capture them. What orders does he have for us?”
One half of Miles’ mind was absorbing the message; the other was calculating the possibility that a messenger to someone of such high rank, usually received a coin.
“Yes Sir. Go now, Sir?”
Carr nodded and Miles was gone, running out through the paddock gates. Once past the farmhouse, however, he saw the wounded of the first French volley being tended to by George Fearnley, now that the fighting had died down somewhat. One was Joe Pike and Miles ran over despite the order of ‘best speed’.
“Is he dead?”
Fearnley did not look up.
“No, but ‘tis bad. He’s only still with us, ‘cos the ball hit a cross strap as took some of the speed, but ‘tis still in there.”
“Can you get it out, like you did for me?”
“No Tom! This is a Surgeon’s job. All I can do is halt the bleeding some.”
“What about George Tucker?”
“Gone! Right through the chest.”
Miles reached down to touch Joe Pike’s head, although the boy was barely conscious.
“You hang on, now, Joe. You’ll be fine. We’ll get you back to the Surgeon and he’ll fix you up. Course he will!”
A final pat of his head and then Miles was gone, running to the group of Officers that he could see some distance up the slight slope. Miles settled into an efficient loping run, his rifle slung over his chest. Within minutes he was up to the group, all high ranking Generals and Staff. He unslung his rifle and came to ‘order arms’, then he began his message.
“Beg pardon, Sirs, but I have a message for General Crauford, from my Major Carr.”
One of those at the fore of the group eased his horse out of the group. Miles recognised him as General Wellington himself.
“You can deliver your message to me, Private.”
Miles took a deep breath, he was still slightly winded from his run.
“We have taken the farm, Sir, but there’s still plenty of French on the other side and six field-guns, what we can’t see from here. Major Carr says that we can take the guns if he gets some reinforcements and some cavalry. Sir. He wants some orders, Sir.”
However, there was no coin, instead Wellington turned to General Crauford.
“There you are, Crauford. How fortunate it was that I put a stop to your advance. Those guns would have cost you dearly.”
Crauford sat his horse, with the same expression on his face as though he had swallowed a wasp!
“Which is why I sent forward to take the farm, first. Sir.”
At that moment came the sound of a single cannonshot.
“Seems as though M’sieu is now using those guns on the men you sent over.”
Without waiting for any reply, Wellington returned to Miles.
“Who is your Officer?”
“Major Carr, Sir.”
“Good. Tell Major Carr that he is to withdraw, with no delay. There will be cavalry to cover his retreat.”
Miles saluted and turned to leave, but Spencer stopped him.
“Private!”
Miles turned to face him and found a coin being tossed his way, which he caught and instantly pocketed, then he began his run back, but the delay had enabled him to hear Wellington order Anson to lead the 16th Light Dragoons over to cover Carr’s retreat.
Miles, now running downhill, soon arrived at the farm to find Carr where he had left him.
“Sir. This from General Wellington, Sir. We are to pull back with no delay. Cavalry will cover us, Sir.”
Carr’s jaw clamped together with anger, but he gave his orders.
“Get over to Captain Drake and Lieutenant Shakeshaft. Tell them to pull back and assemble on the other side of the farm.”
Miles saluted and ran off, but he did not find Captain Drake, instead Drake found Carr.
“What news?”
“We’re to pull back! Orders from Wellington himself. All this has been for nothing!”
Another cannonshot hit the barn and passed out through the near wall, sending a shower of brick and plaster into the paddock below.
“You get these back. Reform beyond the farmhouse. Keep them together,
what with Frog cavalry so near, but we’ll get some of our own so I’ve been told. I’ll see to the 50th and 92nd over on the left.”
Carr ran over, giving his orders to anyone in authority, Sergeants included. All on that side fired one more shot at the French, as much to make smoke as to cause damage, and soon the farmhouse and all its buildings were evacuated. Carr’s three Companies were assembled together at the front of the farmhouse, but he was worried about cavalry, despite seeing the 16th some 300 yards away to the left. Once their men had assembled, Drake, Bright and MacConagle had run over to him. He gave his orders.
“Get the men in three columns, closed up. Johnny may send some cavalry round the far side.”
He waved in the direction of Shakeshaft’s barn.
“Carry the wounded in the centre.”
“And the dead?”
This question from MacConagle.
“Them too!”
The three ran off to form up their men, leaving Carr to look back at the farm. He could see no French re-occupying the buildings, but he could see his own dead, where they had fallen from the first French volley, but now being picked up. ‘All for nothing’ again entered his mind. Then he turned to make sure that the line of their retreat angled back towards the protective cavalry, stood drawn up on the slope. However, they were not molested and, as Carr passed the group of Colonel Withers, Major Johnson and their Captains, including Tavender, Carr brought his sword up in salute and thanks. All dutifully returned the gesture.
Inside the three columns the wounded were being carried on blankets, including Joe Pike. The 105th had five wounded, but Joe Pike was the worst and so George Fearnley was in close attendance. None spoke, instead they fretted at the slow speed, but there was one item of comfort, this being the sight of their own 105th drawn up on the ridge. The three Companies parted when back on the ridge to join their own Regiments, where Carr hurried further on to meet Lacey, who had but one question.
“Casualties?”
“Three dead, Sir, and five wounded. One badly.”
Lacey turned to O’Hare, him still mounted.
“Get Pearce up here. Tell him it’s urgent.”
O’Hare galloped off and, within minutes, Pearce and his wagon were hastening to the front. Pearce jumped down and quickly examined the wounded. He gave quick instructions to his two Orderlies for the other four, but then stopped at Joe Pike. John Davey and Tom Miles, now dismissed from the columns, hurried over as Pike’s tunic was pulled open to reveal the hole in his chest, merely inches below his heart, and still issuing blood. Davey saw all and his face fell.
“What do you think, Sir?”
Pearce ignored him, instead he looked up at the Orderly stood with him.
“I’ll operate immediately. The ball has to come out and while there’s still good daylight. Get my instruments.”
The Orderly ran off and Davey spoke again.
“Can we help, Sir?”
“Yes. Hold him down, but he looks beyond knowing, to me.”
The Orderly returned and the instrument roll was thrown open. Even though Pike was semi-conscious the leather gag was inserted into his mouth and then Davey and Miles pinned down his shoulders. Pearce went straight to Pike’s tunic and shirt to examine the holes and nodded, plainly satisfied, all edges came perfectly together. That done and the blood wiped away, Pearce began to open the wound. Pike writhed at the pain and Miles was encouraged.
“He can feel something! That’s good, isn’t it, Sir?”
Pearce ignored him, he was skilfully parting both ribs and flesh, whilst the Orderly wiped away the fresh blood. Pearce was speaking to himself, relating what he had found.
“Two cracked ribs! But how far in is the ball?”
He cut deeper, the Orderly doing his best with the flowing blood. Then Pearce selected a redactor and adjusted it to fit between the two ribs. The redactor was inserted and the screw applied for Pike to writhe again and the two ribs to ease apart, as he spoke half to himself, by way of encouragement.
“Good job these ribs are half gone through!”
Pearce picked up his probe and began to use it. Pike writhed even more, but, after a minute’s searching, Pearce extracted the ball, a bloody object between the bloody jaws of his probe.
“Right! Sew him up and bandage him up.”
Davey watched Pearce quickly inserting the stitches.
“Can we keep him with us, Sir? In our Mess. Our Followers will care for him.”
“That I do not doubt, but temporary, until I can establish an Infirmary of some kind. Then he’s best there, where I can keep an eye on him.”
Miles now spoke.
“So what are his chances, Sir?”
Pearce shook his head and waved his hands dismissively.
“I do not know if the ball pierced his lung. If not, it still may be bruised and that could cause an infection. If none of those, it’s up to him!”
The afternoon was now turning into evening as the 105th made camp for the night and Joe Pike was carried back to Nellie and Bridie who both ran towards them when they saw a figure in a blanket. When they discovered that it was Joe Pike, ashen faced and his tunic still open to reveal bloody bandages, their consternation intensified, each gripping a section of their apron to their faces as he was carried to where their fire was being kindled by Toby Halfway. Joe was laid on the ground and a rolled up horse-blanket placed under his head. Bridie looked at Deakin, she most concerned for her brother-in-law, her younger sister’s husband.
“Jed! What do you think?”
Deakin could not bring himself to say what he truly felt.
“He’s young and he’s strong. There’s got to be hope.”
“Do you think we can get him to eat?”
“Come tomorrow, you might get some soup into him, right now let him rest.”
The words did nothing to ease her deepest worries and so the apron wringing continued. Meanwhile, Zeke Saunders was ripping up a spare shirt, French, found in an Officer’s portmanteau in Azambuja.
“Those bandages will need changin’ afore long.”
oOo
With the dawn, Lacey and O’Hare walked the short stretch to the ridgeline to join Erskine and the Colonels of the 50th and the 92nd, Peterson and Rundle respectively. The three were looking down at the farm and the fields beyond, all now empty.
“Johnny took himself off, soon as it got dark. That’s Cartaxo, we now know.”
Lacey looked at him
“Is he holding it?”
“Can’t tell for sure, I’ve not been told, but it seems not. He’s going right back into Santarem, is the received wisdom.”
He took a last look through his telescope.
“Right, get your men up in columns. Line abreast. Rundle, yours can have the road.”
Within half an hour the three Battalions of Erskine’s Brigade were line abreast on the ridge and Erskine waved them forward. Being in the centre the 105th passed closest to the graves of their dead, new brown earth prominent on the ridge, including George Tucker’s and, as they passed, most of the Light Company gave a small fingered salute in that direction. The farm was now a blackened shell; the French had fired it before they left, but all eyes were now on the buildings of Cartaxo, all growing larger as the distance lessened, but they marched straight in. Crauford’s Rifles had entered during the night to find the town abandoned, scoured for anything useful by the French, but not wrecked; the French had passed through and on too quickly. Thus, it was to the sounds of Rifle Regiment bugle calls to ‘form up’ that the 105th arrived at the first houses of Cartaxo, and there they halted to give the 95th space on the streets to form their marching columns. Almost incredibly, seeming to emerge from out of the ground, civilians began to be seen, all hurrying to what had been their dwellings before the French arrived.
Erskine, Lacey, Rundle and Peterson had been riding together before the 92nd on the road and, when they halted, Spencer arrived at a canter, showing some urgency.
&n
bsp; “Crauford’s for pushing on and taking a look at Santarem, about six miles on. I’ve no orders, but I’m minded to support, so, keep yours in column and follow Crauford out.”
With that he spurred forward his horse and rode back down the main road, passing the 92nd still waiting in column. Erskine looked at his three Colonels.
“Right! 50th first through, then the 105th, then yours, Rundle.”
He rose up in his saddle, but then sat back down with a sigh, plainly worried, but he did not explain at that moment.
“Lacey, you’ve had Brigade command, keep with me. I’m for staying close to Crauford.”
For Lacey, that was sufficient explanation, Erskine was apprehensive that Crauford’s natural aggression would take him into some form of conflict, in which Erskine may be required to become involved, if only to support him and his men. When alone, Erskine spoke further.
“It may be that we’ll need to urge caution, Lacey. Spencer did not say so, but, as we speak, we are unsupported. We have only Pack’s Portuguese and Anson’s cavalry with us. Wellington’s called out Cole and Leith from The Lines, but they are two marches away.”
Lacey raised his eyebrows.
“What do we know of the French, Sir?”
“Practically nothing! They may be holding in Santarem, or they may not.”
“They’re still starving, Sir.”
“Yes, and that’s what Crauford thinks, so he’s convinced they’ll pass on through and keep pulling back. Wellington thinks that, too, but I prefer caution.”
They had to canter to catch up with Crauford’s Brigade, now effectively a Division, comprising his six strong Battalions and a field-gun battery. High on its hill, Santarem became visible and, when in telescope distance, its medieval walls could then be made out, ringing the town. However, it was not these formidable defences that most concerned Lacey. After three miles, he began to notice the nature of the country that they were riding through. Their road had become a raised causeway and on either side he now saw more and more marsh grass, ponds, rhynes and dykes. The countryside before Santarem was little better than marshland, in many ways a more effective defence than any walls or redoubts. Lacey turned to Erskine.
The Plains of Talavera Page 71
