The Plains of Talavera

by Martin McDowell

  “Sir, I’m of the strong opinion that the only way up to those walls is along this causeway! All around is very wet.”

  Erskine turned to him.

  “Marshland, you think?”

  “I do, Sir. I’ve seen a lot in Somerset, where we come from, and it’s just like this!”

  “Perhaps Crauford thinks the same. Look he’s stopped.”

  The six Battalions ahead were spreading left and right. The pair maintained their walking pace on the road and soon came up to see why they had halted. The causeway was now a long bridge that crossed a muddy river and the swamps that half formed its banks. French piquets were at the far end, being studied by Crauford, who was the furthest forward, his horse actually stood on the first boards of the bridge. He was peering ahead, using no telescope, but chewing his lower lip to aid his concentration. Erskine rode closest.

  “Afternoon, Crauford. What do you think?”

  Crauford merely glanced behind.

  “Erskine!”

  He chewed his lip some more.

  “He’s not holding here. I’m convinced! He’ll pass on through, leaving us stuck here worrying about a bit of wet! And a few starving Rearguard!”

  Erskine pulled out his own telescope and made a quick study, lingering at one stage.

  “I would urge caution, I really would. Massena may have his whole army in there, supplied and recovering. On top, take a look at that knoll, more like a ridge, at the end of the road after the bridge. He’s getting guns onto it!”

  At this point, Crauford did extract his own instrument and quickly focus it. Lacey did the same, to see a high, elongated knoll, where the straight road after the bridge was forced to turn left. Any guns on its summit would completely dominate that section of road that ran arrow straight before it. However, Crauford snapped his instrument shut.

  “Rearguards have guns! It’s not unknown.”

  It was plain that Crauford was about to order some form of attack over the bridge and down the causeway, when Wellington arrived. All saluted and waited, whilst he went alongside Crauford, him looking with ill-temper at his Commander in Chief, who knew full well what Crauford was intending, but Wellington spoke what Crauford did not want to hear, at least at that moment.

  “We’ll try a demonstration. Tomorrow, to try them out. Massena should not stay there, he’ll starve, it’s almost as bad as camping before The Lines. But we’ll see, tomorrow, when Leith and Cole are closer, should things go wrong.”

  He was evidently in a good mood and looked around, to fix on Lacey.

  “What do you think, Lacey?”

  Lacey was thunderstruck at being asked such a question, but he had an opinion and he spoke it.

  “He has guns on that knoll, Sir, directly ahead, and any force attempting that causeway will be damnably mauled. Also, if he does have his full force in the town and they come out to meet any of ours, outnumbering them, then ours will be stuck with this river and swamp at their backs and only this bridge as a sure retreat. Sir.”

  “I agree! “

  He turned to Crauford and grinned. It was plain that, at that moment, Crauford dwelt firmly in the ‘bad books’ of his Commander in Chief.

  “There you are Crauford. Never a good idea to be over a river with your single retreat being just one bridge!”

  Whilst Erskine looked admiringly at Lacey and Crauford looked daggers at being reminded of the Coa, Wellington rose in his stirrups to look right and left.

  “So! What we will do is this. Crauford, when good light arrives tomorrow, see if you can get around that knoll to the right, close to the Tagus. I’ll send Pack left, to see how far he can get forward up there. Erskine, you have the bridge here. If Crauford and Pack can get far enough forward, M’sieu will not risk those guns being cut off and they’ll clear that knoll. Then you go.”

  He took one further look and then swung his horse’s head back around.

  “See you all on the morrow.”

  All saluted as he left, then Erskine looked at Crauford, still as frustrated as ever.

  “Will you take yours into position? Now?”

  Crauford nodded and began shouting orders, for his command to begin the difficult march down the bank of the River Mayor towards the main Tagus. Soon, there was only Spencer’s Brigade at the bridge and he looked at Lacey.

  “We’ll spend the night on this road. We don’t want to lose any men down some boghole!”

  However, he had more to say.

  “Your Lights have Bakers, yes?”

  Lacey nodded.

  “Right, yours up to the bridge, now. We’ll need them to engage those picquets come daylight.”

  Lacey trotted his horse back past the 50th, to then bring his own men forward. Evil looks were exchanged with the men of the 50th, especially when Miles saw his protagonist from Sobral, but nothing was said. Respect and deference demanded it, because the 50th fully appreciated that the 105th would be the vanguard of any attack. Now in position, all three Battalions camped on the road. There was no local fuel to be had, but all had a few sticks of kindling with them and so a fire was started and some hot stew made. Miles and Davey heated their pot, now only two-thirds full, there being just the two of them. Whilst eating the hot food they sat with Saunders, Solomon and Byford. Saunders looked up at Davey.

  “You heard any more about Joe?”

  “Not a thing. They took us quick through that last place, but it all looked in good shape, well enough, so my guess is that he’s in some kind of infirmary set up there. Good thing.”

  Byford looked up.

  “If we move forward, he’ll be sent back to Lisbon in a convoy. If we stay here, then he’ll stay also. That’s how it works.”

  Saunders nodded.

  “Good thing too. Them base hospitals is no more than a few breaths away from the morgue. God awful places! Back in that Cartaxo, the women is there, and that’s bound to help.”

  All nodded agreement and then set about the final tasks of the day, checking their weapons and equipment. At the throat of the bridge, Carr was standing alone, his telescope unused with the dark near full, but he was staring ahead at the close groups of bivouac fires that could be seen on the knoll. Only 500 yards away in the dark, the grey of the bridge guided his sight towards the fires, before it disappeared into the darkness.

  “This is not good!”

  The whole Battalion, all ranks, spent the night on the road, the only shelter available being that given to Albright and Sedgwicke by their small cart, but even Albright, inside the cart, was woken by the heavy rain that came on at Midnight and Sedgwicke found himself woken by sodden blankets as the rainwater ran off the causeway. The whole Brigade awoke to the misery of the running water and so most simply sat, with their blankets over their heads and shoulders. Thankfully, the rain ceased, but the dawn soon followed and their remaining precious kindling, warmed their food to begin the day, which came reluctantly, the grey clouds that had disgorged rain through the night, lingering still, to threaten yet more rain. However, the rain did hold off and Carr stood again at the end of the bridge, using the naked eye, waiting until the growing light would reveal the French sentries. When it came, there was plainly more than a few picquets. The French had seen their arrival and instead, at the edge of the swamp, there was a whole skirmish line. Drake was nearby.

  “Right Nat. Get them up. Slow and certain firing. All to use the leather patch.”

  Drake ran back to where his Light Company were gathered and passed on Carr’s instructions. Soon they were all in a firing line at the edge of the swamp and soon all began firing, slow and deliberate, as Carr had instructed, over the 150 yard distance. French bullets came in return, but did little damage to the kneeling Light Infantrymen. What damage they were doing to the French was impossible to tell, but Drake and Carr, kneeling in a ditch, were more interested in the French guns. Drake lowered his telescope.

  “Why aren’t they using their guns?”

  “Who knows? They want to wait
for us to get onto that causeway, or they may be conserving ammunition. They may be short, they lost a lot of draught animals and couldn’t get it back from The Lines. Who knows?”

  Drake crouched down and waited.

  “Shouldn’t we be hearing about the doings of Pack and Crauford either side?”

  Carr nodded and sat back on a folded blanket himself.

  “We should and a lot of it, if Johnny is to be persuaded to get his guns off that knoll.”

  Back along the causeway, the 105th waited, arranged either side as Lacey ordered. He did not want a solid column stood waiting to tempt the French artillery into action. The Grenadiers were the leading Company and would be first over the bridge. Their three Officers stood nervously, Carravoy, D’Villiers and Ameshurst, all three staring along the bare, straight, open road, all flexing their fingers on the handles of their swords. The minutes became half an hour and then one hour. The bickering fire some 200 yards before them seemed to slacken, as though both sides saw it as becoming increasingly pointless. Lacey and O’Hare were stood on the road just up ahead of them, with Erskine, when suddenly a galloping horseman arrived, plainly an Aide-de-Camp. He dismounted, went up to Erskine and saluted. The three Grenadiers were close enough to hear and listened intently.

  “The attack’s off, Sir. General Wellington’s orders. General Crauford crossed the Mayor, but the ground’s too bad after that rain to get any further forward. They exchanged some fire, but that’s all.”

  Erskine leaned forward.

  “And Pack?”

  “Much the same, Sir. They also crossed the Mayor upstream, but could not get their guns forward.”

  “So what orders?”

  It began to rain again.

  “None Sir. Other than to call off the attack.”

  Erskine pulled up his greatcoat collar.

  “I’m obliged to you Major, I’m sure!”

  The Aide-de-Camp saluted, remounted and rode off.

  “Tell your men to cease fire, Lacey.”

  The order was given, but Erskine had more to say.

  “So we spend another night here!”

  “Yes Sir. We must maintain contact. We’ve no choice.”

  Erskine nodded.

  “Allow the men some food. It must be near Noon.”

  The relief throughout the 105th was palpable, beginning with the three Grenadier Officers, who grinned at each other almost in embarrassment and then the two Lieutenants walked back to their Sections. Carravoy remained and took a long pull at his spirit flask as the noise of the news spreading came to him from the column, all plainly joyous.

  At Noon, the height of the day saw Crauford return, his men behind him in a very long line that stretched back into the mist along the riverbank. Predictably, Crauford was in no good mood.

  “Last night’s rain did for us!”

  He took a pull at his own brandy flask and, to the surprise of all, passed it to Erskine.

  “What orders have you?”

  Erskine passed on the flask.

  “None! Other than not to attack.”

  “Well I have! To maintain contact along the river. Me and Pack.”

  “That’s what we’ve been doing!”

  “Then it’s our job now. I’d get yours back to Cartaxo. You can support from there and, judging by this lot, that’ll be your winter quarters. Get in there and claim it. No one will move you. This year’s over!”

  oOo

  Carr awoke from his comfortable cot in the corner, again enjoying the grateful thought that he did not have to sleep fully clothed. He sat up, swung his legs off the bed and reached for his shirt and breeches. With the latter he was immediately dissatisfied and so, in his indignation, he yelled at the door leading to the next room.

  “Morrison! Did I not ask that these be washed?”

  Henry Morrison knew immediately that the subject was the Major’s breeches.

  “You did, Sir, but your others has a hole that needs mendin’. In an important place, Sir. ‘Twill be done for tomorrow.”

  Carr sniffed, somewhat put out, but then he transferred his attention and studied Drake, sat at the table.

  “You read that letter any more and you’ll wear out the words!”

  Drake returned an aggrieved frown.

  “And how many times have you read Jane’s last letter?”

  Carr smiled, knowing that he had no defence against the accusation, then he noticed that Drake was holding a small tuft of blond hair in his right hand, tied with a thin pink ribbon.

  “When we get home Henrietta may well be a brunette! Their hair colour can change as they get older, so my Mother remarked, once.”

  Drake turned to him, ignoring the subject.

  “Have you heard anything about your request for leave? Nothing’s come back for me.”

  At that moment Shakeshaft entered the room and went immediately to his own kit and possessions, speaking over his shoulder.

  “Johnny’s quitting Santarem and heading up North. Things are happening.”

  By now Carr was fully dressed and stood at the table with Drake.

  “How’d you know!”

  “I’ve a friend in the Horse Artillery. They’ve been told to prepare for campaign.”

  Drake looked glumly at Carr.

  “Seems the Generals have decided that Winter’s ending early.”

  He released a heavy sigh.

  “Bang goes our chance of England.”

  Carr looked sympathetically at his friend, his own feelings much less than buoyed up, but he understood the weight of circumstance.

  “Never mind, at least we’re still getting letters from home. It was always a long shot. Johnny’s been too close these past three months, just up the road. Not releasing Officers can be no surprise.”

  Drake nodded as he returned both the letter and the lock of hair to their envelope and placed it carefully down into the inside pocket of his tunic.

  The next morning Ethan Ellis was pushing open the door of Deakin’s and Davey’s billet to immediately feel the warmth of the room inside. The first soldier he saw was Private Byford.

  “Where’s John?”

  “Out the back, Sergeant, making another hurdle.”

  “Here’s a letter.”

  Ellis threw the letter in Byford’s direction and then carried on through to the backyard, to find Davey sat with Zeke Saunders, Davey using a mattock to tamp down the last of the hurdle’s woven packing.

  “Good hurdle makings they grows around here, Zeke. This for the uprights is hard and takes a good point and the withies bends around fair easy. Don’t need no soakin’.”

  Saunders was busy assembling a chair.

  “Yes. So you keep sayin’ time after time. You’ve turned this place into a Gloucester small-holding!”

  “Nothin’ wrong in that!”

  Ellis came forward to look down at Davey.

  “We’re movin’ out! We’re going forward, probably today. Johnny’s shiftin’ an’ going on up North. He’s been seen leavin’ Santarem, an’ Nosey’ll have us followin’ close. Be certain.”

  Davey stood up and tested the hurdle for rigidity, but Ellis continued.

  “So, get yours ready to move come afternoon. You’ve eaten?”

  “We have.”

  “Right. Good. Get all packed up, then ready for an inspection. That’s orders afore we leaves. Where’s Jed?”

  “Next room. With the families.”

  Ellis re-entered the house from the backyard and turned into the next room to find all very much in celebratory mood. Deakin sat at a table with Bridie, Nellie and Byford, all grinning widely, but Ellis had no time for such frivolity.

  “Jed! You heard?”

  “What”

  “The Frogs is quittin’ Santarem. We’re to be on the road come the afternoon.”

  All three immediately stood up and busied themselves with their preparations and Ellis looked at Byford, remembering the letter.

  “That word from Eirin?�
��

  “Yes. It’s a boy! And both are doing well. Eirin wrote the letter herself.”

  Ellis grunted approval, but then the Portuguese occupants of the house came into the room, husband and wife, both late in years. Ellis looked again at Byford.

  “You’d best tell these that we’m on our way!”

  Byford delved into his pocket for the necessary volume and began his composing, but the look of consternation on the face of both husband and wife, showed that they had picked up themselves on just what was now happening. Ellis stood for a moment at the door.

  “Inspection two hours!”

  At the required hour, One Section was paraded in two ranks at the edge of the road, with Ellis waiting to begin his inspection, stood before all. He saw the old man and woman come out of their door and go up to Davey who was, as a Chosen Man, at the end of the rank. The old man placed one hand on Davey’s chest and looked full into his face.

  “Nunca te olvidare inglés soldados. Nunca!”

  The old man patted Davey twice on the chest.

  “Mucho gracias. Que Dios esté con todos vosotros. Adios!”

  The pair then went back to stand on the path to their house. Ellis looked at Byford, stood in the rank behind.

  “What he say?”

  “Something about not forgetting English soldiers. Thanks. God be with us. Good-bye.”

  Ellis nodded, then his face became concerned, even emotional. He looked at Davey.

  “What can we leave these two? As a memento, sort of. What’ve you got spare?”

  Ellis was as veteran as could be and had spent most of his years in the ranks. He knew that every Mess kept spares to replace what could be lost, for which they could be deducted pay. Ellis turned his gaze to Miles to give him a knowing look, whilst Miles simply looked annoyed, but he did let down his pack and delved into its depths, to bring out a 105th crossbelt badge, nicely polished. Ellis nodded, content.

  “Give it to the old man.”

  After a frosty look towards Ellis, Miles went across to the old couple and held out the badge. The old man hesitated and so Byford spoke up.

  “Para você. Para lembrar.”

  The old man grinned and took the badge, before handing it to his wife, who studied it carefully, then the two went to stand in the doorway of their home, both now studying the badge.