Cuesta’s mouth sagged open as O’Donoju translated. Then his thick eyebrows knitted together and his expression tightened into a scowl. When the last of Arthur’s remarks had been heard he made his reply in an umistakably furious tone.
‘His excellency says that you and your soldiers can stay here and rot for all he cares. Why should he feed you? You are parasites. The Army of Extremadura does not need you. We can defeat the French on our own. While you sit here, his excellency will pursue Marshal Victor alone. The glory will be his and you will be left to wallow in your mire of shame.’
Once the Spaniard had finished Arthur nodded. ‘It seems I am done here. I will return to my army and await your general’s apology at my headquarters.’
Arthur clicked his tongue, and turned his horse round before spurring it into a trot, anxious to quit the presence of General Cuesta. It would be rash in the extreme for Cuesta to act without support. Only a fool would contemplate such a course of action,Arthur mused bitterly. He had said his piece. Hopefully there were enough wise heads amongst the general’s staff officers to persuade him against the folly of advancing alone. If not, then disaster threatened and Arthur feared that he would not be able to do anything to prevent it.
Chapter 6
Talavera, 27 July 1809
Arthur watched as the long column of Spanish troops trudged into the town. Many were wounded and blood seeped through their hastily applied dressings and bandages. Hundreds of them carried no weapons, having thrown them aside as they fled back down the road from the direction of Madrid. There was little sense of order as men from different battalions blended into one long stream of rabble fleeing from the pursuing French army. A handful of guns had been saved and moved steadily along the column as a squadron of blue-jacketed hussars cleared the way ahead of them. Only a handful of senior officers were in evidence, marching with their men. The rest had accompanied General Cuesta as his mule-drawn carriage had led the retreat back to the banks of the Alberche where he had decided to rally his men and make a stand.
‘Not a pretty sight, is it?’
Somerset shook his head. ‘A beaten army never is, sir. All the more unfortunate that this was avoidable in the first place.’
‘That it was,’ Arthur replied with feeling.
Having failed to make a co-ordinated attack on Marshal Victor six days earlier, General Cuesta had waited three days before continuing the advance alone to try to run down the French. The result was predictable, Arthur mused. The garrison of Madrid had advanced to join forces with Victor and the French had turned on Cuesta and broken his army, sending it reeling back in confusion. The crisis had almost turned into a complete disaster when the Spanish commander had ordered his men to turn and fight with a river at their back. On hearing this Arthur had galloped forward from the British camp outside Talavera to persuade Cuesta to fall back to a less dangerous position. The old general, still bitter over their previous confrontation, had at first refused to listen. Fearing that Cuesta’s obstinacy would allow the French to destroy each army in turn, Arthur had swallowed his pride and begged Cuesta to reconsider.
Cuesta had sneered as he had made his reply via O’Donoju.
‘On your knees, Sir Arthur.’
Arthur could not hide his astonishment. ‘What?’
‘His excellency wants you to beg on your knees. You have humiliated him enough by refusing to accept his command. Now he wants to see you humiliated.’
At first Arthur was too surprised to react. Surely the man must be mad. With his army facing certain defeat if it stayed where it was, and a powerful French army only hours away, Cuesta was wasting time settling such a petty score. For the first time Arthur fully appreciated the depths of the man’s vanity, selfishness and arrogance. If Arthur refused to do as the Spaniard demanded then thousands of his men would die unnecessarily, and the British army would be left hopelessly exposed in the heart of Spain with almost no supplies left to sustain the men as they were pursued back into Portugal. He swallowed his distaste for the Spanish general. What did it matter if he suffered a moment of humiliation if it saved the men of two armies?
He swallowed bitterly and eased himself down on one knee as he stared straight into Cuesta’s mocking eyes and spoke steadily. ‘Tell his excellency that I beg him to fall back to defend Talavera with my army.’
The memory of that moment burned in Arthur’s soul. It was only partly shame; the rest was anger and disgust at his ally. But at least his humiliation had bought time for the men of the Spanish and British armies as they prepared to turn and make a stand against the French.
Arthur had chosen the ground carefully. Between the Tagus and the steep hills of the Sierra de Segurilla stretched an undulating plain. Closer to the hills there were two large ridges that created a narrow valley on the far side before rising up again into hills. A small stream, called the Portina, running from the hills cut across the plain to the Tagus and formed a natural line for the combined army. With the flanks secured by the Tagus and the hills all that the allies had to do was hold their line.
Mindful of the rough handling the Spanish had recently endured Arthur had left the right of the line to Cuesta. Here the Spanish would be protected by a line of ditches and walls stretching out from the town. More fortifications in the form of barricades of felled trees had been constructed by British troops. The defences were formidable enough to deter the enemy and therefore could be safely entrusted to Cuesta’s badly shaken troops. That left the more exposed part of the line to the British.
Once he was certain that the Spanish were indeed taking up the positions allotted to them, Arthur gestured to Somerset to follow him. They trotted across the plain towards the small force sent forward towards the Alberche river to cover the retreat of the Spanish. The twin towers of an old fortified manor house rose above the olive groves and small oak trees that grew along the near bank of the Alberche and Arthur followed the road that ran through the trees towards the building. He passed through one of the brigades spread out through the trees and nodded a quick greeting to their commander, General Mackenzie, as he saw him in a clearing. When they reached the manor house Arthur saw a number of his men resting around the walls, with their muskets stacked as they talked quietly. More men were visible, spread out through the trees. Those closest to the entrance to the manor hurriedly rose and stood to attention when they spied their general and his aide approaching. Arthur dismounted and went inside.
The manor was built round a courtyard, and seated on the edge of a small pool into which a fountain trickled was the officer charged with guarding the route through the surrounding olive groves.
‘Good morning, Donkin,’ Arthur nodded as he strode up. ‘How is it with you?’
Major Donkin stood smartly and brushed away the crumbs of a pie he had been breakfasting on. ‘All’s well, sir. No sign of the French yet, but my lads will send ’em packing the moment they show up.’