Flashman in the Peninsula (16 page)

I don’t know when I have been more shocked or disconcerted. A coward like me relies on there being people braver than them around, if for no other reason than to put up a rear guard action to allow me to slip away. I realised with alarm that I was an amateur in poltroonery compared to a Spanish infantryman. Not only had they beaten me to the off but they had shot my mount so that I could not overhaul them as well. I heard a voice shouting behind me, a single French dragoon officer was cantering towards me. He stopped some two hundred yards in front of the allied line and as I turned to face him I noticed some of the remaining infantry start to edge back at the presence of this single ‘devil rider’.

‘Hey Engleeshman,’ he shouted at me in English. ‘What ’appened?’

The officer had asked me in my language, so I responded in kind with a Gallic shrug and a shout of

‘
Espagnol
,’ as though that explained everything. Well it was the only explanation I had. The French officer guffawed with laughter and returned to his men.

I glanced across to where I had last seen Wellesley. He was still there and watching the Spanish troops with a look of disgust. I walked across to him and by the time I reached his horse he was staring back at the retreating men through his telescope, his lips tightened into a thin angry line. I scraped my foot to attract his attention and his cold blue eyes blazed down at me.

‘Christ Flashman, I had no idea they would be this bad. Do you know what the cowardly dogs are doing now?’ Without waiting for a reply he continued, ‘A good number of them are currently looting our baggage. The rest have run straight towards Talavera, doubtless shouting that we have been defeated on the way. Good God man, how am I supposed to win a war with men like that?’

‘I am not even sure what set them off.’

‘Your horse skittered about. Maybe they thought it had been hit by a French bullet, a four hundred yard carbine shot,’ he snorted in disgust.

‘Yes, they killed my bloody horse,’ I complained indignantly.

Without another word Wellesley walked his horse towards the big black carriage and the old man who was now being helped down from its roof. ‘General Cuesta, I would be obliged if you would supply my officer with another horse to replace the one your men shot.’ He paused, staring about at the remaining Spanish infantry that stood either side of the gaping hole in the allied line. ‘I take it that you have
reliable
troops that you can use to make good your defences?’ he asked icily.

Cuesta was a proud man and you could see that he was mortified with anger and shame. As his feet landed back on the ground he turned to one of his officers, ‘Fetch Captain Flashman the best horse owned by those officers that ran.’ He turned to look up at Wellesley but could only hold his gaze for a moment before looking back down at the ground. ‘I swear to you, sir,’ he spoke quietly in almost a whisper, ‘that I will decimate those regiments that ran. The Romans used to kill one man in ten when a legion broke and I will do the same. They will not shame me again.’ He paused, taking a deep breath to calm himself, and then added, ‘Yes sir, I have enough men to fill the gap. They will not run again.’

I am not sure that any of us actually believed that last claim but Wellesley nodded curtly and turned his horse back to the British lines. As he left he called over his shoulder, ‘Report to me when the line is secure, Flashman.’

A short while later I was the new owner of a chestnut thoroughbred and the gap in the Spanish lines had been filled by more nervous Spanish troops. Meanwhile, Cuesta had sent two cavalry regiments to drive back as many of the deserters as they could find. It was getting dark now and I had no intention of spending the night in the dubious shelter of the Spanish forces. If the French attacked their resistance would melt like butter in a hot pan. Instead I opted for the relative safety of the British lines. It was a decision that nearly got me killed; but which may have also changed the course of the war.

Chapter 12

A small British encampment had been built at the western foot of the large hill that dominated the British part of the lines. Having reported to Wellesley, who was dining with some of his commanders, I found myself a billet in one of the tents and settled down for the night. Others fussed writing letters, sharpening swords and otherwise preparing for the battle that was expected to start the following morning, but for once I managed to get some sleep. As dusk had fallen the bulk of the French army, commanded by the new Spanish King Bonaparte, could be still be seen marching over the horizon. No one expected to fight before dawn and this certainly included the officer commanding the troops that were supposed to be the front line of our defence on the hill. Without orders or warning the troops behind him, he marched his men down the slope to more comfortable ground to sleep during the night. What no one seemed to have anticipated was Marshal Victor’s ambition.

Victor had not faced British armies before and his confidence must have been buoyed by his easy victories over the Spanish. He did not want to wait for the king and to share the glory; he wanted the victory all to himself. So as darkness fell he ordered a division of his army forward to capture the hill. Once that was in his hands he could dominate the surrounding country, forcing the British and Spanish to withdraw. Victor would be victorious again.

It was hot and airless in that tent, making me toss and turn on the camp cot. I slept fitfully and was slowly awakened by a sound similar to crackling wood in a fire. It took me just a second to realise what was happening and another second to decide on action. The sound was coming from the top of the hill and in the moment I listened, it got louder. I knew instantly that the French were attacking and if they had caught our army half asleep they were bound to succeed. The battle was lost almost before it had begun. But on the positive side, darkness would cover my escape. I was up in a moment, buckling on my sword belt, grabbing my saddle and out of the back flap of the tent while my two tent mates were still rubbing their eyes and peering through the front flap towards the sound of firing. It was a masterstroke but for one small detail… I emerged slap in front of Wellesley marching with a group of staff officers towards the sound of action.

‘Ah, Flashman,’ he called grimly barely giving me a glance. ‘Leave your saddle man, you will not be able to ride in the dark up there. Come with me.’ He turned to General Hill walking beside him, ‘So is your division at the top or not?’

‘I thought it was, sir,’ said the harassed general, ‘but Campbell here says he saw some of them camped at the bottom.’ I looked around and Campbell was weaving his way through the group towards me.

‘It looks as if they have caught us on the hop,’ he whispered. ‘The best I can tell there is only one regiment on the hill top, and they probably thought that they were the second line of defence and did not post pickets.’

‘Good God,’ I replied, appalled. ‘We are starting to make the bloody Spaniards look professional.’ I must have spoken too loudly, for Wellesley wheeled round on us.

‘When you two have quite finished gossiping I would be obliged if you would get to the top of that hill. Tell whoever is in charge of our forces to hold for as long as they can and one of you report back to me what is happening.’

‘Right away, sir,’ answered Campbell, grinning. He seemed delighted to have been ordered into whatever horrors awaited in the darkness, while I just managed to nod my assent as my mind whirled for a way out.

‘I will go as well, sir,’ said the general, ‘I have sent my adjutant to bring my men forward.’ I noticed that he walked towards a tethered horse, but he was a portly man who might never have made it to the top otherwise. Campbell was already pulling at my arm.

‘Come on Flash, this could be our chance to save the day.’ He was already jogging up the bottom of the slope and with Wellesley and the rest of his staff watching, I had no choice but to follow to maintain my reputation as the fearless Flashy. ‘Race you to the top,’ called Campbell over his shoulder. ‘The loser buys the winner breakfast.’

The fearless lunatic seemed to think he was going on some school cross country run rather than into a pitch black battlefield. But there was nothing for it but to shout back, ‘I want eggs and bacon and none of your Scottish porridge rubbish.’ There was a chuckle from the watching staff at this bravado as the gallant heroes disappeared from view into the darkness. Little did they know that once they were out of sight the ‘heroes’ behaved rather differently. While one continued sprinting like a highland red deer into the maw of death, the other slowed to a walk and took careful stock.

Battle was still raging at the top of the hill and it looked like we might be holding out. There were regular shouts of ‘fire’, crashes of volleys and the muzzle flash from lines of musket barrels. Then there were responding shouts of ‘
tirez
’, and volleys from the French. Perhaps, I reasoned, it was just a probing attack or an effort to ruin our sleep before the battle next day. In which case, I could not be found by others shirking at the bottom of the hill, as reinforcements would be coming up any minute. I needed to get nearer to the top but I would be sure to get nowhere near the actual fighting. In the darkness I could easily be shot by friend or foe. I climbed steadily up but stopped again when I judged I was three-quarters of the way to the top. The flashes from the musket muzzles were ruining my night vision and making it harder to see what was around, but I sensed the British were starting to fall back. The situation was confused as while I had heard the order ‘fall back’ given once, subsequently I had heard ‘fix bayonets’ shouted as well which normally preceded an advance. At one point I thought I saw someone crouching on the ground ahead of me, but when I advanced cautiously with pistol drawn, I discovered it was only a bush growing up against an outcrop of rocks. It seemed as good a place as any to wait until the situation resolved itself.

Then I did hear stones moving on the hillside above me; someone was coming directly down the hill in my direction. I transferred my pistol to my left hand, quietly drew my sword with my right and hunched down in the shadow of the rocks. I wanted to see who it was before I revealed myself. He was nearly on me before I could make out what he was – a very young British officer. He yelped in alarm when I rose up from the ground in front of him.

‘Calm down youngster, I am Captain Flashman of General Wellesley’s staff,’ I told him as I sheathed my sword. He only looked around fourteen and I wondered if he was running away, not that I would have blamed him if he was. ‘What are you about then?’ I asked sternly.

‘Please sir,’ he gasped back, ‘I’m Ensign Thompson of the King’s Hanoverians and my colonel has sent me to find General Wellesley to report that we are hard pressed and need reinforcements, sir.’ He waived a paper in front of him which was clearly a message from his colonel. I realised in a moment that this was a stroke of luck and that breakfast could be mine after all.

‘I will take that,’ I said taking the despatch. ‘Tell your colonel that General Wellesley orders that he should hold out for as long as he can and that reinforcements are already on the way to him. Can you do that?’

‘Oh yes, sir,’ the boy piped, his eyes gleaming at the importance of his role. Without a second’s delay he had turned on his heel and was sprinting back up the hill. I grinned in the darkness. Campbell would be up at the top of the hill by now and blundering about trying not to be shot by either side until he could make contact with the Hanoverian commander. Meanwhile I could now return to safety with the Hanoverian’s despatch. If we retook the hill then I would enjoy the breakfast, if not then I would make sure I was long gone by dawn. I had only taken a few steps when I heard some more people running down the hill behind me. I shrank back into the shadows again as a precaution, but the clattering footsteps resolved themselves into a British officer on horse. I showed myself as I realised it was the portly general in command of the men who should have been guarding the hill top. I had expected him to rein in, but if anything he was urging his horse faster into – on this terrain – a reckless speed. The general was hunched down in the saddle and his jacket was torn. His horse reared slightly at the sight or smell of me and the general glanced with wild eyes in my direction.

‘Flashman,’ he shouted at me. ‘The French have taken the hill. Run man, save yourself.’ With that he plunged on speeding ever faster down the hill. Well you don’t need to tell me twice to save myself. I had already turned and run a few paces back down the slope when there was a fusillade of shots from my left, and from out of the gloom came French infantry. I was so shocked I did not look where I was going on the rocky ground; a stone moved under me and I crashed down amongst the rocks. For a moment I think I blacked out. I came to with a stabbing pain in my skull and a trickle of blood from a cut on my forehead that must have hit a sharp edged stone. But I had no time to worry about that. I watched in horror as more and more French troops appeared in front of me. They were concentrating all their fire and attention on the fleeing general on horseback, and none seemed to notice me as I lay prone between the rocks. It was now clear that as well as sending men over the top of the summit, Victor had also sent men around the sides of the hill to flank any relief party. He was no slouch that marshal.

Well, he had truly stuffed my goose as I now could not go down or up without encountering French troops. The best course seemed to be to hide out until the situation was clearer. Running around in a battlefield at night was near suicidal. At worst in the morning I would be forced to surrender to the French, but with luck the British would retake the hill or I could slip away. Slowly I turned around and crawled back to the bush in the outcrop of rocks. Carefully I wriggled between the bush and the rocks until I was hidden from view.

For half an hour I lay there listening to the tide of battle. I had a stabbing pain from my head wound and a continuing dull ache from my grazed arse, but at least I was still alive. I heard the Hanoverians break and run past my refuge, and their shouts of alarm as they retreated slap into the French further down the hill. Then I listened as French infantry followed them down the hill to prepare to face a British counter attack, which from the sound of drums and bugles in the camp below was gathering. For a while all was quiet, I seemed to have the area just below the hill top all to myself. Gingerly I got to my feet and peered over the rocks. There was no one around on the hill above me and I began to wonder if there was a chance to slip away. The moon was now shining through a gap in the clouds and while my bush was well leafed I wondered if it was thick enough to hide me in daylight.

Then I heard two voices talking in French, and as I peered cautiously around the bush I saw two French officers heading straight towards me. I ducked back and crouched down again in my hiding place. I was sure that they had not seen me, they were talking in conversational tones, but still they came closer, heading directly for the bush. If they did see me through the branches in the moonlight then there was no room for me to draw and swing a sword. I drew one of my pistols but they were now so close that they would hear it being cocked. I froze as they walked right up to my bush and stopped. They were no more than three feet in front of me. I thought they must have seen me and my body clenched expecting steel blades to probe at me through the branches.

In the event something entirely different came through the branches, as two streams of piss splashed the ground near my feet. I realised I had been holding my breath for the last few moments and now I allowed myself to breathe silently through my mouth, which also helped me avoid the smell. Only then did I start to pay attention to what they were saying.

‘I expected the roast beefs to put up more of a fight,’ crowed one.

‘Their general is used to fighting native armies, perhaps they do not attack at night,’ said the other.

‘Whatever, the marshal will be delighted to have beaten them before the king’s or Soult’s armies get here.’ I pricked up my ears at that. Everyone thought that Soult was still licking his wounds after Oporto in northern Spain, now it seemed he was closing in on Talavera.

‘Yes,’ agreed the companion. ‘Beating the army that defeated Soult will give him more pleasure than anything. The Emperor is bound to reward him well.’ He paused as a renewed burst of volley fire sounded from the bottom of the hill. ‘It sounds like the roast beefs have not given up after all,’ he continued. ‘We had better get back.’ There was a pause as they buttoned themselves back up, and then I could hear the slow tramp of their footsteps and the murmuring of their continued conversation as they moved away.

My mind was whirling; if I was to get away I would need to find out where Soult was so that I did not stumble into his forces in error. The whole area would be swarming with the French soon and that thought made me realise that what I really needed was a French uniform. I spoke passable French, not as a native, but as they had so many nationalities in their army I could pretend I was a German or Hollander. As long as they did not have someone of that nationality to hand I should get by.