Flashman in the Peninsula (20 page)

There was a strange camaraderie between the common soldiers of the French and British armies. This was the first time I saw it but it continued throughout the war. Soldiers in both armies were in a strange country with different customs and a local language that they did not understand. They were there reluctantly, through conscription on the French side, and poverty and dubious recruitment practices on ours. They both had a healthy respect for the others’ abilities. I know many of the redcoats rather envied the French their revolution, which they imagined would take them out of poverty. They all knew that unlike the British, the French had banned flogging in their army and that many of the French officers had been promoted through the ranks. Redcoats with nothing to lose thought that the French model was modern and enlightened and only fought against it because they were ordered to do so. The French who had lived through the harsh realities of the revolution were more pragmatic about it, but they were still committed to their cause and their emperor. They in turn envied the British, particularly the supply system which kept the redcoat reasonably fed, while for the most part the French were left to fend for themselves.

We watched as infantrymen reached across the stream to shake hands. Having slaked their initial thirst and filled canteens, thought seemed to turn to the common language of trade. Packs were being emptied of spare loot, food and drink, and exchanged for items that could not be found in their own army. Some French officers were drifting down to the stream now and I suddenly found Campbell had ridden up alongside me as I had been surveying the scene.

‘Let’s go down,’ he suggested, nodding at the détente below us. ‘There will be no more fighting here for a bit.’ I nodded in agreement; anything that kept those bloody cannon quiet was good for me. Having seen the French soldiers from a distance more than once, I also was curious to discover what they were like when they were not trying to kill me. We walked the horses down, dismounted and let our mounts drink their fill at the stream too while we refilled our canteens. Soldiers from both sides had now cleared the bodies from the water but in places it was still decidedly pink with blood. A French
voltigeur
pointed out to us the fastest flowing part of the stream where the water was clearer. He was in the act of trying to exchange a small gold crucifix for some thick leather boot soles, a bottle of rum and a leatherworking needle.

‘It eez from a nun,’ the
voltigeur
explained, shaping a buxom hour glass figure with his hands and giving the British sergeant he was trading with a knowing wink. He could not have said anything better to peak British interest for there was great fascination about nuns among the British army at that time. While nuns were familiar to the Catholic Irish troops, for the Anglican British they were a strange foreign concept. Most had never seen one, as when soldiers were in town the convents were firmly locked up and guarded. Lascivious rumours had been spreading for weeks amongst the British army that if young women from good Spanish families became too promiscuous they were shut away in convents to protect the family honour.

Most soldiers believed that if they could only get into one of these places to liberate the girls, the women would be so grateful that they would satisfy every depraved need as a reward. It wasn’t just the common soldier who believed this fantasy either. A few weeks previously a major from the medical corps had launched a ‘rescue’ attempt on a nearby convent, enthusiastically supported by a number of dragoons. As the terrified women ran around screaming inside, the gallant heroes attacked the door with axes and bawled up reassuring endearments that the girls would soon be under their dubious protection. They were in the act of fetching a cannon to blast the door when the provosts finally forestalled the onslaught.

‘You have seen the nuns then?’ asked the sergeant, his voice hoarse with desire.

‘Of course,’ said the
voltigeur
, ‘I took zis from ze neck of ze pretty one myself.’

‘And it is true then that they are willing?’ asked the sergeant again, thrusting with his hips to make it quite clear what he meant.

The
voltigeur
looked puzzled for a moment and then laughed. ‘Zey stop screaming after ze second or third man has raped them.’ The British sergeant looked disappointed. Not, I suspected, at the act of rape for when looting a captured town they showed little restraint, but at the thought that the convents were not full of willing and eager women. I looked across the stream and saw that a French lieutenant, also watering his horse, had been eavesdropping on the same conversation. He turned to me and grinned.

‘Are you shocked at the behaviour of the French army, Captain?’

‘Not at all,’ I replied, thinking back to the capture and looting of Gawilighur I had witnessed. ‘I have seen our army behave in the same way in India.’

‘But perhaps you think men and women of the Christian cloth should be protected yes?’ he asked in well-spoken French. ‘I did before I came here, but it is a barbaric place. With my own eyes I have seen the bodies of four of our dragoons that were beheaded by monks. Tricked to enter a tower one at a time by an altar boy with a large gold cross. Once they stepped through the door….pffft.’ He finished the sentence by gesturing across his throat with the flat of his hand. ‘When we realised what was happening we threw the monks from the top of their own tower.’

‘It is a brutal country,’ I agreed.

The French lieutenant nodded to the south where the Spanish army, who had not so far been attacked, held the Talavera end of the line. ‘Do you trust your Spanish allies?’ he asked. I gave a non-committal shrug, judging it would not be wise to admit I was half Spanish myself. ‘Remember they were our allies before, a few years ago.’ the lieutenant continued. ‘They welcomed our troops into their country when we entered last year and then when our men were well dispersed and off their guard they attacked.’

While true the Frenchman’s description left out some key facts. The Spanish people had welcomed the French troops when they thought the French were supporting the replacement of the unpopular Spanish king with his Spanish son and heir. They had revolted when they discovered that the French had imprisoned their king and his heir and replaced them with Napoleon’s brother.

‘Do you know what they did to our sick soldiers at the hospital in Manzanares?’ the lieutenant asked. ‘They killed every single one, but not quickly. Some were even boiled in oil so their corpses were all shrivelled up. One had been hauled with a rope up a chimney and a fire lit underneath. When we got there we found bits of bodies everywhere. You might think we are cruel, but you wait until they turn on you.’

The
voltigeur
, who had been listening to our conversation, now turned to the British sergeant and gestured down the hill at the Spanish. ‘Zey shoot then zey run away, yes?’ He had clearly heard about the debacle of the previous day.

‘They run like frightened jack rabbits,’ agreed the sergeant. ‘No bleedin’ use at all.’ He gestured back over his shoulder at the British baggage camp where the wives and other camp followers awaited the outcome of the battle. ‘Our women make better soldiers than them.’ We all laughed at that and having seen some of the formidable army wives in the camp, I thought he was undoubtedly right.

The conversation was interrupted by a trumpet call and the sudden drumming of horses’ hooves.

‘What is going on up there,’ asked Campbell, pointing to a troop of French dragoons that were riding down the French side of the valley and dispersing to shout out something to the soldiers gathered at the stream.

‘It seems we are to attack again, gentlemen,’ announced the French lieutenant as drums on the French side now started to beat the recall. All along the line the blue coated men started slowly to pull back to their side. The lieutenant saluted, ‘You should have at least half an hour before our regiments are ready.’ Having remounted his horse he turned with a grin and added, ‘I wish you good fortune in our coming victory,’ before riding away back up the hill.

‘Cheeky bugger,’ Campbell muttered. ‘We have beaten them back once already.’ He slapped me on the back before adding enthusiastically, ‘We’ll do it again and then ride to break them, eh Flashy!’ Men on our side were also starting to walk back to their former positions on the hill. Looking down the stream where moments before there had been hundreds of men, there were now just a few stragglers of both sides taking a last chance to loot the dead before rejoining their comrades.

Campbell had spurred his horse into a trot, apparently eager to get back into action, but I did not have the stomach to follow suit. I had used what little resolve I had facing that onslaught of artillery and the risk that at any moment the French columns could burst through that seemingly fragile thin line of red coated killers. It takes courage to ride into danger once, but having relaxed by the stream I was damned if I was going to stare at those distant cannon and await their random charge of death a second time.

Chapter 14

The French were gathering again on the opposite side of the valley from the British position, and I glanced back across to where the Spanish infantry stood, untested, in their wavering lines. That is the place for me, I thought. My resumption of duties as liaison officer was long overdue and I knew just how to achieve it. I made a point of stopping half way back up the hill in front of Wellesley and studying the Spanish lines through my glass. From where he was I could see that Wellesley did not have a direct view of the entire Spanish line and he was too busy looking to his front to worry about them. Then I rode up alongside him.

‘The Spanish seem to be moving men about at their end of the line,’ I lied. ‘They may be planning to advance and attack the flank of the next attack. Is that what you ordered, sir?’ I asked sounding slightly surprised.

‘Damn them, no!’ Wellesley glanced towards the Spanish but found, as I knew he would, that his view was blocked by the curve of the hill. ‘If they attack they will just get in our way and then when they retreat they could break up our line. Flashman ride down there, will you, and tell them that under no circumstances are they to attack.’

It took a superhuman effort but I think I actually managed to look disappointed as I acknowledged the order; I turned my horse to safety down the reverse slope of the hill.

‘Never mind Flash, you had enough action last night you know,’ called Campbell consolingly at my crestfallen face. You stupid brave ass, I thought as I rode away. It would be a cold day in hell before they got me back atop this hill with the French still on the other side of the valley. My heart was singing as I rode down the slope. I was away from danger and on a strong horse if I needed to make a fast escape. If the French did attack the Spanish then I could guarantee plenty of confusion to cover my hasty withdrawal. I had not even reached the bottom of the hill before the first French cannon boomed to signal the resumption of the bombardment. Even though there were now thousands of tons of rock between me and the guns, my spine tensed at the memory of the danger, and in sympathy for those poor devils I had just left behind.

I took my time getting back to the Spanish and could follow the now familiar stages of the battle from the noise alone. The cannon bombardment continued as I walked the horse slowly around the bottom of the hill. Then the British guns commenced firing, which indicated that the large French columns were approaching, and finally the French guns stopped as the French gunners were worried about hitting their own side. When I reached the edge of the hill the rolling volleys began. From that distance they merged into a continuous crackle of musketry. I knew that it would be devastating the blue ranks in front but this time the French must be prepared. I listened for some new tactic that would cause the volleys to falter and signal a change in our fortunes. I craned to look around the hill to see the action but it was taking place on the forward slope, out of my view. Then the British guns did stop, but after a slight pause as bayonets were fixed, the silence was replaced by a now familiar roar and I could picture that red line surging forward to bring more death and destruction to the enemy.

I slumped slightly in relief as I had feared the French would employ a different tactic rather than one that had failed already. Little did I realise that the critical moment of the battle was just about to happen. I trotted on towards the Spanish, confident of victory. Their lines would give me a better view of what was happening in front of the British. Soon I could see the blue jacketed men streaming back over the Portina stream. But I realised now that the French had kept two huge columns of men back from the attack. One of those untouched columns watched impassively from the far side of the Portina as their beaten comrades rushed back towards them. It was at that moment that the British nearly lost the battle.

Previously, the British had pursued the enemy as far as the stream, but no further. Now I saw that a large formation of redcoats, the guards division as it turned out, had crossed the water and pursued the enemy up the far slope. In the distance there was the sound of trumpets indicating that our cavalry were charging the northern end of the enemy lines. For an instant I was jubilant: after taking punishment in a defensive position for so long, we were finally going on the offensive. But I had forgotten that we were outnumbered two to one by experienced troops, and in the twinkling of a sabre the balance changed again.

While I could not see them from my vantage point, the French infantry at the northern end of the battlefield was swiftly assembling in square formation and putting up a robust defence against our cavalry, supported by horsemen of their own. But what I could see were the two huge French columns, each at least two hundred men wide and several ranks deep. One now calmly took aim at the hundreds of British redcoats running up the hill towards them. It was almost the reverse of the situation on our side of the valley earlier in the day; only the French dispatched nearly half of the men facing them with a single devastating volley. Before the survivors could recover, the first massive column of blue coated men started to advance. They were aiming for the large gap that had been left in our lines by the guards division. If they got through it the battle would be lost. The second column also started moving, aiming for the weak spot where the Spanish and the British lines joined. I realised that the French had planned a new strategy after all; a trap, and we had walked no charged, right into it.

Trumpets urgently rang out to recall British troops to the lines but the survivors would not be able to fill the gap they had left. The British units south of the guards’ position now started to move north to close the breach the first column was aiming for. What Wellesley could not see from his position was the new gap that this opened up between the British and the Spanish, which the second French column was now marching straight towards.

The Spanish troops who had been next to the British watched white eyed as their allies left them.

In a matter of moments it seemed that defeat had been snatched from the jaws of victory. I watched transfixed as imminent disaster unfolded before me and did not notice the other rider come along side until he spoke.

‘I have what your Wellesley calls reserves this time,’ said Cuesta with a touch of pride in his voice, as though he had just learned a new trick. I looked around and he sat there, his eyes shining with excitement as he stared at the advancing French, gauging how long they would take to reach the allied lines. Now I noticed a thin column of men running at a steady pace behind the Spanish lines and heading towards the newly created gap. Cuesta saw where I was looking and added, ‘They are some of my best men.’

I watched them come on. They looked like the usual half-dressed Spanish scarecrow soldiers to me, only now their faces were covered with a mixture of sweat and dust as they were made to run in the fierce heat of the day. At the speed they were going they would make the gap in time but many would be blown when they got there. I looked around again at the vast French formation coming towards us, and if anything, the direction had shifted slightly to hit the British line at its thinnest point. This meant that only its southernmost end would be opposite these Spanish reserves. Given that the last time I had seen Spanish troops shoot they had run from their own volley, I could be forgiven for thinking that these now winded troops were unlikely to stand in front of the onslaught heading towards us. The doubt must have shown in my face.

‘Don’t worry Captain, these are tough men from the mountains, they won’t run.’ Cuesta gestured over his shoulder before adding, ‘They know what would happen to them if they did.’ I looked behind him and the two aides who had ridden up with Cuesta edged their horses to one side to give me a better view. On the ground, well behind the Spanish line, some two hundred men sat in the dirt in just their shirts and breeches with their hands tied behind their backs. These were the two hundred prisoners from the men who had run, who were to be executed after the battle. But the thought must have played in Cuesta’s mind for suddenly he reached across and patted me on the shoulder. ‘Come Captain,’ he said, ‘we will stand behind them and strengthen their resolve.’

It was the last thing I wanted to hear. I had been about to suggest that I return to Wellesley to let him know about the Spanish reserves. It would have been a journey that would have taken me back to the rear ready for a quick escape if the battle went against us. But Cuesta knew as well as I did that I could not reach Wellesley before the French column reached the allied line, and supporting that line was the most important thing. I glanced desperately around for another excuse and saw Sherbrooke, the general commanding the southern end of the British line, look over and wave at me. ‘Well done Flashman,’ I heard his voice call from the distance. The fool must have thought it was me who was organising the reserves. I cursed under my breath, I could hardly be seen to abandon them now. Cuesta had already spurred his horse forward and the two aides had ridden close up on either side but he waived them back. Their role was to help the old general stay on his horse, but he evidently did not feel the need of them at the moment. In fact the prospect of battle seemed to have taken years off the old warrior. I had no alternative but to kick in my heels and follow him.

The Spanish troops got into their new position quickly. To be fair to them they looked a lot less winded than I would have done, running half a mile in that sun with a full pack and musket. The French troops were now at the bottom of the shallow valley crossing the Portina stream. This gave the French gunners a clear line of sight on the British line, which instead of lying down as before, now stood erect, receiving the last few strugglers of the guards division that had managed to retreat back to their lines in front of the French. Orders were shouted down the Spanish line as soldiers straightened their files and checked their flints and priming, ready to face the onslaught in front of them.

The British soldiers the Spanish reserves had joined with glanced across nervously. They were obviously concerned that if the Spanish gave way the edge of the column would wrap around their flank. I nodded in greeting to the captain of the nearest British company who saluted back. Then I noticed his eyes move to the Spanish men and his lip curled in contempt. I followed his gaze and was surprised to see that the first company in our line had fallen to its knees.

‘Christ on his bloody cross, where the hell did he come from?’ I had muttered this to myself but had spoken in Spanish and now I heard Cuesta chuckle beside me.

‘I take it from that blasphemy that you are not a Catholic, Captain. I would not let the good father hear you say that, he does not approve of Protestants.’

‘But where has he come from?’ I asked again, looking at the thin priest sitting astride an equally scrawny donkey. He was dressed in white robes and was flicking holy water from what looked like a small gilt bucket and making the sign of the cross at regular intervals towards the kneeling men. In front of him walked two altar boys in spotless white surplices, one carrying a large cross while the other combined leading the donkey with swinging an ornate incense burner.

‘Believe me,’ said Cuesta with feeling, ‘the good father often turns up when you least expect him.’ The little procession was moving briskly along the line and it would be touch and go if they reached the end of the reserves before the French got there. The priest seemed unconcerned at the French marching towards him. I did not see him glance back once and the little party also ignored the resumed cannon bombardment. As the pious procession reached the end of one company, orders were given and the men rose to their feet, and the next company dropped to its knees. It was as the second company knelt in unison that I saw something that will stay long in the memory. A rock just in front of the altar boy with the cross suddenly shattered; stone fragments shot everywhere. Amazingly no one seemed to be hit. More significantly, the cannon ball that had shattered the rock was sufficiently slowed down to be seen as it bounced low over the kneeling men, close enough to take off one of their battered shakos. If the men had been standing at least two would have been killed as it had passed at chest height for a standing man. There were muttered prayers from many that witnessed this apparent act of grace. I noticed even Cuesta crossed himself next to me. I glanced across at the British company captain who had also seen the incident, he just grinned and shook his head in resignation.

This distracted the men momentarily from the approaching French, but now the blue coated men were climbing the hill towards us and the French cannon fire petered out as their own men obscured their aim. I could see now that only the left hand three companies of the Spanish would face the French column and the fourth would be able to fire into its sides. The others could fire but the range would mean that they would do little damage. Officers were running about the first three companies, trying to compact hours of drill on how to achieve effective company volley fire into a few short minutes. The French were just a hundred yards off now and I expected the British to open fire. They stood in a long unwavering line with muskets to their shoulders pointing at the French, but no order came. Ninety yards and still no order. The Spanish in front of me were swaying nervously as they held the long muskets towards the enemy, but not one fired prematurely. You could see the faces on the French clearly now and pick out the buttons on their coats. They came with bayonets fixed as though planning one volley and then a brutal charge through the fragile thin allied ranks.