Flashman in the Peninsula (21 page)

Eighty yards; the French could cover that ground running in less than twenty seconds and I was licking my lips to give the order myself when finally the British opened fire and the Spanish followed suit. Every third company fired. The Spanish had seen the British volley fire earlier in the battle and understood the benefit of the rolling volleys. Only the first and fourth companies fired and I was pleased to see that the men had aimed low. Men were falling all along the French front rank but their comrades stepped over them and kept on coming. Seventy yards and as the first companies reloaded furiously the second companies fired. Whole files of men seemed to go down but still they came on. Dear God, I thought, they are not going to stop this time and at any moment they will be released into a charge. The third companies fired and at sixty yards almost every gun seemed to find a mark. The French were struggling to get over their dead and wounded now and at last their line started to falter. The British first companies were ready to fire again but many in the first Spanish company were still struggling to reload.

The British first companies fired but there was only a faltering fire from the Spanish. I saw several ramrods arc through the air as men fired before they had finished reloading. Two struck the French line like arrows in some medieval battle, but others waited until they were loaded and along the Spanish line there was now a steady continuous crackle of fire. It did not sound strong but combined with the crashing regular volleys from the British it was enough. Several groups of French burst from the front of the broad column and tried to charge across the remaining fifty yards to the British but they were brought down by concentrated fire from the volleys which also lashed at the men behind.

I looked along the line to see how the first French column was progressing against the recently closed gap in the British line. Already it was pulling back and I suspected that the French in front of us saw that too. Some of the French, sensing that the attack had stalled, tried to return fire but the effect was nothing to what they were receiving. I saw half a dozen of the Spanish troops fall but in front of us there seemed almost a rampart of French dead and wounded now blocking their advance. The fourth and fifth Spanish companies started to cheer; they could see the side of the column and noticed that some of the rear French ranks were now starting to pull back down the hill.

‘Fix bayonets,’ came the call from the British and all down the line steel glittered in the sunlight as the long blades were attached to hot barrels. The order was passed down the line to the Spanish troops. Some of the Spanish soldiers looked round at Cuesta, scarcely able to believe the command. Many were terrified of the devil soldiers in blue who had beaten and butchered them time and again.

‘Yes, go on,’ roared Cuesta to his men. ‘We are winning, you are beating the French.’ Almost hesitantly at first the Spanish reserve regiment moved forward. I noticed that the rest of the Spanish line stayed rooted to the spot. The reserves may have advanced cautiously to start with as though believing this was some kind of French trick to lure them in, but when they saw the British start to reach and kill the French stragglers they suddenly started running in earnest. It was as though only then did they believe that they were actually allowed to overcome the French. The Spanish excitement was not limited to their reserve troops. Cuesta grabbed my arm and pointed. ‘Look Captain, they are pulling back. See, they are withdrawing their guns.’ He was right. The nearest French artillery battery was starting to limber up its guns and I could see harnessed horses being gathered up to carry them away.

All along the line, the French were now in full retreat. They were not waiting for the bayonets but hurrying back to get across the Portina as fast as they could. There were trumpets from the north as British cavalry once more surged out to harry the French flanks, and that caused Cuesta to look to his own horsemen. There were two huge formations of Spanish horse guarding the right hand end of the allied line. He drew his sword and pointed it at the distant gun battery, then raised it and brought it flashing down. The meaning was clear across the noisy battlefield. The cavalry commanders were evidently watching as trumpets sounded immediately and the horsemen started to move forward. Some French cavalry moved to intercept, but as I watched the Spanish horsemen split into two with one arm aiming to block this advance and the rest spreading out and increasing speed towards the guns. It was smartly done and I had to admit that shooting some of the cavalry officers after the debacle at the battle of Medallin seemed to have done wonders for their professionalism.

Before I could reflect further Cuesta was grabbing my arm again. ‘Come on Captain, to the guns.’ The mad old bastard spurred his horse forward. It was a quarter of a mile to the guns and the ground in front of them was littered with French wounded and survivors heading to the rear. For a moment I hesitated: if the damn fool wanted to get his head shot off by some vengeful French infantryman he could do it without me. But if that did happen questions would be asked and many would have seen me with the general before he advanced. As I watched, the French cavalry seemed to be turning back in the face of the Spanish horsemen and I thought that Cuesta would probably angle his charge to join the other Spanish cavalry running to the guns. Reluctantly I dug in my heels and followed him through the new gap at the end of the Spanish lines.

He was already riding through the French stragglers and most of the French soldiers heard the horses coming and got out of the way, but a few who were still loaded gave fire. They could see Cuesta was a senior officer from his age and the gold braid on his uniform; the balls must have whistled about him. I deliberately held back a bit. The lunatic could attract all the fire as far as I was concerned, so that the French soldiers would not still have loaded weapons when I went over the same ground. I saw one of his aides take a bullet in the arm but the old general was untouched. He was waving his sword around and roaring his head off as he charged on. He nearly toppled from his horse at one point when his mount stumbled over an unseen corpse in the long grass, but his unwounded aide helped prop him back in the saddle.

Once we were through the main French line I rode up alongside him. ‘Look at them run!’ he shouted at me, his eyes wild with delight. This normally stiff and proud man was lost in the joy of victory. After years of crushing defeats, injuries and humiliations he was finally beating his arch enemies again. In his enthusiasm he was still racing directly towards the enemy battery rather than angling to join his horsemen.

‘We should join your cavalry, sir,’ I shouted at him.

‘Nonsense, I want those guns, look they are getting away.’

A quick glance showed that the French were succeeding in getting one or two of the lighter guns away, but they were not moving fast enough from my perspective. I calculated that we would reach the battery just before the rest of the Spanish horsemen and I did not fancy our chances. Four men, one of whom was wounded and another a half mad near septuagenarian, against a battery that still held nearly a dozen guns and their crews was long odds. The emplacement was a hive of activity, some of the gunners deciding that the situation was lost were streaming out of the back while others tugged furiously on trace ropes and straps to attach horses to the guns and get them moving. But as I thought of hanging back again, to my horror I saw that some brave souls had abandoned thoughts of retreat and were loading several of the pieces with canister. One was pointed in our direction.

With a sickening lurch of fear I realised that I was now trapped in what seemed a suicidal charge. I could hardly turn round and abandon the general with at least half the British and Spanish armies watching us hurtle across the battlefield. My reputation would be ruined, but more importantly I would probably still be dead, cut to pieces by French canister. The only option was to press forward to get into the gun emplacement before they could fire and hope to survive the resulting melee until the rest of the Spanish horsemen arrived.

The last hundred yards of that charge seemed to take for ever although it could only have been a few seconds. Cuesta and the aides were slightly out in front; I was hunched down low in the saddle, reins in one hand and drawn sword in the other. The Spanish cavalry, seeing our charge had picked up speed. They now seemed set to enter one end of the battery as we crashed through the other. But my eyes were locked on the crew of a French twelve pounder. I could see the gun captain screaming at his men to work faster as they rammed down the metal canister of shot that would spread a devastating spray of death when fired. At the same time he was pricking with a needle through the touch hole to pierce the cloth bag of the powder charge. We were still fifty yards off when he pushed down the quill of finely ground powder through the hole he had made, which would fire the charge. For a brief moment our eyes met and for a split second I thought I was looking at my executioner. Then he looked down and I saw fear cross his face; something had gone wrong. I never found out what it was, but he needed another second to fire that gun and he did not have it. I was now almost up to the muzzle, but Cuesta’s horse was already jumping the protective ditch in front of the guns and the general’s sword was swinging down on the gunner’s head.

Cuesta might have been sixty-eight but there was nothing wrong with his sword arm. It split the gunner’s skull in two, spraying blood and gore all around him. I was clearing the ditch now and my horse’s hooves knocked down another of the gun crew coming at Cuesta with a musket. For a second the emplacement seemed full of the French gun crews and I thought we were lost. One lunged at me with a bayonet but I stabbed at him with my sword. I had been aiming at his throat but I caught him across the ear instead and he went down clutching his head. Then, where there had been nothing but French, suddenly the area was full of Spanish horsemen charging from the other end of the battery. The air was alive with whoops of victory from the Spanish riders, screams and shouts from the French … and one Englishman swearing on all that was holy that if that crazy old bastard tried to get him killed like that again he would murder the general himself.

Cuesta was unrecognisable from the proud arrogant man who had angrily ordered the execution of two hundred of his own men. Now he was wheeling around on his horse in the centre of the battery, waving his sword around in delight, a danger to friend and foe alike. When some of his men pointed out that some of the captured guns bore markings that showed they were formerly Spanish, he shouted his thanks to the heavens and then looked round for me. He rode up so that our horses were nose to tail and flung his arms around me so that his sword blade was waggling dangerously close to my head.

‘Thank you,’ he said. Then gesturing to the northern side of the battlefield where the British were still streaming forward, he repeated it. ‘Thank you, you have given me a victory I never thought I would see.’ With that he leaned forward and kissed me on both cheeks. I was only slightly more surprised than the goggling cavalry officers.

Chapter 15

‘Did he kiss you as well?’ I asked Wellesley as he returned from Cuesta’s camp later that afternoon.

‘Mercifully no he didn’t,’ Wellesley grinned wryly. ‘He had recovered his normal demeanour by the time I saw him.’

‘But he was still grateful for the victory, surely?’

‘Oh he was grateful; his men were full of your death or glory charge for their guns, some of the few we captured. I suspect that by the time Cuesta’s despatches reach Seville it will be his victory rather than mine. That is why I sent for you, Thomas. I would be obliged if you would ride to Seville and take my account of the battle to the Central Junta. Be a first-hand witness as to what actually happened. I am content for the Spanish to take some credit, but if our part is not recognised, the Spanish may think we do not merit further supplies.’

‘Certainly,’ I agreed, and my heart soared. We were not out of the woods yet, Soult was closing on our rear and there was still a sizeable French force to our front. Now I would be spared the next engagements and instead was ordered to spend time in the salons of Seville countering misleading gossip.

An environment where a cake fork was the most dangerous implement of war sounded just the right place for me and I was certainly not going to be in any hurry to rush back. ‘Surely after his previous defeats,’ I continued, ‘no one in Seville will believe that he beat a French army twice the size of the Spanish one without our help?’

‘Oh, he is back to his old irrational self. He will probably claim it was an act of God. I spent most of my time with him trying to deter him from shooting people.’

‘Who did he want to shoot?’

‘There were his two hundred prisoners; I persuaded him to reduce the executions to forty. He agreed to that readily enough. But then one of our picket officers arrived in his camp to complain that Spanish soldiers were roaming the battlefield shooting French prisoners and wounded.’

I was genuinely shocked. There was, and as far as I am aware still is, an unwritten code for warfare. At that time it was probably at its zenith. The earlier British meeting with the French over the Portina turned out to be not unusual for that campaign. Captured officers would normally give their parole, a promise not to escape, and then be held in loose confinement until an exchange could be made. It was not unheard of for officers to be invited to dine at an enemy mess. I have seen a blind drunk artillery major carried back to our lines by four French gunners after he had overindulged on French hospitality. There were even understandings amongst common soldiers, for example when opposing forces were camped close together. Sentries standing guard between two armies would not be shot at. I have heard tales that they would even share duties so that they could take turns having a sleep, waking each other up when officers inspected.

In all cases, prisoners were treated fairly and wounded treated as far as medical provisions allowed. Both the French and the British soldiers saw each other as professionals. It was not simple charity; given the randomness of war, you never knew when you might need such courtesy yourself. ‘What did you do?’ I asked.

‘I told him it had to cease at once, of course. But as a precaution I have sent three companies of guards to the southern end of the battlefield to protect the wounded. Cuesta tried to justify his men’s actions by saying that the French shoot Spanish brigands and guerrillas on sight.’

‘But Cuesta is a professional soldier, surely he knows better.’ I was starting to feel slightly ashamed of the Spanish half of my ancestry.

‘Yes, but in the winter a lot of Cuesta’s men go up into the mountains where they can more easily defend food supplies from the French. A lot of them live amongst the brigands and have seen the massacres. But don’t worry, I have been very clear that I will not see this victory dishonoured.’

He ran his hands through his hair and he suddenly looked very tired. He had not slept for two days. He had marshalled his forces to fight a prolonged battle, placated allies and now instead of resting, his mind was already turning to the challenges ahead. ‘Sit down, Thomas,’ he gestured to a campaign chair near the door of his tent and turned around. I heard the clink of glass and a few moments later he sat down beside me and passed me a glass of brown liquid. ‘Try this, it is a local brew, but very pleasant.’

I sipped; it was the
jerez
drink that I had first tasted in the mountains a few months ago with Downie. For a moment we sat in silence staring at the unlit brazier outside the tent and feeling the warming effects of the spirit.

Now that I knew I would not be required for the next battle I felt able to view the situation more objectively. I wondered if this was actually a victory at all. I already knew that British casualties, dead and wounded, were around five thousand men which was a quarter of our force. The French had lost a similar number but they still had around forty thousand men left to our fifteen. The Spanish had lost around a thousand and so had over a thirty thousand men left, but they would not withstand a full French onslaught on their own.

‘Was it a true victory or a pyrrhic one?’ I asked quietly.

Wellesley considered the question seriously for nearly a minute before he replied. ‘Well, we will certainly present it as a true victory to Parliament. I need victories to keep them funding the campaign. The Spanish will proclaim it as such as well; they have had little to celebrate recently. But the French will not retreat far. They will want to hold our attention while Soult closes in on our rear. Then they will have us trapped.’

‘What will you do?’

‘I need to give the men a day to rest, and tomorrow I am expecting three thousand men from the Light Division as reinforcements. Then Cuesta will stay here to deceive the French into thinking the whole army is still resting. He can look after our wounded too. But I will take the British and we will try to beat Soult at his own game. He only had around fifteen thousand men when we threw him out of Oporto. If he still has that number then we should be able to beat him, especially if we can catch him off guard.’

‘You will lose more men fighting Soult. How many more battles can you afford to win and stay in the field?’

‘I don’t know,’ he sighed. ‘Right now I am forced to fight to survive. Despite what Cuesta thinks, we are in no state to attempt to drive the French out of Spain. We will need to pull back into Portugal or south of the Tagus to allow our wounded to recover and more reinforcements to arrive.’

Even that downbeat assessment turned out to be optimistic, but we were not to discover that for a few days. In the meantime the battlefield of Talavera had one more horror in store.

After sharing half a bottle of
jerez
I made my excuses and left. I was dog tired, it had been a long and exhausting two days. The sun was still up, it was late afternoon but I was ready for a siesta. I found my tent and must have fallen asleep as soon as my head hit the bag of spare clothes that served as a pillow. I was soon in a fitful doze. Of all things I dreamt of Christmas, the smell of roasting pork, the crackle of flames in the hearth and the excited squeals of those playing games. That was until I was rudely awakened.

‘Thomas,’ Campbell was urgently shaking my shoulder. ‘Come on, the battlefield is on fire! The wounded are being burned alive.’ Wearily I swung my feet to the ground as those facts sank in. There was still a smell of smoke and roasting pork in the air but with revulsion I realised that it was the smell of roasting human flesh, and the excited squeals in my dream had been the screams of dying men. You could not see the battlefield from the camp which was behind the hill the British had defended, but plumes of smoke rose into the air from its southern end. One look at the horses tethered in lines by the side of the camp told us it would be better to go on foot. They were already being made uneasy by the smell of smoke and were pulling anxiously at their traces. We would struggle to ride them towards the flames and then find a secure place to tether them. Campbell and I followed a trail of other officers and men running around the edge of the hill to see how bad it was. I was puffing to keep up but the sight that met me as we rounded the bottom of the hill left me gasping for breath in shock.

You may have seen paintings of hell in a gallery, but I think in that moment I looked directly upon it. The shallow valley in which the battle had been fought had originally been covered in waist high grass. It was bone dry as it had not rained in weeks, and while swathes had been trampled flat by the movement of horses and columns of men earlier in the day, the majority was still upright. Many of the wounded had already been moved, particularly those in the flattened areas that had been easy to find, but many others remained. These had either been wounded during the routing of advances where the fighting spread over a wider area or, in the case of some French wounded, they had crawled into the long grass to escape vengeful Spanish infantrymen after the battle.

A cinder from a campfire must have been carried by the freshening wind into the grass. That same breeze had fanned the flames so that they covered the southern end of the battlefield, and were advancing like an army of demons northwards. Figures could be seen silhouetted against the blaze, some darting forwards looking for the wounded and others helping to carry them out of the path of the inferno. The screaming and wailing from those still trapped in the path of the blaze was pitiable. Smoke was drifting up the valley too but it was not too thick and it did not block out the awful sight of one poor devil staggering in front of the flames with his clothes ablaze.

‘Come on Flash, let’s help get them out,’ Campbell was already darting forward. As you know, I am not one to willingly leap into danger, but we were well in advance of the fire and the cries of those in its path appealed to anyone with an ounce of humanity. I followed him in and in a few moments we had found a British infantryman dragging himself along with a broken leg. We had him up between us in a trice and soon had him deposited in the relative safety of the rocky ground at the bottom of the hill where other wounded were being gathered.

Back we went, but the smoke was getting thicker now, and we both paused to tie neckerchiefs around our faces. I thought we had time to save one more person and we both scanned the ground as we spread out to find one. Voices were calling out in all directions, some for help, and others guiding the rescuers. I heard one voice nearby and thought I had spotted its owner but a gust of smoke obscured him. I pushed forward blindly towards him but fell over a body instead. The voice was still calling, ‘Help me, help me, I am over here.’ It was tantalisingly close and I pressed on this time on my hands and knees so that I could see. I had lost track of Campbell but now I heard his voice.

‘Here you are laddie, I’ve got you.’ Then he called out to me. ‘Flashman, where are you? I have found one, see if you can get another and let’s get back.’

‘I’m here,’ I shouted back. I stood and headed blindly in the direction I had heard his voice. I stumbled ten yards and then twenty before I realised that I must somehow have walked past him. It was getting uncomfortably hot now. My eyes were streaming with the smoke and it was starting to burn in my throat. ‘To hell with this,’ I muttered to myself as I decided it was time to get out of there, with or without a wounded person. I had lost my bearings blundering about but I would let the heat guide me. It now seemed strongest on my left side, the flames had been moving from south to north, so if I kept them on my left then I should come out roughly where I went in. I staggered forward, half running, to get away from the smoke which came and went in sudden gusts. Suddenly I saw a flicker of flame ahead of me and now I realised that there was as much heat coming from in front as from my left. I was starting panic. The fire seemed to be on at least two sides, but I had the presence of mind to drop to the ground where the smoke was thinner to try and get my bearings again. On my hands and knees I took big gulps of the cleaner but still hot air as I stared ahead. There was a roaring wall of flame ahead and looking to my left I could see the dull glow of yet more flames. I took a deep breath, turned to my right and ran as fast as I could.

I must have run twenty or thirty yards in that sprint. I was holding my breath to avoid breathing in the thick smoke and had my eyes shut to stop them stinging; there was little I could see if I had them open. I remember my foot kicked against one body as I went, but it made no noise and I did not stop to investigate. I was just about to drop to the ground and take another gasp or two of the cleaner air when I cannoned into someone else. We both crashed down in the dry grass and from the muttered cry of ‘
merde
’ I gathered I had hit a Frenchman. I squinted at him through watering eyes. I thought he was an infantryman to start with as he had a musket, but then I saw the sword at his hip and the bloodstains down the lower half of one leg and realised that he had been using the longarm as a crutch. I staggered back up to my feet and looked back over my shoulder; the flames if anything seemed even closer despite my running.