Flashman in the Peninsula (29 page)

He spoke proudly of their achievements, but for the first time I truly began to understand the brutality of the situation in Spain. While French atrocities might encourage support for the partisans, you could easily understand how partisan activities drove more savagery in the French. If your soldiers were being murdered by men, women and even children you would quickly view all civilians as the enemy. I thought back to that conversation on the boat on our way to Portugal and Wellington insisting that we had to behave better than the French to keep the populace on our side. Now the importance of this was clear. ‘Do you know a partisan called Agustina de Aragon,’ I asked suddenly, remembering that she had ridden off to fight amongst all this savagery.

‘The Maid of Zaragoza? Of course I have heard of her, but I did not know she was a partisan. She is not amongst the partisans around here but there are many different bands. Perhaps she is fighting near Zaragoza.’ He started to get up but then he paused and smiled as though he had just thought of something. ‘Are you the Englishman that… knew her in Seville?’ he asked grinning salaciously. There was no doubt what rumour he had just remembered.

‘I did meet her there, yes.’ I admitted stiffly, getting up and returning to my horse.

‘If you are that Englishman then you are also the one that charged with General Cuesta, yes?’ persisted the Spaniard.

‘Yes I was,’ I conceded, glad that something other than my carnal activities in Seville had been included in the gossip. ‘I also fought at Alcantara when we stopped Victor coming over the bridge. In fact I am now a knight of Alcantara as a result.’ If you have a title, I thought, you might as well use it. The guide seemed impressed. For the rest of that afternoon we rode together as he told me partisan stories and I told him a suitably edited version of my adventures in Alcantara. By early evening we were riding through a wood in the hills behind Fuentes de Onoro when Rodriguez brought us to a halt again. We were coming to the end of the wood and the guide said that we were close to the windmill.

‘We must be quiet now,’ the guide told us, ‘while we check that the French have not found our men.’ He asked me to tie up Boney to a nearby tree so that he did not bound out and give away our position. Then his comrade was sent around the edge of the forest to approach the windmill from a different direction. While he was working his way around, the guide and I made our way up to the edge of the trees where we got our first glimpse of the windmill on the hill opposite, a quarter of a mile away. The ladies had stayed with Boney to make sure he did not bark.

‘My friend will approach the windmill from the far corner of the forest,’ Rodriguez explained. ‘If he pretends to find us by walking back to that corner it is a signal that there is an ambush and we must get away. We might gain a few extra minutes if the French search the wrong area when they realise we are not coming.’

‘You have clearly done this before,’ I said, while studying the windmill through my glass. I could see no sign of life at all.

‘A partisan who is not cunning and careful is soon dead,
señor
.’

I passed the glass to the guide who studied the windmill and the surrounding area and gave a small grunt of satisfaction as we settled down to wait. A few minutes later his comrade appeared and slowly walked to the windmill. He stopped a few yards from it and seemed to be talking to someone and then he went inside.

‘The man must search the building now to check that whoever is there is not being held at gunpoint,’ Rodriguez said. ‘If any of the French spies in your camp have told them that a British officer and a Spanish marquesa are riding this way, then you would be attractive prisoners so we must be very careful.’

‘You be as careful as you want old sport,’ I agreed, relieved that someone was being as careful of my precious skin as I was. We watched anxiously for nearly five minutes and then finally the other guide reappeared. After a moment’s hesitation he started walking directly towards us, the signal that the rendezvous was safe. The ladies came up at our shout and Maria threw her arms around me and gave me a kiss on the cheek.

‘Thank you, dear cousin,’ she said, ‘for your escort this far, but you had better get back. We have left Boney tied up in the trees. Make sure you write to tell me of your adventures and tell me how I can reach you.’

‘Yes, of course, but I should see who is taking you on the next stage of the journey as well. Wellington was very clear that if you seemed to be in any danger I was to continue to escort you further, and the French are still just a few miles away you know…’ I would have continued but Consuella now threw her arms around me, kissing me on the mouth, thus stopping any further words in a delightful way. Her embrace was a convincing argument that I should find fault with the new escort at all costs. ‘I must speak to the escort commander,’ I gasped when my lips were free.

As it turned out that was not difficult to arrange for he wanted to see me too. The partisan coming back from the windmill started to shout that the ladies should mount up and ride up the valley quickly as they wanted to be well away by dark. Then he turned to me and asked me to go quickly to windmill where the commander had messages that he wanted to pass on to the British. Well, that suited me, so I strode up the hill in the pleasant evening sunshine. I still had not seen any of this new escort so there could not be many of them. I would just tell this new commander that my orders were to continue to escort the marquesa until she was well away from French forces. I was rehearsing to myself what I would say as I walked through the little door of the mill. From the bright sunshine outside my eyes struggled to adjust to the gloom of the interior; not that they got the chance, for a moment after I stepped over the threshold the world went entirely black, as I was hit on the back of the head.

Chapter 21

I came to, not for the first time in my life, with aches in my shoulders and wrists which told me that my arms were tied behind my back. I also had a mysterious pain in my ribs, and I gently moved my legs to discover that they were tied at the ankles. When coming to in a potentially hostile situation it is always a good idea to keep your eyes shut and ears open before your captors realise you are conscious. I sensed there were several people around me, one quite close as I could hear him breathing.

‘Kick him again,’ called a voice, and a boot slammed into my ribs, which explained the earlier pain.

‘All right,’ I gasped now opening my eyes. ‘I am awake.’ My vision was a bit hazy after the blow but I could see that I was still inside the dark windmill. There were three strangers in the room, one with the sharp boots standing next to me, one seated on a tall chair nearby and another standing behind the seated figure. They all had big beards and travelling clothes and looked like partisans; but if they had ambushed me I wondered if they were working for the French. At least the French treated the British honourably and I was still in my uniform, so could not be accused of being a spy.

‘Why have you tied me up? I am a British officer.’

‘Oh, we know who you are,’ said the seated man, and I saw teeth smiling at me through his shaggy beard. He spoke with menace and his voice sounded familiar, but I did not recognise the face at all.

‘Then for God’s sake let me go. If you work for the French, then take me to their commander. If you are partisans then you should know I am here on General Wellington’s orders.’

‘I do not care about your General Wellington,’ said the seated man. ‘He has, I suspect, had enough from me already. I know exactly who you are. You are the mongrel fornicator Thomas Flashman. Don’t you recognise me?’ The voice was familiar and for a second I was puzzled, and then everything fell into place. I should have probably guessed from word ‘mongrel’, as only one person had called me that in my life, but lying with my face on the floor I noticed something else. Looking across at the seated man I saw he had no feet, or at least, none that reached the floor.

‘It’s you!’ I gasped, looking into the bearded face of the marquis. He had been clean shaven when I had last seen him.

‘Yes.’ White teeth shone through the beard as he gave me an unpleasant grin. ‘I came to collect Maria to make sure that these partisans treated her well, but I had no wish to meet her Lord Wellington. So I arranged to meet her here.’ The grin was slowly replaced by a look of sadness as he continued, ‘I have missed her all the months she has been away. Someone like you will not understand this, but I am very fond of my wife. We parted arguing over you and that is not going to happen again.’

I felt a chill run down my spine; if he just wanted to warn me off there was no need to tie me up. ‘Look, if you just cut me free, I will get on my way back to the British and you and your wife need never see me again.’

‘I don’t think so. Do you think I have forgotten how you insulted me in my own house, how you mocked me and laughed at me? I have burned to avenge myself on you. Then I heard you were with my wife again, like a festering sore between us. Well, I am going to cauterise that wound once and for all, so that you never bother us again.’

‘You can’t kill me for God’s sake, I’m family damn it. Maria will never forgive you for this.’ Then taking a deep breath I yelled, ‘Maria, I am in the windmill, come quickly!’

‘She is long gone down the valley,’ the marquis laughed at the fear that must have started to show in my face. ‘And you are right, I cannot kill you. When my wife does discover that you are dead, if she ever asks, I want to be able to look her honestly in the eye and say that I did not kill you.’

‘Thank God,’ I breathed.

‘Oh, you misunderstand me,’ chuckled the dwarf. ‘You are going to die, just not by my hand.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘A few days ago some Polish lancers were ambushed near here and the men were all killed or tortured to death. Their commander has sworn vengeance and has been hanging Spaniards ever since. One of my men is taking a message to the commander to tell him that the attack was organised by a British officer, and if he stops hanging our people we will hand him over. Of course the commander will agree, whether he actually intends to stop the hanging or not, and then my man will tell him of this windmill.’

‘You cannot do that,’ I gasped.

‘Of course I can. What is to stop me? You get the death you so richly deserve and I might even save some innocent Spaniards. Have you ever seen lancers fight, Flashman? Their points are razor sharp and they love nothing better than to stick them in a running man. If you are lucky they will run you through, but maybe they will untie your legs and chase you for sport.’

‘Please, look, I know we got off on the wrong foot so to speak, but we are on the same side!’ I was gabbling but I was desperate as I realised that this pint sized tyrant had carefully planned out my death. ‘I am sorry,’ I pleaded. ‘I realise I was wrong to do the things I did, I apologise of course. I am truly sorry. If you let me go I will put in a good word of you to Wellington. Perhaps he can help you with the leadership of the Central Junta; he would be keen to help both you and Maria.’

As soon as I mentioned his wife’s name I saw his face darken and I realised that this had been an error of judgement. ‘Oh, I can imagine how keen your commander is on my wife.’ The marquis sneered. ‘I hear you have been acting the goat with her maidservant too. Well, I hope you enjoyed it because you might get a closer view of your manhood than you have ever had before, soon. When the partisans tortured the Poles, they cut off their pricks and stuffed them into their owners’ mouths. That is how they were found the next day. Perhaps the Poles will do the same to you.’ He grinned nastily before sliding off his chair and standing on the floor. ‘Now it is time for me to get going. But in case my wife ever asks if we parted on good terms, let me wish you good luck for when the Poles arrive, probably around dawn tomorrow.’

‘You bastard,’ I shouted at him. ‘You filthy, stinking, murderous, pint sized little bast…’ a boot slammed into my head, roughly where I had been hit before, and the world exploded with a flashing light before returning to blackness.

It was night when I awoke. The door to the windmill was open and I could see stars in the night sky. For a moment I could not remember where I was or why. Then the memories came flooding back, followed swiftly by gut wrenching fear. I could not just lie there waiting to be tortured and mutilated by vengeful lancers. Even if I had to crawl or roll I would try to get into the forest and hide. A second later I discovered that in addition to tying my hands and feet tightly, the rope around my feet was secured to one of the beams in the windmill. I twisted trying to reach my sword to cut the rope but the scabbard was empty. Looking around I could see my sword embedded in the floor a few feet out of my reach. It was glinting in the starlight, a razor sharp blade that could be my salvation if only I could get to it. The gold hilt was valuable but the marquis evidently thought it was worth more to use it to taunt me in my final hours. I managed to sit up and reached around for anything sharp that could cut the ropes, but there was nothing. All I could find was the sharp edge to a wooden beam, so I sat there rubbing the rope around my hands against it. I did not think it would cut through the rope by morning but it gave me something to do and helped keep the panic at bay.

It was not the first night I had spent expecting imminent death, nor was it to be the last. Just a few years ago I had been destined for an explosive execution and I nearly went mad with fear that night. I knew I had to keep busy. I kept rubbing the rope against that beam until my arm muscles burned with the pain. It seemed to be futile I was making no progress at all. When I thought of my likely fate my legs instinctively clamped together and I felt physically sick. I would protest my innocence and try to explain, but would they listen? Surely they would not mutilate a British officer, I tried to reason, but then I remembered that this ‘little war’ – the guerrilla war – was completely different to the world of regiments and battle lines. There was unlimited savagery on both sides, no quarter asked or given, and if the Poles thought I had a part in it then they would give me what they thought I deserved.

Suddenly I heard a noise. A horse, it was definitely the snicker of a horse outside. Oh, Jesus, were the Poles here already? It was still dark but perhaps they thought it would be safer to travel at night. I strained my ears, I could hear hooves now but only one horse I thought, surely the Poles would come in strength.

‘
Señor
, are you there?’ It was the voice of the partisan guide, and relief flooded over me.

‘Rodriguez, is that you?’ I called, remembering his name. ‘Please help me.’

‘Come out so that I can see you.’

‘I can’t. I am tied up in here.’ He did not reply but I heard him slowly approach. I thought he was looking carefully through the door before something crashed into the woodwork behind me.

‘Jesus,’ I jumped, my nerves were already on edge, ‘What was that?’ I asked, twisting around to see.

‘A rock, I had to check you were alone and not being used as bait for a trap.’ He was through the door now, a large knife glinting in his hand. He reached me in two strides and bent down to grasp my shoulder. His rough hands went down my arm until they found the rope, and then my hands were free and burning with renewed circulation.

‘My feet as well,’ I gasped.

‘Who did this to you?’ he demanded.

‘That bloody dwarf,’ I snarled.

‘But he is your cousin’s husband, I saw him greet her.’

‘Yes, well, he is no damned friend of mine.’ I picked up my sword and put it back in my scabbard. ‘Now, let’s get of here before those bloody lancers arrive.’

‘What lancers? What is going on
señor
?’ Of course then I had to explain what the marquis had organised, as we hurried into the trees. ‘I need to get my men away,’ Rodriguez said when he understood the situation. ‘We were just coming back down the valley after escorting your cousin higher into the hills when I found your horse and dog still tied up in the trees. If the lancers are coming you should go back through the forest. There is more cover and it will take you back in the direction of the British.’ He was interrupted by a welcoming bark from Boney, who recognised us approaching through the trees towards him.

‘What will you do?’ I asked. I had been hoping he would escort me back to the British lines.

‘I must find my men. It was my people who attacked the lancers.’ He was rushing now, anxious to get on his way. ‘If they spread out to look for you we may be able to kill some more. Good luck, Captain, keep in the trees and keep heading west,’ he said, pointing me in the right direction. With a shake of the hand he was gone. I was left standing in the forest with my hands and feet still tingling at the renewed blood flow, just a dog and a horse for company and a squadron of angry cavalry on the way. For a moment I had considered joining the partisan gang for safety in numbers. But then I would be drawn into their savage pitiless war; sooner or later they would get cornered and slaughtered. If I could just get away from those Poles who thought I was with the partisans, then even if I was captured by another French unit I would be treated honourably as a British prisoner of war.

I estimated that there was at least an hour or two of darkness, so grabbing the horse’s bridle I walked on in the direction the Spaniard had pointed. Unless you want to lose an eye to a low hanging branch or worse, I knew better than to ride through an unfamiliar forest. The foliage was blocking out any light from the stars so that it was black as pitch. We made slow but steady progress. I heard a screech from the undergrowth as Boney tracked down his dinner, but I did not feel hungry, I just wanted to get myself as far away from that windmill as possible. As the grey light of dawn filtered through the leaves I could see more clearly and mounted up. Later, once the sun was well over the horizon, I thought we had covered several miles and at last allowed myself to rest. I breakfasted on wine from my canteen and the food in my saddle bags. We had found a little clearing in the forest and the horse was grazing on the sparse grass. I sat in the dappled sunlight and congratulated myself on my good fortune. I had escaped the Poles and with luck and two days careful riding I should be back amongst the British, where I would write a very informative letter to my cousin. I tipped the last of the wine down my throat and then out of the corner of my eye I saw Boney stiffen. He had heard something and his head was turned to the west, the direction we were travelling. I strained my ears but at first I could hear nothing. Then faintly on the wind came the sound of voices.

You may have found this yourself, but to me languages seem to have a distinctive sound even if you cannot make out the words. Compared to English, French is a more nasal tongue, while Spanish has rounder tones. This language was neither, it was harsher, more guttural, the only thing similar I had heard was Russian a few years back, when I had been with Wilson. It must, of course, have been Polish, and in the second it had taken me to recognise the sound I had not been idle. Grabbing Boney’s collar and the horse’s bridle I was hustling my little menagerie into the thickest nearby undergrowth and scanning the clearing to check that there was no trace of my presence left on the ground. Of course such is my fortune that there in the middle of the clearing was a still steaming pile of horse dung that my mount had just left as it grazed. There was no choice but to dart back into the clearing, scrape up the filth with my hands and run back and throw it into the undergrowth. It took two trips and there was still a horsey smell over that particular spot, but as the lancers were sitting on horses themselves I did not think they would notice.