Flashman's Waterloo (Adventures of Thomas Flashman Book 6)

by Robert Brightwell

  They lay Evans down at the end of the row and I sat down beside him. I noticed that his leg was still bleeding a little, but he had screamed with agony when they had tightened the tourniquet at the end and I did not have the heart to twist it any more. I just had to hope that the bleed would stop if he lay still.

  “Would you like some water, sir?” The corporal had come up the little line and gestured at the blood from my earlier horse and the hussar, which was splashed all over my shirt. “Is it a bad wound, sir?” he added.

  “What? No, no, it is nothing. I am just here to look after Evans.” I took the flask, though, and offered it to the sergeant, who drank greedily. The man’s eyes had glazed over and he seemed to be struggling to comprehend what had happened to him. In the past I had always been at a loss as to how to comfort the wounded, but it had got easier after I had experienced similar circumstances myself.

  “I think that they have done for me this time, sir,” he whispered hoarsely as the corporal scurried off to another man. “I am precipitate, sir.”

  I took some comfort he was well enough to indulge his bizarre lexicon and pulled my shirt open so that he could see the huge star-shaped exit wound I had received from the musket ball at Albuera. “Nonsense, man. You saw me survive this. If I can live after a hole through my chest, you can get over losing a leg. You must have seen other men survive after losing a leg, there is no reason you cannot do the same.” I squeezed his shoulder in encouragement. I knew from my own experience that the thing he wanted most at this moment, perhaps even more than a surgeon, was hope.

  Evans did not look that reassured. “I have seen some live with one leg,” he admitted, “and I have pitied them. For most it would have been better if they had died. What life can they have like that begging for coins? I have been a soldier all my life; I do not know any other trade to make a living.”

  I laughed at that and he looked at me in surprise. “Don’t you worry about that,” I told him. “If we get out of here I will give you a job.”

  “You can’t, sir, I know you had to watch the coin when we were together before.”

  “Ah but since then my fortunes have changed.” I smiled at him and for a moment I pictured in my mind Louisa, little Thomas, Berkeley House and the rolling, peaceful fields around my new home. “I’m married now, well, I was before too, but now I am properly married, a man of property and I am going to need a new steward. A one-legged one would suit me perfectly.”

  “Really, sir?” You could see that Evans desperately wanted to believe me, but he probably remembered when I had told people what they had wanted to hear in the past.

  “I swear it. I have a beautiful house in Leicestershire and you will be its steward.” I watched the tension ease out of his body and a tear began to well in his eye. I got up; he was a tough man and would not want me to see him cry. “Oh and don’t think it is charity,” I called back over my shoulder as I began to walk up the bank. “All those country bastards want to talk about is calves, crops and who has got the fattest pig. Having you there for a sensible conversation will be the only thing that will keep me sane.”

  Chapter 42

  I was feeling quite pleased with myself as I got to the top of the slope. Doing an old friend a good turn is almost as enjoyable as dishing revenge to an old enemy. Of course, the way things were looking, Evans would have to survive a spell as a prisoner of war first, but at least he would have something to live for.

  I wanted to take a last look out across the battlefield before I made a run for it, just in case the long-overdue Prussians had finally arrived. Corpses marked where the 52nd’s squares had stood, but the living had disappeared over the ridge. French troops were still streaming up towards the farm of La Haye Sainte and the distant French batteries were continuing their bombardment. It was hard to see in the distance through the smoke but no French troops were moving to their right to meet a new Prussian threat on the eastern end of the allied line. I was just about to duck down again and make my way back towards the road when a movement to my right caught my eye. The château of Hougoumont was surrounded by smoke from French cannon, burning buildings and the continued fighting, but as I watched a huge dark shape was moving. A gust of wind suddenly revealed the front of a new French column that was aimed at the allied line halfway between where I stood and the farm. I crouched lower as I watched with a growing sense of unease. Normally such columns had their flanks guarded by cavalry and sure enough a few moments later a regiment of cuirassiers appeared – heading directly towards me.

  I spun round and ran back towards the ditch. If the French broke through, and there was every chance that they would, then the cuirassiers would slaughter or capture anyone running between the allied line and the forest behind. There was no time for me to reach the safety of the trees; I just had to find somewhere else safe to hide until nightfall. It was only as I ran towards the pitiful line of broken bodies that the solution occurred.

  “Cuirassiers are coming,” I called out to the corporal. “Drop that flask and lie down, they won’t kill wounded men.”

  “Are you sure?” croaked Evans. “Their Polish lancers weren’t that choosey.”

  “Well we cannot fight them or outrun them,” I replied while pulling a blood-soaked bandage off one of the corpses. “We might get robbed but I don’t believe we will be murdered.” I lay down beside Evans and draped the bloody cloth across my chest. He was deathly pale and some of his muscles had started to tremble. There was no doubt the cuirassiers would see he was badly injured, but if they found out I wasn’t wounded at all then at the very least they would give me something that would require a surgeon. But I could not think of another way of surviving. While I still had it, I snatched a quick glance at my watch. It was seven o’clock, the sky was clouding over and it would start getting dark in a couple of hours. Surely I could hang on that long and then I could make my escape.

  You can read about the attack of Bachelu and Foy’s divisions on the British line in many accounts of Waterloo, but not in mine. The reason is simple: I saw absolutely none of it while I lay in that ditch. I heard every gun the British had left open fire on the approaching mass of men and could guess that the French batteries were doing their utmost to destroy those guns. I listened to the crackle of musketry and distant shouts and cheers but it was impossible to make out what was happening above the sounds of the cannon. The only people I actually saw were half a dozen cuirassiers who rode to the edge of our slope and looked down on the line of broken and in my case, shamming, men. Through half-closed eyes, I saw their commander stare at us for a moment and then slowly shake his head before turning his horse away. We continued to lie still – you never knew when someone else might ride to the edge of the slope. I could feel Evans still trembling beside me and whispered some words of comfort. He grunted a reply and slowly as the sound of battle began to diminish his shaking ceased.

  While the noise of firing from the allied ridge gradually died away, the French batteries continued to fire, indicating that there was still an allied presence. The only explanation I could think of was that the French attack had been beaten back and so at length, I cautiously sat up. I felt we had laid there for an eternity but when I looked again at my watch it was just seven forty-five.

  “I think we have beaten them back,” I told Evans as I got to my feet. “I will just go and look over the slope again.” I ran forward, keeping low. The allied crest was as empty as before but now there were hundreds more French dead and wounded on the approach to it. God alone knew how, but the giant column had been stopped. I turned to look down into the shallow valley between the armies; the cuirassiers were back there and showing no sign of moving. There was still no sign of any Prussians. It was time to leave. I ran back to Evans, to tell him I would send on help if I found any. Then I stopped, feeling as though I had just been punched in the face. Evans was dead, his lifeless face staring up at the sky, and only then did I remember that he had not responded when I had run forward.


  We will never know, but I think it was the shock that killed him. I had seen men go like that in the past, it did not seem to matter how strong or tough they were. I have even had a man die from it right next to me before. That was in India after Assaye. Like Evans he appeared to be recovering. He had eaten, drunk and made jokes before sleeping beside me. But in the morning a cavalry trooper and I found him dead between us.

  I reached down and closed his lifeless eyes. He would have made a good steward... But there was no time for sentimentality. There was an evening chill in the air and my white, though bloodstained, shirt would stand out in the darkness. Looking along the line I saw one of the dead men in the row had been a captain and his officer’s coat was hanging from a branch in the hedge.

  “Sergeant Evans is dead,” I told the corporal. “If you don’t mind I will borrow this coat and see if I can get you some help.”

  “Captain Edmonds has no further use for it,” agreed the corporal staring sadly down at his officer. “Good luck to you, sir.” By instinct the corporal started to raise his arm in salute, before remembering that part of the limb was missing.

  I climbed over the bank and onto the road that led from the château of Hougoumont and up over the British ridge. There were ditches and hedges on both sides and the track was littered with the detritus of war. There were broken weapons, a smashed ammunition limber and three dead horses, one of which had been ridden over by a cart and half crushed. But there was not a soldier to be seen. I grinned in delight: my escape might be smoother than I thought.

  Just fifty yards up the path I came to a crossroads. The track to the right was the one that ran along the length of the British ridge, a route that would take me straight back to the battle. To go straight on would take me north to the woods, but I thought that there would be a lot of people who might interfere with my escape that way. The left hand path went north-west, away from the battle and towards more woods and ultimately the coast. It was signposted to a village called Mirbebraine. I turned left.

  It was the logical choice and any charitable person would agree that I had been sorely used that day and well overdue for a stroke of good fortune. But the fates had not finished with me yet and had more surprises in store. The first of these called out to me five minutes later as I walked past a cattle barn near the road.

  “You, sir, where are you going?” I cursed myself for not suspecting that guards would be posted to stop deserters and wished I had brought the bloody bandage to support my disguise.

  I looked up to see a pair of British dragoons nudging their horses out from behind the barn, their short carbine muskets drawn but resting easily on the crupper of their saddles. Beyond them were some more troopers and around a dozen men sitting dejectedly against the barn wall who had evidently tried to make the same mistake I had. Well, I was an officer and practiced dissembler, I was still confident I could talk my way out.

  “Ah, thank goodness you are here,” I replied giving them my best weary smile. “I am Captain Edmonds of the 52nd.” I gestured at the insignia on my coat which confirmed both my rank and regiment and reminded my interrogators that I outranked them. “I was with some wounded men just a hundred yards down the road to Hougoumont,” I told them. “Now we have beaten off that column, I was told that I could get some carts to take them to the surgeons from this Mirbebraine place.”

  “I don’t know about that, sir,” replied a trooper woodenly. But I noted the ‘sir’ as he glanced back at the barn for guidance from his own officer.

  “Well, what about those men?” says I pointing at the deserters. “Surely they can carry the wounded. I can take you right to them – it will only take a moment.” The trick to a good lie is not to give your opponent too long to consider it and to stick as closely to the truth as possible. I would have got away with that one, rescued the wounded men and still found a way to slip away, had it not been for an appalling mischance.

  “Arrest that man,” called out a new voice. “His name is not Edmonds, he is a notorious French spy called Flashman.”

  I whirled round staring in shock as the dragoon officer rode his horse out from the shadow of the barn. There staring at me was a face that I had last seen looking at me from inside a brandy barrel in Brest: it was Colquhoun Grant.

  “You?” was all I managed to say as I tried to comprehend what had just happened.

  “Yes, me,” sneered Grant with an expression that was a mixture of rage and delight. “You have no idea how long I have waited for this moment.”

  “Now look,” I started. “I had no idea that they were not going to take the barrel you were in as well.”

  “Do you think I did not look at the lid after they had gone!” He was almost shrieking at me now with flecks of spittle flying from his mouth like a madman. “There was no mark on it. You betrayed me and left me for the French. You are a liar, a cheat, a seducer, a betrayer of every noble cause and now you have sunk as low as to sell your own country to the enemy.”

  “You bloody fool,” I interrupted. “I sent that message in good faith having heard it directly from the lips of the emperor. And we both know that I was not the only one to send it.”

  “What do you mean?” demanded Grant, now on his guard.

  “Fouché has been writing to Wellington, betraying the emperor’s plans, and he sent the same message, which arrived just before mine.”

  “How could you possibly know that?”

  “Because Fouché himself told me.”

  “Huh, I might have known you would be in league with that snake,” cried Grant triumphantly.

  “I met him because the courier you gave me was compromised. In fact everything about you is compromised. Virtually all of the agents you have near the border actually work for Fouché and feed you what he wants. He even has an agent working in your office to control what you see.”

  “That’s not true!” Grant objected like a petulant child.

  “Then how did Napoleon march over a hundred and twenty thousand men right up to the border without you even noticing. For Christ’s sake, you could see their camp-fires from twenty miles away and still you did nothing.”

  “You could have sent another message warning of the attack,” he insisted.

  I became aware that the troopers were watching and listening to our exchange with a look of astonishment. Grant’s demeanour was a mixture of rage and frustration. The unexpected arrival of the whole French army must have been a major blow to his reputation as an intelligence officer. That might also explain the reason he was out here on outpost duty instead of with Wellington.

  “Why do you think Napoleon changed the date of the attack?” I asked, continuing my robust defence. “He rightly suspected Fouché was betraying him and so only moved things forward at the last minute when it was too late for either Fouché or I to send any kind of warning.”

  Grant looked up and saw his men watching him. They might have been just simple cavalry troopers, but they were no fools. It was obvious that their commander and I had history and that I was no ordinary infantry captain. Grant sensed their interest and tried to regain control of the encounter. “Well you are still under arrest,” he snapped and then he turned to his sergeant. “Tie his hands and then give me the other end of the rope.”

  “On what charge?” I demanded.

  “Desertion and masquerading as another officer,” announced the pompous fool. “For all I know you could have killed the owner of that uniform and might still be working for the emperor. Perhaps he has sent you forward to spy on our retreat.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” I immediately dismissed the idea of telling him that Bonaparte wanted me arrested, for he would have been tempted to hand me over to the French. “You know full well why I don’t have my own British uniform,” I protested as the sergeant tied my hands. “This coat is the wrong rank and probably has the man’s name sewn in it somewhere. I just thought it would be simpler to use it if stopped.”

  “Rubbish,” Grant snapped taking the
end of the rope and then wheeling his horse back in the direction of the British line. He yanked hard on my tether, nearly causing me to fall over as I half ran to keep up. “We will see what Colonel Colborne has to say about ‘Captain Edmonds’,” Grant announced.

  “By all means,” I agreed. It was taking me back to the battle I had been trying to avoid, but at least Colborne would help me get off this ridiculous charge. Then I would have to find a new way of sliding out.

  As though he could read my mind Grant leaned down and hissed so that only I could hear. “I know you, Flashman, always trying to talk your way out of trouble with one lie after another. I have never trusted you and I never will.” He gave a vicious laugh. “Do you know that there is a merchant following the army with four large empty barrels that he plans to fill with teeth? He has told soldiers that he will pay for any healthy teeth that they take from the dead so that he can use them to make false dentures back in England. I am sure with the right inducement he would be happy to take yours while you are alive.” He sneered, “You would not find it quite so easy to talk your way out of trouble then.”

  “You’re mad,” I told him. There was no way he would get away with that without having his reputation ruined, but as I looked up at him there did seem a glint of insanity in those eyes. It was clear he hated me with a passion and, as I ran my tongue over my teeth, I had to wonder just how far he would go.

  Chapter 43

  As we got close to the crossroads I nodded towards the track to Hougoumont and called out, “You will find the wounded men I was with, including the body of Captain Edmonds, a hundred yards down there on the left.” The sergeant must have looked to Grant for assent and then he and another trooper spurred their horses and galloped on ahead and turned down the track. By the time I had been half dragged and stumbled to the junction the sergeant was just pushing his horse back into the road from the ditch at the side.