Flashman in the Peninsula

by Robert Brightwell

  ‘How many men does Soult have?’ I asked harshly.

  The boy twitched in alarm. ‘I do not know monsieur, truly I do not. I only know what I hear from other officers. They say that Soult will help trap your army if it escapes but I do not know how many men he has.’

  The boy was clearly telling the truth and he had already told me all I needed to know. ‘All right, I am going to let you sit up. I want you to take off your coat and leave it on the rocks behind you. If you try to pull a knife or a pistol I will kill you, understand?’

  The boy nodded. He was not going to cause any trouble, he was desperate to live. He wriggled out of his coat in a moment.

  ‘Now undo your sword belt and leave that behind.’ The boy complied again. I flicked my sword point back up the hill in the direction from which he had come and said, ‘Now get out of here.’ He scampered up in a moment and was away, leaving me with what I wanted. I shrugged off my own coat and picked up the blue one, and then I paused. The noise of battle from the bottom of the hill was getting louder; I could hear orders being shouted in French and English now. It was clear that a counter attack was underway and there would be an awful irony in being killed by my own side in an enemy coat. I dropped back into my little gap between the rocks and the bush holding both coats. I had already sat there during the defeat of the British. Now I would stay there until it was clear who had won the day and come out dressed accordingly.

  When you are in the heat of battle times flies, but when you are hiding uncomfortably behind a bush listening to one, it seems to take for ever. God knows how long I crouched behind that stinking foliage. Sometimes I thought the battle was ebbing away, indicating the French were winning, and sometimes it seemed to be coming closer with the British having the upper hand. Only when I started to see some French soldiers run past my hiding place going back up over the hill was I sure that the British were regaining the hill. Gradually the noise of regular crashing volleys become louder and I peered down the hill into the darkness for signs of the battle line coming my way.

  The French broke in a sudden rush; from one or two stragglers there were suddenly dozens of blue coated troops running up the hill and past my position. Then I could see more troops marching in solid ranks coming up behind. Salvation in the form of a company of redcoats was marching towards me, they were set to pass either side of my hiding place, and I would emerge and be safe again.

  But of all the stupid luck, a French officer and his sergeant started to try and rally their men right in front of my bush. The officer called for his men to stand and a sergeant next to him was bellowing similar orders. Then other soldiers started to hesitate as they ran past.

  ‘Company, halt,’ called an English voice from the red jacketed men below.

  With an awful realisation I understood that they were preparing to fire a volley. Eighty musket balls would sweep away the French, but the only protection I had in that direction was a bush. I was listening to the orders of my own firing squad.

  ‘Company, present,’ called the English voice again.

  I did not have to look to imagine the eighty muskets being raised to the shoulder. I had to act. Frantically I pulled my pistol from the pocket of the red coat and aimed it at the broad back of the French sergeant. I fired at exactly the same moment I heard the English voice call, ‘Aim.’

  I burst out from the bush, sword in hand. ‘Don’t shoot,’ I yelled, ‘I am British.’

  The French officer, who had turned to look at his sergeant, tried to whirl back to face the white shirted stranger who had appeared from nowhere. But it was too late. I just jabbed my sword at him without aiming and more by luck than skill I stuck it straight in his throat. More blood spurted in my direction covering my shirt and breeches but I did not care about that. My attention was on the line of men down the hill, with their fingers curled around the triggers of eighty muskets pointed in my direction.

  ‘Don’t shoot!’ I repeated. ‘I’m Captain Flashman, I’m British.’ Having just seen me slay two Frenchman in front of them, that was perhaps obvious, but I was taking no chances.

  ‘Company port arms,’ the voice called. ‘Company advance.’ The resumed tramping of British boots was right then once of the sweetest sounds I have ever heard. It was interrupted by the buzz of a ball over my head as one of the French infantry behind me stopped retreating just long enough to take a shot at the man who had killed their officer and sergeant. I was not out of the woods yet, and in keeping with my reputation as a brave and resourceful officer, I felt a gesture was required.

  ‘Come on lads,’ I yelled, waving my blood-stained sword in the air. ‘Go at them, they won’t stand now.’

  ‘Go at them lads,’ confirmed one of their officers and with a guttural roar the whole company surged forward passing either side of me. It was a fine sight, men in their familiar red coats with their sweating faces and bayonet points glistening in the moonlight. You may be sure that no one cheered them on more enthusiastically than me, although I was careful not to take a single step further up that hill. Once they had passed it seemed strangely quiet. I looked down on the bodies of the two Frenchmen I had killed, for they were both now quite dead. It had been one hell of a night and I had been just the twitch of a trigger finger away from joining them. I sat down on a rock to gather my thoughts, but before they had even had a chance to rally themselves I heard my name being called.

  ‘Flashman, good God, I thought you were dead.’

  I looked up and there was the portly general who had evidently survived his brush with French skirmishers. He was riding back up the hill again and behind him other officers were emerging from the gloom, some on horseback and others on foot. ‘I nearly was, sir. Is Wellesley with you? I have news for him.’

  ‘Sir Arthur,’ shouted the general, while twisting around in his saddle to shout at those behind him. ‘I have found Flashman, he is alive.’ Several of the horsemen nudged their mounts slightly to head in my direction, amongst them the familiar tall lanky figure. But it was one of the men on foot who reached me first, as bounding over the rocks came a beaming Campbell.

  ‘Flashman you rascal, the general was sure you were killed or captured and here you are, ready to buy me my breakfast after all. I say, are you wounded?’ He stopped in surprise as he notice that the dark stain on my shirt front was blood and there was more caked down the side of my face.

  ‘Oh, most of it came from that fellow when I killed him,’ I explained, gesturing with deliberate casualness to the French officer lying near my feet. ‘Took a knock on the head though, bullet I think, but it just bounced off my skull.’ I was not going to admit to cutting my head falling over, and by now the other officers were crowding round and congratulating me on my good fortune.

  ‘Remarkable, ’pon my word,’ called one, ‘where is your coat sir?’

  ‘Still behind that bush,’ I said without thinking, and Campbell darted into the foliage to retrieve it.

  ‘It is good to see you Flashman,’ Wellesley greeted me primly but already his eyes were darting ahead to where his men were securing the crest of the hill.

  ‘I say,’ said Campbell emerging from the bush holding up both of my coats. ‘There is a French coat back there as well as a British one.’ The babble of voices suddenly stopped and people looked to me enquiringly, some I thought with a slightly hostile glare, as though they guessed why I had procured a French coat in the first place. It was certainly not considered seemly to run out on your own side.

  ‘Flashman, what is this?’ asked Wellesley with slight distaste. But I was ready with my explanation.

  ‘Well of course there is, you could hardly expect me to join a meeting of French officers in a British uniform.’

  ‘You did what?’ exclaimed Campbell, astonished.

  ‘You heard,’ I grinned. ‘Remember I was recruited first as a spy in India? Well it is an old habit to break. So when I found myself behind enemy lines and a number of Victor’s officers gathered to discuss the battle, I
found a uniform jacket on a dead officer and stood at the back to listen. Damn good job I did too as what I learned might save this army.’

  Most of them crowded round at that, some patting me on the back as they admired my coolness under pressure. Wellesley, I noticed, stayed where he was, watching me with a curious expression which made me a tad uneasy. But I did not get time to consider this as the rest of them were clamouring to know what I had discovered.

  ‘The army you know is out yonder,’ I told them, pointing to the eastern horizon, which would soon reveal the combined army of Victor and King Bonaparte, ‘is just part of the French plan.’ I paused for a second to allow the tension to build, for I was going to milk this for as much credit as I could get. ‘We are already humbugged, gentlemen,’ I told them portentously. ‘For five days march to the west, behind us, comes another French army commanded by Soult.’

  There were gasps and exclamation aplenty then. Some were saying they could not believe it, others shouting we would have to beat Victor without delay and yet more counselling caution and a retreat across the Talavera bridge, and guarding the few crossing points of the river Tagus. Above the babble Wellesley’s voice cut in.

  ‘Where exactly is Soult now?’

  ‘The French believe he is at Plascencia,’ I told him.

  Wellesley nodded, showing he thought my five day estimate to be realistic, before asking the critical question. ‘How many men does he have?’

  ‘I don’t know. They did not mention numbers and I could not attract attention by asking questions or they would have realised that they had a stranger in their midst.’

  ‘He only had around fifteen thousand men left when we beat him at Oporto,’ opined the fat general.

  ‘Yes, but there are other French marshals in the north,’ said a voice in the crowd, ‘such as Ney and Mortier who could have given him reinforcements.’ That sparked a new debate before Wellesley cut in crisply.

  ‘It does not matter now. What is important is that we have time to beat the French army in front of us. Then we will worry about Soult.’ He turned to look at me and warmth broke through his normal cold look of disdain. ‘Flashman, once again I have underestimated your resourcefulness. You were worth a regiment to me in India, undermining enemy morale and then letting us into Gawilghur. Now you are saving my army again. I thank you.’ His grin widened as he added, ‘Now I suppose I should reward you with the thing I know you crave...’

  As he spoke I remembered with horror that the misguided fool believed that I wanted a role of action in the heat of the coming battle. Well, I had already done enough, and there was no way I was going into the jaws of death again. I knew just how to get out of it too. All it took was an artful stumble and my hand going to my bleeding head for several people to reach forward to catch me and guide me to a nearby rock to sit.

  ‘I say, sir,’ called a major I did not know, although I could have kissed him at the time. ‘This Flashman fellow is not well.’ He turned to me, ‘This cut sir, was it caused by a sword or a glancing bullet?’

  I weakly waved the major away as I looked up to Wellesley. ‘Don’t worry sir, it takes more than a French bullet to stop me.’ He looked down at me with a mixture of concern and admiration as I added, ‘I will be ready for action in a moment, just feeling a bit dizzy all of a sudden.’

  I allowed myself to slump more against the major who was by now standing beside me, and fluttered my eyelids as though struggling to retain consciousness, but I had done enough.

  ‘I am sorry, Flashman,’ said Wellesley decisively. ‘But you are too valuable to waste against the enemy when you are not in top fighting trim. Major, would you take Captain Flashman back to the surgeon’s tent to be examined.’ I made a token show of reluctance but the major soon had me moving in the right direction. Wellesley patted me on the shoulder as I went past him. ‘You can join me on the hill to watch when you are patched up, but you are not for the front line today.’ And this from a man they later called the Iron Duke!

  Chapter 13

  Initially I had no intention of returning back up that hill, but all of the walking wounded from the night’s battle were rushing back up there to regain their places in the ranks. It would have looked strange if the hero of the hour had remained lounging in the surgeon’s tent with just a bandage round his head, sipping the surgical brandy. At least I had Wellesley’s assurance I was not for the front line, so reluctantly, as the grey light of dawn spread across the sky I set off again. But this time I took my horse. If things went badly I wanted to be sure I could make a fast get away.

  Wellesley had organised his forces in a long line stretching from the hill towards the Spanish on the right. The hill was the dominant position and it was at its summit that I found Wellesley and half a dozen of his officers sitting on their horses, squinting into the sunrise to make out the enemy formations. We watched as regiments started to march and form up into three huge columns. Most alarming from my perspective was that they were all forming up on the French right, opposite the hill I was standing on.

  ‘They are Victor’s men,’ said Campbell to me. He had ridden up alongside when I reached the summit. ‘He is readying for an early attack. He failed to take the hill by stealth in the night and now he seems to be planning to take it by weight of numbers and force.’ Victor did not know the number of men that opposed him on the hill for there were no British infantry on the facing slope. I had passed them on the way up, a long line of redcoats resting out of sight of the enemy but ready to come over the crest of the hill when called. Looking at the huge mass of men that were gathering across the valley, the line I had ridden through seemed pathetically fragile. Turning to the right I could see the British line extending beyond the hill towards the Spanish position. That thin stream of red coated men seemed no thicker than the ones I had passed and they were in full view of the French. Looking at the men massing against us it was as though we were planning to stop the advance of three whales with a flimsy net. The French had double the number of the British, while our allies seemed literally frightened of their own shadow. I looked for the British horsemen and found them some distance off to the left to forestall any flanking move. The French had cavalry of their own on the wings to counter any move of our horse.

  There was a mutter of excitement from the watching officers and someone called out, ‘That must be Joseph Bonaparte.’ I trained my glass towards a knot of gaudily dressed officers on the hill rising from the far side of the valley. They were too far away to make out any features in my glass, but evidently they were there to order the start of the attack, as almost immediately a signal gun fired. The hollow boom was followed a few seconds later by a rumble of gunfire like rolling thunder, as down the valley over fifty large cannon opened fire. Any rational person with a wit of common sense would be looking to take cover at this point, but not of course a British army officer.

  ‘It looks likely to be a hot morning,’ said Campbell calmly, although whether he was talking about the guns or the sun that was only just rising into the sky it was hard to say.

  ‘Oh I say, are those bunting?’ called another officer as a flock of birds startled by the gunfire rose up in a large flock from the valley floor. It was the fat general of the night before, Rowland Hill, a kindly old duffer who was known as Daddy Hill to his men.

  The hundreds of pounds of iron screaming through the air in our direction were blithely ignored by my brother officers as most of them gazed up at the wretched birds. I stared at them in astonishment. If there was ever a time when I was less interested in flora and fauna, well I couldn’t think of it. The first salvo fell well short as the cannon barrels were cold. I saw balls bounce up the slope beneath us kicking up clouds of dust, tufts of grass and turf. I seemed to be the only one watching the fall of shot. As the gunfire of the first salvo died away, the rest of our party engaged in the evidently more important debate of deciding whether the birds were bunting, finches or wastrels.

  I stared around me wondering ho
w long this madness could last, but then I noticed that their studied airs of unconcern were, if anything, a little too studied. One officer was choosing this moment to pick lint from his sleeve while another found a mark on the back of his hand fascinating. I knew that I was looking at the insidious influence of British public schools. From the first day, boys are taught that a gentleman should never show fear and certainly not in front of the enemy or the lower orders. With our own men resting in relative safely over the crest it was unthinkable that we should run to cover to join them. Oh no, honour demanded that we sit there like fish in a barrel nonchalantly ignoring the shot coming our way. Rugby school had tried to instil that ethic in me too, but with mixed success. I was careful to keep my credit with those that mattered, but given the chance I would slide out at the first opportunity.

  ‘Do you think they are bunting, Flashman?’ Hill was looking enquiringly at me.

  ‘I am sorry sir, I have no idea.’ I did not care a fig for the wretched birds; my mind was turning to other more important matters, such as saving my own skin. I glanced down to our right at the long lines of redcoats stretching away to the Spanish position and completely exposed to the French cannon. ‘Sir Arthur,’ I turned to Wellesley, ‘should we not order our men on the right to lie down, they are horribly exposed as they are.’

  ‘Ah yes, Flashman, that is a good idea.’ I was already sliding my feet into the stirrups ready to take the order; and thinking that a relapse of my head injury and another spell in the surgical tent was called for, when he turned to a young cornet behind him. ‘Mr Darcy, would you give my compliments to Sherbrooke and tell him that I desire his men to lie down until the enemy advance.’

  ‘Yes sir,’ the young man threw up a smart salute before turning his horse to carry away my message.

  ‘And wait with the infantry on your return Mr Darcy,’ called out Wellesley. Once the lad was out of earshot he murmured, ‘I promised his mother I would look after him,’ as though an excuse was required for this act of compassion. I glared with a look of jealous venom at the retreating back of the boy, but before I could say any more the first French guns completed their reloading and fired again.