Flashman in the Peninsula

by Robert Brightwell

  As if the sights weren’t bad enough, there was also the regular crash of musket volleys through the morning as Cuesta executed his forty prisoners in front of his whole army. While this had been designated a day of rest by Wellesley before the British turned around to face Soult, the area seemed to be a hive of activity. The dead were being gathered in one area. Elsewhere the surviving wounded were also being gathered and many taken by cart to the town of Talavera where buildings had been commandeered by the surgeons as sick bays. As well as carts for the wounded, supply wagons beetled about with ammunition, spare flints, rations and everything else the army would need for the march ahead. I had expected to be leaving that day but Wellesley had been too busy to write his despatches. He called me into his tent late that evening to hand over his reports on the battle for the Central Junta. Another officer was taking copies of these to Lisbon for the British government. It was too late to leave then in the dark so we both arranged to depart in the morning. I would head south to Seville while the rest of the British would march west to face Soult. Cuesta would stay in Talavera, giving the impression to Victor’s army that the whole allied army was still there.

  I was awoken before dawn the next morning by shouts rousing the British army so that they could cover as much ground as possible in the relative cool of the early morning. As I prepared my own equipment I watched as the first regiments formed up and started to march away. They were each followed by a pathetic straggle of wounded men still able to walk. Some had arms in slings, others hobbled slowly on crutches and I even saw two men who had been blinded in the battle being led by their fellows. Cuesta had promised the Spanish would look after the British wounded and some fifteen hundred British were in their care. The redcoats, however, were deeply suspicious of the attention that they would receive, so any who were capable of marching in some manner, generally chose to do so. Despite the discomfort, they would rather stay with their comrades even if a battle waited at the end of the journey.

  I mounted up and headed south. There was no need of an escort as the road between Seville and Talavera was packed with civilians and soldiers generally heading in the same direction as me. I fell in with some Spanish cavalry officers who had been ordered by Cuesta to detail the Spanish side of the victory to the Central Junta.

  In the first few towns we passed the inhabitants sought reassurance that the battle had been won, as earlier refugees and fleeing soldiers from the first day of the battle had insisted that the battle had been lost and that the French were on their tail. It was a hundred and fifty miles to Seville in a straight line, but with hills and mountains in between, the actual road distance was closer to two hundred and fifty. As no one rode through the midday heat it took ten days to reach the independent Spanish capital. Unknown to me, much had been happening during that time to the British, which I should probably recount here.

  On the day I left Talavera, Cuesta received a despatch from one of the guerrilla leaders warning that instead of the expected fifteen thousand men, Soult had a command of fifty thousand. Wellesley’s own fifteen thousand would stand no chance against this force. Cuesta sent a message just in time which allowed Wellesley to retreat south of the Tagus where he could use the river to help protect his force. The dark suspicions of the British wounded were confirmed when Cuesta then immediately abandoned them in order to retreat himself, ultimately also going south of the Tagus. There, the allied army stayed in relative safety guarding the few bridges across the river, while the French dominated all the land to the north, including Talavera.

  I knew nothing of this as I rode south. If I spared a thought for Campbell and the others who I believed were marching to battle, it was not for long. For once I was in the vanguard of those bringing the news of Talavera, I found every town and village we passed through wanted to enjoy the victory. After a series of crushing defeats they were desperate for something to celebrate. I found glasses of jerez and other local brews pushed into my not unwilling hands at every settlement. I was drunk most of the way, which was why the journey took so long, but I did not care. I had come to Spain on the promise of a quiet staff job and to escape royal scandal. Instead I had faced ambush, intrigues, nearly been killed by my own side as well as the French, not to mention the death or glory cavalry charge that had come within an ace of seeing me blown apart. Hell, I deserved some rest and relaxation, and if the rest of the army wanted to throw itself against one French marshal after another until it ceased to exist, well it was nothing to do with me.

  I was therefore hung over and feeling somewhat belligerent when I finally crested a hill and saw Seville spread out before me. The skyline was dominated by the huge tower of the cathedral, which was across a square from the royal palace which housed the Central Junta. I rode slowly down along the river and acknowledged the shouts of ‘bravo’ from some of the citizens who recognised my red coat. Most buildings in the centre of the city had Spanish flags flying from them and preparations seemed underway for a major celebration. Clearly some diligent swot, who had not stopped to get drunk at every town he passed, had brought news of the victory before me. It was as I reported to the secretary of the Central Junta that I discovered the news of Soult’s larger force and the plan of the allies to retreat south of the Tagus, abandoning the hard won battleground of Talavera.

  ‘But please señor,’ the little clerk had wrung his hands as he appealed to me, ‘you must keep this information secret for another day. The Central Junta want to celebrate the victory before it is known that the army has been forced to retreat.’ He pushed a colourfully engraved pasteboard card across the table. ‘You are of course invited, as a representative of our honoured allies, to a celebration ball this evening here at the palace.’

  ‘I suppose I could do that,’ I agreed, wondering if my constitution could stand another night of celebration.

  On leaving the palace I rode across the square past the cathedral towards a broad thoroughfare that seemed to be lined with places of refreshment. I realised I was hungry and was just looking for a vacant table in the shade of the big awnings that had been put up to protect the patrons, when I heard my name being called.

  ‘By Jove,’ called someone incredulously. ‘I say that is Flashman. Flashy, over here!’

  I turned, trying to place the familiar voice, but probably would not have guessed that its owner would be in Seville in a month of Sundays. Sitting at a large table in front of the grandest café was a man dressed in an immaculate lancer’s uniform; it was Lord George Byron.

  Editor’s note: Astonished as Flashman was, Byron’s biographers confirm that he was in Seville at this time. He had arrived in Lisbon a few weeks previously and was travelling south via Seville to Gibraltar where he joined a ship to take him on his first ‘grand tour’ of the Italian states and Greece. His timing was such that he followed the news of the victory of Talavera, so while he did not attend the ball at Seville, he did attend the celebrations at Cadiz.

  I stood and gaped for a moment. As if a military Byron there in the Spanish independent capital was not surprising enough, there beside him was a sunburnt Cam Hobhouse in a plain brown broadcloth suit. Sitting next to them was a dour young woman dressed in a modest black gown with a large medal hanging round her neck on a ribbon. Behind their table the stone flags were covered with a pile of luggage and what looked like an old grey fur rug. I was not the only one staring; there was a good sized crowd of nearly two dozen looking in curiosity from the street. I dismounted shaking my head with disbelief and, handing my reins to a waiter, I pushed through the crowd to meet them.

  ‘What on earth are you doing here,’ I asked, while shaking hands with Byron and Hobhouse and bowing in greeting to the lady in black who just scowled in return. ‘And why the uniform?’ I asked, gesturing at Byron’s lancer fig. ‘Surely you have not joined the army?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Byron, smoothing down a crease in his britches. ‘But it does look rather fine on me, doesn’t it? I thought a military look would be appro
priate given our army is here as well.’ He gestured at the people watching, ‘I’m not sure whether these people have come to admire the cut of my clothes or because they have heard of my poetry but they have been watching for the last half an hour.

  I glanced at the spectators and most seemed to be staring at the woman, but they were not uppermost in my mind. ‘Yes, but why are you here?’ I asked again.

  ‘Ah well,’ said Byron, ‘it is the strangest thing. All London society is currently gossiping over what scandalous behaviour I must have committed to make leaving the country necessary, when in fact we had to leave because of Hobhouse here.’

  ‘We don’t need to bore Thomas with any of this,’ said Hobhouse, looking mightily embarrassed. Then in a desperate attempt to change the conversation he added, ‘Were you at this big battle at the place called Tala… something?’

  ‘Oh no,’ I said, grinning at Byron. ‘I would not be bored at all. I would be intrigued to know what Cam has done to merit your voluntary exile.’

  Byron patted Hobhouse on the arm, ‘It’s all right, we know Flashman, and he won’t tell anyone.’ He turned to me before continuing. ‘It is quite incredible. The Duke of York has somehow become convinced that Hobhouse was in league with Mary Clarke in plotting his downfall. Some of his people have been asking questions all over town trying to put a case together, suggesting that Clarke seduced Cam to be the brains behind the scheme.’ As he spoke, Hobhouse’s already red face was flushing a deeper crimson, while I could not resist giving his normal pomposity another tweak.

  ‘My stars,’ I looked at him in feigned admiration. ‘There was me thinking you were a bit of a dull old stick and all the time you were ploughing that prime furrow.’

  Hobhouse puffed himself up like an outraged bullfrog. ‘I can assure that I have never ploughed… I mean I have never been with the lady. I only met her once.’ He paused, a brief look of dark suspicion crossing his face, and then added, ‘actually I think I introduced her to you.’

  ‘I think you did,’ I agreed, smiling with what I hoped was a look of angelic innocence. ‘That is the only time that I met her too. But what makes the duke think that you are responsible? It is such a shame I have not been in London or I could have stood as a witness for that meeting.’

  Hobhouse looked mollified. ‘Thank you Thomas, an army witness would have been helpful; it might still be helpful if they hound me again when we return. I have no idea why they picked on me. They kept saying that they have a witness who claimed to have seen me plotting with her. The duke’s people are busy ruining Colonel Wardle and seem determined to find another victim in London that they can pin this on. That is why we had to leave to go on this wretched tour.’

  Byron grinned at me again. ‘As you may have detected Thomas, Cam is not enjoying foreign travel!’

  I felt a certain vicious amusement as Hobhouse took this as a cue to grumble about filthy hotels, the heat, appalling food and what he referred to as a barbaric and superstitious populace. He had always looked down his nose at me, and it gave me some pleasure at seeing him being brought down a peg or two. If he had known that the man who had named him and thus forced him to exile was sitting across the table he would have been livid. Had we been alone I would have been tempted to tell him just to see his reaction. Instead I interrupted his diatribe on all things Spanish and Portuguese to mention that I was half Spanish myself.

  ‘Then you have my deepest sympathies,’ he said cuttingly. ‘The sooner we are safely on the British warship that is taking us to Rome the better.’

  ‘You should be careful what you wish for,’ I told him. ‘I spent a year with the Navy in the Mediterranean and unless you have a liking for storms, salted meat and ship’s biscuit full of weevils, I think you will find the food a lot better here.’ His red face took on a tinge of green at the thought. I turned to look at the scowling woman in black, who had still to speak a word. She might have been pretty if she bothered to smile but she just looked away. I turned to Byron and gestured towards her, ‘Who is the lady?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Byron, who then pointed at a priest standing nearby in the watching crowd. ‘Her name is Señora de Aragon; the priest there brought her over to sit with us. He told us all about her. She is also known as the Maid of Zaragoza. After praying for help, she was able to turn back a French advance single handed and saved the city for the Spanish. I am thinking of including some verses about her in my new work.’ I glanced across at the priest, who looked pleased with himself as he heard his tale recounted to another British soldier. He appeared less happy when I turned to the woman and spoke to her in Spanish.

  ‘The priest says you prayed for help, stopped a French advance single handed and saved the city of Zaragoza,’ I told her, not bothering to hide the disbelief in my voice.

  The woman looked briefly surprised that I spoke her language before replying quietly, ‘The priest is a lying, cock sucking bastard.’

  I grinned; clearly she was not the devout woman that the priest had described. ‘Were you even at Zaragoza?’

  ‘Oh yes, I was there.’ She glanced resentfully at the priest, ‘With a man called Raul, not my husband. But now I am famous my husband has made these priests my guardians and they watch me like a hawk.’

  ‘So what happened in Zaragoza?’

  ‘Raul was a gunner and he was defending one of the bastions of the city. I had gone there with some apples for him and his crew when the French attacked. They came storming up a breach, Raul and his men were desperately trying to load with canister shot to sweep them away when the French troops shot at them. Raul fell and most of the other men he was with ran away. I was not praying, I was crying when I ran forward to hold him, but he was dying. As he saw me he held up the burning slow match and urged me to fire the gun. I did it for him.’ She paused as though remembering the moment and then continued briskly. ‘The French had not expected a girl to fire the gun and the canister shot tore through them taking half of them down. Raul’s men heard the gun and looked back to see me standing over it. They found their courage, came back to finish off the rest and the French attack failed.’

  ‘So you were a hero and they gave you a medal?’ I pointed to the one hanging over her chest but she just gave a scornful laugh.

  ‘Raul was the hero, with his dying breath he wanted to kill the French. The church and the politicians want to use me as an example, but I had left my husband who beat me and took my child to live with another man. The church spread tales that my husband was at the gun, but he was not even in Zaragoza. They say my son died before the siege but he died of a fever while I was being held a prisoner afterwards. Every night I see the face of the French soldier who refused my pleas for a doctor or medicine and let my son die.’ She paused with tears showing in her eyes before adding in a quiet whisper, ‘One day I will find him and kill him.’

  ‘What did she say?’ asked Byron, who had sensed her emotion in the story. I recounted the tale to him and he sat back even more impressed. ‘I will certainly include her in the work now. That is a far more passionate tale than the one the priest told.’

  I turned back to the woman; without the scowl she did look pretty. She seemed shapely too although the black gown fastened up to her neck did her no favours. She saw my look and returned my appraisal.

  ‘Were you at Talavera?’ she asked. ‘Did you see the Spanish charge to capture the guns that everyone has been talking about?’

  ‘I was in the charge,’ I told her, and was rewarded with an appreciative smile as I added that I had been just a yard behind General Cuesta when he entered the battery.

  ‘And who are these?’ she said, gesturing at Byron and Hobhouse. ‘They have far too much luggage to be real soldiers.’ I explained that Byron was a poet and for devilment told her that Hobhouse was a surgeon who specialised in treating the clap. This earned him a withering look before she poured scorn on the idea that anyone could earn a living by writing poems. She held up her medal and exclaimed that real men had to sho
w courage with a sword or a gun and not a quill. Before I could explain that Byron earned little from his poems and much from his massive estate, the man himself interrupted.

  ‘What did she say Flashman? She seemed very passionate about something.’

  ‘Oh, she says she does not like the look of Hobhouse, but she was very pleased that you were going to include her in one of your poems.’

  ‘Really?’ Byron looked absurdly delighted at my gross misinterpretation. He reached across and patted her hand. ‘I will make your story live for ever in poetry,’ he told her pompously. Then he turned to me. ‘What did she say about the medal? Was she given it for saving Zaragoza?’ But before I could answer he was distracted a disturbance in the crowd. A carriage was pulling up with two saddled horses tied to the back. ‘Ah, here are our horses for Cadiz.’

  I was struck by a flash of inspiration, ‘Yes it was for Zaragoza,’ I guessed. ‘But she is on the verge of having to sell it,’ I told him. ‘The priests take what little money she is given, and she wants to return to the war. She really needs someone to give her some money when the priests are not about.’

  Hobhouse looked at me with open suspicion but Byron, having given the priest in the crowd a dark look, turned to me with the solution I had been hoping for. ‘You will be in Seville for a day or two. Here, take this purse and I would be obliged if you would get it to her somehow.’ He pulled a leather purse from his coat and passed it to me across the table. I picked it up – it was impressively heavy – and dropped it in my pocket. Byron was giving the woman a final look of inspection, taking in the drab black garments she wore. ‘Make sure she gets some better clothes, Thomas,’ he added. ‘Maybe a soldier’s uniform if she wants to fight.’

  Hobhouse turned to look at their baggage, but now he turned to Byron with what I thought was a cunning smile on his face. ‘Perhaps Thomas could also look after Viriatus; we have to find a new home for him before we board the ship.’