Flashman's Escape

by Robert Brightwell

  It is my belief that Beresford never wanted to fight a battle at Albuera. He had become a nervous old woman fretting at every detail. He had a strong position on the ridge and a big numerical advantage: he had ended up with thirty-five thousand men to the French twenty-four thousand, even though some British units had not yet arrived. I think he wanted to show Soult how many men he did have, to deter the Frenchman from attacking at all. If that was his plan then he had seriously misjudged his man.

  Soult was a seasoned and tenacious commander. He must have watched the display with interest and may even have guessed what had prompted it. He was certainly not intimidated, but now he had the advantage of seeing the entire enemy disposition displayed before him. He saw clearly that he was expected to attack across the bridges and how far along the crest his enemy’s force extended. He would have seen that it did not reach far enough south to occupy the two small hills that were the highest points of the ridge. He would also have noticed that the troops on the southern end of the allied line were all Spanish.

  The victor of Gebora would have quickly seen the potential of attacking from the south. He could occupy the southern hilltops with guns and march his men against the weak Spanish troops who would flee in panic and disrupt the resistance of the British troops further along the crest. With luck he would roll up the entire allied army and once again an emphatic victory would be his. But to do all of this he needed the element of surprise; he needed to get to those hilltops before his enemy had a chance to defend them. So while he sent most of his army south, hidden in the forest, to loop around the bottom of the ridge; he also did what his enemy expected and launched an attack on the village.

  Chapter 5

  From the British lines it seemed a slow start to the attack. The crest of the ridge was out of range of the French artillery and so we could watch in safety as the scene unfolded before us. The French batteries were concentrating on our guns which were covering the bridges over the river. As we had been given plenty of time to prepare for the battle and our guns were well dug in, they had little effect.

  After half an hour of this fruitless bombardment, Soult sent over some of his cavalry. French horsemen cantered over the bridges and through fords to probe at the village. Our cavalry responded with troops of their own, and for the next half an hour there were various inconclusive skirmishes between the mounted men around the village. The British infantry in the village fired their inaccurate muskets at the fast-moving horsemen and had little to show for their efforts.

  At one point some of the British horsemen crossed the river to the French side, but in response several brigades of French cavalry moved out from the forest and formed up in their squadrons facing the men in red. Even from a distance it was a magnificent sight. There were thousands of horsemen and their uniforms were a riot of colour. There were dragoons in green, Polish lancers with their strange square-ended helmets in blue, hussars in uniforms of various colours with their dolman jackets thrown over one shoulder and cuirassiers with their metal breastplates reflecting the grey sky above them.

  Some of the women who had followed their men up the ridge were now standing in gaps between the companies to see the spectacle for themselves. They exchanged ribald comments with the men on the finery displayed before them. The show of force was enough for our cavalry, though, who retreated back to our side of the river.

  “I wish they would get on with it,” muttered Lieutenant Hervey, who had ridden up beside me. “It looks like it will tip down soon. It will be difficult firing volleys in the rain, with the powder getting damp.”

  “Perhaps that is what they are waiting for,” I suggested.

  But no sooner were the words out of my mouth than trumpet calls indicated that the attack on the village was finally underway. A large French column slowly appeared from underneath the trees on the other side of the valley and started to march down towards the river. We looked for other columns, but there was just one for now. It seemed weak for a main attack, but I wondered if this first column had orders to secure the bridges and the village before the advance of the rest of the army.

  We watched as the mass of men came on, with the drummers beating in the centre of the column like the heartbeat of a single creature. A hundred yards down the slope and the drummers gave a double beat and some two thousand men roared out their challenge: “Vive l’empereur.” It was a sound I had now heard many times before, although it still gave me a chill down my spine. Some of the newer men glanced about them to see if this was normal, but the old hands looked unperturbed.

  “Don’t worry, lads,” shouted Corporal Benton to some of the recruits. “They don’t make as much noise when they are running away.”

  “What do you think will happen, sir?” asked Price-Thomas, walking up to stand near my horse. I noticed that the conversation of the men in the line behind had stilled so that they could overhear the answer.

  “Well, there are only two British battalions in the village to defend it and I would estimate six French battalions coming down the hill. So I guess that Beresford will send some battalions down to help defend the village.”

  But for a while it looked like I was wrong as our artillery put up a strong defence of the bridges and the British infantry already in the village could easily deal with the few French troops that did manage to get across the water.

  “It seems the French do not want to get their feet wet,” said Hervey as we watched the French move about on their side of the river bank. “The river is only waist deep. They could just wade across without using the bridges.”

  In hindsight the French troops probably did not want to get themselves killed in what they knew was just a diversionary attack; but eventually they were ordered to cross the river as Soult wanted to draw more British troops away from where his main attack would strike.

  Of course the great oaf Beresford swallowed the bait. He ordered our brigade as well as a Portuguese one to advance to the north of the village. For good measure he threw in some Spanish reserve units as well.

  Major King rode along our line calling out to his officers, “We are to move forward. Fix bayonets; we will fire a volley and charge at any French who make a stand.”

  “Fix bayonets,” called out Sergeant Evans without waiting for any command from me and grey steel seventeen-inch blades were attached to every muzzle in the company.

  “Sergeant, we will advance,” I called out, seeing that the company next to mine had just commenced moving, and a solid line of redcoats started to descend slowly down the ridge. There were cheers from the few women still watching, but I was more distracted by the large raindrop that had just landed on my sleeve. I looked up as another drop splashed in my face; the promised downpour was about to start. The men were all loaded, and if rainwater got down the barrels, the powder would get damp and the guns would not fire.

  “Sergeant,” I called again. “Secure firelocks.”

  The men came to a halt again as they reached into their pouches for the tompion plugs, which they wedged into their gun muzzles to stop rain getting down the barrel. Then they took large patches of leather or oiled canvas, known as ‘cows knees’, and tied these over the locks of their guns so that the rain could not reach the priming or dampen the charge. In the short time it took them to complete these tasks the rain had got heavier and there were now damp patches all over my coat. Glancing along the line, I saw other companies had been forced to stop to take the same precautions. I waited for them to finish securing locks and resume the advance before I ordered my company forward, so that the battalion maintained a solid formation.

  Along with the other senior officers of the battalion, Hervey and I were riding our horses in front of the line. It was our job to demonstrate courage and leadership to our men by leading the way. When I am only under fire from raindrops it is something that I am happy to do. I could see that we were out of range of the French artillery, and when the actual shooting started officers would retire behind their men so that they did
not get in the way of the volleys. I looked over my shoulder to check that the company was keeping in line with the rest. Ensign Price-Thomas was walking behind the line with Boney. Sergeant Evans was shouting orders at men to close up ranks and keep the line straight and everything was clearly under control. I glanced across to the regimental colours. The two flags were being carried behind the fourth company and hung limp in the damp air. Nodding a greeting to Lieutenant Latham of the fourth, I looked past him to see three more sets of flags marking out the other battalions in Colborne’s division.

  We were halfway down the slope when the French artillery tested the range by firing a salvo at our line. As I expected, all of the balls fell short and barely bounced on the wet turf.

  “First three companies support the infantry in the village,” called out Major King. “The rest of us to push down to the river.”

  “Damn,” I cursed under my breath as we were one of the first three companies.

  Already the other two were changing the angle of their march to reach the buildings, and without any further orders from me my men followed suit. There was a steady crackle of musketry from the ruined buildings and I could see French infantry and cavalry milling about on the far river bank, looking to support their comrades fighting house to house. But the British troops were clearly well entrenched in the buildings and putting up a strong defence. There was no sign of anyone dressed in red pulling back from the narrow streets.

  We had gone at least another hundred yards when the French guns fired again. With such a long line and relatively few French cannon, the odds of being hit were low, but not low enough. I did not hear a shout from the men; it was a distant scream from a woman that made me turn around. On the ridge top I saw a figure in a greatcoat and a red dress sink to her knees with her hands held to her face. Glancing back, I saw a body lying stretched out behind our line in the grass.

  “Keep going! Close up now,” shouted the sergeant as the men moved on.

  I turned my horse and the ranks parted to let it through. As I got to the body I dropped down from the saddle. I did not need a close inspection to see that Corporal Benton was dead. A shoulder and a quarter of his chest had been smashed to pulp. I looked up to Lucy still kneeling on the ridge top and shook my head to indicate he was not just wounded.

  “You poor devil,” I whispered quietly to the corpse. Even though I had been cuckolding him I felt a sadness as I looked into the now glassy eyes. He had been a good man at heart, if a bit too trusting of his wife and his captain. “Don’t worry, I will look after her,” I told him and right then I meant it.

  I turned back to the rest of my men; they were a hundred yards away now and reaching the outskirts of the village. A new crescendo of musket fire indicated that the French were still trying to push into its centre. I was about to remount when I hesitated. The last time I had been in a melee with French infantry, at Busaco, I had found that a soldier with a bayonet had a much longer reach than an officer with a sword. In skilled hands the bayonet would win every time. Benton would do me one final service: I reached down and grabbed his musket before I swung up into the saddle and rode off.

  Chapter 6

  Hervey was already overseeing the dispersal of the company into the buildings when I reached the village. “Leave your horse here,” I told him as I dismounted and tied my mount to a broken roof beam. “The French will try to pick off officers and on horseback you will be a sitting duck. Get yourself a long arm too,” I said, holding up my musket, “to make things harder for them.”

  I looked around for Price-Thomas, but the boy had already disappeared into the buildings, armed with just his sword. The wolfhound was still waiting patiently for me, though. “Come on, Boney,” I called. “You can sniff out the French for me.” With that I plunged into the tangle of roofless buildings.

  Having been bivouacked in the village for nearly a month, I knew its layout well. I could hear my men shouting ahead of me and so I thought the alley I was in must have been cleared of the French. Hervey charged off down another abandoned street and Boney and I were left alone for a moment in the stone maze. I could hear Hervey encouraging the men forward as he pushed through the streets and I added my own voice to the throng. “Come on, men, press on,” I yelled, without moving forward myself a single inch.

  I had no intention of blundering into a French assault. This was, I thought, an ideal fighting environment for a man with no particular wish to meet the enemy. For with my command divided and unable to see each other, they would simply assume I was with another group. Mind you, it would not do to fall back too far, as I would have to emerge at least in the centre of the village when we had recaptured it.

  The village was divided into two halves, with the Seville-to-Badajoz road running through the middle. From the sound of things the British were at least up to the road and so I pressed cautiously on. I had remembered a small roofless house on the main street. It was one of the few with a stone staircase which led up to a window on the first floor. I could leave Boney to guard the door, and while there were no floorboards left, I could perch at the top of the stairs and shoot through the window. Given the ruins of the town, the French were unlikely to be looking up at first-floor openings.

  Eventually I reached the doorway and inside found a grim reminder of the battle underway. There were no windows on the ground floor but the light through the open roof revealed two dead British soldiers lying on the floor. They were not from my regiment and must have been part of the original force holding the village. I slung my own musket over my shoulder and picked up one of theirs. There was powder in the frizzen; it was loaded and so was the other. Having commanded Boney to guard the door, I climbed the stairs with my three firearms.

  Peering through the window, I saw that the main road formed part of the front line in the battle for the village. I saw some redcoats in houses on the other side of the street but equally I saw three French men try to cross to get into our side. I snatched up one of my muskets and fired at the group, but there was a crackle of fire from many of the surrounding houses. While the men went down I had no idea if I had hit them. Muskets were notoriously inaccurate, particularly with fast-moving targets. This was proved a moment later when three French dragoons rode their horses full tilt down the street. I blazed away at them, as did others, but they all escaped unscathed. I had no cartridge box up the stairs with me and so crouched with my third and final musket, searching for a target.

  Boney gave a short bark he normally used to welcome people. I looked down, expecting to see some of my company in the space below, but instead there was a figure in a greatcoat and a red dress.

  “What in Christ’s name are you doing here?” I asked Lucy.

  “They killed my Bill. I want to kill one of them,” she stated calmly with an icy and resolute expression on her face. Lucy had lived with the British for two years and had got used to many of our ways. She even spoke English with a country accent. But at that moment I realised that with her eye-for-an-eye, blood-feud attitude, she was still a Spaniard at heart.

  “You bloody fool. You will get yourself killed as well if you are not careful.” I looked at her standing defenceless in the room below. I was going to give her one of my pistols, but then had a better idea. “Can you load a musket?” I asked, only to receive a very rude expression in Spanish by way of a reply. “I speak your language, remember,” I told her, grinning.

  “I have been loading guns since I was a girl,” she told me. “I was faster than my Bill; we once had a contest to fire three shots.”

  She certainly handled the two guns I passed back down the stairs confidently. She had already picked up a cartridge box from one of the dead soldiers. In a moment she was spitting the ball down the barrel like an old hand. She could definitely reload faster than me. She had passed me the first reloaded weapon and was just reaching for the second gun when suddenly everything happened at once: Boney snarled, a shot whined away off the stonework just above my head and Lucy screamed.<
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  It was a dismounted French dragoon who had burst through the door. One part of my brain realised that the charge of horsemen we had seen earlier must have been a ruse to get us to reveal our positions. Now they were hunting us down and I had to kill this bastard before one of his mates joined the fight. Boney was already on him, snapping jaws aiming for the man’s throat. The dragoon tried to fend him off with his still-smoking carbine barrel while I swung my newly loaded weapon round to fire. But Lucy was in the way. She had snatched up the unloaded musket and with an animal shriek she plunged the bayonet deep into the Frenchman’s chest.

  Blood gushed from the dragoon’s mouth as he swung round to stare in disbelief at the musket, now buried up to the bayonet socket in his body. Then he looked at the woman he knew had just killed him. Lucy was sobbing and trying to pull the gun free but it was jammed in his ribs. As the Frenchman’s legs collapsed, he slipped down the wall, dragging the musket from her hands.

  “Get back away from the door,” I yelled at Lucy. “There might be more so take this.” I passed her my spare loaded musket. She took it, but already her bottom lip was starting to tremble at the shock of the last few seconds.

  Boney, having sniffed the dying man, looked through the door. He did not growl and so I realised there was no one else outside. For a second I started to relax a little, and then the dog’s head cocked as we both heard a new sound. It came from the south. I climbed back to the top of the stone staircase and craned my neck around the gable to identify the source. What I saw was enough to make my blood run cold.

  From my higher vantage point I could see over the top of most of the outer buildings of the village and down the side of the ridge occupied by our army. The noise I had heard was the crackle of a new musketry duel. As I stared I could see thousands of French troops pouring from woods to the south and up the unoccupied end of the ridge. They were led by three huge French columns that were already over the southernmost knoll on the ridge crest. Like three battering rams, they were heading towards the Spanish troops at the end of our line, which were hastily realigning themselves to face this new and unexpected threat.