Flashman's Escape

by Robert Brightwell

  I cursed as things fell into place. Now I understood why Soult’s attack on the village had seemed so weak. It was merely a distraction, and our giant, one-eyed pinhead of a commander had sent half of his army to block it, while leaving some of his weakest forces to resist the real assault.

  “We need to get out of here,” I told Lucy, running down the stairs. Everything I knew about the Spanish regular forces told me that the units facing the French attack would crumble in a matter of moments and then there would be a rout along the ridge crest.

  After a cautious look down the alley, we emerged from the house. As we reached the next narrow street I stopped and bellowed, “Buffs, fall back on the battalion.”

  A head emerged from the window of a house overlooking the main street. “What is happening, sir?” asked Sergeant Evans.

  “The French are attacking along the ridge from the south. This is not their real attack. Get the men back to the regiment.”

  “Yes, sir, I will extrude the men immediately.”

  With that he ducked back into the house and started shouting at others inside, but I was already on my way. I reached my horse and, dropping the musket, jumped up into the saddle. Lucy reached up for me to pull her up onto the horse behind me but I hesitated.

  “Wait,” I called as I quickly thought through the options of what I was going to do next.

  Anticipating the disaster that normally resulted from Spanish involvement in any battle, the safest course would be to turn the horse north and ride for the Guadiana River. Once across that pontoon bridge I would be relatively safe. Lucy was a fine woman, but she would undoubtedly slow the horse down. On the other hand I was fond of her. Did I really want her to fall into the hands of some hairy French hussar? I thought I would risk taking her.

  But then, as I looked up and saw the British regiments realigning themselves to face the new threat, another thought occurred. If the British managed to fight their way clear in an orderly withdrawal then my desertion would see me ruined and my hard-won reputation lost. There was also the risk that the pontoon bridge might have been washed away again and French cavalry would be sweeping the countryside looking for prisoners. The allies still had a numerical advantage and lots of strong regiments. If we could not win the battle, I thought we should still be able to fight our way clear. Perhaps the safest course of action would be to stay with the army after all and I would keep my reputation intact.

  I reached down a hand and pushed out a foot so Lucy could climb up behind me. I could see that Major King was already riding his horse up the slope to join a knot of officers on the top of the ridge and I urged my horse up the hill to join them.

  “Get off when we reach the top and get to the baggage train,” I shouted over my shoulder at Lucy. “Tell them to prepare to head north when the Spanish break.”

  “What will you do?”

  “I have to re-join the battalion, but I imagine that we will be fighting a rear-guard action and following you shortly.”

  The horse reached the crest and I stopped to let Lucy slide off before I approached the group of officers. There was Major King, Brigadier Colborne, Captain Varley, one of Colborne’s staff officers, Ben D’Urban and, towering over them all, the vast frame of Beresford.

  “How do we know that is the main attack?” I heard Beresford say. “For all we know that is the diversion to draw troops away from the village.”

  “But they are turning our line,” declared Colborne. “We cannot expect the Spanish to hold them for long.”

  Beresford opened his mouth to say something but I got in first. “Excuse me, sir, but I could see the French attack from a rooftop in the village. The French have committed several thousand infantry to the southern attack. I also saw cavalry and artillery coming forward in support.”

  Beresford glared at me with his one eye. “When I want your bloody opinion, Captain, I will ask for it,” he told me rudely before turning his attention to the others. “We will wait until it is clear which the main attack is before we respond. Gentlemen, good day.” With that the great dithering giant rode away followed by Ben D’Urban, who glanced apologetically at me over his shoulder.

  “Are you sure it is their main attack?” asked Colborne.

  “Yes, sir,” I replied, wary now of venturing another fuller opinion.

  “I think you are right,” replied Colborne. “I will speak to General Stewart and see if he cannot persuade Beresford. In the meantime get the men out of the village and regroup up on the ridge top.”

  I rode back down the slope towards the village to get my men. They were streaming out of the village now, with Hervey and Price-Thomas organising them into ranks. I saw that the Portuguese division on the other side of the village was sending in more defenders to replace those withdrawn.

  “Come on, men,” I called. “We are re-joining the battalion and then the whole brigade is reforming on the ridge top.”

  “Are we going to help those brave Spanish troops, sir?” asked Hervey.

  I caught the eye of Sergeant Evans who, like me, grinned at the thought of the Spanish standing long enough for us to join them. “I think it is more likely that we will be fighting a rear guard action after the Spanish have retired from the field.”

  “Retired,” scoffed the sergeant at my choice of word. “They won’t be retiring– they will be running. They will be perambulating as fast as their little legs can carry them in a minute.”

  “Well, they seem to be doing well at the moment,” stated Hervey defensively.

  To humour him I pulled out my glass to see just how much of a shambles the Spanish line was. “Good God,” I breathed as the scene swam into focus. The French had come over the southern knoll in their three columns. Seeing the Spaniards in front of them, they had not wasted time forming line and instead looked to use the columns to smash their way along the ridge top. But to my astonishment the Spaniards were holding them, and doing it well. The Spanish were deployed in lines so they could bring all their guns to bear, unlike the French, who could only fire from the outer ranks. The Spanish also had some artillery pieces in their line which must have been firing canister into the tightly packed French ranks with devastating effect. But in turn the French had now got cannon on the summit of the southern knoll, which were firing to support their troops. The Spanish were taking severe punishment, but standing firm and giving it back with interest. It was probably the finest moment for the Spanish army in the whole war. It was just unfortunate that things would probably have been better if they had run. But I did not know that then and so I turned to the others and admitted, “They are holding the French and doing it handsomely.”

  My view of this military miracle was obscured by what seemed a sudden grey mist. By the time I had put the telescope back in my pocket the squall had hit us too. It was a torrential downpour of rain and hail that stung the cheeks and dropped icy water down the back of my coat.

  “Come on, men,” I shouted above the roar of the rain. “Get up that hill, stopper your barrels and keep your locks wrapped.”

  It took nearly twenty minutes to get formed up and re-join the rest of the brigade on the ridge top. By then I was soaked to the skin as the storm continued. Most of the men had fired off any charges in their weapons, preferring to march with an empty gun. Drawing a damp charge out of the barrel was a time-consuming business. The Spanish were still holding and seemed to have settled into a battle of attrition with the French. It was hard to see with the rain and the gun smoke, but both sides seemed to be firing away, some eighty yards apart.

  Colborne rode past with a group of officers. “Ah, Flashman,” he called. “Come and tell us again what you saw from the village.”

  I rode over to the huddle of officers, wiping the rainwater from my eyes so that I could see them clearly. Saluting, I reported: “I saw several thousand infantry coming up the slope, at least three columns, supported by cavalry and artillery. I am pretty sure that it is their main attack, sir, and the Spanish cannot hold the
m for much longer.” That I thought was the strongest possible hint I could give that we should start to pull back. When the Spanish did eventually break there would be chaos all along the ridge.

  A pair of flinty blue eyes surveyed me and I recognised General Stewart, commander of half the British troops, including our brigade. “Of course it is their main assault,” cried Stewart impatiently. He stared at the beleaguered Spanish and then seemed to make up his mind about something. “If we don’t support them, we will lose this battle. Colborne, I want your brigade to march past the Spanish right flank and along the side of the French columns and then attack the nearest one.” He made it sound as straightforward as feeding ducks in the park, but I was appalled. I had re-joined the battalion thinking it would be the safest place in a fighting withdrawal. But now, because the wretched Spanish were being so resolute in their defence, I was being dragged into a counterattack.

  I sat aghast for a moment as the implications of this order set in, but Stewart was impatient to begin. He glared at the column of men he was sending in to battle with the same compassion he might have shown for his breakfast boiled egg. “Come along, gentlemen,” he shouted over the rain. “We have not got all day; the Spanish will not stand for ever.”

  I looked around. The Buffs were the lead regiment in Colborne’s formation and so we would be among the first into the fray. The men were lined in a column, each company forming two lines with their officers on horseback in front. My company was the third in the column.

  “I will re-join my regiment then, sir,” said Colborne, who was colonel of the sixty-sixth, which was further back in the group. I certainly did not blame him for moving smartly to the rear; I was wracking my brains for a reason to do the same. How I yearned for the freedom of a staff officer at that moment, but now my place was fixed with my men. I turned reluctantly to join Hervey in front of the two wet and bedraggled rows of the third company.

  With Major King beside him, the captain of the first company ordered his men forward, followed a few seconds later by the captain of the second company. I wanted to think of a reason, any reason, not to give the next order, but my mind had gone blank. I turned back to my men. It was hard to see if any looked scared as most faces were turned away from the driving rain. Sergeant Evans stood at the end of the first line while Price-Thomas with Boney was now in the row behind. A few faces now looked up expectantly as I continued to hesitate.

  “Advance,” I croaked. My throat had constricted through fear and I doubt anyone heard the order. I cleared my throat and shouted much louder to compensate. “Advance, men, forward. Come along there.”

  We had barely covered a few paces when there was a double flash of lightning, followed by a crash of thunder that made me jump. It did not seem the best omen to march into a pitched battle. General Stewart watched us move off and glanced down at the men following us. I wondered if he was going to stay near the rear of the column; if he did then I would find some excuse to report something to him. Anything would do: I could claim to have seen a fresh attack on the village through a gap in the rain. With such poor visibility and the confusion of battle, they would never find out if it was true. As though the old bastard had read my mind, I saw him turn his mount in my direction and ride towards me.

  “I will ride with you, Flashman,” he called over the drumming of the rain. “Have you fought in a storm before?”

  “No, sir,” I replied. I looked at him. He must have been frightened too but he showed no sign of it. He was as rigid as an old maid’s starched drawers. I knew what he was up to, though, making conversation to take his mind off the coming dangers. Well, I needed the distraction too, and so I added, “This one is like a monsoon in India, only colder.”

  “Ah, you were with Wellington in India, were you? I think I recall hearing your name at Talavera too. Well, there will be no need for those heroics today. We just need to keep the men ordered and disciplined so that we cover the whole flank of their column. They won’t stand then, attacked on two sides.”

  We were moving partway down the reverse slope now to pass to the right of the Spanish line fighting the French columns. The rain was reducing casualties; only around half of the muskets on both sides seemed to be firing, with the rest of the men struggling to clear damp powder from fouled gun locks. The ground around the Spanish lines was littered with bodies but they still had plenty of fight in them. As we went past, one of their cannon barked another canister-load of death into the blue ranks opposite.

  “Viva!” shouted the Spaniards on the end of the line as we marched past and Stewart raised a hand in salute. Whether the Spaniards were simply pleased to have reinforcements or just glad that the French cannon would switch to new targets it was hard to say. But barely had we appeared around the Spanish than the French cannon started to take men from our column. Two balls whipped through the lines of the first company ahead, leaving trails of broken bodies for the rest of the battalion to step around.

  “Close up,” called the sergeant of the first company, a cry that was to become all too familiar over the next few minutes.

  Stewart was riding calmly beside me as though exercising in Hyde Park and I tried to affect the same level of unconcern while my guts churned in fear. A few moments later I resisted the urge to duck as another ball went whining over my head. There were screams and yells from the men where the ball had landed. I strained my ears and heard another voice calling for gaps in the line to be filled. With relief I realised that it was not Sergeant Evans. The ball must have hit a company beyond mine.

  Now, as the head of our formation came level with the front of the French column, I saw a new and more personal danger appear. We were at least a hundred yards away from the side of the nearest French column, and those French soldiers at the edge now readied themselves to fire. At that range and with damp charges they posed little threat, but further along I saw a company of skirmishers, or voltigeurs, being advanced to close the range. These soldiers were marksmen who did not fight in ranks, but in a much looser formation. They would be looking to disrupt our attack by shooting officers. I muttered a silent prayer as I glanced across at Stewart. He had seen them but honour demanded that he show no fear and so he continued to walk his horse forward at a steady pace. He was covered in enough gold braid to attract a flock of magpies and even in the rain the skirmishers were bound to see him. The general would be a prime target, attracting musket balls like bees to a honey pot. So why, I silently prayed to the Almighty, did the man have to ride next to me?

  Chapter 7

  In just a few moments the lieutenant of the first company had thrown his hands in the air and fallen from his horse. “Oh Christ,” I heard Hervey mutter to himself. I glanced across at him. He was ashen faced and looking as terrified as I felt. At least, I thought callously, he would provide some cover, being between me and the voltigeurs. No sooner was the thought in my head than Hervey jolted in the saddle. “I have been hit,” he gasped. His left hand went up to his right shoulder and came away covered in blood while his sword arm hung uselessly at his side.

  “Go back, man,” snapped Stewart. “You will be no use in that state.”

  Hervey wheeled his horse away, staying unsteadily in the saddle, and for a moment I felt a twinge of guilt. It was almost as though my thought had caused his injury. If it had then it probably saved his life for he survived the battle. But then I remembered that I was now reluctantly the only person between the general and the voltigeurs.

  There was a steady crackle of musket fire from the side of the French column, interspersed with the booming of cannon from the French and the Spanish. Most cannon balls went over our heads, but one pitched short and I saw it slam into the horse ridden by the captain of the first company. The animal went down hard but its rider dismounted as it fell, landed on his feet and immediately continued the march while shouting at his men to avoid the still-flailing feet of his animal.

  A musket ball whizzed past my head as some of the voltigeurs turned their
attention to my company and took note of my riding companion. I felt trapped: every fibre of my being wanted to run, but I would be disgraced if I did and quite possibly just as dead. The noise of battle was all around me, firing, screaming and yelling, but strangely muted by the continual downpour of rain. I glanced out to our right but just saw a grey murky field. “What is out there?” I asked the general, partly to make a conversation to distract me from the danger and partly because I realised we would have our backs to this space when we attacked.

  “Our cavalry,” replied Stewart, “and some of theirs. They will counter each other. That is if they can see…” He paused halfway through his sentence and stared in irritation at his right shoulder. There I saw that half of his golden epaulet had been torn away from his uniform by a musket ball. “Damn and blast them,” he grumbled. “Those were a gift from my wife.”

  I turned back just in time to see a voltigeur aim directly at me. I did not even have time to flinch before the powder flashed in the pan of his musket. Mercifully that was all that did ignite as the cartridge powder must have been damp, but it was the final straw for me. I had to do something. I could not ride along like the target in some fairground stall until I was killed. I needed some kind of shield. I wracked my brain for an idea and then realised that I was sitting on it. My horse was half a tonne of shield if only I could find an excuse to get off it and walk alongside.

  “Is that movement out there?” I asked Stewart, pointing again into the empty grey field to our right. Stewart glanced in that direction and as he did so I took out a small fruit knife from my pocket and plunged the blade into the shoulder of my horse. Unsurprisingly the mount took exception to this and reared up as I dropped the knife.