Flashman's Escape

by Robert Brightwell

  They dragged me for what seemed several miles through the trees, yanking on the rope when I tripped over a root and kicking and punching me when I did not move fast enough. I might not have been able to speak, but from what I overheard I gathered that when we got to wherever we were going they were going to hold some sort of trial. There was much talk of a fearsome ‘chief’ who hated the French and seemed to specialise in getting information from prisoners. Nobody seemed in any doubt of the outcome of my inquisition as the punches kept coming; but at least, I thought, I would have a chance to defend myself. Surely, I reasoned, I could get them to send word to the British to prove my identity. Even this chief would not kill a British officer, especially if there was a chance that Wellington would pay a reward for me too.

  Eventually they started to slow down and I could smell wood smoke and human excrement through the sacking. I realised that we were getting close to their camp. Suddenly I felt the rope being removed from my neck and I was pushed forward. The sack was still kept firmly in place by the gag so I could not see where I was going. Then the men made me crouch as though to get through a small opening. They pushed me forward into whatever space it was but my head hit something hard and I fell to my knees, feeling slightly sick. They rolled me through the opening into the area beyond. There was plenty of light coming through the fibres of the sack and so I guessed I was still outside. Was I in some sort of cage? I wondered. I heard the men move away, laughing, as I struggled to get on my knees while my head throbbed with pain. Then I heard something scuffle much nearer.

  There was a strange crooning noise and I tried to work out what it could be. Had they left me defenceless with my hands tied behind my back, in an enclosure with a vicious wild animal? No, I could hear the men still moving away. If I was about to be killed by some creature, surely they would have stayed to watch. I tried to shuffle away from the sound but my back was soon up against branches that seemed to have been tied into some form of wall. The crooning noise came closer and then I felt hands touching my face. The fingers pressed into my eye sockets. I thought they were going to try to gouge my eyes and tried to turn away. But then the hands got purchase on the sack cloth and started to tear it.

  The hands tore a wide long slit in the sacking opposite my eyes. Through it I got my first glance of the creature helping me. I say creature, for that was what he was then; but from the shreds of uniform he still wore, he must have once been a French soldier. Now he was half naked with long hair and a matted beard. But most disturbing were his wild, rolling eyes and the strange, guttural animal noises he made. I tried to ask for help through the gag, but even though I barely managed a series of strangled grunts, my companion just started to scream to drown out the noise. When I shook my head at him in an effort to get him to remove the gag he shrank back out of my view. Moving my head against the bars behind me, I managed to widen the slit in front of my face. Slowly I managed to draw the top of the sack over my head like a hood and then I saw what had driven the poor devil mad.

  We were both in a wooden cage, not tall enough to stand up in, but made of stout branches that were well lashed together and as thick as a man’s wrist. It was set in the middle of a circular clearing between what I took at first to be gnarled tree trunks. Then I saw some colour on one and realised that most of the trunks had at least one man nailed to them. The bodies were blackened with age and decay but the one that had caught my eye still had part of his blue uniform coat showing.

  Dear God, I thought, I have to convince them that I am not French. I cannot end my days like this: dying in agony nailed to a tree just because I was caught wearing the wrong coloured coat. Little did I know that the crazy events of that day were only just beginning.

  I have had the misfortune to stand in various courts in my time, from a drum head court marital, to hearings in the House of Commons. But I have experienced nothing like the trial with the partisans – and that includes a trial by ordeal I endured in Africa. In all of those cases the accused had at least the slightest chance of being found not guilty. I quickly discovered that the verdict in my trial was a forgone conclusion.

  “But the chief is always the judge,” whined one of the men who came to collect me some three hours later. “I don’t see how we can have a trial without the chief.”

  “The chief would find him guilty as well,” claimed another. “Gomez used to be a lawyer so he can be the judge as well as the prosecutor. Now what is he fretting about?”

  You can imagine the stifled protests I was trying to get past the gag at hearing this.

  “Listen here, you French bastard,” shouted the second man. “It is better for you that the chief is not here. The chief knows ways to kill a man that will make you beg for a death like crucifixion.”

  With that cheery thought rattling around my mind, I was picked up and half dragged away. I tried to reassure myself that if this Gomez was a lawyer then at least he was an educated man who would listen to reasoned argument. But as I saw my ‘courtroom’, I had fresh doubts. It was an old stone barn that was packed with at least two hundred people. There was a roar of rage as I appeared in the door and the crowd surged towards me. I was defenceless with my hands tied behind me and for a moment I thought I would be lynched on the spot. Certainly if the guards had not pushed them back with cudgels, I would have been torn apart without the benefit of any trial at all. I have never experienced such venous hatred from a mass of people, and I speak as someone who has sought election to parliament. They saw me as a personification of the French invader and all the atrocities that the French had committed. I was surrounded by screams and threats in Spanish and some dialects I did not understand, but their meaning was clear.

  Eventually the guards started to push their way through the throng, but they did not do a lot to deter several fists that flashed out at my head. They even stood aside for a young woman whose face was contorted in rage as she kicked me in the balls. I was therefore battered, bruised and bent over in agony with watering eyes when I finally made my way into the cleared space which comprised the centre of the court. My hands were untied and I was forced to stand straight against a beam before my hands were rebound on the other side of the pillar. Gazing around as my vision cleared, I could see the barely restrained mob still yelling all around me while more people sat up on the roof joists to get a better view of the coming spectacle. In the centre of the cleared space was a table with my sword, pistols and the damning evidence of my French jacket and the letter to Paris.

  A man, whom I took to be Gomez, stepped forward and hammered the hilt of his dagger on the table to call the trial to order. “Quiet, quiet,” he yelled. “We are not barbarians; we are not going to tear him apart now.” I felt momentary relief before he continued. “We will have justice, proper legal proceedings, and then when he is found guilty we will execute him.” A huge cheer greeted this pronouncement and people began to settle down expectantly.

  By now the pain in my balls had dulled to an ache and I started to marshal my thoughts. There did not seem to be a counsel for the defence. I guessed that I would have to defend myself and, considering the mood of the audience, I would not be given long to convince them. I had been thinking about this in the cage and I had what I thought was a pretty conclusive case that I was British. Unless they had worn away since I last looked, my boots still had a London maker’s mark inside. My shirts and breeches were embroidered with my name for the laundry and this name matched that sewn into the red coat. The only item of clothing I had that was not British was the French uniform coat, and I could explain about my mission. This was surely more than enough to create at least an element of doubt, I thought. At worst, if they were still not convinced, I could suggest that they get a message to Wellington. I could promise a generous reward for my return and the general’s displeasure and retribution if I was harmed in any way.

  I started to rehearse my brief and effective argument in my head as Gomez opened the proceedings. “This French officer,” he began, “was
seen riding with the French column that passed through the valley this morning. Where is the man who saw him?”

  A wiry partisan pushed through the crowd, “I did,” he declared. I recognised the voice of the man who had pushed the gun muzzle against my head.

  “The prisoner claims to be a British officer,” announced Gomez, giving me disappointed look as though I had let him down by not immediately admitting my guilt. “What uniform was he wearing when he was riding with the French column?”

  “The French one,” replied the partisan promptly while grinning at me. The response brought a cheer of approval from the watching crowd that completely drowned out my incoherent raging from the dock.

  “Of course I was wearing the French coat! I was in disguise, you bloody fool.” That, at least, was what I was trying to say. But all that came out was a strangled roar as I went red in the face straining against my bonds.

  Gomez gave another sad shake of the head at my outburst and pressed on. “And did the other French officers appear to treat him as one of their own?”

  “They did,” confirmed the partisan to more acclaim from the crowd.

  “And when you captured him, was he changing into a British uniform so that he could discover our camp and lead General Hugo’s men to destroy us?”

  “He was,” affirmed the partisan, again still appearing very pleased with himself. This brought a triumphant roar from the crowd. Some of them started waving large knives in the air as though they were ready to hack me to pieces there and then.

  I was damn scared. I had not been expecting the fair advocacy of William Garrow but this was ridiculous. With the suggestion that I worked for Hugo planted firmly in their minds, it looked like few would be willing to listen to anything I had to say. But Gomez was not finished yet. He turned to the items on the table.

  “Was he carrying this Mameluke sword?” cried Gomez, pointing to the Arabic writing on the hilt. The Mamelukes were Arabic soldiers the French had recruited in Egypt. They had been responsible for a massacre of civilians in Madrid among other atrocities. My sword had been captured from an Arab soldier in India. The affirmative response from the partisan was completely drowned out by another roar from the mob.

  Gomez waited for the noise to die down and then held up his hand for complete silence. In the hush he picked up the piece of paper from the table and held it by the tips of his fingers as though it was contagious. If he was a lawyer, I thought, he could probably read French and that wretched document could be my death warrant. “And was he carrying this?” asked Gomez quietly.

  “Yes,” agreed the partisan, unsure, like the rest of the audience, what message was on the paper.

  “This man, who claims to be a British officer,” proclaimed Gomez, his voice rising, “was carrying a letter from Marshal Marmont to the minister of war in Paris!” There were gasps and exclamations at that, but Gomez was not finished. “A letter that offers the British officer Major Grant for interrogation and torture.” He could not have created more of a sensation by announcing I was actually Bonaparte himself in disguise. The fact that I could not have been both spying for General Hugo and taking Grant for torture did not seem to occur to anyone as the room fell into uproar. People were yelling my guilt, shouting suggestions for my death, and now nearly everyone was brandishing a knife in the air. I realised then that I would not get a chance to defend myself, but also that no one would listen to me even if I did.

  Gomez walked up to me and gestured at the howling mob. His eyes burned into mine with unbridled hatred as he hissed, “See, Frenchman, like many of your countryman before you, you will learn that you cannot rape and murder with impunity. Justice will be done.”

  “I’m British,” I tried to shout back at him through the gag but he had already turned away. I leant back against the pillar I was tied against, sweating and shaking with fear. I have seen a couple of lynchings in my time and I think the poor bastards must have felt as I did then. It was not about justice, it was about fear and revenge. They had suffered and they wanted to inflict suffering on someone else. Even if they took the gag off to hear my screams when they nailed me up, they were not going to listen to any proof that I was not French. Their bloodlust was up. The Spaniards were notorious for their blood feuds and I was a score that they could easily settle. I stood there with my mind stupified with shock and horror and for a while I could not think straight at all.

  Then things got even worse. I gradually realised that a gruesome auction was underway. It was not for money; none of them looked rich enough to have a pot to piss in. It was about suffering, my suffering. They were absolutely arguing over who should hammer in the nails. Gomez had three of the huge cast-iron pins in his hands. God knows how many had been sold before I realised what was happening. I remember that the woman who had kicked me in the balls was arguing passionately that she should have one as the French had killed her father and her son. Another older woman had lost two sons to the French but I gathered she had been given a nail for an earlier victim. They fell to arguing between themselves and a scuffle broke out before the women were pulled apart.

  I was still struggling to accept it was happening at all. After all my suffering at Albuera, not to mention all the other battles I had fought in, was I really going to end my days nailed to a tree, the victim of mistaken identity? I was not going to give up yet. “I’m British,” I shouted through the gag and then I kept on shouting it, again and again. Surely, I thought, someone would take the gag off to give me a chance to say something to prove I was on their side. “I’m British, I’m British, I’m British.”

  Eventually my noise cut through the hubbub and heads turned in my direction. But their looks were not curiosity as to what I had to say, more irritation that I had interrupted them.

  Gomez walked towards me and waved his razor-sharp dagger in my face. “One more word from you, Frenchman, and we will start cutting off your fingers now.” To show he meant business he used the blade to nick my cheek just below my eye and I felt the warm trickle of blood down my face.

  I am pretty sure I prayed then, as I am inclined to do when things are really desperate. If I did, it produced quick results, for almost immediately a hush fell over the angry mob. I could see heads starting to move at the back of the crowd as the words were spread through the throng: “The chief is here.”

  Chapter 21

  I admit I may have thought sourly of the Almighty at that point. For just when I thought things could not get any worse, he delivered a person that my guards had already told me could give me a crueller death than crucifixion. With trepidation I watched two tall men push their way through the crowd, making a path for someone in between them. Gomez strode forward to welcome his master, probably anxious to ensure he was not punished for taking on the role of judge. Then the crowd parted, and as the chief came into view I knew that my unworthy prayers had indeed been answered.

  The chief stared at me with shock and surprise for a moment. Despite my mouth and jaw still being covered by the sack and gag, I watched as recognition crossed her beautiful face. Then I think my legs gave way and I slid down the beam until I was resting on the floor.

  “Release him. I know this man” were some of the sweetest words I ever heard. They were greeted with expressions of dismay from the crowd, but I knew I was safe now. I remember staring up and thinking that even in her shirt and riding breeches and with the mud of the journey spattered on her face, Agustina de Aragon was still the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. The last time we had been together was some three years ago in Seville, when I had paid for clothes, weapons and a horse to help her join the partisans. By Christ, I thought, that was the best investment I ever made. Gomez, though, was not willing to give up that easily.

  “Agustina, this man is a spy. We saw him in a French uniform riding with a French column and he has letters from Marmont to the minister of war in Paris.”

  “I know he has been a spy and a soldier, but he is British,” announced Agustina loudly for
all to hear.

  “Perhaps he is a spy for both sides,” replied Gomez stubbornly, still making no move to release me.

  “This man is one of Lord Wellington’s most trusted aides,” declared Agustina, turning to the crowd. “He worked with Lord Wellington when he was in India, long before they came to Spain. If you kill him, we will have to fight the British as well as the French. Is that what you want?”

  The mood of the crowd was changing, the knives quietly being sheathed and several hostile looks now being directed at Gomez. I would have backed down at this point, but Gomez was made of sterner, or perhaps stupider, material.

  “How do you know this is the same man?” he persisted, standing behind his table of damning evidence.

  There was a flash of metal and a knife thudded into the wood between his hands. I recognised the thin blade; it was the knife that Agustina wore up her left sleeve. “Because he was my lover,” she shouted angrily. “Do you think I do not know the men I have had between my legs?” She took a deep breath to calm herself and added with an icy chill, “Now release him, or you will replace him.”

  Gomez moved then all right. He clearly took her threat seriously and I began to wonder what Agustina had done to become the chief of this band of partisans. When I had been with her before, she had been known as the Maid of Zaragoza; a national heroine who was famous for firing a cannon that stopped a French attack on that city. She had shown she could manipulate men even then, not least by involving me in an act of notorious blasphemy in Seville cathedral. As Gomez cut the bindings around my wrists and pulled me to my feet I reflected that Agustina must have developed a steely and ruthless streak to command a group of partisans this size.

  “Give the captain back his possessions,” commanded Agustina to Gomez to complete his subjugation. Then she turned to the large crowd in the barn. “Leave us,” she ordered, and the two henchmen that had cleared a way for her into the hall now started to marshal the crowds out of the double doors at the end of the barn.