Flashman in the Peninsula (15 page)

‘Yes sir,’ Donkin looked slightly relieved at having the responsibility for making decisions taken away from him. He turned to his major, ‘Carter, you heard the general, two companies, skirmish order, quickly now.’

‘Two companies, on both sides of the road,’ Wellesley corrected, before turning and noticing me still sprawled on the ground. If I had hoped for any sign of gratitude for alerting him to the ambush I was to be disappointed. ‘Flashman, what are you doing lying on the ground, we need to get moving.’

‘I have been shot. I am wounded,’ I replied holding up my blood smeared hand.

‘Oh, that is just a flesh wound,’ he said dismissively. ‘Get a move on man. You don’t want to be taken prisoner do you?’ For a second I felt hurt at his lack of interest. If I had not stumbled into the ambush the French would have had more time to encircle the farm and trap us here. Then the sergeant next to me suddenly snatched up his musket and fired at the top of the wall. There was a shriek of pain and looking round, I saw a Frenchman who must have been hoisted up by his mates on the other side slump back, his face a bloody ruin. But already three more heads were appearing over the wall and two of them got off musket shots into the courtyard before dropping back out of sight.

‘Fall back,’ the sergeant was shouting, ‘they will be over that wall in a minute.’ He turned to me, ‘Come on sir, you had better get on your horse or they will do a better job of shootin’ you.’ He was right. The noise of battle on the other side of the wall was rising steadily; there seemed to be a lot more Frenchmen out there than either Wellesley or I had seen. I staggered over to my horse doing up my breeches and putting on my sword belt as I went. If I did not get moving quickly a wounded arse could be the least of my problems.

By the time I reached the courtyard gate there seemed to be a pitched battle around the entrance to the farm. The French pushed in from both sides, while the outnumbered, redcoats in the skirmish parties tried to hold them back to give the rest of the regiment time to gather and order themselves. The surrounding trees came right up to the edge of the road and battle seemed to be raging all around me. I did not hang around; drawing my sword I laid my heels into my horse’s flanks and we sprang forward.

While being on a horse in battle gives you the advantage of speed and a better vantage point, mounted officers always attract enemy fire. As soon as I left the shelter of the courtyard walls I heard balls whizzing around me and I hunched down low in the saddle. Wellesley was some fifty yards ahead organising two more companies into ranks to cover our retreat. I had nearly reached the dubious shelter of the line of redcoats when, bursting out of the trees from my right, ran an unarmed and hatless young British soldier, screaming as though the hounds of hell were on his tail. Without looking where he was going, he ran right in front of my horse; it reared up and I only just stayed in the saddle. As the hooves came back down they connected with a sickening thud to the skull of one of the two blue jacketed pursuers that had followed the British soldier out of the trees. I barely had a glimpse of the second man before he was on me, but his momentum gave him little chance to avoid the sword point that I instinctively twisted in his direction. He ran straight onto the wickedly sharp blade and screamed in agony. Wellesley looked round to see a relieved British infantryman picking himself up unharmed from the dust and the gallant Flashy waving a blood-stained sword, with two dead foes at the feet of his still lively horse.

‘Well done Flashman, this is more your style, eh?’ he grinned at me before turning back to organise the men. It never ceases to amaze me how an ill gained reputation can stick to a man. Even as I watched, the infantryman was running back to his mates and gesturing over his shoulder at me. Doubtless he was telling them how that big bugger on a horse had just saved his skin. The horseman in question was at that very moment saving his own precious skin by getting back behind the line of British infantry, which was at last now giving fire at any Frenchman that showed himself, while the rest of the British marched in a straggling column back to Talavera.

There must have been more French than Wellesley thought for we lost four hundred men in the withdrawal. Many of them had a rude awakening from their siesta with a French bayonet in the guts before they knew a battle had even started. Once in possession of the farm, which must have been their objective, the French seemed content to let us escape. They did not realise that they had nearly captured the enemy commander.

I was amongst the first back to the British lines and with my now blood soaked breeches and blood-stained sword; I looked the proper wounded hero, a part I played modestly with anyone I met. I noticed on the way that Cuesta had arrayed his men directly in front of the British positions rather than in the gap that Wellesley had left for him, but I left the commanders to liaise directly over that while I went in search of a surgeon. When I found one, a dour Scotsman smelling of spirits, he was as unsympathetic to my plight as everyone else. I was to discover as the campaign went on that just about any injury short of a ball in the chest or the loss of a limb was viewed dismissively as a flesh wound. You were only properly wounded if you lost two limbs. Lose just one and they would still see you as fit for light duties.

The sawbones did at least clean the wound and bandage it, then with a battle in the offing I had no choice but to change my clothes and return to duty. When I got back to the lines I found the Spanish in their appointed place on the British right, and Wellesley in a foul temper.

Chapter 11

‘I literally had to go down on bended knee to that stupid fool,’ he raged. ‘It was the only way I could get them to occupy their place in the lines. I could not have them in front of us – they would have broken and run through our position causing chaos.’

‘Well at least they are in place now, sir,’ I said, to placate him. I glanced through the flap in his campaign tent to see if anyone outside was listening to this outburst, but Wellesley was not done.

‘And do you know what that treacherous snake Wilson had done?’ he fumed. ‘Instead of foraging for supplies, he has waited until all the available French army are marching on me and then he has set off to liberate Madrid. He is just fifteen miles outside of the city now and if I win the battle you can be sure that he will be in Madrid to take all the glory.’ I struggled to hide a smile, for I had been wondering what Wilson had been up to. It was a typically audacious Wilson move to make the most of the small force at his disposal. Wellesley gave a brief snort of satisfaction before adding, ‘Well, I have ruined his plan. I have persuaded Cuesta to order the Spanish regiments with him to return. I have also written to Wilson too asking him to re-join the army, but if he chooses to disobey the French are welcome to him. God damn it,’ he exclaimed as he slammed his fist on the table, ‘what chance do I stand with allies like this?’ It was a rare display of emotion from a man like Wellesley who was notoriously cool whatever the circumstance. But we were alone in his tent and he had shared his feelings with me once before in India, when we discovered we were sharing the same mistress. There was a personal bond between us that just occasionally allowed him to share frustrations that he could not share with others, such as his colonels whose confidence he had to retain.

‘Will the French attack tomorrow?’ I asked, as it was now mid-afternoon. Suddenly the prospect of battle was imminent, with all its dangers, and I realised that in the next twenty-four hours thousands of men were going to die.

‘They are getting in position now so they may start the battle today.’ He clapped me on the shoulder, ‘I am sorry Thomas,’ he said, making a rare use of my first name, ‘I know I promised that I would endeavour to get you some action, but I need you with the Spanish to try and stop them doing anything stupid.’ He gave one of his barks of laughter, ‘After all you have accounted for two of the French already this afternoon, you must not be greedy.’

‘That is all right, sir,’ I agreed, doing my utmost to look disappointed, when in reality I could have kissed him with relief. ‘Although stopping the Spanish from doing anything stupid is a tougher challenge than halting a French column single handed armed with just a toothpick.’ We laughed then, little knowing how prophetic my words would be.

‘Well, you have already stopped a French column armed with nothing more than a slow match,’ he reminded me before wishing me good luck.

Before joining our newly returned allies I rode to the top of the hill occupied by the British to get a better view of the battlefield. The French were now clearly in view, thousands of them pouring on to the plain opposite in long blue snakes of men, almost obscured by the dust kicked up by their march. They seemed to be arraying themselves across our entire front, but with a concentration in front of the British positions where the ground was more open. Looking to my right I could see some of the Spanish regiments. They were already in long and slightly dishevelled lines that stretched from the British right to the outskirts of Talavera itself. The ground they stood on was an extension of the plain, but the land in front was broken by occasional trees and bushes that would disrupt the advance of any French forces. Not that it would disrupt them for long, and looking around I did not fancy our chances for victory in this battle. If the Spanish were to face the brunt of the French attack then they would break for certain. Then the French could surround the British on this hill and beat them into submission from all sides. On the other hand if the French attacked the British, we only had the numbers to fight a defensive battle and our allies would be of little help.

Defeat then looked certain to me and one reason I had gone to the top of the hill was to look for likely escape routes. The obvious one was to head for the town of Talavera. Protected by the town walls there was a bridge that led over the Tagus to relative safety from the French. The problem was that this route was too obvious and I knew that in the panic of defeat, the roads to and through Talavera and over the bridge would soon become blocked with terrified soldiers fleeing the French, who would be hot on their heels. Allied soldiers would be fighting each other as well as the French in their desperation to get over that river and the slaughter in the town would be appalling. That would be no place for me, especially as I had the advantage of a good horse under me. Instead I looked to the west and south west, there good roads would take me back to Portugal and safety. With the French concentrating on Talavera – where an army and its loot would be trapped – few, I thought, would waste their time with a pursuit west. But speaking to other officers, such as Campbell who I found also wandering around on the hill top, I found that they were much more optimistic.

‘You should have seen us when we took on Soult’s men,’ he told me. ‘We soon sent them packing and I see no reason why we cannot do the same again. We have a good position here and our men are fresh. The French must have been marching for days to get here. They are tired and many of their supplies will still be on the road behind them.’ I was feeling quite buoyed until he added, ‘You just make sure that the Spanish stand firm, because if the French outflank us we are done for.’

Later that afternoon, with that peal of doom still playing on my mind, I finally turned my horse down the hill towards the Spanish lines. The only positive I could find in the coming disaster was that at least the Spanish would not be slow in breaking. With luck I would be several miles west of their positions before the French over ran them.

The Spanish camp was dominated by the huge black coach and the angry old man who had been lifted into a chair on its roof. From there he had a commanding view of the battlefield and he was staring out over the terrain with a telescope. I rode up and reported my presence but he barely glanced down at me, grunted, and then continued his inspection of the distant enemy. I was about to ride away again when I found that a young Spanish lieutenant was holding the bridle of my horse.

‘Excuse me,
señor
,’ he stammered hesitantly, while glancing nervously up at the general, ‘but all officers apart from the cavalry must surrender their horses.’ For a second I stared down at him in astonishment and then I remembered that this was one of Cuesta’s measures to stop his officers abandoning their men. Glancing around, I could now see a cluster of staff officers on foot a few yards away from the carriage, all glaring resentfully at me.

Damn them! I am a British officer, I thought to myself indignantly, not like the Spanish who run at the first opportunity. Then I remembered that the reason I particularly needed my horse was so that I could indeed run at the first opportunity. Well, British bluff and bluster was required here and I could provide that in spades.

‘What the deuce? How dare you man?’ I roared at the unfortunate lieutenant. ‘I am a British officer and we do not run at the sight of the enemy. Unhand my horse.’ With that I kicked my heels and wrenched the leather from his hand as the horse trotted forward.

The other Spanish offers were gathered in groups behind the long line of infantry that faced the French. In contrast, British officers would normally sit on horseback in front of their men to demonstrate leadership, until the need to fire required them to stand behind. I steered my horse towards a gap between the regiments and then rode out to stand twenty yards in front of the Spanish line. I was thus the closest person to the enemy in the entire Spanish army; but don’t get me wrong – it was not a great act of courage on my part. The closest enemy I could see ahead were a troop of French dragoons around five hundred yards to my front. That was twice the effective range of a rifle, never mind the wildly inaccurate carbines that the dragoons would carry. I knew I was perfectly safe, but it looked good. As I stared casually around I saw that Wellesley had come down the hill to view the Spanish and was watching me from a distance. He saw me glance at him and he gave a short nod of approval.

What happened next? Well, over fifty years later I am still not sure, but I will tell you as best as I can remember. If it had not been seen and reported by various people including Wellesley himself, well I doubt you would believe it happened at all. It was an incredible chain of events.

It started with a single shot that came from the dragoons. I am sure it was not aimed at us, it was probably a signal shot to attract the attention of some messenger threading his way through the trees beyond our sight. There was some muttering from the soldiers behind me but nothing more might have happened had my horse not been startled. It was probably stung by some insect and it skittered sideways, breaking wind with a sharp crack as it did so. There may have been a couple more signal shots from the dragoons, but I cannot be sure because having got my horse back under control my attention was taken by the ranks of men behind me.

‘They are shooting,’ called a voice. ‘Fire!’ shouted another while further back another voice was yelling ‘Don’t shoot, don’t shoot.’ That last voice was nearly lost in the noise of thousands of men preparing to discharge their muskets. There was the rattle of equipment and the jingle of shoulder strap harnesses, and down the long line thousands of muskets were being levelled towards the distant enemy, notwithstanding the fact that one T Flashman Esquire was sitting plumb in the way. I did not have time to get back behind their lines and for a moment I stared, mouth agape, as at least four regiments seemed about to open fire on an enemy they could never reach. The click of hundreds of muskets being cocked shook me from my brief reverie and I had just time to throw myself onto the hard ground before the first guns fired. Mercifully the kick of the musket will typically raise the barrel slightly which is why experienced men will always aim low on their target. I am alive today because the Spanish infantry were not experienced. The volley rent the air above me as I pressed myself into the ground. Some balls were close enough to make a buzzing sound like an angry hornet as they whizzed over my head. The noise from the volley was almost deafening, and with no single word of command it seemed to go on for nearly a minute, rippling slowly down the long line of men who fired simply because the men next to them had done so.

The infantry were quickly hidden by a huge bank of gun smoke punctuated by the odd flash of orange as those slow in preparing to fire let off their charges. Then the screaming and shouting began. I could not see what was happening beyond the gun smoke, and the continued crackle of gun fire from the ends of the Spanish line obscured the words, but I distinctly heard someone screaming about treason and treachery. For a moment I wondered if I had somehow missed an approaching enemy force that they had been firing at, but when I twisted around the French dragoons were still where I had last seen them, only now they were all staring in curiosity at the Spanish lines.

I didn’t understand what was happening at the time; I only pieced it together later by talking to some of the survivors. Many of the Spanish infantrymen were survivors of the battle of Medallin where they had seen countless comrades slaughtered mercilessly by French cavalry. They were terrified of the horsemen, whom they called devils. They did not understand how an infantry unit could form a square to fight them off. They were so inexperienced that most had not fired a large mass volley before and the combined noise had frightened them. With the bank of smoke obscuring their view of the distant enemy, many had convinced themselves that the devil riders were now attacking and at any moment would spring through the smoke to wreak more death and destruction. With this fear and ignorance it did not take much for a few people to start to panic and run, with the fear spreading until it was a stampede.

I knew nothing about this at the time, of course. All I noticed then was that the firing from the men directly behind me had stopped and then there seemed a lot of shouting. I gingerly raised my head. I was unharmed but the same could not be said for my poor horse, which had served me well since we had landed in Portugal. It was lying dead on the ground with half a dozen musket ball wounds in its side. From halfway down its chest a musket ramrod protruded, fired by some incompetent soldier who had forgotten to remove it from the barrel. Fear was quickly turning to anger now. I had nearly been killed and I had liked that horse, which had cost a good few guineas. I turned and marched towards the Spanish lines determined to vent my fury on the first Spanish officer I found. The smoke was already clearing as I walked through it but as I reached the other side I stopped again in astonishment. Where there had just moments before been some two thousand Spanish infantry, there were now none. The last of them could be seen fleeing either side of Cuesta’s carriage while the old man raged impotently at them from its roof. He had a smoking pistol in one hand and a man lay dying on the ground near one of the wheels. As I watched he now hurled the fired pistol at another man while roaring that he would have them all shot. He was positively weeping in rage and frustration.