Flashman in the Peninsula (22 page)

‘Please monsieur,’ the Frenchman held up an arm in a desperate appeal for assistance. Tears were streaming down his face, more through the smoke than emotion, and he was gasping for breath. It was a sight to make your heart melt. An appeal to Flashy when he is running for his life is normally a forlorn hope. Not that I am kept awake by the grabbing hands and pleading faces I have ignored in my long and ignoble career; it would have been a lot shorter if I had heeded them.

I remember hearing what sounded like a volley of musket fire somewhere behind and realising that it must have been a cartridge pouch on a corpse’s belt catch fire. There were still distant screams and yells for help but fewer now, unless the roar of the fire was drowning them out. No, I decided, I would pull this fellow to his feet so that he was no worse off than when I found him, but then he would have to fend for himself. I reached down, grasped his hand and pulled. As I did so I happened to glance over his shoulder and there was a sudden gap in the smoke. Through it not much more than twenty yards away, for a brief instant I could see people standing on the rocks at the bottom of the slope staring at the fire. They were hard to make out in the rippling heat haze but one seemed to see me and point.

Relief surged through me. I was saved, and as I had been seen with the Frenchman I could hardly abandon my charge now. With safety in sight I helped him climb up onto my back and staggered forward to where I had seen the people. The frog was gasping his thanks in my ear but I just concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other without stumbling over the rough ground. The heat down the left hand side of my body was almost unbearable now, at least the Frenchman kept the heat of my back. I could see little snakes of flame moving through the grass as though they were trying to cut me off but they were still small enough to stamp my way through. Suddenly I felt hands helping me. The Frenchman was lifted off my back and strong arms helped half carry me out of the smoke. The next thing I remember I was sitting on the rocks at the bottom of the hill with a crowd of other men and Campbell was next to me handing me his water bottle.

‘Good grief Flashman, I thought we had lost you there. The wind is whipping the flames up the valley and several of the rescuers have not got out. They were asking me where I had last seen you and suddenly there you are staggering out of the flames with a wounded Frenchie on your back.’ There was a wall of flame and smoke some fifty yards in front of us now; while it was giving off some heat, the wind was blowing most of it away from us towards the north.

‘Well, I could not come back empty handed,’ I gasped, after the cool liquid had soothed my throat. My clothes were still smouldering in some places and I patted out a trail of smoke coming from my coat hem. But while my uniform was hot I knew enough to play things cool to maximise my credit. I passed the canteen to the French officer who now lay on the rocks beside me. ‘Anyway,’ I added, gesturing to the Frenchman, ‘this chap said if I rescued him he would introduce me to his sister.’ The men around guffawed at that.

‘Did those French gunners offer their sisters as well?’ asked a voice in the crowd. ‘Is that why you charged their battery virtually single handed with just an old general and his aides for support?’ Men were slapping me on the back now and murmuring ‘good show’ at me and I realised that my reputation had grown more than I thought. Half the army had seen Cuesta’s mad charge and, given the reputation of the Spanish for cowardice and mine for pluck, most seemed to have thought I was behind the move. As we had captured nearly a battery of guns this was no small feat, and now just a few hours later they had seen me stagger out of an inferno rescuing a wounded enemy officer. Even the Frenchie had no idea that I had been on the verge of abandoning him before I had seen safety through the gap in the smoke.

‘Alas, monsieur,’ he said to me quietly now as the others started to drift away, ‘I have no sister or I would have been happy to introduce her to such a courageous enemy.’ He reached out his hand to shake mine. ‘My name is Jean Lacodre,’ he said wincing in pain as his other hand clutched his injured leg. He then grinned as he added, ‘but my father is an organist. When he learns you have saved his son’s life if you are ever in Paris he will give you a concert, possibly in Notre Dame itself!’

‘Thank you,’ I replied, ‘but I have no plans to be in Paris any time soon.’ It is strange how fate works, the twists and turns of various threads come together when you least expect them. I had replied lightly without giving it any thought but little did I realise that three years later I would be in Paris and that brief conversation would save me from years of captivity or worse.

Chapter 16

The next morning after a fitful sleep the golden dawn revealed a nightmarish scene. The shallow valley that the battle had been fought over was now burned black and scattered over it were charred corpses, twisted as though they had died in agony. Some undoubtedly had, but Campbell told me that dead bodies also twist in the flames as muscles contract with the heat. He related a tale of his grandfather who had fought with the English at Culloden, sixty years before. His ancestor had helped gather the bodies of the defeated Scottish highlanders and Jacobites, many of whom he had known. They were piled together on a pyre and set alight. The body of one of the old Campbell’s neighbours had suddenly sat up in the flames and pointed at him; the old boy had nearly died of a seizure.

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 appropriate 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?’