Flashman in the Peninsula (32 page)

Chapter 22

It was only when I was well out onto the hillside that I remembered about Boney, and then I was bloody furious. That damned dog must have smelt the French sentries and gave me no warning. Instead of helping out he had just slunk away. I was not even sure if he was still with me. I whispered his name out into the darkness. A few seconds later a familiar shadow flitted alongside.

‘You bastard,’ I hissed at him. ‘I could have been bloody killed. Just because I ran out on you does not mean you can do the same.’ The brown eyes glinted up at me. ‘Do that again and you can bloody well fend for yourself,’ I snarled angrily, but the hound just placidly strolled on alongside my horse. As my anger receded a new sensation took its place: unease. I was right at the forefront of the enemy lines. But it was not just one enemy, in my current uniform I also had the partisans to worry about. While the hillside seemed calm and peaceful in front of me, the hair on the back of my neck had risen, like some kind of primordial warning of trouble ahead.

I was not the only once sensing it, the horse’s ears where twitching and now Boney was sniffing the air ahead. The perimeter of the forward French camp was some two hundred yards to my right while the woods were a similar distance to my left. I realised that if there was someone in the woods then I would be silhouetted perfectly in the flames of the guard fires. I kept the lance lowered to the horizontal to make less of a profile. Dark clouds covered much of the sky but there were a few dim stars showing and I did not want the guidon flag to be seen flickering in front of them.

My senses strained for any sign of people ahead. A forest is never silent. There were creaks of trees and the odd bark of a deer or call from an owl. Nothing certain to cause alarm, but somehow I knew I was being watched. There were the occasional shouts and calls from the French to my right too, but I could not see anything beyond the guard fires. The blazes at the perimeter of the French camp sent the faintest glimmer of flickering light this far out, but it was enough.

We were at the narrowest point between the French and the woods when it happened. Man, horse and dog saw and reacted at the same time. Amongst the faint flickering shadows ahead, one shadow moved without flickering. A black shaped seemed to rise from the ground some yards off to my right, then two more to my left. In response the man muttered, ‘Oh Christ,’ the dog growled and the horse reared and whinnied in panic. The horse was not alone in that emotion, but as I struggled to stay in the saddle, events moved on. There was a shouted challenge from my right as French sentries heard the horse, and more worrying were the thud of boots behind as I heard more people running down the hill towards me. By the time the horse’s front hooves were back on the ground the shadows were moving towards me. Whatever happened, I was not going to be captured in French uniform by the partisans.

I stabbed my spurs back and urged the horse forward. Boney started barking and snarling as one of the shadows moved in front of him, and then the attacker to my right died from the slight movement of my wrist. It was an instinctive move on my part, I just moved the lance out to cover the man and the momentum of the horse and the man’s running simply impaled him on the point. As I had held the weapon low I doubt the attacker even saw the razor sharp steep tip until it plunged into his chest. The shaft leapt in my hand as the man twisted to the ground. He barely made a sound, just a faint grunt and then a gurgling noise in his throat. Had I been trained to use the weapon I would have held on to the lance and wrenched it free as I rode past, but I let it go as I had far more to worry about.

Two shots now cracked out from the French on my right, to be followed instantly by several shots from the trees to my left. I realised I was stuck right in the middle of a partisan attack.

‘Run you damned horse,’ I urged, as I sensed the partisans trying to close round what they thought was an isolated enemy soldier. Fear seemed to attack the very marrow of my bones as I sat low in the saddle, almost paralysed with terror. Finally the mount began to pick up some speed as the black night seemed to explode with danger all around me. There was little I could make sense of in the flickering muzzle flashes, shouts and other sounds all around me, but all seemed exaggerated by the darkness and my vivid imagination into awful horror.

A crackle of more musket fire erupted from the French and I heard the balls buzz about me… just before I heard the whine of more balls from the partisans returning fire. There was a jolt to my head, but I seemed unwounded as the horse galloped on with me crouching over its mane. I had to get out of this trap. The French were likely to shoot me as a spy if I fell into their hands; while what the partisans would do to someone they thought was a Polish lancer did not bear thinking about. Then just when I thought things could not get any worse, they did. A crack opened in the clouds, illuminating the hillside with a sliver of moonlight. It was not a bright moon, but it was enough to show the shapes moving on the hillside. My only advantage before had been the cover of darkness, but now I was exposed to all.

There was not enough light to see colours, but what there was showed clearly a mounted man wearing a lancer’s distinctive helmet, uniform coat and white shirt and britches in the middle of an attack by partisans who were dressed all in black. The French sentries had been warned by the previous camp that a rider was coming over. Perhaps they thought I had gone to investigate a noise and found more than I bargained for. In any event they set up a cry for me to turn right and ride towards them. Now the French camp was coming alive, more men were being called to arms and a volley crashed out from their ranks. I could see an artillery crew, only half dressed, frantically manhandling their piece to cover the attack and loading with canister. The artillery sergeant was shouting at me to get out of their line of fire; well, I was doing my best there.

Looking around to my left there must have been fifty partisans streaming down the hill, but now that they were revealed by the moonlight, I saw that they were hesitating. Their surprise raid had been ruined, firstly by me blundering into them, and then by the moonlight. Most of them were now falling behind but I saw one in front point a musket at me. Boney saw the movement too and sprang forward snarling loudly. The partisan faltered a moment too long, deciding between shooting man or dog, and then the muzzle flashed as he fired, missing us both.

Another volley crashed out from the French and then the crack of the cannon with canister. This time I did not hear the flight of balls. They were firing at the men behind me. Between the shooting I heard a forlorn cry in French of, ‘Ride to your right, are you blind?’ and then the sound of a bugle calling cavalry to stand to. The last thing I wanted was to be ‘rescued’ by the French, so I urged my horse on again and started to disappear into the gloom of the night. I took a last glance over my shoulder and could just make out several companies of French infantry advancing in line up the hillside to drive the partisans off.

I heard no more bugle calls and guessed the commander was not willing to risk a troop of cavalry riding about in the dark amongst partisans to save one lunatic messenger.

I rode at a full gallop at least a couple of miles down that valley before I allowed the horse to ease up, and by then it was blowing hard. Boney was still bounding alongside, panting but looking quite comfortable. He was the only one who was. My hands were still shaking slightly as I shrugged off the blue coat. The first thing I wanted to do when we stopped was to replace my French uniform with the familiar red coat of the British. I yanked the scarlet cloth from the saddle bag and pulled it over my sweat dampened shirt. Instantly I felt slightly safer. Now at least a partisan might ask questions before he tried to kill me. If necessary I could refer them to Rodriguez up the valley. I was sure he would vouch for me, if he still lived. I was going to throw the incriminating blue coat away, but it had been useful and I was not out of danger yet. It was possible that there were other French scouting parties that could cut me off, so having swapped the contents of the pockets, I stuffed it back in the saddle bag. I urged the horse on at the walk and then realised that I was still wearing the Polish lancer helmet. Reaching up, I took it from my head and then froze in shock. The top half of the helmet had been smashed in two by a musket ball that must have passed within inches of my skull. After offering up a silent prayer of thanks I hung the hat from a strap on my saddle.

As the grey light of dawn stretched across the sky I came across an abandoned village. I decided to rest for a while. Surveying back the way I had come with my glass there were no signs of pursuit and the surrounding hills looked quiet too. I was cold, tired and above all hungry, as I had not eaten anything apart from a strip of leather for over a day. While Boney disappeared to hunt I searched the houses and gardens for anything to eat. Everything of use to the enemy had been taken or destroyed. Fruit bushes had been chopped down and burned, and vegetables had been dug up so that now all was rotten or dried up. All I could find were a few tiny carrots that were so small they had been overlooked. I munched them greedily but they just served to remind me how hungry I was. Boney reappeared with a dead rabbit clutched in his jaws and I knew I had to have it.

‘Come here, boy,’ I called in a friendly tone, and held out my hand to him. He looked at me suspiciously but came a few steps closer. ‘That’s the way, good dog, come to your master, yes a couple more steps. Come and smell what I have in my hand…that’s it,’ I sprang forward and got a good grip on the rabbit before the surprised hound could react. There was a brief tug of war before I emerged triumphant with most of the prize. The head was still in Boney’s jaws and the dog crunched down on it while giving me what seemed a look of hurt disappointment.

I can happily do the dirty on men like Hobhouse and Phillips, but I have to confess that I did feel a twinge of guilt at that look of betrayed trust. Not enough to give the rabbit back, of course, I was too hungry for that. I set to with my knife to skin and gut it before tearing down some of a cottage roof and thatch to make a fire to cook it. Boney watched me for a while and then disappeared. He returned a short while later with another rabbit, but this time he stayed a good distance away and watched me warily as he ate it. My breakfast was soon roasting over a fire. As I watched it cook I reflected that while I had threatened to abandon Boney the previous night, in reality I was more dependent on him than the other way round.

I have eaten in some fine houses in several countries, but there have been few meals that I have relished more than that half dog-chewed rabbit. I savoured every morsel apart from a particularly chewed bit around the neck. That I saved, and when I had finished I walked over to where Boney lay, and I tossed it towards him as a peace offering. Having given it a cautious sniff, he munched it down. He might be a ‘dumb creature’, but I had realised that he was useful to have around. You never knew when you might need another rabbit.

Chapter 23

I sat back against the wall of a cottage and must have dozed off, as I had not had much sleep for two nights. I awoke with a start to find Boney pawing my shoulder and the sun high in the sky. My first fear was that the French had caught up with me, but a quick scramble to the window showed that the valley was still empty. However when I reached for my glass I could just make out horsemen at its far end. It was then that I smelt burning, just faintly, but when I looked around to the west there was a column of smoke rising into the air. I remembered Rodriguez’s warning about how to measure the progress of the French and wondered if they had somehow outflanked me. Within five minutes I was mounted and heading up through the trees. I thought about changing back into the French uniform as a precaution, but that was too dangerous with the risk of partisans about. We trotted on through the trees and then down a valley which seemed familiar. Finally at a crossroads, I realised where I was. I had passed this way before. We were close to Celorico where the British army had spent the winter, and judging from the direction of the smoke, it was Celorico that was burning.

Cautiously, I rode up the final hill before the town, using a copse of trees as cover so that I would not be seen. I almost sagged in relief when I saw what was happening on the other side of it. Celorico was burning, but it was men in red coats that were putting it to the torch. The irony was not lost on me that just a week before I had run out on this army thinking it was probably doomed. Now, thanks to a poisonous dwarf, vengeful lancers and cut throat partisans, I was back. I had slid out because I doubted that the British could beat the huge French army coming towards it. Having ridden with that army, I was more convinced than ever that the French would be victorious if met on level terms. Every French soldier I had met had been a veteran of earlier battles, and they had the skill and confidence of troops that knew what they were about. Now I would either have to put my trust in Wellington’s mysterious plan or find another means to slip away back to Lisbon and a ship.

Most of the town seemed to be burning by the time Boney and I reached the outskirts. I saw a knot of officers trotting their horses around the far side of the town and rode to join them. My eyes were stinging with the smoke by the time I reached them and I was surprised to hear a familiar voice.

‘Ah, Flashman, good day to you. Did you deliver your cousin safely to the bodyguard her husband sent for her?’ Wellington did not seem the slightest bit surprised to see me appear through the smoke, and continued to stare about him to check that all buildings were now ablaze.

‘Better than that, sir, I delivered her to her husband.’ I thought better of adding that he was a malignant little runt, as Wellington was a snob when it came to titles. Most of his staff were of the nobility and half of them were his distant relations. My watering eyes stared at the man with his familiar plain blue coat. He seemed his usual brusque self, showing no concern for the massive army approaching his own. ‘What are you doing here, sir?’

‘I would have thought that was obvious. We are burning the town so that it will be of no use to the enemy. I have ordered all towns and villages here cleared of food. Did you come through any on your way back?’

‘Yes, there is a village a few miles down the valley. I know that it does not have a shred of food in it as I was starving when I reached it.’ The officers with Wellington snickered in amusement at the thought of a British gentleman scavenging for food. Most of them had their own country estates and had never been hungry in their lives. ‘I managed to trap some rabbits and roasted them for breakfast,’ I explained airily to quieten them.

Wellington, who hunted regularly with his pack of hounds, gave Boney a shrewd glance, but before he could say anything a tall staff officer I had not seen before sneered, ‘Poaching is not exactly an honourable skill.’

‘It is better than starving, Grant,’ said Wellington sharply. ‘Now, Flashman, we hear some of the French army is coming down the valley behind you. Did you see any of it? Is it their main force?’

‘I have seen it and it is their main force.’ Then, knowing that it would put the staff officers firmly in their place, I reached into my pocket and pulled out Magda’s letter. ‘I have made a note of most of the numbers of the infantry regiments and listed cavalry and artillery units that I saw, on the margins of this letter.’

Wellington was not an easy man to impress, but he looked genuinely stunned at the quality of my information. ‘Good grief, you have done an excellent job Flashman. I had heard Marshal Junot was with Massena, but some of these regiments are in Ney’s command. Is he with the main force?’

‘Yes, he was commanding the advance guard. Massena is apparently occupied with a new mistress.’

‘You cannot possibly
know
all of this,’ exploded the tall officer called Grant. ‘It is just gossip you have heard from the partisans. There is no way that you can make out regimental numbers on eagles and shakoes with a glass from the surrounding hills.’

‘Grant,’ replied Wellington irritably. ‘Captain Flashman is very experienced in getting information for me on my enemies…’

‘No, Captain Grant is quite right,’ I interrupted, for now I saw an opportunity to enhance my reputation further. Having risked life and limb to get this information I might as well earn credit for it. ‘You cannot read regimental numbers from the hillsides.’ I reached into my saddlebag and pulled out the blue uniform coat before continuing. ‘Which is why I acquired this and have spent the last two days riding with the French. I was able to see their regimental numbers because I was talking to the men wearing them.’ Looking pointedly at Grant I added, ‘I know Ney commands the advance guard because I saluted him as he rode past me.’

‘Well done Flash,’ said one of the other staff officers, and there were other cries of congratulation from the staff while Grant continued to look pompously stuffed.

‘I admit I did not look through Massena’s bedroom keyhole, so what he is doing with his mistress is gossip, but from the French army, not the partisans.’

‘From what we hear of you, Flash,’ chortled one of the staff officers, ‘you would have stolen his mistress as well as a uniform if you had got close enough.’ Most of the staff guffawed at that, leaving me to wonder what rumours about me were circulating.

‘I take it you acquired your disguise from a Mr Zeminski?’ enquired a smiling Wellington, holding up the letter.

‘But sir, this is spying,’ persisted Grant to Wellington. ‘It is dishonourable behaviour, which is why both we and the French shoot those found disguised in our uniforms. How can you now condone this activity amongst one of your own officers?’

Several of the more experienced hands looked pityingly at the newcomer Grant before Wellington responded. ‘Because Captain Flashman knows the risks he is taking. He is a brave man who saved my army from encirclement at Talavera and also provided me with great service as a spy in India. He knows he risks being shot, he was nearly executed by rockets in India. But he does his duty to bring me information nevertheless.’

‘Actually I was nearly shot this time,’ I added, and held up the lancer’s helmet. ‘I was wearing this when it was hit by a musket ball as I rode away from the French through a night time partisan ambush.’ There were more cries of admiration at that, and then they wanted to know how I had got the lancer’s uniform in the first place. I gave a creditable story about how I had evaded an ambush by a squadron of lancers and killed one in the process, and felt well pleased with myself. If salacious stories of my time in the cathedral with Agustina were circulating amongst the staff, then accounts of me riding amongst the French would add a more martial air to my reputation.

The last of the soldiers who had been firing the town were forming up to march along the westerly road and the staff now also headed in that direction. Wellington called me over to ride with him, leaving the other staff officers to follow on behind.

‘Take no notice of Grant,’ he told me as we set off down the road. ‘He is new and an inexperienced fellow, few people hold their honour more dearly than an impoverished Scotsman. You have done well, but of course I have come to expect that.’

‘What happens next?’ I asked him. ‘You know the French will try to push us into the sea and they have the men to do it. My cousin told me that you have a plan. Will you tell me what it is?’ I thought having done him such a service he could not refuse me, but I was wrong.

‘She really did not tell you what it was?’ he asked, looking at me. ‘I can see from your face she did not,’ he continued. ‘I will personally show you the plan as you partly gave me the idea for it, but not yet. No, if the French are coming down the valley as you say, then we will first make a stand on the Busaco ridge.’

I knew Busaco; it was a tall escarpment across the road between here and Lisbon. It was several miles long and the French would certainly prefer to go over it than around it, but if we did stop them climbing over then they could easily outflank us. ‘Won’t the French simply go around us?’

‘Eventually, yes. But I need a victory and I can have one at Busaco. The army has not fought for a year and it wants a battle. The politicians are also getting impatient for a return on the supplies and money they are sending the army.’

‘But won’t your plan give you a victory?’ I asked, puzzled.

Wellington laughed. ‘You will see Thomas, you will see,’ he called, before spurring his horse onwards to ride alone. I went back to join the staff. While Grant ignored me, most of the rest were old friends. I told them what Wellington had told me and they were delighted about the prospect of a fight, but most were equally mystified as to what Wellington’s plan was.