Flashman's Escape (8 page)

“Come on, boy, we need to keep up with the men,” I urged Price-Thomas just as he was threading the ramrod back into its brackets along the side of the muzzle. We could not be seen to fall too far behind our men and so I allowed my limp to ease slightly as we moved forward towards the low rampart of bodies ahead of us. Now that the press of men above them had moved on I saw that several were struggling to get up. A French soldier shook himself like a dog and then staggered to his feet, holding a head wound and staring about him. Boney growled at this apparent resurrection. Glancing at the hound and the two officers next to it, the Frenchman turned and stumbled away to the south. Price-Thomas raised his musket but I pushed the barrel back down. “Save that shot for someone coming towards us,” I told him.

If the battle with the first column had been brutal, the attack on the second was even worse. The poor French stragglers from the first attack, often unarmed, found themselves trapped between the jabbing points of both British and French troops. They screamed and pushed to get past, through or over the first ranks of the French line, causing confusion that the hardened British soldiers were quick to exploit.

“Go on, go at them,” General Stewart was shouting from his horse as he turned and rode down the line of his command towards the next British regiment.

I hefted the musket in my hand as we approached the fighting men. There were screams, oaths and yells coming from the heaving and compacted mass of humanity. The French were so pushed in together that few had room to use their weapons at all. In contrast the thin line of redcoats did have room to move and they were thrusting their blades at the men in the sodden blue uniforms. As lightning flashed and the rain continued to pelt down it seemed like a vision from hell.

I looked for the surviving officers of the regiment; two were still on horseback and others were holding their swords and standing behind their men, encouraging them on. One of the mounted men saw me looking around as I strode towards the line and he rode over.

“Why are you not with your men, Captain Flashman?” asked Major King.

“I am just coming up to them now,” I replied wearily; we were only ten yards away.

At that very moment the benefit of staying back became apparent as one of our men slipped in the mud. The Frenchman he had been fighting stabbed him in the shoulder and with a roar of triumph stepped over him so that he was behind our line. The two British soldiers on either side of him were both fully occupied with opponents of their own. The Frenchman who had stepped through the gap could see that he only had to kill one or two of the British on either side to create a gap. Then dozens of his comrades could pour through and attack the British line from behind. He turned to face the exposed backs of the British line. Instinctively I raised my musket to my shoulder but the flint sparked down on an empty pan: the gun was unloaded. But before I could even curse, there was a crack of a musket to my left and the Frenchman was falling with a red-rimmed hole right between his shoulder blades.

“What the devil are you doing with long arms? Officers should be using swords.” Major King looked down indignantly at us, completely ignoring the fact that we had just forestalled a breakthrough of the line. Without waiting for a reply, he rode on, still muttering to himself about ‘irregular behaviour’.

I turned away from him and looked at Price-Thomas, who was staring, ashen faced, at the French body lying on the ground.

“Is that the first man you have killed?”

“Yes, sir,” he replied quietly.

“Well, he would have killed you, given the chance. Now go to one of those bodies over there and get some dry cartridges. We both need to reload our weapons.”

To keep him occupied, I got Price-Thomas to load both muskets. It stopped him thinking about the man he killed as I urged him to hurry. I had no idea if the pistols in my sodden pocket would still fire and I was keen to get a more reliable weapon in my hand.

If I am honest, the incident had shaken me up too, for it had shown just how flimsy our attack now was. We had started with double ranks of men, but with casualties on the march to make the assault, and then in the musketry duel and finally in the assault on the first column, we were down to a single rank of redcoats along most of the line. There were a handful of officers and sergeants standing behind the line to help fill gaps and stop similar intrusions, but it would not take much for a breach to be made. At one point four or five men did break through together but they breached the line of the fourth company just in front of the group of men guarding the regimental colours. Several of the British sergeants from the colour guard went forward to despatch them with the razor-sharp spontoons they used to protect the colours against horsemen.

I am not sure whether it was the British or the weather which defeated the second French column in the end, as another vicious squall broke out within the storm. Suddenly we were blasted with a gale loaded with thousands of hailstones. You could not look into the wind; you had to turn your back into it. As soldiers on both sides struggled to see and retain their footing, the French decided that they had fought enough. Unless it was hidden by the sound of the tempest, they did not seem to make much noise as they went and I did not notice they had broken at first.

“The French are going, sir,” called out Price-Thomas.

I squinted into the sleet and saw a general movement of the men in blue south beyond the line of the darker red coats hunched against the weather. “So they are. Thank God for that.”

“Shouldn’t we pursue them, sir?”

“Look at the men. They are exhausted, and we haven’t got enough of them to take on another column.” Now that the French had moved back, it was clearer to see how pitifully few the survivors of the regiment were.

“Close up,” called a familiar voice and I saw that Sergeant Evans was among the survivors.

I counted and there were thirty-four men from my company still standing or crouching over wounded comrades. This was roughly half the number we had started the day with. Another tidemark showed the line of conflict with the second column. This time there were more blue-coated than red corpses, with many of those the unarmed stragglers from the first column. A break in the rain showed that the third column was still some hundred yards ahead of us, but like our men most were hunched over to avoid the rain.

Slowly the men heeded the sergeant’s call and began to come together in a single soggy line. Looking at the other companies in the Buffs, I saw they were equally ravaged. The British were now a fragile single file of exhausted men, opposed by an entire fresh French column. That is it, I thought. The regiment has fought itself to a standstill; they will have to retire us to the rear now. Little did I realise that the worst was yet to come.

Chapter 8

The squall stopped as suddenly as it started and instead of wind and hail the weather reverted back to just steady rain. Visibility improved and we could now see a large formation of horsemen to our west that seemed to be moving south.

“Are they our cavalry moving to harass the fleeing French?” asked Price-Thomas beside me.

“I hope so; at least they are not heading in our direction.” I looked up as a single horseman came galloping up the line. “Ah, here is someone who might tell us. Captain Waller, are those our horses?”

“We are not sure, Flashman. What do you make of them?” Waller reined in beside me and looked at our much-diminished line. “Your men have paid a big price to see off those columns, but it was splendid work, splendid indeed.”

I took my glass from my pocket and to Waller’s amusement I pulled young Price-Thomas in front of me so that I could rest the instrument on his head for a steady view. “There you are, lad, now you are being useful.”

“What can you see, sir?” he asked, moving his head slightly.

“When you stand still all I can see is grey, murky horsemen. They could be anyone, but they now seem to be coming to a halt.”

“Captain Waller, do you have a message for me?” Major King was trotting up with Captain Bailey, one of the two captains to retain his horse. The major looked irritated that Waller had stopped to talk to me instead of riding straight for him.

“General Stewart sends his compliments and asks the regiment to stand here, sir, and he will send up reinforcements to help attack the third column. The thirty-first battalion are still in reserve.”

“Lucky bastards,” I murmured as I continued to watch the horsemen through the glass.

“Very well, Captain,” replied King, ignoring me. But then I uttered an oath and he turned, exasperated, in my direction. “What is it now, Flashman?”

“Those horsemen have turned their line and seem to be walking in our direction now.”

“Well, if they are French, our cavalry will see them off,” claimed Captain Bailey confidently.

There was a crackle as a handful of muskets discharged behind us and one ball buzzed over our heads. The gathering of so many enemy officers had attracted the attention of the
voltigeurs
in the remaining French column.

Without taking my eye from the lens I called out to Evans. “Sergeant, make sure those frogs don’t get too close.” There was something about the horsemen that seemed familiar, I thought, so maybe they were British. All I could see was a blurred grey silhouette through the rain, but now they seemed to be increasing speed. “I think those horsemen have gone from the walk to the trot,” I told the other officers. “They are definitely coming this way.”

“Perhaps we should gather a few companies to form a solid line against them, just in case they are French,” suggested Waller.

“That would mean showing our backs to that French column,” objected King. “General Stewart wants us ready to attack them; I am not changing formation unless he orders it.”

There was another crackle of musketry and I looked around at the remaining French column. They had sent forward a dozen
voltigeurs
who were well spaced out. Behind them some men from the main column were also taking some pot shots at us, but at a hundred yards they were not likely to be accurate. Now that they could see their enemy, most of the French infantry seemed to be engaged in checking primings and powder and firing off damp charges to get their weapons ready in the rain for the expected attack.

Evans had got the company well spaced out and was urging the men to kneel like the
voltigeurs
when they were not loading so that they made a smaller target. I nodded approvingly and turned back to find that my telescope rest had walked off and was petting a miserable Boney. The ensign had knelt down next to the dog and put his arm around the animal’s shoulders. Boney leant in towards him to share body warmth and I saw that they were both shivering a little. Now that the danger seemed to have diminished slightly I realised that I was freezing as well. My clothes were saturated with icy rain and stuck to my skin.

I heard a yell and looked over my shoulder to see Private Temple clutching a wound on his arm. It did not seem too bad for he took his hand away to pick up his musket. Aiming it at one of the
voltigeurs
, he yelled, “I see you. Let’s see how you like this, you bugger,” before firing and giving a grunt of satisfaction at the result.

“I think they are Spanish,” called out Captain Bailey. He was still staring at the horsemen, who did not seem so distant now.

Without the telescope I could see the grey, undulating line of cavalry. I dashed the rain from my eyes and squinted but I could not make out any colours. I raised my glass again but my hands were shaking with the cold and it was hard to hold the thing steady. Twice the horsemen swam before my eye and once I thought I caught a glimpse of blue but was not sure. The third time I managed to hold the glass steady for a few seconds. They were two hundred yards off in the pouring rain then. At first I had that nag of familiarity as I looked at them. Then one turned his head and I made out the shape of the strange shako and at that moment the rain thinned sufficiently for me to see the little flag at the top of the lance he was holding. I knew them then all right; they were one of the most feared cavalry units the enemy possessed.

“They are Polish lancers!” I shouted.

“Are you sure?” queried King.

“Of course I am bloody sure – I’ve ridden in the uniform.”

Any remaining doubt was resolved by a trumpet call from the approaching horsemen who now increased speed to the gallop.

“Form up to receive horse,” yelled Major King to all those about him. But it was too late for that, far too late, and everybody knew it. The ground seemed to vibrate now with the oncoming horses’ hooves and men stared in horror at what seemed approaching certain doom… but for me death arrived early.

It was as King gave his pointless order that it happened. I felt a thump in my back and a searing pain in my chest. As I stepped forward to keep my balance I saw a red stain grow across my chest. I stared down in horror, my mind numb. Oh, I had been close to death many times before, but each time I had managed to escape, while those around me fell. Now my luck had suddenly run out. I had been shot in the chest, whether from a
voltigeur
or a lucky strike from the column I did not know or care. All I did know was that shots passing through the torso were invariably fatal. I was done for.

As the world dissolved into chaos around me, the initial horror changed to shock as the implications sank in and then I felt strangely calm. It was almost a serene moment as I realised my time had come. My mind wandered to the people I had killed and the moment of their passing. I wondered almost idly what dying would feel like. For once I seemed relaxed; the tension of surviving had gone. I was still aware of things going on around me, but it was almost as though I was watching myself from a distance. I remember Price-Thomas pulling on my arm and asking if I was all right, and Boney coming over and licking my hand. As the horses thundered towards us Sergeant Evans issued a string of profane oaths, his normal verbal dexterity having deserted him. Men were running all around me; some seemed to be trying to surrender, others running away and just a few preparing to make a fight of it.

The next trumpet call brought me slightly to my senses. It was the sound of the charge: the lancers were just fifty yards off now and lowering their weapons to the attack. Two were aiming at Price-Thomas and I as we stood rooted to the spot, watching them come on. I could still breathe; the world was not going black as I had expected. Perhaps it would not be the musket ball that kills me after all, I thought. Instinctively I reached down and drew my sword; it just seemed right to die with the weapon in my hand.

The lancer aiming for Price-Thomas was fractionally ahead and I can still recall seeing the horseman grin as he crouched over his weapon, aiming it for the centre of the boy’s chest. “Run, boy,” I gasped as I remembered a moment not six months ago, when another lance was aimed at my chest. But I was not the only one to remember my encounter last autumn with Polish lancers. Boney had been there too and had been nearly shot for his trouble. He was not a forgiving dog and had always been fond of the young ensign. Now, as he saw the lancer approach, he sprang forward, snarling in anger. A look of alarm crossed the cavalryman’s face as the dog was already past the now wavering point of his weapon. Price-Thomas threw himself clear and then there was a blood-curdling yelp. The second lancer, who had been aiming for me, had covered his comrade and impaled the dog on his weapon. I felt a white-hot rage burn inside me as I saw Boney writhing to get free. An Irish wolfhound weighs almost as much as a man and the lancer was struggling to clear his shaft of the dog. I managed to stagger forward a few paces. The lancer must have expected us to run away and did not look round, but I was past running. As the Polish trooper looked to his right to pull the weapon free, his horse turned and brought the rider’s left side within my reach. I thrust the razor-sharp sword up under his ribs and into his chest. He shrieked in agony and his back arched in the saddle before his horse reared and pulled the body off my blade.

“Look out!” I heard Price-Thomas cry behind me, but I did not have a chance to look round before my leg was knocked from under me. I twisted as I fell and just had time to see Price-Thomas pulling on the first lancer’s arm as he tugged his weapon from my thigh. The lancer simply knocked the boy aside and then tried to get his mount to trample me. The horse was whinnying as it moved above me and seemed to be trying to avoid treading on me, evidently a lot kinder than its master. But as the lancer raked his spurs to urge the animal on to new targets a back hoof caught me around the head and for a moment the world did go black.

I came around to a scene of utter chaos. I had been lying on my side but with a struggle was able to prop myself half up on one elbow. There was a burning pain in my chest, my leg throbbed with a gaping hole in it and now blood started to drip into my left eye from a cut on my head, but at least for now I was still alive. I was in the tideline of bodies from the attack on the second column and twisted around slightly to rest against a French corpse that lay face down in the mud. My blood-stained sword lay beside me and Boney lay whimpering a few yards away, but my attention was elsewhere.

Fifteen-year-old Ensign Edward Price-Thomas stood still amongst running soldiers and charging lancers. As its last officer standing, he was trying to gather the men of the third company. “Rally on me, men,” he cried, his voice high in fear and excitement. He was waving his sword in the air to get their attention. Incredibly one soldier, Private Temple, tried to respond to his call, but he was cut down from behind by a lancer as he ran to his young officer. Price-Thomas just stood there and called again, unsure what to do next.

“Run away, you bloody fool.” I had meant to yell the words, but as I inhaled my chest hurt and it came out as a rasping noise. Price-Thomas must have heard something as he looked at me. I remember seeing the surprise in his eyes that I was still alive. I couldn’t shout, but now I had his attention I pointed north towards the rest of the British and Spanish forces and managed to croak, “Run.” I twisted around to see if he would make it, but almost instantly realised that he had tragically misunderstood my last command. He had run, but not to escape. Instead he headed straight to a furious fight that was underway around the regimental colours. I groaned. Price-Thomas had been with the regiment nearly all his young life. He had been brought up to believe that these two six-foot square scraps of cloth were the honour of the regiment, to be defended at all costs. As I watched my lifeblood seep into the mud, I could not think of anything less important to die for.

There were half a dozen lancers fighting around the two flags. The capture of an enemy colour would normally result in an instant promotion and fame within the army. I could see the sergeants defending the colours with their spontoons. The weapons were designed to bring down enemy horsemen armed with swords; the Poles, with their longer lance weapons, killed them with impunity. Two ensigns held the actual colours and I saw one killed and the flag taken and held aloft by a jubilant lancer. As the trooper tried to ride away with his prize Price-Thomas got in his horse’s way, waving his sword in a futile effort to stop the beast. The ensign did not see the lancer riding behind him or probably even know he was there until the lance went clean through one of his lungs and came out of the front of his chest. The second lancer shook the boy’s body off his point to lie in the mud. Beyond him the ensign holding the second colour was cut down, but I saw Lieutenant Latham of the fourth company grabbing the flagstaff from the boy’s fingers. Two lancers hacked down at Latham with their swords, but still he tried to wrestle the flag away from them and tear some of the cloth from the pole. Incredibly I saw young Price-Thomas somehow stagger back to his feet; his sword still in his hand. He ran a few steps towards Latham and the fight for the colour before more Polish lancers and their horses blocked my view. When they moved away again both Latham and Price-Thomas lay still in the dirt and a lancer was carrying away the pole of the second colour, still with a strip of the precious cloth attached.