Flashman's Escape (7 page)

My view of this military miracle was obscured by what seemed a sudden grey mist. By the time I had put the telescope back in my pocket the squall had hit us too. It was a torrential downpour of rain and hail that stung the cheeks and dropped icy water down the back of my coat.

“Come on, men,” I shouted above the roar of the rain. “Get up that hill, stopper your barrels and keep your locks wrapped.”

It took nearly twenty minutes to get formed up and re-join the rest of the brigade on the ridge top. By then I was soaked to the skin as the storm continued. Most of the men had fired off any charges in their weapons, preferring to march with an empty gun. Drawing a damp charge out of the barrel was a time-consuming business. The Spanish were still holding and seemed to have settled into a battle of attrition with the French. It was hard to see with the rain and the gun smoke, but both sides seemed to be firing away, some eighty yards apart.

Colborne rode past with a group of officers. “Ah, Flashman,” he called. “Come and tell us again what you saw from the village.”

I rode over to the huddle of officers, wiping the rainwater from my eyes so that I could see them clearly. Saluting, I reported: “I saw several thousand infantry coming up the slope, at least three columns, supported by cavalry and artillery. I am pretty sure that it is their main attack, sir, and the Spanish cannot hold them for much longer.” That I thought was the strongest possible hint I could give that we should start to pull back. When the Spanish did eventually break there would be chaos all along the ridge.

A pair of flinty blue eyes surveyed me and I recognised General Stewart, commander of half the British troops, including our brigade. “Of course it is their main assault,” cried Stewart impatiently. He stared at the beleaguered Spanish and then seemed to make up his mind about something. “If we don’t support them, we will lose this battle. Colborne, I want your brigade to march past the Spanish right flank and along the side of the French columns and then attack the nearest one.” He made it sound as straightforward as feeding ducks in the park, but I was appalled. I had re-joined the battalion thinking it would be the safest place in a fighting withdrawal. But now, because the wretched Spanish were being so resolute in their defence, I was being dragged into a counterattack.

I sat aghast for a moment as the implications of this order set in, but Stewart was impatient to begin. He glared at the column of men he was sending in to battle with the same compassion he might have shown for his breakfast boiled egg. “Come along, gentlemen,” he shouted over the rain. “We have not got all day; the Spanish will not stand for ever.”

I looked around. The Buffs were the lead regiment in Colborne’s formation and so we would be among the first into the fray. The men were lined in a column, each company forming two lines with their officers on horseback in front. My company was the third in the column.

“I will re-join my regiment then, sir,” said Colborne, who was colonel of the sixty-sixth, which was further back in the group. I certainly did not blame him for moving smartly to the rear; I was wracking my brains for a reason to do the same. How I yearned for the freedom of a staff officer at that moment, but now my place was fixed with my men. I turned reluctantly to join Hervey in front of the two wet and bedraggled rows of the third company.

With Major King beside him, the captain of the first company ordered his men forward, followed a few seconds later by the captain of the second company. I wanted to think of a reason, any reason, not to give the next order, but my mind had gone blank. I turned back to my men. It was hard to see if any looked scared as most faces were turned away from the driving rain. Sergeant Evans stood at the end of the first line while Price-Thomas with Boney was now in the row behind. A few faces now looked up expectantly as I continued to hesitate.

“Advance,” I croaked. My throat had constricted through fear and I doubt anyone heard the order. I cleared my throat and shouted much louder to compensate. “Advance, men, forward. Come along there.”

We had barely covered a few paces when there was a double flash of lightning, followed by a crash of thunder that made me jump. It did not seem the best omen to march into a pitched battle. General Stewart watched us move off and glanced down at the men following us. I wondered if he was going to stay near the rear of the column; if he did then I would find some excuse to report something to him. Anything would do: I could claim to have seen a fresh attack on the village through a gap in the rain. With such poor visibility and the confusion of battle, they would never find out if it was true. As though the old bastard had read my mind, I saw him turn his mount in my direction and ride towards me.

“I will ride with you, Flashman,” he called over the drumming of the rain. “Have you fought in a storm before?”

“No, sir,” I replied. I looked at him. He must have been frightened too but he showed no sign of it. He was as rigid as an old maid’s starched drawers. I knew what he was up to, though, making conversation to take his mind off the coming dangers. Well, I needed the distraction too, and so I added, “This one is like a monsoon in India, only colder.”

“Ah, you were with Wellington in India, were you? I think I recall hearing your name at Talavera too. Well, there will be no need for those heroics today. We just need to keep the men ordered and disciplined so that we cover the whole flank of their column. They won’t stand then, attacked on two sides.”

We were moving partway down the reverse slope now to pass to the right of the Spanish line fighting the French columns. The rain was reducing casualties; only around half of the muskets on both sides seemed to be firing, with the rest of the men struggling to clear damp powder from fouled gun locks. The ground around the Spanish lines was littered with bodies but they still had plenty of fight in them. As we went past, one of their cannon barked another canister-load of death into the blue ranks opposite.

“Viva!”
shouted the Spaniards on the end of the line as we marched past and Stewart raised a hand in salute. Whether the Spaniards were simply pleased to have reinforcements or just glad that the French cannon would switch to new targets it was hard to say. But barely had we appeared around the Spanish than the French cannon started to take men from our column. Two balls whipped through the lines of the first company ahead, leaving trails of broken bodies for the rest of the battalion to step around.

“Close up,” called the sergeant of the first company, a cry that was to become all too familiar over the next few minutes.

Stewart was riding calmly beside me as though exercising in Hyde Park and I tried to affect the same level of unconcern while my guts churned in fear. A few moments later I resisted the urge to duck as another ball went whining over my head. There were screams and yells from the men where the ball had landed. I strained my ears and heard another voice calling for gaps in the line to be filled. With relief I realised that it was not Sergeant Evans. The ball must have hit a company beyond mine.

Now, as the head of our formation came level with the front of the French column, I saw a new and more personal danger appear. We were at least a hundred yards away from the side of the nearest French column, and those French soldiers at the edge now readied themselves to fire. At that range and with damp charges they posed little threat, but further along I saw a company of skirmishers, or
voltigeurs
, being advanced to close the range. These soldiers were marksmen who did not fight in ranks, but in a much looser formation. They would be looking to disrupt our attack by shooting officers. I muttered a silent prayer as I glanced across at Stewart. He had seen them but honour demanded that he show no fear and so he continued to walk his horse forward at a steady pace. He was covered in enough gold braid to attract a flock of magpies and even in the rain the skirmishers were bound to see him. The general would be a prime target, attracting musket balls like bees to a honey pot. So why, I silently prayed to the Almighty, did the man have to ride next to me?

Chapter 7

In just a few moments the lieutenant of the first company had thrown his hands in the air and fallen from his horse. “Oh Christ,” I heard Hervey mutter to himself. I glanced across at him. He was ashen faced and looking as terrified as I felt. At least, I thought callously, he would provide some cover, being between me and the
voltigeurs
. No sooner was the thought in my head than Hervey jolted in the saddle. “I have been hit,” he gasped. His left hand went up to his right shoulder and came away covered in blood while his sword arm hung uselessly at his side.

“Go back, man,” snapped Stewart. “You will be no use in that state.”

Hervey wheeled his horse away, staying unsteadily in the saddle, and for a moment I felt a twinge of guilt. It was almost as though my thought had caused his injury. If it had then it probably saved his life for he survived the battle. But then I remembered that I was now reluctantly the only person between the general and the
voltigeurs
.

There was a steady crackle of musket fire from the side of the French column, interspersed with the booming of cannon from the French and the Spanish. Most cannon balls went over our heads, but one pitched short and I saw it slam into the horse ridden by the captain of the first company. The animal went down hard but its rider dismounted as it fell, landed on his feet and immediately continued the march while shouting at his men to avoid the still-flailing feet of his animal.

A musket ball whizzed past my head as some of the
voltigeurs
turned their attention to my company and took note of my riding companion. I felt trapped: every fibre of my being wanted to run, but I would be disgraced if I did and quite possibly just as dead. The noise of battle was all around me, firing, screaming and yelling, but strangely muted by the continual downpour of rain. I glanced out to our right but just saw a grey murky field. “What is out there?” I asked the general, partly to make a conversation to distract me from the danger and partly because I realised we would have our backs to this space when we attacked.

“Our cavalry,” replied Stewart, “and some of theirs. They will counter each other. That is if they can see…” He paused halfway through his sentence and stared in irritation at his right shoulder. There I saw that half of his golden epaulet had been torn away from his uniform by a musket ball. “Damn and blast them,” he grumbled. “Those were a gift from my wife.”

I turned back just in time to see a
voltigeur
aim directly at me. I did not even have time to flinch before the powder flashed in the pan of his musket. Mercifully that was all that did ignite as the cartridge powder must have been damp, but it was the final straw for me. I had to do something. I could not ride along like the target in some fairground stall until I was killed. I needed some kind of shield. I wracked my brain for an idea and then realised that I was sitting on it. My horse was half a tonne of shield if only I could find an excuse to get off it and walk alongside.

“Is that movement out there?” I asked Stewart, pointing again into the empty grey field to our right. Stewart glanced in that direction and as he did so I took out a small fruit knife from my pocket and plunged the blade into the shoulder of my horse. Unsurprisingly the mount took exception to this and reared up as I dropped the knife.

“Are you hit, Flashman?” asked Stewart, whirling back round.

“No, sir, but I think my horse is lame,” I replied while putting my hand to the newly made wound and bringing it back covered in blood to show the general. “I think I will have to dismount,” I added, sliding quickly down from the saddle so that the horse was now between me and the
voltigeurs
.

“Yes, quite,” agreed Stewart with, I thought, a degree of peevish irritation. “Well, it is probably time I rode down the column to see how the rest are getting on,” he called, wheeling his horse away. The crafty old fox had been using me as a shield too.

That horse undoubtedly saved my life. As we marched along it reared up twice more with genuine musket ball wounds, but it stayed on its feet and kept moving in the right direction. Eventually I heard orders being shouted ahead and Stewart and King rode past to oversee the change in formation. The first company was wheeling around to face left, and as the second company marched past the first it wheeled in turn to join the line. As we marched behind the first and second company lines, we had some respite from the
voltigeurs
and I called Sergeant Evans to the front.

“Four dead and six injured, sir,” he reported of the casualties we had taken so far. “Mr Price-Thomas is fine, sir, and your dog.”

“Very good,” I replied automatically. The casualties were better than I had expected. The first company seemed to have already lost a quarter of their men. “We will be wheeling around left at the end of the second company,” I told him. “I would be obliged if you would give the orders.”

“Gyrating left, as you say, sir,” acknowledged Evans.

While his eccentric ordering caused both Stewart and King, who were nearby, to cock a quizzical eyebrow, the third company joined its fellows without difficulty. This was largely because the men had seen what the earlier companies had done and just followed their lead. The fourth and subsequent companies formed on us to create a new double-rank line facing the French.

Now at last the men could return the punishment that they had been receiving over the last few minutes. As soon as the companies were in position they opened fire on the French. This would normally involve a series of devastating company volleys, but the weather had taken its toll. Only half the muskets in the first volley fired. The other men fell to the rear, cursing as they tried to push pins through touch holes to move damp powder away and sweep away grey sludge in priming pans and replace it with fresh, dry powder from a new cartridge.

Evans had obviously fought in the rain before. “Use the cartridges from the middle of your pouch,” he called. “They will be the most desiccated. Here, lad, take this one.” He handed one struggling soldier a replacement musket and I saw that hanging from his shoulders he had two more that he had presumably taken from the dead.

“Well done, Sergeant, you seem well prepared.”

“It is always best to be expectant, sir,” he stated primly. Then, turning to the men, he called, “Come along, lads. Aim at their belt buckles and make those shots tell.”

“We have got most of the guns firing now,” called Price-Thomas a minute later. He was right. Only three men were still wrestling with the locks of their guns; the rest were getting into the rhythm of firing rolling volleys. Unfortunately the French were doing the same, and while I watched two more men of the company fell. They were pulled to the rear by their comrades. One was wounded in the thigh and was tying a neck cloth around his wound, but the other lay still. Evans looked him over and announced, “This one is mortified, sir.”

“I am sure he is, Sergeant.” I replied.

“What are we going to do now?” asked Price-Thomas.

It was a good question, as while the Spanish and French had settled into a musketry duel at the front of the column, we seemed to have done the same down the side of the French formation. I peered through the rain down the British line. The Buffs were all in a line. I looked back and saw the forty-eighth were as well, and as far as I could see, the sixty-sixth beyond them. You could make out the different regiments from their colour parties, holding the regimental flags that hung sodden and heavy from their poles. The Buffs’ flag was held just behind the fourth company where Major King watched his men from horseback.

All of the regiments were now firing into the side of the French column and getting shot at in return, but nobody was moving. There was only one way this could end and I did not welcome it. We carried on firing volleys for what seemed an age but it was probably only a few minutes. Two more men fell, mortally wounded, and lay bleeding to death in the rain. Then I saw General Stewart riding up the line to speak to Major King and after a moment I heard the order I least wanted to hear.

“Fix bayonets.”

All along the line the men reached for their bayonets and carefully attached them to the now hot barrels of their guns, many of which were steaming in the continuing rain. The French could see what was happening and knew what to expect. I saw them fixing their own blades too. Price-Thomas drew his sword and moved forward to join the ranks of the men but I pulled him back.

“Don’t be a fool,” I told him. “Your sword won’t reach a man with a bayonet before he has had the chance to gut you with his blade. Sheathe that sword and get us both a musket and bayonet.” Of course I had no intention of actually getting near the French if I could help it, but one had to at least show willing.

This promised to be a most brutal action, for the enemy had nowhere to go. Normally bayonets were fixed when the enemy were on the verge of breaking, to chase them away from the field. But the French we would charge had their own comrades to their rear, the Spanish still fighting the head of the column, and only those at the back of the column had room to escape the charge. The bayonet is an effective attacking weapon but clumsy in defence. Both sides would therefore be stabbing out with it for all they were worth, while desperately trying to parry opposing thrusts.

General Stewart was not looking for a shield now as he rode into the gap between the third and fourth companies. “Come on, men,” he called. “We cannot let them stand. See them off the field.” With a flourish of his sword he indicated that they should charge and spurred his horse forward to join them. With a roar the men leapt forward to the attack; well, most of them at least.

Price-Thomas, musket now in hand, gave his piping war cry and started to run forward with the rest. He had only taken two paces when his trailing ankle got caught up in the musket strap of the man following him. He fell face first into the now wet, soft mud of the hillside. As he struggled to get to his feet the person who had tripped him fell on top of him, pressing him further into the dirt.

“Dammit, boy, you fell right in front of me,” I called indignantly while disentangling my musket strap from the lad’s ankle.

“I am very sorry, sir,” came Price-Thomas’s slightly muffled voice from underneath me.

“Well, it really won’t do. I think I have twisted my ankle.”

“Sorry again, sir… but could you get off me? I think we had better help with the attack.”

“Yes, yes, but I will need you to help me up first.”

I rolled away and the boy shot to his feet. He reached down and gripped my hand to pull me up. I soon stood on one leg with an arm gripping firmly around his shoulder, and another perfectly good leg waving in the air. After a moment I started to hobble forward, using the boy as a crutch, and wincing at the imaginary pain. “Go at them, lads,” I called encouragingly from a safe distance.

“Shouldn’t I run forward and help the men, sir?” asked Price-Thomas plaintively.

“How much practice have you had fighting with the bayonet lad?” I asked.

“Why none, sir. You gave the men plenty of drill with the musket and bayonet, but I have been practising with a sword along with the other ensigns.”

“How much drill do you think a French infantryman has fighting with a bayonet then?”

“Quite a lot, sir.”

“So what makes you think that a wet, angry French infantryman is going to let an inexperienced fifteen-year-old boy beat him with a bayonet?”

“We have to do something, sir.”

“We are, we are managing the men, and if any Frenchmen do get through, we will shoot them. Did you check your musket was loaded?” I asked sternly. I let go of the lad and stepped gingerly forward on my own, using my musket now as a support. I had no idea if mine was loaded either but I knew I had two loaded pistols in my pockets.

“No, it’s not loaded, sir.” The boy searched in the belt pouch of a nearby corpse for a dry cartridge and set to loading his weapon. I tutted impatiently, knowing that this would make his cold, wet hands fumble the job even more. Just as he was raising the ramrod to push the charge home we heard a cheer from our front and to my astonishment I saw that the first French column was breaking. My joy was short-lived as I saw the second column waiting beyond.

“Come on, men, on to the next one. Keep amongst them,” roared General Stewart, providing all the leadership my men needed. It was good to see a general make himself useful for a change, allowing lesser ranks to evade their duty. A damn dangerous duty it was too. As our men surged forward to the next column I saw that a tidemark of bodies had been left behind. Hundreds of them, British and French, lay in a rough line down this part of the ridge where the two armies had fought. At least a dozen of my company were there, some just wounded, others carrying several stab wounds and clearly dead.