Flashman in the Peninsula

by Robert Brightwell

  Oh dear God, I thought, I cannot die here, not like this after all I have been through. For I could see as plain as day what would happen. There were at least a thousand men in that column now marching across the bridge and no more than four hundred now crouched at the barricade. They would be beaten and the survivors would run away like the militia, leaving Flashy trapped and helpless to face the vengeful fury of French soldiers who had lost comrades in the attack.

  ‘Help me,’ I roared again. ‘Light the mine,’ I added as an afterthought, but both calls were drowned out by the double whoomp of the howitzers from the bluff behind.

  There is a split second between a howitzer being fired and the shells exploding where you find yourself holding your breath. At least I did then, for never had shells been more important and I think that day, never were they more perfectly aimed. For both landed amongst the crowded mass of men marching towards us. From the hill during the first attack I had heard the screams, but now I was close enough to hear the pitiable calls for help from the wounded. I also heard the roars of rage from the survivors who knew that they would be up against the barricade before the guns could fire again. It seemed to give them extra vigour. If there was an order I did not hear it, but instinctively the French broke into a charge. Yelling and screaming with bayonets to the fore the whole column broke into a run. That’s it, I thought, we are done for now.

  In their looser formation the French came though the archway at the halfway point on the bridge without breaking stride, and were three-quarters of the way across the bridge when the green coated soldiers opened fire. They had organised themselves into eight ranks of roughly fifty men that stood in a short column at our end of the bridge. Many were protected from the enemy infantry on the far shore by the bridge parapet, and the enemy cannon had ceased firing to avoid hitting their own soldiers. The front rank took aim at no more than a hundred yards and fired. Many of the leading French running troops fell, but before those behind could recover the Lusitanian front rank dropped to their knees and the second rank fired, and then the third and so on. I watched in astonishment as over the next minute eight volleys were fired down the bridge, and against such a tightly packed mass of men they could not miss.

  The musket smoke was such that after the first few volleys they were firing blind but from my position, slightly to one side, I could see that our side of the bridge was covered with blue coated dead and wounded. Occasionally a French soldier would charge through several volleys, but then there would be the crack of a carbine as he got close and I saw that the dragoons were stationed on their knees at the front to deal with anyone who got too close with their short range weapons.

  With eight volleys fired the Lusitanians now stood to reload. It would have been the ideal time for the French to resume their charge, but they could not see the opportunity through the smoke. Instead a French officer now started to organise the troops into ranks to fire volleys in return. With green jacketed soldiers now standing they made a bigger target and I saw some fall. But just after the French had fired their first volley the howitzers fired again and once more the French troops started to edge back.

  It was the finest piece of organisation and volley fire that I had seen, helped a great deal by the fact that the French could not outflank them and were trapped on the narrow strip of the bridge. Through the clearing smoke the Lusitanians saw the French helping their wounded back the way they had come. Grins spread over their powder stained faces and they shouted and cheered their delight.

  ‘Will one of you blighters come over here and get me free,’ I yelled as the noise subsided.

  ‘I say Flash,’ called Downie, looking up from the rampart. ‘I wondered where you had gone.’ He paused before adding hastily, ‘Obviously I did not think you had run,’ while blushing red to prove that was exactly what he had thought.

  It took four of the Lusitanians using their muskets as levers to move the rock, but mercifully my ankle was not even sprained. At last mobile again I ran over to where Downie and Captain Charles of the Lusitanians were talking at the end of the bridge. Before I could even say a word there was the roar of cannon from the opposite bank and the renewed crackle of musket fire. We dropped down to our knees to get the cover of the bridge parapet.

  ‘They can see how few we are now,’ shouted Charles above the din. ‘They are going to pound us until we are too few to defend the bridge or run away like the militia.’ He was right. Already two balls had slashed bloody trails through the tightly packed ranks of Lusitanians who were now falling back to the dubious shelter of the shallow trenches.

  ‘Where is the mine?’ I shouted, thinking that there had only ever been one way out of this.

  ‘It is under the first arch, but we have to await orders before we can fire it.’

  ‘I have orders,’ I replied, while patting my pocket to check that my tinder box was still there, and then I slipped around the end of the parapet and started to slide down the slope.

  ‘Captain Flashman, come back,’ called Charles behind me but I ignored him. I knew that if I didn’t blow that bridge then we would be pounded to mincemeat, and right now the only totally safe place from the French bombardment was under the bridge itself. But no sooner had I started to slide down the steep hillside than there was a renewed crackle of musketry from the far bank. Looking up I noticed too late that Victor had posted a company of infantry on the very edge of the far bank, obviously with orders to stop anyone trying to blow a mine under the bridge. The wily fox must have guessed that there would be one. If they had used rifles I would have been dead, but even at the one hundred yard distance that it must have been, muskets were not accurate against just one man. Balls smacked into the rocks all around me but it would have taken longer to go back up, so I continued to slide down the hillside until I was level with the first arch. There I saw that Marshal Victor had another surprise planned.

  The floor under the arch was covered with fuses, either cut or yanked out of the four large barrels of gunpowder that were placed against one of the walls. Of more concern however was the huge soaking wet Frenchman who was straining to push one of the barrels over the far edge of the arch. He must have been well over six foot, a grenadier company man from the look of him and judging from the way he was moving the barrel, hugely powerful. He must also have been a good swimmer to get across the river in the strong current and climb up the ravine.

  His only weapon seemed to be a large knife which was resting on the top of a barrel, and I am proud to say I did not hesitate when considering my course of action. If this was a romantic novel I would have called to my gallant foe to give him a chance to defend himself, but that ain’t the Flashy way, especially when the cove looked as if he could beat me to a pulp. As I ran through the arch the noise of the surrounding battle covered any sound I made. In any event the great brute was too busy pushing and straining to get his barrel over the edge. He succeeded just as I reached him. As he peered over the edge to see the result of his handiwork, I shoulder charged him in the back to tip him over the edge as well. His flailing arms almost got a grip on my jacket to drag me over too, but I wrenched myself free and with a scream he toppled over the edge. I watched him fall and with a sickening thud he hit a rock head first and then somersaulted a couple of times before splashing into the river. A flurry of musket fire from the opposite bank told me that a company of infantry were defending the arches on both sides of the bridge, but I had just enough time to check that there were no more swimming grenadiers before I ducked my head back into the relative safety of the arch.

  Looking around I saw that originally a bundle of fuses had led from the arch up to the roadway so that the mine could have been fired from above. That, however, had been cut by the grenadier. The surviving combined fuse was now much shorter and then it split into four separate strands. It was a matter of moments to push these individual fuses back into the barrels so that they were embedded in the black powder. I just hoped that the remaining three large barrels would be
enough to blow the bridge.

  The battle was still raging above me with the enemy cannon thundering away. I could hear screams of men as the cannon balls hit home. If I could just blow the bridge then neither side would have a reason to be here, and both could withdraw. Lisbon and Wellesley’s flank would be protected and more importantly I would not be killed by vengeful French infantrymen when they inevitably stormed across. I opened my tinder box and struck the steel. The tinder caught first time and with some gentle blowing I soon had a flame. I took a deep breath and yelled, ‘I am firing the mine,’ but with the noise of battle I doubt anyone heard me. I was not concerned as I would warn anyone still near the end of the bridge when I climbed back up. I touched the flame to the end of the combined fuse and it took with a roar.

  There are times in my life when I really should have thought things through a bit more before I took action. Lighting that mine was one of those occasions. To be sure fuses burn at varying speeds, and if that had been a slow burning fuse my plan would have worked brilliantly. It wasn’t. The flame took off down its track like a scalded whippet. I stared at it transfixed in horror for a moment as the implications sank in. I would not have time to climb back up the hill and get clear before it blew. To pull the fuses back out of the barrels would leave me back in the soup. I could not stay in the arch and that left only one option – sliding down into the river. A sudden burst of flame from the fuse as it separated to go to the individual barrels seemed to break the spell and spur me into action. There was no time to worry about the company of infantry on the opposite shore, I had to take my chances and get out of that arch. I was out and running down that hill in a heartbeat. I was only dimly aware of the renewed crackle of gunfire from the French bank. I could not afford to look up as I had to concentrate on my footing. One slip and in a few seconds tons of rock would fall on top of me. I was halfway down the hill when I realised that it was taking too long. There was nothing for it but to step out onto a rocky outcrop and just jump into the water.

  It was deep and cold and probably saved my life, for it moved me down the stream in a fast current. As I surfaced I was gasping with the shock of the icy water but I was already twenty yards away from the bridge. The mine blew. There was a thunderous roar, a huge plume of smoke and seconds later chunks of masonry were splashing in the river around me. For a moment I was jubilant, I had done it, I had escaped and saved Lisbon and Wellesley at the same time. Then, as the smoke started to clear, I discovered that I had been thwarted by a long dead man called Lacer.

  I found out later that his name was Caius Julius Lacer. He was a Roman architect and he built damn strong bridges. As I drifted around a bend in the river I had a last look at the bridge and could clearly see that the end span was still standing. I also got a glimpse of the Lusitanian soldiers pulling back away from the river. I drifted and half waded down the river for a quarter of a mile but with my sword and pistols weighing me down, once any air trapped in my clothes had gone it was impossible to swim and I looked for a place to climb up the steep bank on the Portuguese side.

  It was late afternoon when, soaked through and freezing cold, I climbed to the crest of a hill that overlooked the bridge at Alcantara. I still had my telescope in my pocket and while some water had got into the tubes I was able to watch the Lusitanian rear guard pulling back to the next bridge that they planned to defend. They had got most of their cannon away and left just one on the bluff to hold the bridge until they departed. Marshal Victor seemed happy to let them go without incurring further casualties; it was the bridge he wanted, and thanks to me he had it. As I looked down, the first of his troops were coming across and the dead and wounded on the bridge were being carried away. The first French infantry and cavalry were moving across in single file.

  They would pursue the Lusitanians I thought and destroy what was left of them at the next bridge, which meant that rejoining those brave green jacketed troops was not for me. My urgent need was for warmth and so I walked half a mile away from Alcantara to an abandoned shepherd’s hut, where I soon had a fire blazing to return life to my limbs and dry my clothes. The next morning I expected to awake to the sound of a distant battle but there was nothing. I had slept in the hut and made plans on what to do next. With Soult likely to be holding off Wellesley in the north of Portugal until Victor arrived either in Lisbon or on Wellesley’s flanks, going north or west back into Portugal seemed a dangerous option. I could not go east as that was French occupied Spain, so south seemed the best idea. I could get to Seville or Cuesta and while the despatches had been ruined by the water, they would be obliged to help a British officer get to safe territory. But first I had to wait for Marshal Victor’s army to get out of the way. Later that day I climbed up my hill again to see how things were proceeding and there I saw an astonishing sight. Instead of proceeding west to capture Lisbon, Victor’s men were turning around and heading back the way that they had come. I was amazed, puzzled and proud; against all the odds, the tiny forces of the Loyal Lusitanian Legion, ably assisted by one T Flashman, Esquire, had somehow managed to turn back a French marshal and his army.

  The big question that we were all asking over the next few days was why the French had turned back once they had secured the bridge. Some British sources later dismissed the matter by claiming that Victor must have got word that Wellesley had beaten Soult at Oporto, but that doesn’t wash. The victory at Oporto and the defence of the bridge at Alcantara both took place on the same day, the twelfth of May. I know French messengers would be better at navigating than Downie, but it must be well over one and fifty miles taking into account the rough terrain and avoiding the partisans. There is no way that they could have done it in much less than four days, even with fresh horses at each stop.

  Colonel Mayne suggested that one of the reasons was the heavy casualties that the Lusitanians had inflicted on the French. He estimated French casualties at 1,400, more than a tenth of the French infantry, against which the militia regiment lost around fifty killed and wounded before they ran away, and the Legion had one hundred and eight killed and a hundred and forty six wounded, which still left them over three hundred men and most of their guns to defend the next bridge at Seguro.

  I on the other hand have another theory, and I speak with some authority as I was probably the only one watching the French at the bridge on the day they decided to turn around. I saw lots of infantry and cavalry cross that damaged span, but not one of the heavy twelve pounder cannon. There were officers, presumably French engineers, studying the bridge and going underneath where the mine had been placed. I am pretty sure that I even saw Marshal Victor ride across in the afternoon to inspect the damage for himself. I don’t think that last arch of the bridge was strong enough to take the guns and Victor certainly would not have wanted to advance without his artillery. My hypothesis is supported by the fact that the damaged span collapsed completely a few weeks later.

  It is possible that Soult had been sending messages before the battle with Wellesley expressing doubts that he could defend Oporto, but other messages he sent indicate he was confident he could defend the city. I like to think that it was my forestalling the grenadier from destroying the mine and then firing the damn thing that saved the day. As you will read from the following account, there are not many things that happened to me in the peninsula that I can take a sense of accomplishment from, but that is one of them. After all there cannot be that many men who can say that they have turned back a French army single handed.

  Much later, Colonel Mayne and I were both made Knights of the Military Order of Alcantara by the Spanish, recognising the part we played in stopping the French advance. It is an old order that dates back to the Middle Ages and the battles in the region between Christendom and the Moors. Like most of my foreign tinware and awards it won’t get you into Whites or the Reform Club, but I still wear mine with pride.

  You will only find passing mentions of the defence of the Alcantara Bridge in many of the history books, which is down
to pure spite in some cases. Wellesley never gave the Legion credit for anything and officers writing memoirs in his lifetime took care to follow suit so as to avoid his wrath. Cuesta and the Spanish were similarly furious that the bridge had been blown as it added weeks to communications, although they had only been bothered to send fifty cavalry to help defend it. Equally the French felt that they had little to shout about from the action. Apart from mine, the most detailed account you will find of the action was written by the other man at the heart of it, Colonel Mayne. He has written a very readable history of the regiment including the Alcantara action; although the old bastard evidently resented the fact that I blew the bridge without waiting for orders and does not mention me at all.

  Editor’s Note.

  The book Flashman refers to is A Narrative of the Campaigns of the Loyal Lusitanian Legion by Colonel William Mayne. A copy is available to read online at the website of the Portuguese National Library or Biblioteca Nacional Digital. See the Historical Notes section at the end of this book for further information.

  Chapter 9

  Generally speaking my account of the Peninsular Campaign does not reflect well on the Spanish soldier, so I should make a point of recognising the bravery of the fifty Spanish cavalry that Cuesta had sent to support the defence of the bridge at Alcantara. With Downie and the British dragoons on foot they were the only mounted soldiers covering the withdrawal and by all accounts they fought well, as shown by the fact that there were only twenty survivors.

  The Legion cautiously returned to the bridge the day after the French withdrawal. I went down to rejoin them but Mayne was damn cool with me as I had not been given his order to blow the mine. I pointed out that if I had waited, the grenadier would have heaved the entirety of the mine in the river and the whole French army would have been marching to Lisbon, but he took little notice of that. Admittedly six of the Legion had been killed by falling masonry when the mine blew without warning, which partly explained it.