Flashman in the Peninsula

by Robert Brightwell

  It was on one return journey from Cuesta that we passed the Loyal Lusitanian Legion and Wilson waiting on the road for the British advance guard that could be seen coming over the horizon. Wilson explained that he had been ordered to join Wellesley’s army by the Portuguese, but he intended to engineer an independent command if he could. He was fuming that it had taken Wellesley a month to march south and he was even then still not over the Spanish border. Wilson swore that he could do far more damage to the French with his own small force. I explained about the shortages of food and medical supplies but he claimed that Cuesta had promised to meet all the British needs if Wellesley only increased the pace of the march. Having seen Cuesta’s camp it was a promise that I doubted he could fulfil and I am sure Wellesley felt the same.

  As the British advance guards marched to within a few hundred yards of us, Wilson turned to the Legion and ordered them to advance so that they were the lead regiment. This was normally an honoured position because the soldiers were not breathing in the dust kicked up by all those that had marched before. Wellesley rode up with some of his staff officers and Wilson went to report to him, but I stayed close as I wanted to watch this encounter.

  Wellesley watched the green jacketed troops marching away in the position of precedence for his whole army and glared at Wilson. Despite the heat of the day I swear that Wellesley’s disdainful look would have chilled champagne.

  Wilson blithely ignored the hostility as he cheerily greeted his new commander. ‘Arthur, it is good to meet you at last. We have not had to wait long for your army to catch up.’ I realised he was deliberately riling Wellesley as he added, ‘I was hoping that you might grant my Legion the honour of leading the army for the rest of the day.’

  Wellesley glared at the backs of the green jacketed troops that were even now disappearing around a bend in the road and turned back to coolly appraise Wilson. ‘It seems that it is an honour you have already anticipated, Sir Robert.’ He looked up at the sun which was still high in the sky as it was early afternoon. Normally the army would have marched for several hours but now Wellesley turned to his staff, ‘I think we will stop here for tonight, have the men fall out.’ One of his staff officers opened his mouth to question the decision but a glare from Wellesley froze him to silence.

  Wilson just grinned, saluted and rode off after his men, winking at me as he did so. He had achieved his goal: he had nominally joined the British army but he would stay well ahead of the main column and operate as he saw fit. A few days later Wellesley decided to get rid of Wilson by sending the Legion and two Spanish regiments into Spain on what was supposed to be a foraging mission. But Wilson had far more ambitious plans that would come to light later.

  Wellesley and Cuesta met for the first time on the tenth of July at Almaraz. It was not an auspicious beginning. I had been sent ahead and was waiting with Cuesta for the arrival of the British party. For all of his disdain of the British, Cuesta was determined to make a good impression. That afternoon he had a regiment equipped with the best clothes and weapons that they could find standing ready for inspection by the ‘generale sepoy’ as he called Wellesley. Whether Downie was acting as guide again I don’t know, but in any event Wellesley got lost and arrived later that night, five hours late. The inspection was much less impressive by torchlight, but Cuesta limped along beside him showing all the courtesy of a Spanish nobleman, which is to say he was a haughty bastard but punctilious in manners.

  Marshal Victor’s army, now of twenty thousand men, was still isolated from other French forces. The allied commanders wanted to confront him before he could be supported by other marshals, so they agreed to combine their forces to attack him. The British army totalled twenty-two thousand and Cuesta had thirty-three thousand, so the combined army of fifty-five thousand was nearly triple the size of the French force. The British and Spanish armies met on the twenty-first of July at a place called Oropesa.

  The British army had, thanks to Wellesley’s caution, been reasonably well supplied throughout its long journey, although some supplies promised by the Spanish had failed to materialise. You can imagine the men’s dismay when they came across the rag tag Spanish army that made up the bulk of their combined force. If anything their condition had deteriorated since I had first clapped eyes on them. Smartly dressed and well equipped British infantry men struggled to keep straight faces as they marched incredulously through the camp of the scarecrow army, saluting officers that looked little more than vagrants.

  But it was not their appearance that most worried the British, it was their fighting ability. Most Spanish weapons carried visible signs of rust and the few Spanish units they saw drilling had British soldiers hooting with mirth. One company of redcoats demonstrated firing three volleys in a minute to some nearby Spanish troops who looked on in wonder at the regimented loading drills. When the British goaded the Spanish into a return demonstration of their skills, the result was pandemonium. The first volley crashed out reasonably well, apart from a handful of soldiers who were just going through the motions having apparently sold or lost all of their ammunition. Then the chaos really began with the officers and sergeants bellowing different commands at the same time. Weapons and cartridges were dropped, one man fainted and several looked as if they had never reloaded their guns before, watching the others to see how they did it. The second volley started in the first minute but was so ragged it stretched into the second and of the fifty men in the company, no fewer than six managed to fire their ramrods across the clearing.

  There was debate amongst the British as to whether the Spanish would be a help or a hindrance in battle. What had seemed on paper an easy victory for the allies in reality looked as if it would be a much closer fought affair. To make matters worse, once the armies joined there was also increasing tension over supplies. The Spanish had promised large amounts of provisions but precious little seemed to be coming through. Doubtless some Spanish commissary officer saw the relatively well fed British and decided that the food was more deserving with the half-starved Spanish. A reasonable judgement from his perspective but not from the British point of view, who had no intention of sinking to emaciated ineffectiveness like their allies. Consequently there were stories of the British commandeering Spanish supply wagon convoys that according to manifests were destined for the Spanish army. Having carefully marshalled his supplies to feed his army all the way south, Wellesley was frustrated that the promised Spanish food was not coming through. He and Cuesta argued furiously about supplies although Wellesley denied knowing anything about the stolen convoys. He was lying; I know this because he sent me as translator on one of the raids to ensure the wagon drivers cooperated.

  Despite all the friction, excitement was mounting at the prospect of a pitched battle. Many were eager to get to grips with the enemy but you can imagine that it was not an emotion I shared. With the Spanish as allies any battle was bound to be a confused and frantic affair. I was also mindful of Wellesley’s ‘generous’ promise to ensure that I would be given the chance to see some action during the campaign. That was the last thing I wanted, so as the armies joined I made sure I was indispensable as a liaison officer and toadied to both Wellesley and Cuesta for all I was worth. The generals were meeting regularly to discuss battle plans and seemed confident of catching Victor by surprise.

  But you do not get to be a French marshal without some strategic awareness and Victor was watching his enemies gather. On the day the armies combined he retreated east, over the river Alberche, and stopped just a few miles north east of a place that was to be made famous by the Peninsular Campaign: Talavera.

  Chapter 10

  The first planned battle of Talavera is probably unique in the annals of military warfare in that it did not happen because one of the armies overslept!

  Cuesta and Wellesley had agreed that they could not allow Victor more time to pull further back and join the rest of the French army. They had to take him on while they had a numbers advantage. Accordingly they dr
ew up a plan to attack him at Talavera at dawn on the twenty-third of July. The larger Spanish army would approach Victor’s army from the north west forcing the French to face them in a battle formation, and then the British would hit their flank from the south west. Another Spanish army commanded by a General Venegas was supposed to move in from the south east and attack any retreating French soldiers trying to escape in that direction. In theory it was a good plan and Victor’s army would have been trapped and destroyed... but there is a big difference between theory and reality.

  On the twenty-second both armies set off in the direction of Talavera, camping out of sight of French forces but within a comfortable early morning march of the enemy camp. I spent the night with the British army, which was the wrong decision. I would have had a much more comfortable and uninterrupted sleep with the Spanish. Wellesley had his staff officers up at two in the morning and the army marched quietly to a position from which they could launch their attack. The Spanish were supposed to leave at the same time but Wellesley confided that he fully expected them to be late, which was why he had set the time to start the attack at six.

  ‘If they are ready to attack by nine it will still serve, it will only take two hours for them to march into position.’

  ‘Do you think that they will put up a fight with the French?’ I asked him as we rode along.

  ‘They don’t need to fight,’ Wellesley replied. ‘They only have to look as though they might fight to force the French to form against them. We will do the bulk of the fighting, but if we can catch the French in a flank attack it will give us an advantage.’ He gave one of his barks of laughter and added, ‘Who knows, if they can see we are winning they might join in.’

  ‘You don’t rate their courage then?’

  ‘Oh, Cuesta is undoubtedly brave. He is as brave as he is stubborn, proud, petulant and without a wit of strategic thinking. No, you cannot fault him for courage, but his army is another matter. They are largely ill trained and lacking any form of competent leadership. Speaking of which, ride back to the Spanish camp, will you, and let me know if they are actually moving.’

  I found Chapman and Doherty who were now permanently allocated to me as escort riders. With all the supply skulduggery it was not safe even for an officer to ride alone. We swiftly covered the three miles back to the Spanish camp and, well you can imagine what we found there.

  Instead of a hive of activity and marching men, we found that even the sentries were asleep near their braziers and nothing at all was stirring. We rode through the vast bivouac and a few looked up at the sound of our horses but then turned over again. I headed towards the huge carriage in the centre of the camp and there I did find some people awake; a dozen burly Spanish soldiers who had orders to ensure that their general’s sleep was not disturbed. Cuesta, obviously expecting protests from the British, had left the men and a harassed lieutenant to keep us at bay. All my entreaties and threats of retribution had no effect. It looked as though we would simply have to report to Wellesley that the Spanish army was still in bed. Then Chapman spoke up.

  ‘Perhaps Ernesto could help us, sir.’

  ‘Who the hell is Ernesto?’ I snapped at him, frustrated at my lack of progress with the stubbornly persistent guards.

  Chapman shifted awkwardly. ‘He is my main buyer, sir.’

  I had expected Ernesto to be another commercially minded private soldier but he turned out to be Major Ernesto Caballo and one of Cuesta’s staff officers. I realised afterwards that only officers would be able to afford Chapman’s merchandise.

  ‘Cuesta does not trust the British,’ Caballo told me when we had found his tent. ‘He thinks it might be a trap and that you will leave the French to destroy his army. He does not trust anybody. He even thinks that General Venegas will betray him.’ Caballo looked me in the eye and added, ‘The general is also resentful that the plan was proposed by your Wellesley rather than him. Cuesta is very jealous of your commander and his recent victories over the French.’ Well, that did not leave a lot of room for negotiation and it was clear that the Spanish army was not going to move that morning.

  We rode back and gave the news to Wellesley. By then it was six in the morning and Wellesley was livid. He had spent the previous day agreeing every detail of the attack with Cuesta and now the Spaniard was just ignoring the plan. More significantly it was only a matter of time before Victor found out how close the allies were to his new position. Wellesley even considered attacking on his own, but a straight frontal assault would see much of the fighting effectiveness of his force destroyed. In the end he called for his horse and went to confront the general. A bleary eyed Cuesta emerged from his carriage and explained that he and his men were tired after the march the previous day. He claimed he had not had enough time for reconnaissance and that he was worried about the strength of the bridge his men must use. In the end he promised that they would be ready to attack tomorrow. Mañana, he repeated, as with considerable self-restraint Wellesley walked away without striking the old fool. They both knew that the French would not still be there mañana.

  People think that wars are conducted by generals, but sometimes, by chance, a common soldier can alter a campaign. Such a chance came later that day. After his return to the British camp, Wellesley discovered that the French army was pulling back again, and the opportunity to attack Victor on his own had been missed. He came to a decision; he would advance no further into Spain until the supplies promised by Cuesta were provided. It was simple retaliation and I was sent back to Cuesta to deliver the ultimatum. This time he did see me and brooded over the message. He must have realised that if relations broke down completely with the British then the Central Junta would probably seek to relieve him of his command. In the end he decided that a conciliatory gesture was necessary and ordered his carriage to be driven to the British camp. Just outside the British lines, the coach stopped again and his horse was brought forward. Cuesta was sixty-eight and had not fully recovered from being trampled by his own cavalry earlier in the year. Now he had to be lifted into the saddle, but he was determined to make a more martial appearance on horseback to the British than appearing in his coach.

  We trotted slowly through the British army, Cuesta quiet and sullen, wincing occasionally at the pain being in the saddle gave him. The redcoats, deprived of a night’s sleep and an easier battle than what would now inevitably follow, glared back mutinously. It was as we were approaching Wellesley’s tent that a voice called out above the low murmuring from the other soldiers.

  ‘You’re a bluidy coward,’ shouted some unknown Scotsman from a group of men to my right. ‘An’ your whole bluidy army couldn’t fight its way oot of a stale puddin’,’ he added. The fellows around the heckler started to jeer the Spanish commander. While Wellesley undoubtedly agreed with the man, he could not permit such a lack of respect for an officer. He glared at the men while the nearby provost sergeant shouted for the culprit to be arrested. But it was too late, the laughter and jeering soon spread around the troops surrounding Cuesta.

  ‘What did that man say?’ Cuesta demanded, glaring suspiciously at the men around him.

  I had suffered enough of the old general’s surly ways and was tired through lack of sleep too. There are times when diplomacy requires tact and evasion but I decided that this was not one of them. ‘He shouted that you are a coward and that the whole Spanish army are cowards,’ I told him bluntly.

  Cuesta stopped his horse and stared at me as though I had slapped him around the face. Then with a look of fury he wheeled his horse around and returned in the direction of the Spanish camp. The humiliation of being mocked by the common soldiers of his allies must have burned Cuesta through that night. In contrast it gave those same allies much amusement and the man who had shouted the insult was quietly reprieved. The effect of that soldier’s words was not seen until the next morning, when the Spanish army finally marched.

  It was good to see our allies moving, even if it was a day late. The problem was
that no one knew where they were going or why. As it turned out Trooper Chapman was surprisingly informative on that point, having done some last minute business with his buyer before the Spanish departed.

  ‘Ernesto says that Cuesta is determined to show us that he is in command. The old general is marching after Victor on ’is own and ’e thinks that we will have to follow and support him.’

  ‘But Victor has thrashed Cuesta before,’ I protested. ‘And as well as Victor there are other French armies gathering out there under Napoleon’s brother, the new Spanish king. He has Marshal Jourdan with him who can bring the army stationed in Madrid, why – between them they must have nearly fifty thousand well trained men.’

  ‘That Spanish general called Vinegar...’started Chapman.

  ‘General Venegas,’ I corrected.

  ‘That’s ’im. Well he is supposed to be tracking the king and stopping the French armies joining up by drawing one of them away.’ Here Chapman leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Ernesto says that General Vinegar cannot be trusted and that Vinegar hates Cuesta and would like to see him get a proper spanking from the French.’

  ‘Why would one Spanish general want to see another defeated?’

  ‘’Cos then General Vinegar would be the top Spanish general of course,’ said Chapman, looking at me in surprise as though it was obvious.

  ‘The treacherous bastard,’ I said in disgust. There were rivalries in the British army of course, but I doubted that anyone would go so far as to engineer the defeat and destruction of a British army to secure promotion. They would never get away with it for one thing, with officers regularly writing to friends in Parliament. Wellesley was frequently getting enquiries from politicians at home questioning his decisions based on information they had received from friends.

  I passed on this information to the man himself when we rode up to the top of a long ridge outside Talavera, from where we could watch the Spanish advance.