Flashman in the Peninsula

by Robert Brightwell

  ‘Where did you hear this?’ Wellesley asked.

  ‘Oh, I have my spies amongst the Spanish staff officers,’ I said airily. ‘I have not forgotten from my Indian days with you how to build connections amongst our allies.’

  ‘Quite so,’ Wellesley grinned, ‘and from what you told me before you might even be related to some of them. The head of the Granada Junta wasn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right, I will need to try and find the time to meet him at some point. He might be a useful connection for us.’ We both paused at the top of the hill looking down at the long dusty column of men stretching off towards the horizon in front of us. ‘I take it we are not going to follow Cuesta as he hopes?’

  ‘God no,’ said Wellesley. ‘If he wants to stumble blindly into a French army he can do so on his own. No, when we face the French we will do so on ground of our choosing. Let them come to us. We will be outnumbered and will need a good defensive position.’

  ‘Where do you have in mind?’

  Wellesley looked around. ‘I have been thinking that this place would serve me well. This high ground dominates the plain in front. To our right, between here and Talavera there is that broken ground with olive groves that will break up any enemy advance.’ I looked afresh at the countryside around us, trying to see it from a general’s perspective. To the east, from where the French would come, there was a fairly flat plain, with just one smaller hill. Between that hill and the one we stood on a stream ran north to south through this potential battleground but it would be no obstacle to troops.

  ‘What would the odds be?’ I asked anxiously.

  ‘Oh, two to one against us,’ Wellesley grinned and slapped me on the back. ‘But after our time at Assaye against much higher odds I know you will not worry about that. In fact with the Spanish gone I can release you from your liaison role to see more of the action.’

  I sat on my horse reeling for a moment at this very unwelcome turn of events. Assaye had been a damn close thing and we had only won because the enemy cavalry had refused to participate in the battle. I doubted that the French cavalry would be so obliging. Wellesley had been lucky then and it seemed to me that he was getting dangerously over confident now. I needed to get my safe liaison role back and fast.

  ‘What about General Vinegar... I mean Venegas,’ I said, getting flustered as I pictured myself in the outnumbered front line of an infantry regiment in the coming battle. ‘Surely if the French attack us then he might be a useful ally?’

  ‘Oh, I think we could fight just as well without the Spanish, they are unreliable and if they panic it could spread to our men.’

  ‘I see sir,’ I said thoughtfully. ‘Obviously I am with you, but some of the men have not fought against such odds and we are facing veteran troops too. Would Parliament not expect you to pull back to preserve your army? We are bound to take a lot of casualties which will make it almost impossible for us to beat another army without reinforcement.’

  ‘No, if we retreat the French will just come after us and it will be Corunna all over again. That is not going to happen under my command. Here the men are well equipped, fresh and fighting on ground of our choosing. It is our best chance of success.’ He paused, thinking a while, before he went on. ‘But you are right, if this war goes on the French will keep throwing armies against us. It would be good to have a strong bolt hole we can go back to in the winter to preserve our forces.’

  ‘You mean a strong fortress?’

  ‘Possibly, it would have to be a huge fortress and on the coast so that we could keep it supplied. It is something to think about,’ he mused before turning away. It seemed to me a strange thing to ponder about, as there was only one huge town on the coast of Spain or Portugal that could easily be defended against the French, and that was Cadiz on the south coast. We had a British force there already, helping the Spanish. But if the British army went there too, the French would simply be able to bottle them up together and have the rest of the Iberian peninsula to themselves. Of course back then I had no idea of the scale of Wellesley’s ambition.

  I spent the next day in something approaching a mild funk. For the previous two months I had strenuously avoided any danger or risk. I had naively expected this to continue as the war went on, with me leaving the fighting to other chaps. Now, out of the blue, I was being promised a leading and undoubtedly near fatal role in what was to be a death or glory battle against overwhelming odds. The enemy this time were no gutless Pindaree horsemen in India or Mahratta warriors, but the veteran French troops with whom Napoleon had beaten the armies of Italy, Austria, Russia, the Low Countries and Prussia. Their marching columns had smashed their way through all who had tried to stand in their way. I was pretty sure that a line of redcoats commanded by me was not going to succeed where so many other more valiant souls had failed. I spent that evening desperately trying to come up with a plan that would keep me safe while retaining my ill gained credit. I failed, but it did not matter, for in the morning I found I was saved.

  Cuesta’s army had not just found that of Marshal Victor, but also the force commanded by King Joseph Bonaparte as well. As suspected, the Spanish General Venegas had made little or no effort to keep the French armies apart and it was only due to Spanish luck and French incompetence that Cuesta’s army avoided battle and annihilation. The Spanish were pulling back as fast as they could to rejoin the British at Talavera, which meant that I was liaison officer again. I thought I could be pretty sure of one thing: when the allied army was beaten, the Spanish would not be the last to retreat. When they ran I would make sure I was liaising with them for all I was worth, preferably on the fastest horse I could find.

  Messengers from Cuesta had arrived that morning to advise that the Spanish were coming back, and by the evening the dust that their army was producing as it retreated could be seen as a low cloud on the distant horizon. The following day Wellesley called for me to join him for a ride to greet our returning allies. He had already sent forward a British division to help cover their retreat. It was the twenty-seventh of July, the day that a battle would start which would win Wellesley fame and fortune; but not before his life would be saved by my right buttock.

  We splashed through the little stream that ran north to south through what would be the battlefield. It was called the Portina and at that time of the day it was still crystal clear. Then we rode past the long straggling line of Spanish infantry coming the other way. By mid-morning the sun was already baking hot and many looked as though they had not stopped marching all night. Their faces were coated in dust and sweat and as soon as they reached the stream they fell out to slake their thirst, so that for several hundred yards on both sides of the Portina, men were on their hands and knees drinking and filling their canteens. The Spanish army was strung out over several miles and towards the back we saw the lumbering carriage used by Cuesta. Wellesley and I turned towards it but when we were a hundred yards off the old general looked up and saw us coming. With a scowl he leaned forward and pulled a rope that dropped a blind over the window. It was clear he did not want to talk.

  ‘Well, that is not exactly hospitable,’ I said wryly.

  ‘It must be embarrassing for him to come back with his tail between his legs after advancing in high dudgeon before,’ explained Wellesley, in a more understanding tone than I expected. ‘I will speak to him when we are back in Talavera, but now I want to get to the top of that tower.’ He gestured to a fortified farm house on a slight ridge half a mile ahead of us. Most of the farm house was hidden behind a wall but a three storey tower could be seen protruding above it. ‘We might be able to see the French from there,’ he called spurring his horse forward.

  A few minutes later our horses’ hooves were clattering noisily over the stone flags in the farm’s courtyard. The farm had been abandoned by its owners but there were plenty of people about, for this was the temporary headquarters of the brigade that Wellesley had sent forward to cover Cuesta’s retreat.

  ‘Welcome to t
he Casa de Salinas, sir,’ shouted Colonel Donkin, who commanded the men occupying the farm. It was now noon and the sun was fierce. Most of the men were resting in whatever shade they could find. There was precious little of that in the courtyard but the land surrounding it was covered scrub with olive and cork trees, some pines and holm-oaks. As we had approached from Talavera, we could see a cluster of British soldiers with their jackets off under most of those trees, resting in the sun. Some had tried to get to their feet and pull on their uniforms as we had approached while others remained asleep, but Wellesley affected not to notice the undress of his army.

  ‘Can you see the French from the tower?’ he now asked Donkin impatiently.

  ‘Oh, yes sir, they are three or four miles off but showing no great enthusiasm for an advance. They seem to be waiting for other troops to join them.’

  ‘Excellent, it will give us more time to organise the Spanish. Come on Flashman,’ he added over his shoulder as he strode towards the farmhouse. I followed him up what seemed a very rickety ladder until we got to the equally rickety platform at the top of the tower. It was a loose plank floor which creaked and moved under our feet. I was not sure it would hold the weight of two people but Wellesley was unconcerned as he levelled his telescope on the far eastern horizon.

  ‘Ah, there they are.’ He gave a satisfied grunt before adding, ‘It seems to be only Victor’s men at the moment. What do you think?’

  I dutifully got out the telescope that Campbell had given me and scanned the distant blue coated figures. It is hard to count a distant army as different units take up varying amounts of space; cavalry are normally well spread out while infantry march in long compact columns. I halved the force I could see and then quartered and ‘eighthed’ it, and then tried to approximate the number in that group to get to the total force. I thought that there were around two thousand men in the eighth but more were still coming down the road. ‘Around twenty thousand so far,’ I suggested. ‘Either Victor’s men or the other half of the army under the king.’

  ‘No, it will be Victor, he would beat us on his own if he could. Joseph would be more cautious and only come this close if he had his entire army, in case we attacked him.’

  ‘We are not going to attack them, are we?’ I asked, alarmed at the thought.

  ‘No, we’ll let them come to us and meet them on our chosen ground. Anyway, the Spanish do not have the energy for another march now.’ He settled himself in the corner of the tower where he could steady his telescope against one of the pillars that held up the little wooden roof. I shifted again uncomfortably and heard a piece of wood snap under my foot. That was enough for me. I made my excuses and got back down the ladder of the tower.

  It was not just a concern over its structural safety but my guts were rumbling too – not due to fear but because I had eaten too many figs for breakfast. I needed to obey a regular call of nature so I strolled out of the courtyard to find some privacy. The gate faced towards Talavera and most of the nearby trees and bushes were already occupied with sleeping men who would not welcome me squatting amongst them. My need was not urgent and I considered waiting until we got back, but Wellesley could be some time yet, so I strolled along the outside of the courtyard walls until I was on the eastern side. A couple of men strolled along the parapet inside the wall on look out. One was a big burly sergeant who nodded at me in friendly greeting, he could no doubt guess why I was there.

  Safe in the knowledge that the French were still miles away I stepped into the undergrowth. Twenty yards in I found a nice secluded spot out of view of the farm with a thick trunk of a cork tree I could rest against while doing my business. I unbuckled my sword and propped it against a tree, lowered my breeches and squatted down. There are few things that could be a more everyday occurrence for all mankind. There I was, minding my own business, when suddenly the world was turned upside down.

  It was the suddenness of it that left me stunned, one moment I was lost in thought, completely relaxed and feeling secure, and the next I was in mortal danger. I like to think I have danger antennae which have saved me more than once, but this time they let me down utterly. I had just finished wiping myself with some dry grass when a movement caught my eye. I looked up and there, not ten yards away, a man was stepping out from behind a tree and starting to run to another tree nearer the farm. He had taken four or five paces when he saw me and froze in shock. He was not the only one recovering from the encounter as my jaw was gaping as well, for he wore the unmistakeable uniform of a French infantryman, a voltigeur or skirmisher.

  I swear we must have stared at each other transfixed for a full second before everything happened at once. Simultaneously I heard a musket shot and felt a searing pain in my right buttock. The voltigeur started to swing his musket round on me, but stung by the pain in my arse, I was quicker. The times that husbands have come home unexpectedly and I have had to leave a lady’s company in a hurry, pulling up my breeches on the way, served me well now. Right hand reached out for sword belt, left hand pulled up breeches so that I could run and I was off, shrieking my bloody head off.

  ‘Ambush! Help me,’ I bellowed, as two more musket balls whizzed over my head from behind. I snatched one glance to my left and saw more blue coated movement between the trees, but I could not look longer as I had to concentrate on where I was going. ‘Help me,’ I yelled again, but now the courtyard wall of the farmhouse was in view, ten feet of white washed stone wall with several surprised heads peering over the top.

  You might not think a man with a wounded buttock could leap up a ten foot wall, but it is surprising what you can do with bullets whistling over your head and French infantry men with sharp bayonets on your tail. There was not time to run around for the gate, and without thinking I just hurled myself up the wall underneath the watching figures. Two strong hands reached down, grabbed me under the arms and hauled me over the top. One of my rescuers and I tumbled to the ground on the other side and I saw that it was the burly sergeant who had nodded to me on the way out.

  ‘You seem to have upset them sir,’ he said, in a slightly accusing tone as muskets now started to crackle steadily on the other side of the wall.

  ‘Oh Jesus, I have been shot,’ I gasped. Landing on my back had turned the pain in my right buttock from what had been a dull ache into a sharp pain.

  Without ceremony the sergeant rolled me over and then gave a derisive snort. ‘That’s just a flesh wound, I have had worse shaving.’

  ‘Then you must be damn clumsy with the razor,’ I retorted through gritted teeth, wincing in pain. ‘Has the ball come out or is it still in my arse?’

  ‘Get away with you. It’s just a graze, the ball barely creased your skin.’ I reached gingerly down to feel for myself and he was right. There was just a deep groove on the edge of my buttock, and judging from the blood on my hand and breeches it was bleeding profusely. Before I could do any more Wellesley ran out of the door of the farmhouse.

  ‘Ah, there you are Donkin,’ Wellesley called to the colonel who seemed slightly confused by the sudden turn of events. ‘I would be obliged it you would get two companies in skirmish order on either side of the road back to Talavera, and the rest of the men into column of march. There don’t seem to be that many of them but we don’t want to be trapped here.’

  ‘Yes sir,’ Donkin looked slightly relieved at having the responsibility for making decisions taken away from him. He turned to his major, ‘Carter, you heard the general, two companies, skirmish order, quickly now.’

  ‘Two companies, on both sides of the road,’ Wellesley corrected, before turning and noticing me still sprawled on the ground. If I had hoped for any sign of gratitude for alerting him to the ambush I was to be disappointed. ‘Flashman, what are you doing lying on the ground, we need to get moving.’

  ‘I have been shot. I am wounded,’ I replied holding up my blood smeared hand.

  ‘Oh, that is just a flesh wound,’ he said dismissively. ‘Get a move on man. You don’t want to
be taken prisoner do you?’ For a second I felt hurt at his lack of interest. If I had not stumbled into the ambush the French would have had more time to encircle the farm and trap us here. Then the sergeant next to me suddenly snatched up his musket and fired at the top of the wall. There was a shriek of pain and looking round, I saw a Frenchman who must have been hoisted up by his mates on the other side slump back, his face a bloody ruin. But already three more heads were appearing over the wall and two of them got off musket shots into the courtyard before dropping back out of sight.

  ‘Fall back,’ the sergeant was shouting, ‘they will be over that wall in a minute.’ He turned to me, ‘Come on sir, you had better get on your horse or they will do a better job of shootin’ you.’ He was right. The noise of battle on the other side of the wall was rising steadily; there seemed to be a lot more Frenchmen out there than either Wellesley or I had seen. I staggered over to my horse doing up my breeches and putting on my sword belt as I went. If I did not get moving quickly a wounded arse could be the least of my problems.

  By the time I reached the courtyard gate there seemed to be a pitched battle around the entrance to the farm. The French pushed in from both sides, while the outnumbered, redcoats in the skirmish parties tried to hold them back to give the rest of the regiment time to gather and order themselves. The surrounding trees came right up to the edge of the road and battle seemed to be raging all around me. I did not hang around; drawing my sword I laid my heels into my horse’s flanks and we sprang forward.

  While being on a horse in battle gives you the advantage of speed and a better vantage point, mounted officers always attract enemy fire. As soon as I left the shelter of the courtyard walls I heard balls whizzing around me and I hunched down low in the saddle. Wellesley was some fifty yards ahead organising two more companies into ranks to cover our retreat. I had nearly reached the dubious shelter of the line of redcoats when, bursting out of the trees from my right, ran an unarmed and hatless young British soldier, screaming as though the hounds of hell were on his tail. Without looking where he was going, he ran right in front of my horse; it reared up and I only just stayed in the saddle. As the hooves came back down they connected with a sickening thud to the skull of one of the two blue jacketed pursuers that had followed the British soldier out of the trees. I barely had a glimpse of the second man before he was on me, but his momentum gave him little chance to avoid the sword point that I instinctively twisted in his direction. He ran straight onto the wickedly sharp blade and screamed in agony. Wellesley looked round to see a relieved British infantryman picking himself up unharmed from the dust and the gallant Flashy waving a blood-stained sword, with two dead foes at the feet of his still lively horse.