Flashman in the Peninsula

by Robert Brightwell

  I watched them come on. They looked like the usual half-dressed Spanish scarecrow soldiers to me, only now their faces were covered with a mixture of sweat and dust as they were made to run in the fierce heat of the day. At the speed they were going they would make the gap in time but many would be blown when they got there. I looked around again at the vast French formation coming towards us, and if anything, the direction had shifted slightly to hit the British line at its thinnest point. This meant that only its southernmost end would be opposite these Spanish reserves. Given that the last time I had seen Spanish troops shoot they had run from their own volley, I could be forgiven for thinking that these now winded troops were unlikely to stand in front of the onslaught heading towards us. The doubt must have shown in my face.

  ‘Don’t worry Captain, these are tough men from the mountains, they won’t run.’ Cuesta gestured over his shoulder before adding, ‘They know what would happen to them if they did.’ I looked behind him and the two aides who had ridden up with Cuesta edged their horses to one side to give me a better view. On the ground, well behind the Spanish line, some two hundred men sat in the dirt in just their shirts and breeches with their hands tied behind their backs. These were the two hundred prisoners from the men who had run, who were to be executed after the battle. But the thought must have played in Cuesta’s mind for suddenly he reached across and patted me on the shoulder. ‘Come Captain,’ he said, ‘we will stand behind them and strengthen their resolve.’

  It was the last thing I wanted to hear. I had been about to suggest that I return to Wellesley to let him know about the Spanish reserves. It would have been a journey that would have taken me back to the rear ready for a quick escape if the battle went against us. But Cuesta knew as well as I did that I could not reach Wellesley before the French column reached the allied line, and supporting that line was the most important thing. I glanced desperately around for another excuse and saw Sherbrooke, the general commanding the southern end of the British line, look over and wave at me. ‘Well done Flashman,’ I heard his voice call from the distance. The fool must have thought it was me who was organising the reserves. I cursed under my breath, I could hardly be seen to abandon them now. Cuesta had already spurred his horse forward and the two aides had ridden close up on either side but he waived them back. Their role was to help the old general stay on his horse, but he evidently did not feel the need of them at the moment. In fact the prospect of battle seemed to have taken years off the old warrior. I had no alternative but to kick in my heels and follow him.

  The Spanish troops got into their new position quickly. To be fair to them they looked a lot less winded than I would have done, running half a mile in that sun with a full pack and musket. The French troops were now at the bottom of the shallow valley crossing the Portina stream. This gave the French gunners a clear line of sight on the British line, which instead of lying down as before, now stood erect, receiving the last few strugglers of the guards division that had managed to retreat back to their lines in front of the French. Orders were shouted down the Spanish line as soldiers straightened their files and checked their flints and priming, ready to face the onslaught in front of them.

  The British soldiers the Spanish reserves had joined with glanced across nervously. They were obviously concerned that if the Spanish gave way the edge of the column would wrap around their flank. I nodded in greeting to the captain of the nearest British company who saluted back. Then I noticed his eyes move to the Spanish men and his lip curled in contempt. I followed his gaze and was surprised to see that the first company in our line had fallen to its knees.

  ‘Christ on his bloody cross, where the hell did he come from?’ I had muttered this to myself but had spoken in Spanish and now I heard Cuesta chuckle beside me.

  ‘I take it from that blasphemy that you are not a Catholic, Captain. I would not let the good father hear you say that, he does not approve of Protestants.’

  ‘But where has he come from?’ I asked again, looking at the thin priest sitting astride an equally scrawny donkey. He was dressed in white robes and was flicking holy water from what looked like a small gilt bucket and making the sign of the cross at regular intervals towards the kneeling men. In front of him walked two altar boys in spotless white surplices, one carrying a large cross while the other combined leading the donkey with swinging an ornate incense burner.

  ‘Believe me,’ said Cuesta with feeling, ‘the good father often turns up when you least expect him.’ The little procession was moving briskly along the line and it would be touch and go if they reached the end of the reserves before the French got there. The priest seemed unconcerned at the French marching towards him. I did not see him glance back once and the little party also ignored the resumed cannon bombardment. As the pious procession reached the end of one company, orders were given and the men rose to their feet, and the next company dropped to its knees. It was as the second company knelt in unison that I saw something that will stay long in the memory. A rock just in front of the altar boy with the cross suddenly shattered; stone fragments shot everywhere. Amazingly no one seemed to be hit. More significantly, the cannon ball that had shattered the rock was sufficiently slowed down to be seen as it bounced low over the kneeling men, close enough to take off one of their battered shakos. If the men had been standing at least two would have been killed as it had passed at chest height for a standing man. There were muttered prayers from many that witnessed this apparent act of grace. I noticed even Cuesta crossed himself next to me. I glanced across at the British company captain who had also seen the incident, he just grinned and shook his head in resignation.

  This distracted the men momentarily from the approaching French, but now the blue coated men were climbing the hill towards us and the French cannon fire petered out as their own men obscured their aim. I could see now that only the left hand three companies of the Spanish would face the French column and the fourth would be able to fire into its sides. The others could fire but the range would mean that they would do little damage. Officers were running about the first three companies, trying to compact hours of drill on how to achieve effective company volley fire into a few short minutes. The French were just a hundred yards off now and I expected the British to open fire. They stood in a long unwavering line with muskets to their shoulders pointing at the French, but no order came. Ninety yards and still no order. The Spanish in front of me were swaying nervously as they held the long muskets towards the enemy, but not one fired prematurely. You could see the faces on the French clearly now and pick out the buttons on their coats. They came with bayonets fixed as though planning one volley and then a brutal charge through the fragile thin allied ranks.

  Eighty yards; the French could cover that ground running in less than twenty seconds and I was licking my lips to give the order myself when finally the British opened fire and the Spanish followed suit. Every third company fired. The Spanish had seen the British volley fire earlier in the battle and understood the benefit of the rolling volleys. Only the first and fourth companies fired and I was pleased to see that the men had aimed low. Men were falling all along the French front rank but their comrades stepped over them and kept on coming. Seventy yards and as the first companies reloaded furiously the second companies fired. Whole files of men seemed to go down but still they came on. Dear God, I thought, they are not going to stop this time and at any moment they will be released into a charge. The third companies fired and at sixty yards almost every gun seemed to find a mark. The French were struggling to get over their dead and wounded now and at last their line started to falter. The British first companies were ready to fire again but many in the first Spanish company were still struggling to reload.

  The British first companies fired but there was only a faltering fire from the Spanish. I saw several ramrods arc through the air as men fired before they had finished reloading. Two struck the French line like arrows in some medieval battle, but others waited until they were loaded an
d along the Spanish line there was now a steady continuous crackle of fire. It did not sound strong but combined with the crashing regular volleys from the British it was enough. Several groups of French burst from the front of the broad column and tried to charge across the remaining fifty yards to the British but they were brought down by concentrated fire from the volleys which also lashed at the men behind.

  I looked along the line to see how the first French column was progressing against the recently closed gap in the British line. Already it was pulling back and I suspected that the French in front of us saw that too. Some of the French, sensing that the attack had stalled, tried to return fire but the effect was nothing to what they were receiving. I saw half a dozen of the Spanish troops fall but in front of us there seemed almost a rampart of French dead and wounded now blocking their advance. The fourth and fifth Spanish companies started to cheer; they could see the side of the column and noticed that some of the rear French ranks were now starting to pull back down the hill.

  ‘Fix bayonets,’ came the call from the British and all down the line steel glittered in the sunlight as the long blades were attached to hot barrels. The order was passed down the line to the Spanish troops. Some of the Spanish soldiers looked round at Cuesta, scarcely able to believe the command. Many were terrified of the devil soldiers in blue who had beaten and butchered them time and again.

  ‘Yes, go on,’ roared Cuesta to his men. ‘We are winning, you are beating the French.’ Almost hesitantly at first the Spanish reserve regiment moved forward. I noticed that the rest of the Spanish line stayed rooted to the spot. The reserves may have advanced cautiously to start with as though believing this was some kind of French trick to lure them in, but when they saw the British start to reach and kill the French stragglers they suddenly started running in earnest. It was as though only then did they believe that they were actually allowed to overcome the French. The Spanish excitement was not limited to their reserve troops. Cuesta grabbed my arm and pointed. ‘Look Captain, they are pulling back. See, they are withdrawing their guns.’ He was right. The nearest French artillery battery was starting to limber up its guns and I could see harnessed horses being gathered up to carry them away.

  All along the line, the French were now in full retreat. They were not waiting for the bayonets but hurrying back to get across the Portina as fast as they could. There were trumpets from the north as British cavalry once more surged out to harry the French flanks, and that caused Cuesta to look to his own horsemen. There were two huge formations of Spanish horse guarding the right hand end of the allied line. He drew his sword and pointed it at the distant gun battery, then raised it and brought it flashing down. The meaning was clear across the noisy battlefield. The cavalry commanders were evidently watching as trumpets sounded immediately and the horsemen started to move forward. Some French cavalry moved to intercept, but as I watched the Spanish horsemen split into two with one arm aiming to block this advance and the rest spreading out and increasing speed towards the guns. It was smartly done and I had to admit that shooting some of the cavalry officers after the debacle at the battle of Medallin seemed to have done wonders for their professionalism.

  Before I could reflect further Cuesta was grabbing my arm again. ‘Come on Captain, to the guns.’ The mad old bastard spurred his horse forward. It was a quarter of a mile to the guns and the ground in front of them was littered with French wounded and survivors heading to the rear. For a moment I hesitated: if the damn fool wanted to get his head shot off by some vengeful French infantryman he could do it without me. But if that did happen questions would be asked and many would have seen me with the general before he advanced. As I watched, the French cavalry seemed to be turning back in the face of the Spanish horsemen and I thought that Cuesta would probably angle his charge to join the other Spanish cavalry running to the guns. Reluctantly I dug in my heels and followed him through the new gap at the end of the Spanish lines.

  He was already riding through the French stragglers and most of the French soldiers heard the horses coming and got out of the way, but a few who were still loaded gave fire. They could see Cuesta was a senior officer from his age and the gold braid on his uniform; the balls must have whistled about him. I deliberately held back a bit. The lunatic could attract all the fire as far as I was concerned, so that the French soldiers would not still have loaded weapons when I went over the same ground. I saw one of his aides take a bullet in the arm but the old general was untouched. He was waving his sword around and roaring his head off as he charged on. He nearly toppled from his horse at one point when his mount stumbled over an unseen corpse in the long grass, but his unwounded aide helped prop him back in the saddle.

  Once we were through the main French line I rode up alongside him. ‘Look at them run!’ he shouted at me, his eyes wild with delight. This normally stiff and proud man was lost in the joy of victory. After years of crushing defeats, injuries and humiliations he was finally beating his arch enemies again. In his enthusiasm he was still racing directly towards the enemy battery rather than angling to join his horsemen.

  ‘We should join your cavalry, sir,’ I shouted at him.

  ‘Nonsense, I want those guns, look they are getting away.’

  A quick glance showed that the French were succeeding in getting one or two of the lighter guns away, but they were not moving fast enough from my perspective. I calculated that we would reach the battery just before the rest of the Spanish horsemen and I did not fancy our chances. Four men, one of whom was wounded and another a half mad near septuagenarian, against a battery that still held nearly a dozen guns and their crews was long odds. The emplacement was a hive of activity, some of the gunners deciding that the situation was lost were streaming out of the back while others tugged furiously on trace ropes and straps to attach horses to the guns and get them moving. But as I thought of hanging back again, to my horror I saw that some brave souls had abandoned thoughts of retreat and were loading several of the pieces with canister. One was pointed in our direction.

  With a sickening lurch of fear I realised that I was now trapped in what seemed a suicidal charge. I could hardly turn round and abandon the general with at least half the British and Spanish armies watching us hurtle across the battlefield. My reputation would be ruined, but more importantly I would probably still be dead, cut to pieces by French canister. The only option was to press forward to get into the gun emplacement before they could fire and hope to survive the resulting melee until the rest of the Spanish horsemen arrived.

  The last hundred yards of that charge seemed to take for ever although it could only have been a few seconds. Cuesta and the aides were slightly out in front; I was hunched down low in the saddle, reins in one hand and drawn sword in the other. The Spanish cavalry, seeing our charge had picked up speed. They now seemed set to enter one end of the battery as we crashed through the other. But my eyes were locked on the crew of a French twelve pounder. I could see the gun captain screaming at his men to work faster as they rammed down the metal canister of shot that would spread a devastating spray of death when fired. At the same time he was pricking with a needle through the touch hole to pierce the cloth bag of the powder charge. We were still fifty yards off when he pushed down the quill of finely ground powder through the hole he had made, which would fire the charge. For a brief moment our eyes met and for a split second I thought I was looking at my executioner. Then he looked down and I saw fear cross his face; something had gone wrong. I never found out what it was, but he needed another second to fire that gun and he did not have it. I was now almost up to the muzzle, but Cuesta’s horse was already jumping the protective ditch in front of the guns and the general’s sword was swinging down on the gunner’s head.

  Cuesta might have been sixty-eight but there was nothing wrong with his sword arm. It split the gunner’s skull in two, spraying blood and gore all around him. I was clearing the ditch now and my horse’s hooves knocked down another of the gun crew coming at Cue
sta with a musket. For a second the emplacement seemed full of the French gun crews and I thought we were lost. One lunged at me with a bayonet but I stabbed at him with my sword. I had been aiming at his throat but I caught him across the ear instead and he went down clutching his head. Then, where there had been nothing but French, suddenly the area was full of Spanish horsemen charging from the other end of the battery. The air was alive with whoops of victory from the Spanish riders, screams and shouts from the French … and one Englishman swearing on all that was holy that if that crazy old bastard tried to get him killed like that again he would murder the general himself.

  Cuesta was unrecognisable from the proud arrogant man who had angrily ordered the execution of two hundred of his own men. Now he was wheeling around on his horse in the centre of the battery, waving his sword around in delight, a danger to friend and foe alike. When some of his men pointed out that some of the captured guns bore markings that showed they were formerly Spanish, he shouted his thanks to the heavens and then looked round for me. He rode up so that our horses were nose to tail and flung his arms around me so that his sword blade was waggling dangerously close to my head.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. Then gesturing to the northern side of the battlefield where the British were still streaming forward, he repeated it. ‘Thank you, you have given me a victory I never thought I would see.’ With that he leaned forward and kissed me on both cheeks. I was only slightly more surprised than the goggling cavalry officers.

  Chapter 15

  ‘Did he kiss you as well?’ I asked Wellesley as he returned from Cuesta’s camp later that afternoon.