Flashman in the Peninsula

by Robert Brightwell

  I would like to say that I spared a thought for poor Boney, but I didn’t, for now there seemed to be the sound of lancers crashing around the forest in all directions. I could hear several heading towards me so I turned and ran. I found myself in another deer run through the trees and hurtled down it as though the hounds from hell were on my tail, which they pretty much were. In hindsight, I think using the path must have saved me, for that way I was not moving foliage which would have given away my position. Gradually the shouting and crashing fell behind, but I did not stop. I must have run as fast as I could for nearly half a mile before I fetched up by a tree trunk, gasping for breath and retching from the exertion. I opened my mouth to breathe quietly, taking in big gulps of air as I strained my ears for the sound of further pursuit. There was still some shouting, but now it was distant and as I listened it did not seem to be coming closer, if anything it was moving away. I sat with my back against the tree and listened as the voices receded behind me. I waited for silence to settle again over the forest, but when the voices behind me had stopped I noticed a new noise, a very faint murmuring sound, this time from the opposite direction. I got up and walked forward towards the noise. I soon saw that I was approaching the edge of the forest and what I saw there took my newly recovered breath clean away again.

  As I crept to the edge of the trees I had heard more distant voices ahead and I dropped to the ground and crawled the last few yards. I emerged from the middle of a bush and stared at the sight in the valley below. There, along a road at the bottom of the slope as far as the eye could see in both directions, were men. Thousands and thousands of them; the French army was on the move. They were heading west, towards the retreating British. Cavalry rode as pickets on either side of the army column. Just the men I could see matched the size of the British army but neither end of the army was in sight. I watched in wonder for a while and then it dawned on me that this lot were now between me and safety. Murderous Polish lancers to the rear and just about every French soldier in Spain to the front. There were trains of artillery, supply wagons, regiment after regiment of infantry, dragoons, hussars, even other lancers, but I could not see any Poles. It was an amazing sight and I must have been watching transfixed for around five minutes when I heard a twig snap behind me. I froze.

  While I had been watching the French, had the Poles tracked me down? A bush rustled behind me; it was not the wind, someone else was there. With immense care I eased myself silently back into the foliage of the bush. I had not reloaded the pistol I had fired earlier but I still had a second gun in my other coat pocket. I eased the loaded pistol out and tensed as another twig snapped on the far side of the bush. I thought there was only one person, and as they had not yet found me I might still have the advantage of surprise. I stepped out of the bush, making as little noise as possible, and moved quietly around it to where I thought the intruder stood. With a leap I sprang forward, cocking and raising the pistol. There was no one there, and I had given away my position. I spun round in case someone was stalking me, only to find a pair of brown eyes looking at me with a quizzical look. Boney sat on the ground with his head cocked to one side.

  ‘Hello, boy,’ I called, reaching out to stroke him, but he turned his back on me and went to sit further away. He clearly had not forgiven me for running out on him after he had saved my life. ‘Look, I had to run, the other lancers were coming back through the trees. We would both have been killed if I had stayed.’ I know it made no sense talking to a dog, but let’s face it, we have all done it when we think we are alone. I looked over the hound. There were some blood smears on his chest but no apparent wound, although he had a scorch mark on one flank with burnt hair, presumably from a pistol muzzle flash. We had both been fortunate, but unless we could out of here, our luck would soon run out. What I needed was a horse. Boney had done well to track me down and that gave me an idea.

  ‘Come on, Boney, let’s see if you can track down my horse.’ The animal had run off when the lancers attacked, with luck it could still be roaming around the forest. I started to walk back down the deer run I had travelled down before, but instead of leading the way, Boney walked reluctantly behind. We had walked a fair way into the forest, and Boney was ignoring all my encouragement to find transport, when I heard a horse whinny. I froze. You get to recognise animal noises and it did not sound like my horse. Could the lancers still be patrolling the trees looking for me? On the other hand I needed a horse, so again I drew my loaded pistol. Moving stealthily through the trees I approached the source of the sound. It took several minutes to approach the animal without making a noise, but then suddenly I recognised a tree and realised that we were safe. I was in the little grove where I had shot the young lancer. He had fallen with his hand twisted in the reins. The horse had dragged the body a few yards to graze but the corpse acted like an anchor to stop it going too far.

  I was surprised that his comrades had not found the body, but the woods were particularly thick here which was why I had run into them in the first place. Well, at least I had a horse, and that gave me a start. I could work my way back along the hills and hope not to run in to any patrols that the French were bound to send out to stop partisans attacking the outskirts of their army. The horse was nervous with a stranger and I was disentangling the reins from the dead soldier’s hand when another thought occurred. An old drover had once told me that the best place to hide rustled sheep was in another man’s flock. I needed to get past an entire French army and lying at my feet was a uniform of one of their allies.

  The horse had pulled the corpse over onto its front. I could see that there was no exit wound in the back or blood on the blue cloth of the jacket. The more I thought of it, the better this idea seemed. I spoke reasonable French, but not as a native. I had been to Russia a few years before and heard enough Russians mangling French, the language of diplomacy, to approximate what people would assume was a Polish accent. I reached down to pull the jacket off the body; it was even roughly my size. Searching the pockets I found a stub of a pencil, a locket with some hair in it and some letters addressed to a Jan Zeminski from someone called Magda. I put them back in the pockets, they would add some authenticity if I was challenged. Transferring the pistols from my old coat I then stuffed that in the saddle bag of the horse. I found the lancer’s helmet a few yards from the body. I had not seen my own hat since the windmill and this one seemed tall and ungainly. But it was certainly distinctive. I swept some dead leaves over the body of Zeminski to cover him up if anyone came looking for him, then picking up the lance I mounted up. Feeling faintly ridiculous I spurred the horse back down the deer run to the edge of the forest with Boney following on behind.

  Reaching the edge of the forest, the scene was much as it had been before. Thousands of French marching west. I took a moment to gather the courage to carry out my plan. The thought of being among so many, disguised as a friend, was only slightly less intimidating than the risk of being found by them as an enemy. My biggest worry was running into more Polish lancers, as then my disguise would soon fall apart. I scanned the troops but could see no sign of their strange helmets among the cavalry screen, hopefully they were still searching for me over the hills. I took a deep breath and spurred my horse down the sunny slope into the valley. The main cavalry screen of hundreds of different horsemen was lower down the valley, some two hundred yards on either side of the main force. It made sense to ride alone if I could to reduce the risk of discovery, so I only rode part way down the valley. Then, with Boney loping alongside, I turned to ride parallel with the other horsemen.

  For the first few hours it was ridiculously easy, I was half way between the woods on my left and the main cavalry screen on my right. With my distinctive Polish helmet and the tall lance resting in a cup on my right stirrup it was obvious which unit I belonged to and people let me be. The lance had a little red and white guidon flag at the point which would have made other Polish lancers stand out in the screen, but despite scanning regularly in all dir
ections none were to be seen. All that morning I rode with the French army and spoke to no one apart from Boney. When I was not challenged I gradually increased my speed to start travelling slowly to the front of the giant column. For my plan to work I had to overtake it and get out in front to find the British. Some units stopped for a rest and for food at noon, but I pressed on. A cursory inspection of the saddle bags revealed trooper Zeminski had been expecting to find repast elsewhere as there was nothing to eat all. At least his canteen was half full of watered wine as the heat was making me drip with sweat.

  ‘Hey, Polack!’ I had been day dreaming of what I would write to Maria about her husband when the voice cut into my thoughts. For a second the word did not register and then I realised that the voice must be talking to me. I looked up and saw that a green coated dragoon had ridden part way up the hill towards me.

  ‘Polack, come here,’ the man shouted. He was middle aged with a big drooping moustache and sergeant’s stripes on his arm. Zeminski’s coat had no marks of rank, he was just a trooper, so I turned my horse towards him.

  ‘Yes, sergeant officer,’ I called back to him in halting French with what I hoped sounded like a strong Polish accent. He shook his head in resignation at my apparent misunderstanding of how to address a French sergeant.

  ‘You are riding too close to the woods,’ he shouted at me, clearly hoping that volume would add clarity to his words. ‘Some of the partisans have rifles; they can shoot you dead from there. You understand rifles?’ He mimed somebody shooting a gun and pointed to the trees. My look of shock as I realised that all this time I could have been killed by the partisans was all too genuine and he laughed at my evident understanding. ‘And take off that shako, it is too hot for that,’ he gestured to his own brass helmet that hung from a strap on his saddle. ‘Our officer won’t complain. Where is your unit?’

  I had been prepared for this question. ‘I am reinforcement sergeant officer.’ The dragoon had started to ride slowly back to the column now and I brought my horse up to ride alongside.

  ‘New in Spain are you? Well make sure you do not get your damn fool head shot off before you meet up with your regiment.’

  ‘Yes sergeant officer,’ I replied.

  ‘It is sergeant, just sergeant. So what do you think of Spain, like Poland is it?’

  I looked around, we were riding through a pleasant green valley with olive groves, abandoned farms and trees high up on the hill. ‘Not like Poland but very nice,’ I ventured.

  The sergeant gave a snort of disgust. ‘It is a stinking shit hole, you understand that? No probably not. It is a bad country, you understand?’

  I gave a nod of comprehension.

  ‘You cannot trust any of them, men, women and children. They all want you dead and will stick a knife in you or poison you any chance they get. Don’t turn your back on them, lad. Even the whores would stab you with a blade as you stab them with your cock. Got a woman have you?’

  ‘Magda in Poland.’

  ‘Best place for her lad, don’t bring her here. They kill French civilians as well as soldiers, they would treat Poles the same. Now come on down and ride with the rest of the cavalry.’

  I followed him down the hill, but then he moved off to check on some other troopers so I continued to move along the line. I nodded in greeting to other horsemen I met but avoided conversation. Now I could see clearly the regimental numbers of infantry units, the size of guns and other elements of the army. I realised that if I did make it back to the British lines it would be helpful to have some idea of the force that was approaching. Reaching into my pocket I found one of Magda’s letters and the pencil stub and I started to estimate the guns, regiments and equipment I had already seen. As I rode on I memorised regimental numbers and the calibre of cannon and then when few horsemen were about to see what I was doing I would scribble them on my list too.

  I had a long stream of numbers on that letter by the late afternoon when I finally came up on the head of the army. There was more cavalry at the vanguard, including lancers, but none with the distinctive red guidon flag of the Poles. I slowed down as I would need darkness to slip through the lines. To rest the horse I dismounted and walked alongside an infantry regiment. They seemed confident and relaxed but I kept just far enough away to discourage conversation. I had been walking with them for nearly an hour when I was passed by mounted infantry officers shouting at their men to smarten themselves up. The men straightened their lines, did up buttons and put back on their shakoes. Clearly somebody important was coming. I moved closer to the marching men to get out of the way. As a humble trooper I thought it wise to put my helmet back on and mount up. A few moments later a curly haired general rode past with a gaggle of gaudily dressed staff officers. None of them paid any attention to the dusty men marching along the road. The group rode to the front of the column and disappeared amongst the mounted troops that spearheaded the advance.

  ‘Do you know who that is?’ asked a nearby soldier who had seen me watching the general.

  ‘No,’ I said dismounting again. ‘I have just joined the army from Poland.’

  ‘That’s Ney. He will give the British some pepper.’

  ‘Is Massena up there too?’

  ‘Christ you are new here aren’t you? ’Ere lads, this Polack was just asking if Massena was at the front of the army!’ Several of them chuckled and shook their heads at my ignorance. ‘No lad, Massena is not here. Neither would you be if you were over fifty and had the eighteen year old wife of one of your officers to warm your bed.’ There were more ribald shouts at this and cries of ‘lucky bastard.’

  ‘You be careful,’ warned one of his mates. ‘When the girl tires of riding the marshal she dresses as a hussar and joins his staff. Don’t you go making eyes at her or you will be sent off like her inconvenient husband.’ There are few things soldiers like talking about more than the incompetence of their generals and women. With Massena they could combine both topics. He seemed quite a ladies’ man with a string of mistresses and a penchant for issuing commands from his bedroom window. According to the soldiers’ gossip he spent so much time locked away with his mistress, known as Madame X to avoid embarrassing her husband, that he was rarely seen at all. His men apparently had doubts that he had the energy to survive the campaign.

  As we marched and talked I relaxed a little. It was good to enjoy the camaraderie of soldiers even if it was not the familiar redcoats. I was used to being disguised in armies; I had done it with three different forces in India. I knew enough to think before I opened my mouth and tried to keep the conversation on safe topics. A few times I pretended that I did not understand the French. When the conversation turned to women I described in my Polish accented French the attributes of the mythical Magda. I showed them the locket and then listened to their ribald suggestions as to whose bed she would be warming that night. For all I knew the real Magda could have been Jan Zeminski’s aged aunt, but that afternoon her exploits as a lover became legendary amongst the half company I was walking with.

  But as the army finally came to a halt late that afternoon it was clear that my welcome was over. Rations were limited and in a firm but friendly way they made it clear that they did not have enough to feed ‘strays’. As a trooper I was expected to look after my own horse, so I watered him at a nearby stream, unsaddled him and left him hobbled to graze on the hillside. I had seen several large groups of men go up to the woods for firewood; those with axes taking plenty of armed guards to protect them from partisan ambush. We did not need the fires for warmth, but for light during the night. Boney also disappeared into the woods and came back a short while later with more bloodstains around his mouth, clearly having found some supper. I looked destined to go hungry. Another thorough search of the saddle bags, while keeping my red coat hidden, revealed only a small strip of food. Even now I am not sure if it was dried meat or old leather but it was all I had, so I spent the evening chewing and trying to swallow it.

  As night fell the fi
res were lit all around the perimeter of the French camp and sentries were placed to shoot any intruders illuminated by the flames. There was the occasional shot and once the crackle of several shots, but these soon died out. They seemed to be due to nervous sentries. Those jumpy trigger fingers did not help my nerves as I judged it was dark enough to make my move. I had been sitting amongst two score of horses that were grazing on the hillside and quietly I now stood and returned the saddle to my mount’s back. He stood patiently while I unhobbled him, and then taking his reins I walked him through the herd, making soothing noises at any of the other horses that seemed disturbed by our presence. I had been feeling pretty pleased with myself during the afternoon as I walked along chatting to the other soldiers. It had seemed a lot safer than trying to avoid the huge French army or risk encountering murderous bandits, suspicious partisans or vengeful Polish lancers. But now my plan was not looking so clever. I had to get past jumpy sentries and then disappear into the darkness where partisans would be looking for any stray French troops.

  I had wrapped a blanket around my shoulders and across my chest to hide my white shirt front, and kept my helmet hanging from the saddle to reduce my profile. For the same reason I held the lance horizontally. I was fortunate that the night was once again as dark as the inside of a tar bucket. The moon was obscured by some patchy cloud, which was also blocking out much of the starlight. The only illumination came from the perimeter fires. I saw that they did not form a continuous line around a single camp for the whole army. Instead there were various circles of light around bivouacs for regiments and battalions. Reaching the end of our perimeter, I could see that there were two more circles of light ahead of me to the west. I was leading my horse through the last of the other hobbled mounts and straining my eyes into the darkness for the French sentries when I almost stepped on them.