Flashman in the Peninsula

by Robert Brightwell

  God knows how far we had come when the ground began to level off and we heard increased shouting in front. The French were using some more even ground half way down the hill to try to stem their headlong retreat and organise a more orderly withdrawal. But through the mist we could see that the Connaughts were in amidst them and fighting amongst the rocks. As we ran up I saw a solid line of red coated backs in front of us fighting the French in front. Their line was broken only by a huge slab of rock, shaped like a wedge of cheese, which must have fallen from higher up the hillside and come to rest on this flatter stretch. They would have to stop now, I thought, but then one of the fellows with me shouted something in Gaelic and gestured to the cheese shaped rock that jutted out like a pier into the French lines. Instead of slowing down we were suddenly picking up speed again, the last of our momentum carrying us towards that huge piece of stone.

  It took me a full second to realise what they had planned and then my guts were churning in terror. As their own comrades were between them and the enemy, the more homicidal lunatics of the Light Company had decided to use the slab of rock as a ramp from which to drop down on the enemy from above.

  ‘Let me go you mad Murphy’s, you will get us all killed,’ I roared at them, and tried to wrench myself out of their grip. But my voice was lost in their renewed battle cries as they half ran and half hauled me up the ramp of stone. As we reached the top of the slope I had one glimpse of a sea of blue coated soldiers, before a hand in the small of my back pushed me into the air.

  I was the first off the rock and any scream I emitted was lost in the yells of those that followed me. Campbell and others who had seen us charge up the rock assumed that I was leading this aerial assault rather than being its unwilling pioneer. It was a twelve foot drop to the ground below, but the area was tightly packed with French soldiers to break our fall. I had just enough time to look down at the startled face of a young French infantry man looking up, before I landed squarely on top of him with my stomach on his shako. He crumpled to the ground like the town drunk hit with a cudgel. A crowd of bodies started to follow me off the rock and onto the men around me. As I tried to disentangle myself from the flailing limbs my sword cut into the calf of a French infantry man who whirled round, bayonet raised. I can still remember those angry eyes glaring down at me above grey whiskers.

  I was hemmed in by a wall of legs with nowhere to go. I desperately tried to get my sword up to parry the blow, but there was no need. My assailant was looking down at me when the poor devil should have been looking up. Another leaping Connaught Ranger landed bayonet first on his chest. The Frenchman and Irishman fell together, but only one got up with the Ranger tugging furiously on his musket to get the bayonet out of the French corpse. I tried to climb to my feet but was knocked down twice more, once from a glancing blow from yet another falling Ranger and the second time I was flattened by a stampede of French soldiers pulling back from the red coated troops.

  There was pandemonium amongst the French now. Those behind the rock must have thought they were safe but they now pushed at those behind them to get away. The French front line started to dissolve as they realised that there were enemy soldiers to their rear as well as to their front.

  Eventually I managed to stand and a strange hellish scene met my eyes. I was surrounded by a ring of Connaught men pushing their way out with bayonets into the French. They were all privates apart from the sergeant who had spoken to me back on the crest. The fog here was wispy and cold but it amplified the shouting of those around us. French voices screamed at those around them to move while other shrieks and yells indicated where the Rangers were now trying to push through as the French line collapsed.

  ‘You bloody fool,’ I shouted at the sergeant. ‘You will get us all killed.’ He just looked over his shoulder and grinned like some Barbary ape, for they were all mad on killing. The Light Company had come with loaded weapons, and now muskets banged and men fell around them. Firing into the blue throng you could not miss. Many of the French from the middle of the column were loaded too but found it impossible to level their muskets in the crowd, so initially the Irish gained the advantage. One of the Irishmen, swinging his musket like a club and yelling a challenge in Gaelic, charged alone into the blue throng. At first it opened before him, people falling over to get out of his way, but then he went too far. Bayonets stabbed into his exposed back and sides and he screamed his dying agony as the blue coats surged back to cut him off from the rest of us.

  I looked up, I could just make out some of the Irish shakos of the approaching line in the mist but they were still some way off. ‘Connaughts, for Christ’s sake over here,’ I yelled at the distant formation of men in red, but the French were still fighting that line and now that the Light Company men had fired their sporadic volley into those around them the French were closing back in around us too. There was not time for our men to reload so they just jabbed forward with their bayonets to keep the French at bay. As I watched, another redcoat went too far into those around him, and went down screaming from a bayonet stab in the belly.

  ‘Keep in a circle,’ I yelled at them, as I could see that we would only last a few moments as a group without some discipline. I grabbed the sergeant’s shoulder and shouted in his ear, ‘Keep them in a circle or we are all dead men.’

  He glared round at me, but at that moment a musket banged and we were both spattered in more blood as the man next to him fell against us, shot through the chest. He looked down at the falling body and then reason seemed to get through to him. ‘Steady lads,’ called the sergeant. ‘Get shoulder to shoulder, our boys will be through in a minute.’

  It was desperate work. The Irish had to keep the French squeezed in or they would find room to fire their muskets, but if they spread out too far they left gaps in their line. So they pushed and shoved and danced back from stabbing blades if they could not parry them. The reach of a man with a musket far exceeded that of a man with a sword, so I pushed my sword tip into the hard ground at my feet and pulled out my pistols. I planned to save the shots for my personal protection and I did not have long to wait. A man to my left shrieked as a blade raked his arm. Dropping his musket he stepped back, and a Frenchman lunged into the gap. He was almost on me in a moment and I just managed to cock and raise the pistol in time. The point of his bayonet was just a foot away when I fired the pistol into his belly. In my haste I was not gripping the weapon tight enough, they are notoriously inaccurate, but at that range even I could not miss. The barrel swung up as it discharged and deposited a lead ball right between the soldier’s eyes.

  ‘Good shooting, sor,’ called the sergeant, who had also swung round to cover the man.

  ‘Shooting bedammed,’ I snarled at him, ‘watch your front, man.’ There was no time to reload even a pistol and I dropped the weapon back in my coat pocket and cocked the second ready to fire. The men closed up to fill the gap left by the wounded Ranger and our circle slowly contracted. Glancing around there were more wounded on the ground at my feet and now there were just a dozen men standing.

  One wiry little Irishman was in a desperate action on the other side of the circle. His bayonet moved with lightning speed as he fended off two attackers. In the second I noticed him a third managed to find the room to raise his musket and fire. How the devil he missed from that range I do not know. But not only did the little Murphy not even flinch, he darted forward in the musket smoke and managed to stab one of the attackers in the thigh. With a roar of rage, the Frenchman who had fired replaced the wounded man, and the Irish blade was darting about as fast as ever. The Rangers on either side were fully occupied fighting off Frenchmen of their own, and it was only a matter of moments before the little fellow would be beaten and then they would be through in earnest. It only took me two steps to cross our circle and then I was at the little bantam’s shoulder. I fired my second pistol low into the body of one of his attackers. The distraction enabled the Ranger to catch the remaining one in the throat, he was faster that
a Billingsgate fishwife with a blade, that one. He turned to look at me and I had thought he would show some sign of gratitude that I had saved his life, but instead it was a glare of irritation. He looked as though I had stolen food from his plate.

  ‘I had them your honour,’ he complained in a high sing song voice. Then he turned to the nearest Frenchman standing in the gap in front of him who was now trying to work out how to attack without standing on his fallen comrades. ‘Will you come along now,’ complained the little Ranger, ‘we have not got all day.’

  As I stood in the circle half paralysed with fear it seemed that my Irish comrades, despite being shot at and stabbed, were still enjoying themselves. Several were fighting with broad grins and taunting their opponents like the bantam. One great Paddy I now realised was even singing above the din of battle. They were fighting like terriers too and had managed to drive out the French between us and the rock so that we now only had to defend ourselves on three sides of a rough square. This freed up some men who were helping to hold the rest of the line, but it was still desperate. There was cutting, shouting, jostling and even the occasional shot all around me. With no time to reload and I dropped the second pistol in my pocket and darted across our little space to grab my sword, still sticking up in the dirt.

  I felt impotent standing idle in the middle of so much activity. But I would not have been able to reach the enemy with my sword and would probably have just got in the way. Anyway, as another Irishman stepped back cursing with blood streaming down his arm, I was all too aware that despite the Irish love of a good fight, the line was a damn dangerous place to be. The wounded man stepped back into his place, holding his musket one handed. From the look on his face, even with one arm, I pitied the next Frenchman he faced. I decided I would stand at the back and look to stab at any Frenchman that broke through, while hoping our dwindling group survived long enough to be relieved. I glanced up again at the main Connaught formation coming towards us, it seemed a little closer but there were at least half a dozen French shakos between me and the nearest Connaught one.

  For a brief moment I thought we would survive, as several of the French fighting the centre of our line suddenly stepped back and I wondered if perhaps they would follow their comrades further down the hill. But then I saw that I was wrong and we were doomed. Both armies put their tallest men in the grenadier companies, and into the gap created stepped the biggest French grenadier I ever saw. He was a giant of a man, holding his musket by the muzzle in one hand as though it were a child’s toy. His mere presence was enough to encourage the other French soldiers, who threw themselves at our meagre line with renewed enthusiasm, confident that our end was nigh.

  I was frozen in shock and horror for it was as though one of my nightmares had come to life; I had come close to being killed by a giant man in India. A huge Rajput warrior had nearly strangled me. That man had been shot and bayoneted twice and still he came onto to me. I vividly remembered him crushing my throat and feeling certain I was about to die. Luckily he took a bayonet to the groin and his grip finally relaxed as I lost consciousness. Ever since I had occasionally dreamt of the encounter and woken up sweating at the memory of his face. Now the grenadier seemed to smile directly at me standing in the centre of our group, and I could not shake off the absurd notion that the Rajput had sent this man to avenge him. Then the Grenadier looked down at the two Irishmen closest, the sergeant and another soldier who were watching and waiting for him. He grinned at them too and gestured for them to come at him. Damn me if the soldier did not step forward to take the giant on single handed until the sergeant pulled him back.

  ‘Stay here Seamus,’ shouted the sergeant above the noise of battle. ‘You don’t want one of the others to stab you in the back while you fight the big fella. Let him come to us.’

  They did not have long to wait, for with a mighty roar the grenadier sprang towards us, moving with surprising speed, his musket butt just a fast moving blur above his head.

  ‘Oh, Christ,’ I muttered to myself, ‘this is the end.’

  The sergeant got his musket up to parry the swinging weapon but the wooden stock of the Brown Bess shattered as though it were matchwood. The iron barrel was torn away and still the Frenchman’s weapon swung with sufficient force to knock the ambitious Seamus off his feet and send him flying into his comrades behind.

  I was vaguely aware that Seamus had knocked down two of the Irishmen, and all three were struggling to regain their footing and fight off a reinvigorated French attack. Even though this was happening just a few feet away, I did nothing. I just remembering staring at this unstoppable behemoth and knowing with absolute certainty that this time I was about to die. The sergeant took two steps back, staring in amazement at the shuttered remains of his own musket as though he could not take in what had happened. Then, as the grenadier stepped through the gap he had created into the centre of our circle, the sergeant seemed to collect himself. Dropping the shattered stock, he moved to my right and snatched up a fallen musket from the ground. Staying crouched he launched himself at the Frenchman. The sergeant was fast and in too close for the Frenchman to swing his weapon, but the grenadier still had time to grab the muzzle of the sergeant’s second musket and twist it from his grip. It all happened in a split second, but I realised that the Irishman was letting the musket go easily. He had not got to be a sergeant without learning how to fight dirty. Now he was close enough to the grenadier he swung his iron shod boot into a devastating crack on the Frenchman’s kneecap. With a grunt of pain the leg gave way, forcing the giant down on one knee, but his free hand was already reaching out to grab his assailant.

  As if waking from a dream, I came out of my brief trance-like state knowing instantly what I must do. With the grenadier looking away from me at the sergeant, I raised my sword and swung it round with every ounce of strength I possessed, knowing that my life depended on delivering a killing blow. I aimed for his neck and struck with a force that would have decapitated a lesser man. But the grenadier’s neck was huge, with thick cords of muscle joining his head to his shoulders. The razor sharp blade bit deep and blood sprayed over me, but with a gurgling roar of rage the giant managed to haul himself back to his feet. With a sickening sense of déjà vu I knew that he still had fight in him.

  I wrenched my blade free, opening the wound further, and stepped behind the man. His head lolled to one side, opening the deep cut in his neck, but he remained on his feet and moved quickly to face where I had been. I saw the sergeant throw a punch at him, but for all the good it did he could have thrown flower petals. The grenadier ignored the Irishman while he looked for me. Frantically I stabbed at him again, this time in the back. I remember his uniform coat was stretched tight over his massive torso, but as I jabbed my blade towards him I must have hit a rib as the blade would not go in. I pulled my sword back for another thrust, but he started to turn once more. He staggered a step round, resting his weight on his good leg, and glared at me angrily. His lips curled into a snarl as he swung his musket round one handed, as though it were a giant club. I had no choice but to try and stab him again. This time the Damascus blue steel disappeared into the cloth. I had thrust up into the side of his massive chest, all the way until the hilt of the weapon was pressed against his skin. I was close enough to hear a slight hiss of air as the blade punctured his lung, and smell the mixture of sweat and gunpowder smoke from his clothes. I was pressed up against him now to avoid the weapon that was still swinging behind me. Once the blade could go no further I wrenched the hilt to twist the blade. The musket butt struck me weakly across the back as blood poured down my arm from the opened wound in his side. I stepped back, pulling out my sword, thinking now he must be dead.

  He had not made a sound, but now looked down at me with an expression of surprise. There was blood dribbling down his chin but he stayed upright, and even seemed to heft the musket still in his hand slightly as though considering a second blow. With memories of that awful Rajput fresh in my imagination I ram
med the sword blade into him once more shouting, ‘die you bastard!’ He just stared at me with glassy eyes as I pulled the steel out and stabbed him again and again. The rest of the battle was forgotten, everyone apart from that giant, which somehow in my imagination had become the creature from my nightmares. The fear and the terror of the last few minutes had taken their toll and now nothing mattered more to me than seeing that grenadier down and dead. I lost myself completely to the task. I have vague recollections of shouting at him to die every time I plunged my sword into his torso, and of that chest becoming soaked with his blood. He dropped down to one knee again but I kept on stabbing him. Finally my sword got caught in his ribs again and I was tugging at it, still shrieking for him to die, when someone was at my shoulder pulling me away.

  ‘He is dead, sor,’ whispered the sergeant. ‘He is right proper dead thanks to you.’ As he spoke the body finally toppled over, leaving my sword hilt pointing at the sky. I realised that there were tears in my eyes now and I dashed them away with my sleeve and looked about. God knows how long I had been there driving a blade into the Frenchman, but when I looked up the Connaughts were all about us and the French were in full retreat further down the hill. A sense of relief washed over me. ‘I’ll wager you’re glad you did not miss the fun now sor, right enough’ said the sergeant, grinning at me.

  It took several seconds for this to sink in, but then the phrase, ‘missing the fun’ rang a bell. I remembered where I had heard it before. Then I understood that this was the cove who had grabbed my right elbow and carried me down the slope. ‘You bastard,’ I replied, as realisation dawned. Half of me wanted to punch him in his fat grinning face, but deep down the other half realised that in the last minute I had exorcised some demon that had been haunting me.