Flashman's Escape

by Robert Brightwell

  “Are you hit, Flashman?” asked Stewart, whirling back round.

  “No, sir, but I think my horse is lame,” I replied while putting my hand to the newly made wound and bringing it back covered in blood to show the general. “I think I will have to dismount,” I added, sliding quickly down from the saddle so that the horse was now between me and the voltigeurs.

  “Yes, quite,” agreed Stewart with, I thought, a degree of peevish irritation. “Well, it is probably time I rode down the column to see how the rest are getting on,” he called, wheeling his horse away. The crafty old fox had been using me as a shield too.

  That horse undoubtedly saved my life. As we marched along it reared up twice more with genuine musket ball wounds, but it stayed on its feet and kept moving in the right direction. Eventually I heard orders being shouted ahead and Stewart and King rode past to oversee the change in formation. The first company was wheeling around to face left, and as the second company marched past the first it wheeled in turn to join the line. As we marched behind the first and second company lines, we had some respite from the voltigeurs and I called Sergeant Evans to the front.

  “Four dead and six injured, sir,” he reported of the casualties we had taken so far. “Mr Price-Thomas is fine, sir, and your dog.”

  “Very good,” I replied automatically. The casualties were better than I had expected. The first company seemed to have already lost a quarter of their men. “We will be wheeling around left at the end of the second company,” I told him. “I would be obliged if you would give the orders.”

  “Gyrating left, as you say, sir,” acknowledged Evans.

  While his eccentric ordering caused both Stewart and King, who were nearby, to cock a quizzical eyebrow, the third company joined its fellows without difficulty. This was largely because the men had seen what the earlier companies had done and just followed their lead. The fourth and subsequent companies formed on us to create a new double-rank line facing the French.

  Now at last the men could return the punishment that they had been receiving over the last few minutes. As soon as the companies were in position they opened fire on the French. This would normally involve a series of devastating company volleys, but the weather had taken its toll. Only half the muskets in the first volley fired. The other men fell to the rear, cursing as they tried to push pins through touch holes to move damp powder away and sweep away grey sludge in priming pans and replace it with fresh, dry powder from a new cartridge.

  Evans had obviously fought in the rain before. “Use the cartridges from the middle of your pouch,” he called. “They will be the most desiccated. Here, lad, take this one.” He handed one struggling soldier a replacement musket and I saw that hanging from his shoulders he had two more that he had presumably taken from the dead.

  “Well done, Sergeant, you seem well prepared.”

  “It is always best to be expectant, sir,” he stated primly. Then, turning to the men, he called, “Come along, lads. Aim at their belt buckles and make those shots tell.”

  “We have got most of the guns firing now,” called Price-Thomas a minute later. He was right. Only three men were still wrestling with the locks of their guns; the rest were getting into the rhythm of firing rolling volleys. Unfortunately the French were doing the same, and while I watched two more men of the company fell. They were pulled to the rear by their comrades. One was wounded in the thigh and was tying a neck cloth around his wound, but the other lay still. Evans looked him over and announced, “This one is mortified, sir.”

  “I am sure he is, Sergeant.” I replied.

  “What are we going to do now?” asked Price-Thomas.

  It was a good question, as while the Spanish and French had settled into a musketry duel at the front of the column, we seemed to have done the same down the side of the French formation. I peered through the rain down the British line. The Buffs were all in a line. I looked back and saw the forty-eighth were as well, and as far as I could see, the sixty-sixth beyond them. You could make out the different regiments from their colour parties, holding the regimental flags that hung sodden and heavy from their poles. The Buffs’ flag was held just behind the fourth company where Major King watched his men from horseback.

  All of the regiments were now firing into the side of the French column and getting shot at in return, but nobody was moving. There was only one way this could end and I did not welcome it. We carried on firing volleys for what seemed an age but it was probably only a few minutes. Two more men fell, mortally wounded, and lay bleeding to death in the rain. Then I saw General Stewart riding up the line to speak to Major King and after a moment I heard the order I least wanted to hear.

  “Fix bayonets.”

  All along the line the men reached for their bayonets and carefully attached them to the now hot barrels of their guns, many of which were steaming in the continuing rain. The French could see what was happening and knew what to expect. I saw them fixing their own blades too. Price-Thomas drew his sword and moved forward to join the ranks of the men but I pulled him back.

  “Don’t be a fool,” I told him. “Your sword won’t reach a man with a bayonet before he has had the chance to gut you with his blade. Sheathe that sword and get us both a musket and bayonet.” Of course I had no intention of actually getting near the French if I could help it, but one had to at least show willing.

  This promised to be a most brutal action, for the enemy had nowhere to go. Normally bayonets were fixed when the enemy were on the verge of breaking, to chase them away from the field. But the French we would charge had their own comrades to their rear, the Spanish still fighting the head of the column, and only those at the back of the column had room to escape the charge. The bayonet is an effective attacking weapon but clumsy in defence. Both sides would therefore be stabbing out with it for all they were worth, while desperately trying to parry opposing thrusts.

  General Stewart was not looking for a shield now as he rode into the gap between the third and fourth companies. “Come on, men,” he called. “We cannot let them stand. See them off the field.” With a flourish of his sword he indicated that they should charge and spurred his horse forward to join them. With a roar the men leapt forward to the attack; well, most of them at least.

  Price-Thomas, musket now in hand, gave his piping war cry and started to run forward with the rest. He had only taken two paces when his trailing ankle got caught up in the musket strap of the man following him. He fell face first into the now wet, soft mud of the hillside. As he struggled to get to his feet the person who had tripped him fell on top of him, pressing him further into the dirt.

  “Dammit, boy, you fell right in front of me,” I called indignantly while disentangling my musket strap from the lad’s ankle.

  “I am very sorry, sir,” came Price-Thomas’s slightly muffled voice from underneath me.

  “Well, it really won’t do. I think I have twisted my ankle.”

  “Sorry again, sir… but could you get off me? I think we had better help with the attack.”

  “Yes, yes, but I will need you to help me up first.”

  I rolled away and the boy shot to his feet. He reached down and gripped my hand to pull me up. I soon stood on one leg with an arm gripping firmly around his shoulder, and another perfectly good leg waving in the air. After a moment I started to hobble forward, using the boy as a crutch, and wincing at the imaginary pain. “Go at them, lads,” I called encouragingly from a safe distance.

  “Shouldn’t I run forward and help the men, sir?” asked Price-Thomas plaintively.

  “How much practice have you had fighting with the bayonet lad?” I asked.

  “Why none, sir. You gave the men plenty of drill with the musket and bayonet, but I have been practising with a sword along with the other ensigns.”

  “How much drill do you think a French infantryman has fighting with a bayonet then?”

  “Quite a lot, sir.”

  “So what makes you think that a wet, angry Fren
ch infantryman is going to let an inexperienced fifteen-year-old boy beat him with a bayonet?”

  “We have to do something, sir.”

  “We are, we are managing the men, and if any Frenchmen do get through, we will shoot them. Did you check your musket was loaded?” I asked sternly. I let go of the lad and stepped gingerly forward on my own, using my musket now as a support. I had no idea if mine was loaded either but I knew I had two loaded pistols in my pockets.

  “No, it’s not loaded, sir.” The boy searched in the belt pouch of a nearby corpse for a dry cartridge and set to loading his weapon. I tutted impatiently, knowing that this would make his cold, wet hands fumble the job even more. Just as he was raising the ramrod to push the charge home we heard a cheer from our front and to my astonishment I saw that the first French column was breaking. My joy was short-lived as I saw the second column waiting beyond.

  “Come on, men, on to the next one. Keep amongst them,” roared General Stewart, providing all the leadership my men needed. It was good to see a general make himself useful for a change, allowing lesser ranks to evade their duty. A damn dangerous duty it was too. As our men surged forward to the next column I saw that a tidemark of bodies had been left behind. Hundreds of them, British and French, lay in a rough line down this part of the ridge where the two armies had fought. At least a dozen of my company were there, some just wounded, others carrying several stab wounds and clearly dead.

  “Come on, boy, we need to keep up with the men,” I urged Price-Thomas just as he was threading the ramrod back into its brackets along the side of the muzzle. We could not be seen to fall too far behind our men and so I allowed my limp to ease slightly as we moved forward towards the low rampart of bodies ahead of us. Now that the press of men above them had moved on I saw that several were struggling to get up. A French soldier shook himself like a dog and then staggered to his feet, holding a head wound and staring about him. Boney growled at this apparent resurrection. Glancing at the hound and the two officers next to it, the Frenchman turned and stumbled away to the south. Price-Thomas raised his musket but I pushed the barrel back down. “Save that shot for someone coming towards us,” I told him.

  If the battle with the first column had been brutal, the attack on the second was even worse. The poor French stragglers from the first attack, often unarmed, found themselves trapped between the jabbing points of both British and French troops. They screamed and pushed to get past, through or over the first ranks of the French line, causing confusion that the hardened British soldiers were quick to exploit.

  “Go on, go at them,” General Stewart was shouting from his horse as he turned and rode down the line of his command towards the next British regiment.

  I hefted the musket in my hand as we approached the fighting men. There were screams, oaths and yells coming from the heaving and compacted mass of humanity. The French were so pushed in together that few had room to use their weapons at all. In contrast the thin line of redcoats did have room to move and they were thrusting their blades at the men in the sodden blue uniforms. As lightning flashed and the rain continued to pelt down it seemed like a vision from hell.

  I looked for the surviving officers of the regiment; two were still on horseback and others were holding their swords and standing behind their men, encouraging them on. One of the mounted men saw me looking around as I strode towards the line and he rode over.

  “Why are you not with your men, Captain Flashman?” asked Major King.

  “I am just coming up to them now,” I replied wearily; we were only ten yards away.

  At that very moment the benefit of staying back became apparent as one of our men slipped in the mud. The Frenchman he had been fighting stabbed him in the shoulder and with a roar of triumph stepped over him so that he was behind our line. The two British soldiers on either side of him were both fully occupied with opponents of their own. The Frenchman who had stepped through the gap could see that he only had to kill one or two of the British on either side to create a gap. Then dozens of his comrades could pour through and attack the British line from behind. He turned to face the exposed backs of the British line. Instinctively I raised my musket to my shoulder but the flint sparked down on an empty pan: the gun was unloaded. But before I could even curse, there was a crack of a musket to my left and the Frenchman was falling with a red-rimmed hole right between his shoulder blades.

  “What the devil are you doing with long arms? Officers should be using swords.” Major King looked down indignantly at us, completely ignoring the fact that we had just forestalled a breakthrough of the line. Without waiting for a reply, he rode on, still muttering to himself about ‘irregular behaviour’.

  I turned away from him and looked at Price-Thomas, who was staring, ashen faced, at the French body lying on the ground.

  “Is that the first man you have killed?”

  “Yes, sir,” he replied quietly.

  “Well, he would have killed you, given the chance. Now go to one of those bodies over there and get some dry cartridges. We both need to reload our weapons.”

  To keep him occupied, I got Price-Thomas to load both muskets. It stopped him thinking about the man he killed as I urged him to hurry. I had no idea if the pistols in my sodden pocket would still fire and I was keen to get a more reliable weapon in my hand.

  If I am honest, the incident had shaken me up too, for it had shown just how flimsy our attack now was. We had started with double ranks of men, but with casualties on the march to make the assault, and then in the musketry duel and finally in the assault on the first column, we were down to a single rank of redcoats along most of the line. There were a handful of officers and sergeants standing behind the line to help fill gaps and stop similar intrusions, but it would not take much for a breach to be made. At one point four or five men did break through together but they breached the line of the fourth company just in front of the group of men guarding the regimental colours. Several of the British sergeants from the colour guard went forward to despatch them with the razor-sharp spontoons they used to protect the colours against horsemen.

  I am not sure whether it was the British or the weather which defeated the second French column in the end, as another vicious squall broke out within the storm. Suddenly we were blasted with a gale loaded with thousands of hailstones. You could not look into the wind; you had to turn your back into it. As soldiers on both sides struggled to see and retain their footing, the French decided that they had fought enough. Unless it was hidden by the sound of the tempest, they did not seem to make much noise as they went and I did not notice they had broken at first.

  “The French are going, sir,” called out Price-Thomas.

  I squinted into the sleet and saw a general movement of the men in blue south beyond the line of the darker red coats hunched against the weather. “So they are. Thank God for that.”

  “Shouldn’t we pursue them, sir?”

  “Look at the men. They are exhausted, and we haven’t got enough of them to take on another column.” Now that the French had moved back, it was clearer to see how pitifully few the survivors of the regiment were.

  “Close up,” called a familiar voice and I saw that Sergeant Evans was among the survivors.

  I counted and there were thirty-four men from my company still standing or crouching over wounded comrades. This was roughly half the number we had started the day with. Another tidemark showed the line of conflict with the second column. This time there were more blue-coated than red corpses, with many of those the unarmed stragglers from the first column. A break in the rain showed that the third column was still some hundred yards ahead of us, but like our men most were hunched over to avoid the rain.

  Slowly the men heeded the sergeant’s call and began to come together in a single soggy line. Looking at the other companies in the Buffs, I saw they were equally ravaged. The British were now a fragile single file of exhausted men, opposed by an entire fresh French column. That is it, I thought. The reg
iment has fought itself to a standstill; they will have to retire us to the rear now. Little did I realise that the worst was yet to come.

  Chapter 8

  The squall stopped as suddenly as it started and instead of wind and hail the weather reverted back to just steady rain. Visibility improved and we could now see a large formation of horsemen to our west that seemed to be moving south.

  “Are they our cavalry moving to harass the fleeing French?” asked Price-Thomas beside me.

  “I hope so; at least they are not heading in our direction.” I looked up as a single horseman came galloping up the line. “Ah, here is someone who might tell us. Captain Waller, are those our horses?”

  “We are not sure, Flashman. What do you make of them?” Waller reined in beside me and looked at our much-diminished line. “Your men have paid a big price to see off those columns, but it was splendid work, splendid indeed.”

  I took my glass from my pocket and to Waller’s amusement I pulled young Price-Thomas in front of me so that I could rest the instrument on his head for a steady view. “There you are, lad, now you are being useful.”

  “What can you see, sir?” he asked, moving his head slightly.

  “When you stand still all I can see is grey, murky horsemen. They could be anyone, but they now seem to be coming to a halt.”

  “Captain Waller, do you have a message for me?” Major King was trotting up with Captain Bailey, one of the two captains to retain his horse. The major looked irritated that Waller had stopped to talk to me instead of riding straight for him.

  “General Stewart sends his compliments and asks the regiment to stand here, sir, and he will send up reinforcements to help attack the third column. The thirty-first battalion are still in reserve.”

  “Lucky bastards,” I murmured as I continued to watch the horsemen through the glass.

  “Very well, Captain,” replied King, ignoring me. But then I uttered an oath and he turned, exasperated, in my direction. “What is it now, Flashman?”