I nodded in agreement, my mind as numb as my limbs. I felt sickened by both what I had seen and how close I had come to sudden and unexpected death. I turned to leave as the corporal had suggested; he was already going back inside to refill his cup. Then I noticed another small building in the courtyard. What really attracted my attention was the chimney: I could see a wisp of smoke coming from it against the night sky. I took another sip of brandy from my cup and staggered towards it. Smoke meant fire and fire meant heat.
By the time I reached the stout oak door I was speculating that it might be a bake house and my mind was filled with images of warm ovens and freshly baked bread. I tried the handle but the door was locked. I could have wept at that point, but I decided that I was not going to give up that easily. I took a step back and charged the door with my shoulder. The door frame that held the bolt must have been rotten as a second later I was sprawled on the floor. I stared about me in wonder. The space was lit by various candles and in the middle of the room was something that spelled paradise for me at that particular moment. The building was not a bake house, it was a bath house, and there in front of me was a hot, steaming bath.
I gazed in disbelief for a moment. The bath was the bottom of a huge wine barrel and beyond it on a platform was a roaring fire underneath a cauldron that must have been used to heat the water. Already my face could feel the warmth while a draught on the back of my neck reminded me of the need to shut the door. I did not want a bunch of drunk or murderous soldiers interrupting my soak and so I looked for something to jam against the entrance. There was a heavy wooden bookcase that now held towels. I managed to drag that away from the wall and tip it against the door. It wedged firmly and I relaxed; no one would get through that door easily now.
A few moments later and I had stripped off my frozen, wet clothes and slipped into the warm water. Sometimes you have to suffer to really appreciate pleasure and I have never enjoyed a bath as that one. I revelled in the sensation of feeling the shivering stop and my muscles slowly relax in the heat.
The water was just starting to cool when I first noticed the noise, a slight grating of wood on stone. There was another upturned bath tub leaning against the far wall, and as my senses started to recover I suddenly realised that I was not be alone. The door had been bolted from the inside and there were no other doors and windows. The person the bath had been originally intended for was still in the room. As the wood scraped against the stone again, I had a pretty good idea where they were hiding.
Having already been nearly killed several times that night, I was not going to be stabbed in a bath by some French soldier or Spaniard, who must now view the British as the enemy. Quietly I stood and got out of the bath. Steam was rising from my warm skin in the cold air and my freezing, wet clothes did not appeal. I drew my sword silently from its scabbard and stepped stealthily across the floor.
Throwing the wooden tub to the floor, I jumped forward, waving my sword threateningly. The girl screamed. I fancy a naked, wet and steaming Flashy standing over any girl, sword in hand, would be an awe-inspiring sight, but it was certainly too much for the young novice nun. She rolled away from me still shrieking and then yelled garbled prayers in a forlorn effort to hold me at bay.
She clearly expected me to fulfil my basest desires on her and so I did. Though I’ll venture I took her by surprise, for I was not interested in rape but in more hot water. In Spanish I ordered her to keep quiet and then I told her to stoke the fire and put more water in the cauldron to heat. Her eyes widened in astonishment, but after a moment’s hesitation she hurried to do my bidding.
I was walking back to my tub when there was a hammering on the door. “Open up, you damned bitch,” shouted one of the soldiers in coarse Spanish. “We know you are in there. Let us in and we will make it easier for you.” I realised that some of the soldiers in the courtyard must have heard her scream. To confirm a girl was in the little room she helpfully squealed again and shrank back to a corner of the room.
“Clear off!” I yelled. “The girl is taken.”
“Bless me.” I recognised the voice of the brandy-drinking corporal. “It’s that officer and he has got a bint all to ’imself.”
“Not for long, he hasn’t,” pronounced another.
There was the crash of a musket butt against the wood near the lock and then several thuds as men put their shoulders to the door. The heavy bookcase moved a fraction of an inch until it was wedged against a slightly raised stone in the floor and then budged no more. “Stand back,” called another voice and I stepped to one side, guessing what would happen next. Three muskets were fired at the door. I heard the planks splinter, but the door and its bookcase support held firm.
The girl was hysterical now, babbling incoherently in the corner, and I turned and shouted at her to be quiet. The men were cursing and swearing at the stubborn door and I thanked my lucky stars that I had thought to pull the bookcase down when I had first come in. I turned and yelled at the men outside, “It is wedged tight and I have a sword and pistols waiting for anyone who does make it through.”
“You have got to come out sometime,” yelled a voice, “and when you do we will get you both.”
There was a final futile bash at the door and then I heard their footsteps receding. I gave a victorious smile, confident that I could outwait them with the comforts to hand.
“Come on, girl, tend that fire; my water is getting cold.”
I lay back in the tub and watched the girl work through half-closed eyes. She was a pretty little thing, and once she had calmed down she kept furtively glancing at me in the bath when she thought I was not watching. I am not sure how many naked men she had seen but I heard her murmur in astonishment when she first saw signs of my growing interest. She blushed then, but she did not stop staring.
I waited until she had tipped in another cauldron of hot water and then I caught her eye. “Didn’t you come in here for a bath? Why don’t you come in and join me? There is plenty of room.”
She looked shocked and excited at the same time. She glanced at the door and I guessed that she was also considering what would happen to her if I chose to leave. After a moment’s hesitation she reached down, grabbed her robe and pulled it over her head. Naked as a lark, she stepped into the bath.
The night of the sixth of April 1812 was an awful one for almost everyone in Badajoz. Nearly five thousand British soldiers were killed or injured and fifteen hundred French. After the battle had ended over three thousand Spanish civilians were murdered by rampaging British troops and at least that number of womenfolk were raped or assaulted. In a time when the sacking of a city was commonplace, Badajoz stood out for its brutality and for nearly a day the British soldiers ran riot, completely out of control.
I had suffered in that wretched ditch packed with desperate and drowning men, but I had to admit that there was recompense later that night. Francesca was not quite the novice that her religious title implied. We soon set to washing each other with enthusiasm and then, as the last candles guttered out, we made of bed of towels on the platform next to the cauldron fire. I certainly gave her something to talk about at her next confession. It served to comfort and distract us both. But as we lay quietly afterwards on the towels we could not escape the noise of the destruction of the city. There was a near continuous crackle of musketry, sometimes single shots and at other times volleys. Worst of all, though, were the shouts and the screams of the women. Francesca eventually fell asleep after muttering over and again a Latin prayer that I guessed was for her religious sisters, who were being raped and possibly murdered just yards away.
The morning brought little respite. A glance through one of the bullet holes in the door showed that the soldiers were still in control of the courtyard. Several were lying drunk, but armed, in the corner by the refectory entrance. It was not until mid-afternoon that some sort of order was established in that part of the city. This was heralded by another hammering on the door and a demand that we open up or
risk the gallows that were being built in the city’s main square. A squint through the bullet hole confirmed that the men were from the provost and we soon manhandled the bookcase aside.
The provost’s men would not let Francesca into the convent; the scenes inside were too awful and in any event the rest of the city was not yet completely safe. It took another two days to bring the army completely under control across the city and during that time I had the girl billeted with me in one of the safer parts of town. It turned out I was not the only one of Wellington’s staff officers to rescue a nun, or seduce one. Mind you, Harry Smith was foolish enough to marry his!
Chapter 16
I did not see Campbell again until some three days after the assault. He had managed to stay on the glacis and get messages back to Wellington. He actually seemed jealous of the fact that I had inadvertently joined the attack, despite me describing the horror of the ditch. He hinted that he thought I had jumped in deliberately and so we went up to the glacis again in daylight. There we could both see how it had happened. The glacis was not a straight line but zigzagged to match the bastions in the city wall behind. It was clear that in the darkness he had run up a zig, while I had blundered straight off the edge of a zag.
The place had been bad enough at night, but the weak winter sun revealed the devastation and slaughter everywhere. The flooded ditch was packed with British dead, many of whom had started to swell in the water. The crater, where the massive mine had exploded, was still black with dried blood and body parts, while the slope to the breach itself remained thickly carpeted with red-jacketed corpses. For the British, the casualties had been even higher than at Albuera at nearly five thousand men. But instead of being spread over a large battlefield, here they lay in massive mounds where they fell.
“Did you know,” said Campbell as we surveyed the scene, “that Wellington actually wept when he stood here the morning after the battle?”
“He is such a cold fish,” I replied, “that I don’t think I have ever seen him show much emotion. You don’t think he will start to lose his nerve, do you?”
“Oh no, he is already planning to divide the army, leaving a garrison here and taking the rest to attack Marmont. The good marshal was marching to help relieve the city and Wellington hopes he can take the French by surprise. Getting the army out of the city will also help re-establish order.”
“Well, I will not be sorry to leave here. It always has seemed a grim and forbidding place, but now it stinks of death and decay.”
“What about your little nun?” Campbell grinned. “Does she not offer some compensation?”
“She did, but now there is order on the streets again she has decided to return to the convent. No, the sooner we leave, the better for me.”
The army started its march north two days later and I made myself look busy tooling up and down the column, but actually doing very little. I tried to avoid Wellington and had not spoken to him since my ride with despatches. I had long since learned that contact with our general invariably resulted in me being dropped into danger. With another battle on the horizon, a very low profile seemed the way to go. But you can’t hide from fate and on the third day of the march I received an early-morning summons to report to his tent.
From extensive experience I can tell you that when you get an urgent summons to a general’s quarters, it is rarely good news. I speculated on the cause as I hurried across the camp ground. There was no attack imminent, Soult was still in Seville and Marmont was miles away with various exploring officers keeping tabs on him. With no obvious reason to throw Flashy into jeopardy, I wondered if it was a reprimand. Had Francesca’s mother superior complained about my behaviour? The young ‘bride of Christ’ was likely to find our Lord a disappointing companion after demonstrating a growing enthusiasm for the type of protection I could offer. Or was it Grant, had he made a formal complaint? After the liniment incident I had been expecting him to exact some sort of revenge when the opportunity arose. My worst fears seemed to have been confirmed by Wellington’s opening words.
“Ah, Flashman, good to see you. I want to talk to you about Major Grant.”
“I don’t know what he has told you, sir, but I can assure you that I had nothing to do with it.”
“What are you talking about? Of course you have had nothing to do with it. We think he has been captured.”
“Captured, sir?” I asked, quickly taking in this change of events and thinking that good news might come from this type of meeting after all. “That is very unfortunate, sir.”
“It is more than bloody unfortunate. He has a huge amount of information about our army and he knows we are marching to try to trap Marmont against the river Agueda. If the French find out, they will slip away and this march will have been for nothing.”
“Perhaps he has got lost or is just injured somewhere.”
“You may be right, which is why I have sent for you. He was last heard of near Alcantara; you know the area from your time there in ’oh-nine. I want you to go up there and see if you can find out what has happened to him.”
“Are the French still in the vicinity?”
“No, they have pulled back; you should be quite safe. I don’t want to risk losing another man who knows about our attack. Come back as soon as you know what has happened to Grant.”
I was stunned: no reprimand, my nemesis probably dead or captured and a mission that did not appear to involve any danger at all. I struggled to stop a big grin crossing my face. “I will do my best, sir.”
“I am sure you will,” agreed Wellington. He appeared about to dismiss me and then hesitated. “You know Flashman, if you had wanted to join the attack on Badajoz, you had only to ask. I heard about you accidentally falling into the ditch and then risking your life to save a young nun.” He grinned. “It is just the sort of thing I would expect from you. Campbell was quite cross when he found you had gone into the city without him. The pair of you are as brave as lions, even though you sometimes try to hide it with these ridiculous stories.” I opened my mouth to protest, but then shut it again. What could I say without ruining my credit?
“But,” Wellington continued, holding up a finger in warning, “this time I do want you to be really careful Flashman. No unnecessary risks, do ye hear? I cannot afford to lose another man to the French who knows about our plans.” He paused, considering. “It is a sad thing but I would rather Grant be dead than captured.”
I was not entirely sure, but that last remark seemed to be a hint to kill Grant if the opportunity arose and I could not bring him back alive. While I could not stand the pompous little bastard, I was not sure I hated him enough to kill him in cold blood, especially after what I had already done to him. But this was one occasion when I could give Wellington a truly honest reply. “Don’t worry, sir,” I told him. “I give you my word that I will do everything in my power to come back in one piece.”
Two days later and I was taking in a view that I had last seen nearly three years previously. Then I was newly arrived in Spain and about to take part in an extraordinary action where a few hundred men from the Loyal Lusitanian Legion and some militia from the Idanha a Nova regiment stopped Marshal Victor and an army of ten thousand Frenchmen in its tracks. This was largely achieved when I blew up a span of the old Roman bridge that I now saw stretching out across the gorge in front of me. To my surprise as I looked down on the broken structure I saw a dozen carts and several British officers amongst a group of men that seemed to be working to repair it.
The memories flooded back as I rode down into the valley to speak to the engineers. The French had lined the opposite bank and sent a storm of musket shot across the river, with cannon fire and several assaults across the bridge itself. Things looked different now as I arrived at the end of the bridge. Men were pulling on ropes to manoeuvre a large wooden platform to cover the seventy-five-foot chasm of the missing arch. As I asked for who was in charge, the platform started to teeter on the edge of the existing stone supports. I
t was a big oak repair that must have weighed tonnes. As it started to tip into the chasm the weight on the ropes increased, dragging the men holding them towards the gap in the bridge. With what seemed infinite slowness the platform fell into the river, to a chorus of shouting and swearing as men tugged on ropes to stop it getting washed away. I looked for the commanding officer and decided that it would not be politic to mention that I was the chap who had blown the bridge up in the first place.
Colonel Sturgeon, who was in charge of the engineers, remembered seeing Grant a week previously. “He passed us on the road here, but there was no reason for him to come to the bridge as he could not get across. He was heading up to Idanha a Nova. He had a guide with him and they seemed to know where they were going.”
The next day I followed Grant’s footsteps into the small town of Idanha a Nova. Most of the houses were gathered around a square which had a large tavern, always the best place to get information. I strode in, nodding in greeting to the dozen patrons that sat on the benches. The conversation that had been going on died away at my arrival. Several of the men there looked awkward and embarrassed. I wondered if they had been part of the militia that had run away during the French attack after their commander was cut in half by a cannon ball. I did not blame them if they were; I was trying to do the same at the time, but my foot had been stuck fast in a rock fall.
“I am trying to track down an Englishman who came this way a week ago,” I announced. “His name was Grant and he had a Spaniard called Leon with him. Do any of you know what happened to them?”
They looked away and shuffled their feet. These men just wanted to farm their land and they had long since learnt that any involvement with men in uniforms invariably brought trouble.
Then one of the men at the back stood up and asked hesitantly, “You are Señor Flashman, yes?”
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