Flashman in the Peninsula (17 page)

There have been times when I have doubted the existence of a supreme being, but at that moment I was given conclusive proof of the existence of a deity as my prayers were immediately answered. No sooner were the thoughts out of my head than I heard a distant whistling.

I poked my head up over the stones for the noise was coming from the east, from where the French had attacked. I could not make out the figure at first but now I could hear footsteps over the stones. Then the whistling stopped.

‘Colonel Dreyfus?’ a voice called out in French nervously. ‘Major Calvet?’ he tried again. There was no answer and the whistling resumed. I realised that he must be whistling to ensure that he did not take the soldiers he was trying to find by surprise and get shot by mistake. He was getting closer now and I saw he had a sword at his hip rather than a long musket over his shoulder which meant he was an officer. That was ideal as in an officer’s uniform I would be less likely to be questioned when travelling on my own. He was even around my size, but I judged a few years younger, possibly in his late teens. I ducked down as he got closer; he seemed to be walking directly towards me. He came to a sudden stop and I heard the whistling stop again as he muttered to himself, ‘Ah it is just a bush.’ He must have seen the dark mass of foliage in the gloom and come this way to investigate.

I realised now was my chance. He was turning to walk around the stones I was hiding behind. I stood up and was just able to reach out and grab his trailing ankle before he realised I was there. He gave a slight wail of alarm before he crashed down heavily into the rocks. I was up and on him in a second. I rolled him over and knelt with my knee on his chest. I had my sword drawn and against his throat.

‘Silence,’ I hissed at him in French. ‘I have already killed three Frenchman tonight; don’t force me to make it four.’ I must have been a frightening sight for half of my face was covered with dried blood from the cut on my head. The whites of his eyes shone back at me in the moonlight as he froze in terror. He had thought that the hillside had been cleared of enemy troops and now he had been captured by what he believed was a ruthless British killer. ‘Now listen to me carefully, boy,’ I told him, as I noticed that he was so young he had barely started shaving. ‘I want to know about Marshal Soult. I know some things already, so if you lie to me I will kill you, understand?’

The boy nodded, as far as my sword blade would permit.

‘Right, now where is Soult?’

The boy licked his lips. ‘He is coming from the north, monsieur.’

I pressed the blade more firmly against his neck and whispered sternly, ‘I know that, but where is he now?’

There was a gulp and bobbing of his Adam’s apple before he replied, ‘I think he is near Plascencia.’ I had not been expecting that. Plascencia was a town in a mountain pass nearly a hundred miles to the west. It meant Soult would soon be between me and the relative safety of Portugal. If the British army stayed north of the river Tagus then it would be trapped between Soult in the west and Victor and King Bonaparte in the east. If I was to escape I needed to get south of the Tagus.

‘How many men does Soult have?’ I asked harshly.

The boy twitched in alarm. ‘I do not know monsieur, truly I do not. I only know what I hear from other officers. They say that Soult will help trap your army if it escapes but I do not know how many men he has.’

The boy was clearly telling the truth and he had already told me all I needed to know. ‘All right, I am going to let you sit up. I want you to take off your coat and leave it on the rocks behind you. If you try to pull a knife or a pistol I will kill you, understand?’

The boy nodded. He was not going to cause any trouble, he was desperate to live. He wriggled out of his coat in a moment.

‘Now undo your sword belt and leave that behind.’ The boy complied again. I flicked my sword point back up the hill in the direction from which he had come and said, ‘Now get out of here.’ He scampered up in a moment and was away, leaving me with what I wanted. I shrugged off my own coat and picked up the blue one, and then I paused. The noise of battle from the bottom of the hill was getting louder; I could hear orders being shouted in French and English now. It was clear that a counter attack was underway and there would be an awful irony in being killed by my own side in an enemy coat. I dropped back into my little gap between the rocks and the bush holding both coats. I had already sat there during the defeat of the British. Now I would stay there until it was clear who had won the day and come out dressed accordingly.

When you are in the heat of battle times flies, but when you are hiding uncomfortably behind a bush listening to one, it seems to take for ever. God knows how long I crouched behind that stinking foliage. Sometimes I thought the battle was ebbing away, indicating the French were winning, and sometimes it seemed to be coming closer with the British having the upper hand. Only when I started to see some French soldiers run past my hiding place going back up over the hill was I sure that the British were regaining the hill. Gradually the noise of regular crashing volleys become louder and I peered down the hill into the darkness for signs of the battle line coming my way.

The French broke in a sudden rush; from one or two stragglers there were suddenly dozens of blue coated troops running up the hill and past my position. Then I could see more troops marching in solid ranks coming up behind. Salvation in the form of a company of redcoats was marching towards me, they were set to pass either side of my hiding place, and I would emerge and be safe again.

But of all the stupid luck, a French officer and his sergeant started to try and rally their men right in front of my bush. The officer called for his men to stand and a sergeant next to him was bellowing similar orders. Then other soldiers started to hesitate as they ran past.

‘Company, halt,’ called an English voice from the red jacketed men below.

With an awful realisation I understood that they were preparing to fire a volley. Eighty musket balls would sweep away the French, but the only protection I had in that direction was a bush. I was listening to the orders of my own firing squad.

‘Company, present,’ called the English voice again.

I did not have to look to imagine the eighty muskets being raised to the shoulder. I had to act. Frantically I pulled my pistol from the pocket of the red coat and aimed it at the broad back of the French sergeant. I fired at exactly the same moment I heard the English voice call, ‘Aim.’

I burst out from the bush, sword in hand. ‘Don’t shoot,’ I yelled, ‘I am British.’

The French officer, who had turned to look at his sergeant, tried to whirl back to face the white shirted stranger who had appeared from nowhere. But it was too late. I just jabbed my sword at him without aiming and more by luck than skill I stuck it straight in his throat. More blood spurted in my direction covering my shirt and breeches but I did not care about that. My attention was on the line of men down the hill, with their fingers curled around the triggers of eighty muskets pointed in my direction.

‘Don’t shoot!’ I repeated. ‘I’m Captain Flashman, I’m British.’ Having just seen me slay two Frenchman in front of them, that was perhaps obvious, but I was taking no chances.

‘Company port arms,’ the voice called. ‘Company advance.’ The resumed tramping of British boots was right then once of the sweetest sounds I have ever heard. It was interrupted by the buzz of a ball over my head as one of the French infantry behind me stopped retreating just long enough to take a shot at the man who had killed their officer and sergeant. I was not out of the woods yet, and in keeping with my reputation as a brave and resourceful officer, I felt a gesture was required.

‘Come on lads,’ I yelled, waving my blood-stained sword in the air. ‘Go at them, they won’t stand now.’

‘Go at them lads,’ confirmed one of their officers and with a guttural roar the whole company surged forward passing either side of me. It was a fine sight, men in their familiar red coats with their sweating faces and bayonet points glistening in the moonlight. You may be sure that no one cheered them on more enthusiastically than me, although I was careful not to take a single step further up that hill. Once they had passed it seemed strangely quiet. I looked down on the bodies of the two Frenchmen I had killed, for they were both now quite dead. It had been one hell of a night and I had been just the twitch of a trigger finger away from joining them. I sat down on a rock to gather my thoughts, but before they had even had a chance to rally themselves I heard my name being called.

‘Flashman, good God, I thought you were dead.’

I looked up and there was the portly general who had evidently survived his brush with French skirmishers. He was riding back up the hill again and behind him other officers were emerging from the gloom, some on horseback and others on foot. ‘I nearly was, sir. Is Wellesley with you? I have news for him.’

‘Sir Arthur,’ shouted the general, while twisting around in his saddle to shout at those behind him. ‘I have found Flashman, he is alive.’ Several of the horsemen nudged their mounts slightly to head in my direction, amongst them the familiar tall lanky figure. But it was one of the men on foot who reached me first, as bounding over the rocks came a beaming Campbell.

‘Flashman you rascal, the general was sure you were killed or captured and here you are, ready to buy me my breakfast after all. I say, are you wounded?’ He stopped in surprise as he notice that the dark stain on my shirt front was blood and there was more caked down the side of my face.

‘Oh, most of it came from that fellow when I killed him,’ I explained, gesturing with deliberate casualness to the French officer lying near my feet. ‘Took a knock on the head though, bullet I think, but it just bounced off my skull.’ I was not going to admit to cutting my head falling over, and by now the other officers were crowding round and congratulating me on my good fortune.

‘Remarkable, ’pon my word,’ called one, ‘where is your coat sir?’

‘Still behind that bush,’ I said without thinking, and Campbell darted into the foliage to retrieve it.

‘It is good to see you Flashman,’ Wellesley greeted me primly but already his eyes were darting ahead to where his men were securing the crest of the hill.

‘I say,’ said Campbell emerging from the bush holding up both of my coats. ‘There is a French coat back there as well as a British one.’ The babble of voices suddenly stopped and people looked to me enquiringly, some I thought with a slightly hostile glare, as though they guessed why I had procured a French coat in the first place. It was certainly not considered seemly to run out on your own side.

‘Flashman, what is this?’ asked Wellesley with slight distaste. But I was ready with my explanation.

‘Well of course there is, you could hardly expect me to join a meeting of French officers in a British uniform.’

‘You did what?’ exclaimed Campbell, astonished.

‘You heard,’ I grinned. ‘Remember I was recruited first as a spy in India? Well it is an old habit to break. So when I found myself behind enemy lines and a number of Victor’s officers gathered to discuss the battle, I found a uniform jacket on a dead officer and stood at the back to listen. Damn good job I did too as what I learned might save this army.’

Most of them crowded round at that, some patting me on the back as they admired my coolness under pressure. Wellesley, I noticed, stayed where he was, watching me with a curious expression which made me a tad uneasy. But I did not get time to consider this as the rest of them were clamouring to know what I had discovered.

‘The army you know is out yonder,’ I told them, pointing to the eastern horizon, which would soon reveal the combined army of Victor and King Bonaparte, ‘is just part of the French plan.’ I paused for a second to allow the tension to build, for I was going to milk this for as much credit as I could get. ‘We are already humbugged, gentlemen,’ I told them portentously. ‘For five days march to the west, behind us, comes another French army commanded by Soult.’

There were gasps and exclamation aplenty then. Some were saying they could not believe it, others shouting we would have to beat Victor without delay and yet more counselling caution and a retreat across the Talavera bridge, and guarding the few crossing points of the river Tagus. Above the babble Wellesley’s voice cut in.

‘Where exactly is Soult now?’

‘The French believe he is at Plascencia,’ I told him.

Wellesley nodded, showing he thought my five day estimate to be realistic, before asking the critical question. ‘How many men does he have?’

‘I don’t know. They did not mention numbers and I could not attract attention by asking questions or they would have realised that they had a stranger in their midst.’

‘He only had around fifteen thousand men left when we beat him at Oporto,’ opined the fat general.