Flashman in the Peninsula (18 page)

‘Yes, but there are other French marshals in the north,’ said a voice in the crowd, ‘such as Ney and Mortier who could have given him reinforcements.’ That sparked a new debate before Wellesley cut in crisply.

‘It does not matter now. What is important is that we have time to beat the French army in front of us. Then we will worry about Soult.’ He turned to look at me and warmth broke through his normal cold look of disdain. ‘Flashman, once again I have underestimated your resourcefulness. You were worth a regiment to me in India, undermining enemy morale and then letting us into Gawilghur. Now you are saving my army again. I thank you.’ His grin widened as he added, ‘Now I suppose I should reward you with the thing I know you crave...’

As he spoke I remembered with horror that the misguided fool believed that I wanted a role of action in the heat of the coming battle. Well, I had already done enough, and there was no way I was going into the jaws of death again. I knew just how to get out of it too. All it took was an artful stumble and my hand going to my bleeding head for several people to reach forward to catch me and guide me to a nearby rock to sit.

‘I say, sir,’ called a major I did not know, although I could have kissed him at the time. ‘This Flashman fellow is not well.’ He turned to me, ‘This cut sir, was it caused by a sword or a glancing bullet?’

I weakly waved the major away as I looked up to Wellesley. ‘Don’t worry sir, it takes more than a French bullet to stop me.’ He looked down at me with a mixture of concern and admiration as I added, ‘I will be ready for action in a moment, just feeling a bit dizzy all of a sudden.’

I allowed myself to slump more against the major who was by now standing beside me, and fluttered my eyelids as though struggling to retain consciousness, but I had done enough.

‘I am sorry, Flashman,’ said Wellesley decisively. ‘But you are too valuable to waste against the enemy when you are not in top fighting trim. Major, would you take Captain Flashman back to the surgeon’s tent to be examined.’ I made a token show of reluctance but the major soon had me moving in the right direction. Wellesley patted me on the shoulder as I went past him. ‘You can join me on the hill to watch when you are patched up, but you are not for the front line today.’ And this from a man they later called the Iron Duke!

Chapter 13

Initially I had no intention of returning back up that hill, but all of the walking wounded from the night’s battle were rushing back up there to regain their places in the ranks. It would have looked strange if the hero of the hour had remained lounging in the surgeon’s tent with just a bandage round his head, sipping the surgical brandy. At least I had Wellesley’s assurance I was not for the front line, so reluctantly, as the grey light of dawn spread across the sky I set off again. But this time I took my horse. If things went badly I wanted to be sure I could make a fast get away.

Wellesley had organised his forces in a long line stretching from the hill towards the Spanish on the right. The hill was the dominant position and it was at its summit that I found Wellesley and half a dozen of his officers sitting on their horses, squinting into the sunrise to make out the enemy formations. We watched as regiments started to march and form up into three huge columns. Most alarming from my perspective was that they were all forming up on the French right, opposite the hill I was standing on.

‘They are Victor’s men,’ said Campbell to me. He had ridden up alongside when I reached the summit. ‘He is readying for an early attack. He failed to take the hill by stealth in the night and now he seems to be planning to take it by weight of numbers and force.’ Victor did not know the number of men that opposed him on the hill for there were no British infantry on the facing slope. I had passed them on the way up, a long line of redcoats resting out of sight of the enemy but ready to come over the crest of the hill when called. Looking at the huge mass of men that were gathering across the valley, the line I had ridden through seemed pathetically fragile. Turning to the right I could see the British line extending beyond the hill towards the Spanish position. That thin stream of red coated men seemed no thicker than the ones I had passed and they were in full view of the French. Looking at the men massing against us it was as though we were planning to stop the advance of three whales with a flimsy net. The French had double the number of the British, while our allies seemed literally frightened of their own shadow. I looked for the British horsemen and found them some distance off to the left to forestall any flanking move. The French had cavalry of their own on the wings to counter any move of our horse.

There was a mutter of excitement from the watching officers and someone called out, ‘That must be Joseph Bonaparte.’ I trained my glass towards a knot of gaudily dressed officers on the hill rising from the far side of the valley. They were too far away to make out any features in my glass, but evidently they were there to order the start of the attack, as almost immediately a signal gun fired. The hollow boom was followed a few seconds later by a rumble of gunfire like rolling thunder, as down the valley over fifty large cannon opened fire. Any rational person with a wit of common sense would be looking to take cover at this point, but not of course a British army officer.

‘It looks likely to be a hot morning,’ said Campbell calmly, although whether he was talking about the guns or the sun that was only just rising into the sky it was hard to say.

‘Oh I say, are those bunting?’ called another officer as a flock of birds startled by the gunfire rose up in a large flock from the valley floor. It was the fat general of the night before, Rowland Hill, a kindly old duffer who was known as Daddy Hill to his men.

The hundreds of pounds of iron screaming through the air in our direction were blithely ignored by my brother officers as most of them gazed up at the wretched birds. I stared at them in astonishment. If there was ever a time when I was less interested in flora and fauna, well I couldn’t think of it. The first salvo fell well short as the cannon barrels
were cold. I saw balls bounce up the slope beneath us kicking up clouds of dust, tufts of grass and turf. I seemed to be the only one watching the fall of shot. As the gunfire of the first salvo died away, the rest of our party engaged in the evidently more important debate of deciding whether the birds were bunting, finches or wastrels.

I stared around me wondering how long this madness could last, but then I noticed that their studied airs of unconcern were, if anything, a little too studied. One officer was choosing this moment to pick lint from his sleeve while another found a mark on the back of his hand fascinating. I knew that I was looking at the insidious influence of British public schools. From the first day, boys are taught that a gentleman should never show fear and certainly not in front of the enemy or the lower orders. With our own men resting in relative safely over the crest it was unthinkable that we should run to cover to join them. Oh no, honour demanded that we sit there like fish in a barrel nonchalantly ignoring the shot coming our way. Rugby school had tried to instil that ethic in me too, but with mixed success. I was careful to keep my credit with those that mattered, but given the chance I would slide out at the first opportunity.

‘Do you think they are bunting, Flashman?’ Hill was looking enquiringly at me.

‘I am sorry sir, I have no idea.’ I did not care a fig for the wretched birds; my mind was turning to other more important matters, such as saving my own skin. I glanced down to our right at the long lines of redcoats stretching away to the Spanish position and completely exposed to the French cannon. ‘Sir Arthur,’ I turned to Wellesley, ‘should we not order our men on the right to lie down, they are horribly exposed as they are.’

‘Ah yes, Flashman, that is a good idea.’ I was already sliding my feet into the stirrups ready to take the order; and thinking that a relapse of my head injury and another spell in the surgical tent was called for, when he turned to a young cornet behind him. ‘Mr Darcy, would you give my compliments to Sherbrooke and tell him that I desire his men to lie down until the enemy advance.’

‘Yes sir,’ the young man threw up a smart salute before turning his horse to carry away
my
message.

‘And wait with the infantry on your return Mr Darcy,’ called out Wellesley. Once the lad was out of earshot he murmured, ‘I promised his mother I would look after him,’ as though an excuse was required for this act of compassion. I glared with a look of jealous venom at the retreating back of the boy, but before I could say any more the first French guns completed their reloading and fired again.

This time many of the French gunners had over compensated for their cold barrels by aiming high. Two balls flew over our heads making a sound like tearing calico. Instinctively several of us ducked our heads. Instead of a single salvo, the gunnery was more ragged now as the French gunners took varying times to reload their pieces. There was nothing for it but to sit there watching the blooms of smoke appear on the opposite side of the valley, and know that each one was sending an iron ball towards the British lines.

As the guns continued I could hear Hill continuing a conversation with Fenton, his aide, and those around him about more bloody birds. ‘Guns on skiffs, you say…’ he was interrupted by another crash of gunfire. ‘What was that?’ At this point two more balls crashed into the hillside in front of us sending small stones flying through the air. I did not catch what Fenton said but as the stones settled I could hear Hill exclaiming, ‘Well that just ain’t sporting, not sporting at all.’ This was followed by a rumble of six guns firing together although where those balls went I had no idea. You can imagine how I felt; it was like being the target at a fairground stall and hoping not to be hit. The valley was slowly filling up with gun smoke but through the gaps you could see that the columns had not even started moving yet. I sat there staring to my front and found that I had been gripping my sword hilt so hard that the wire around it was cutting into the palm of my hand.

There was distant shouting from behind me and looking around again I saw that at the bottom of the hill one end of the surgical tent had now collapsed. It appeared that one of the cannon balls which had been aimed high over the hill had smashed into the tent on the far side. It just went to show that cannon fire was a damn random business. A few moments ago I had been fervently wishing I had stayed in that tent and now I saw that I might have been killed if I had.

As the second salvo died away, giving us a moment’s peace, Hill turned to me again.

‘Flashman, Fenton here tells me that in North America they use two inch guns loaded with shot and mounted on skiffs to hunt ducks. They push them through the reeds and blast the birds. Now tell me, that ain’t sporting is it, what?’

I came within an ace of telling the old fool that I did not give a damn for his bloody birds, but then I managed to pull what shreds of reserve I had left and turned to him. I even managed a grin as I replied, ‘At this moment sir, I do have some particular sympathy with the ducks.’ There was a chuckle at that but before anyone could say more the fastest French guns opened fire again. The French gunners were getting their aim in now and one of the first balls pitched right in front of Hill’s horse, and then twisted away to pass in a blur close to Campbell.
I knew Campbell was a certifiable lunatic when it came to courage so I did not expect him to blanch, but even he turned to me pale faced and grinned, ‘I think I felt the heat of that one.’

My attention though was on Hill. I had seen the look of horror on his face when the ball had first pitched and he thought he was about to die. Belatedly I realised that despite his rambling about birds he was as frightened as the rest of us. I understood now that he had been chattering away to try and distract us. That was why he had kept trying to involve me in the conversation despite my obvious lack of interest. I felt a twinge of compassion for the man. I knew nothing about birds but I thought I would give him something to talk about.

‘My Uncle John said he shot a knock kneed knuckle warbler up near Inverness,’ I shouted at him over the gunfire. ‘Apparently they are quite rare.’ Campbell looked across at me and grinned. He realised instantly that I had made up the name of the bird. Fenton, Hill’s aide, caught the glance and smiled conspiratorially from behind his general’s back

‘What kind of warbler?’ enquired Hill above the noise. I shouted the name again but the words were lost in the resounding booms of further cannonading. I took a deep breath and shouted it as loud as I could a third time… just as the guns fell silent again. ‘A knuckle warbler,’ said Hill intrigued, ignoring the fact that I had virtually bellowed the name in his ear. ‘How strange, is it a local name do you think?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Campbell giving me a wink. ‘And they are good eating, thighs as big as a chicken.’

‘An edible warbler? I have never heard of such a thing,’ Hill sounded genuinely fascinated.

‘One of my aunts on the Essex marshes used to serve us warbler pie when I was a boy,’ said Fenton, joining in.

Before Hill could react to that another officer who had sensed the fun joined in too. ‘My wife is very fond of fricassee of warbler.’

‘Well I am blown,’ muttered Hill as we all agreed that fricassee of warbler sounded an excellent dish. Fenton was struggling now to keep a straight face and was hiding his grin behind a large kerchief that he wiped his nose with.

Wellesley had stayed silent, he generally stayed aloof of pranks by his staff officers. But now he interrupted his surveillance of the enemy and lowered his glass. Glancing across at Hill he gave an indulgent smile and added, ‘I think you will find potted warbler very enjoyable. I am most partial to it.’

‘Potted warbler,’ repeated a bewildered Hill, trying to come to terms with the apparent culinary dexterity of the bird. Fenton behind him was going red in the face as he now seemed to be eating his kerchief to stop himself laughing.

‘Well, Sir Arthur,’ exclaimed Hill, ‘I will certainly try it when I get the opportunity.’

There was a squeaking sound and I thought Fenton was choking. Hill looked round at him and saw his shoulders shaking with laughter.

‘Oh I say,’ he grinned, ‘you bounders have gulled me.’ Anything he said after that was lost as the French guns roared again. The six of us sat on that hillside with cannon balls whipping around us while we roared with laughter; at least one of us slightly hysterically. It was not that funny a joke, but it acted as a release for the tension that had been building in each one of us. I don’t know about the rest, but I felt strangely fatalistic now as the balls bounced around. I saw one land a few yards short and ricochet away, and I remember thinking that if there had been an ounce more powder in the charge or a gust of wind then that would have been the end of me, dying with smile about edible warblers still on my lips.

That is not to say that I did not breathe a sigh of relief when Wellesley shouted out that the French columns were finally on the move. His next order was for our artillery to be uncovered and to open fire on the slowly moving blue blocks of men. Sacks of stones were pulled away from the front of the gun carriages and they prepared to fire. Wellesley had kept them protected until the columns started to move, as he did not want them dismounted before they were able to whip bloody trails through the columns. I knew that now the French gunners would concentrate on our gun batteries and give us some relief.