Flashman in the Peninsula (23 page)

‘Ah,’ said Byron, who then pointed at a priest standing nearby in the watching crowd. ‘Her name is Señora de Aragon; the priest there brought her over to sit with us. He told us all about her. She is also known as the Maid of Zaragoza. After praying for help, she was able to turn back a French advance single handed and saved the city for the Spanish. I am thinking of including some verses about her in my new work.’ I glanced across at the priest, who looked pleased with himself as he heard his tale recounted to another British soldier. He appeared less happy when I turned to the woman and spoke to her in Spanish.

‘The priest says you prayed for help, stopped a French advance single handed and saved the city of Zaragoza,’ I told her, not bothering to hide the disbelief in my voice.

The woman looked briefly surprised that I spoke her language before replying quietly, ‘The priest is a lying, cock sucking bastard.’

I grinned; clearly she was not the devout woman that the priest had described. ‘Were you even at Zaragoza?’

‘Oh yes, I was there.’ She glanced resentfully at the priest, ‘With a man called Raul, not my husband. But now I am famous my husband has made these priests my guardians and they watch me like a hawk.’

‘So what happened in Zaragoza?’

‘Raul was a gunner and he was defending one of the bastions of the city. I had gone there with some apples for him and his crew when the French attacked. They came storming up a breach, Raul and his men were desperately trying to load with canister shot to sweep them away when the French troops shot at them. Raul fell and most of the other men he was with ran away. I was not praying, I was crying when I ran forward to hold him, but he was dying. As he saw me he held up the burning slow match and urged me to fire the gun. I did it for him.’ She paused as though remembering the moment and then continued briskly. ‘The French had not expected a girl to fire the gun and the canister shot tore through them taking half of them down. Raul’s men heard the gun and looked back to see me standing over it. They found their courage, came back to finish off the rest and the French attack failed.’

‘So you were a hero and they gave you a medal?’ I pointed to the one hanging over her chest but she just gave a scornful laugh.

‘Raul was the hero, with his dying breath he wanted to kill the French. The church and the politicians want to use me as an example, but I had left my husband who beat me and took my child to live with another man. The church spread tales that my husband was at the gun, but he was not even in Zaragoza. They say my son died before the siege but he died of a fever while I was being held a prisoner afterwards. Every night I see the face of the French soldier who refused my pleas for a doctor or medicine and let my son die.’ She paused with tears showing in her eyes before adding in a quiet whisper, ‘One day I will find him and kill him.’

‘What did she say?’ asked Byron, who had sensed her emotion in the story. I recounted the tale to him and he sat back even more impressed. ‘I will certainly include her in the work now. That is a far more passionate tale than the one the priest told.’

I turned back to the woman; without the scowl she did look pretty. She seemed shapely too although the black gown fastened up to her neck did her no favours. She saw my look and returned my appraisal.

‘Were you at Talavera?’ she asked. ‘Did you see the Spanish charge to capture the guns that everyone has been talking about?’

‘I was in the charge,’ I told her, and was rewarded with an appreciative smile as I added that I had been just a yard behind General Cuesta when he entered the battery.

‘And who are these?’ she said, gesturing at Byron and Hobhouse. ‘They have far too much luggage to be real soldiers.’ I explained that Byron was a poet and for devilment told her that Hobhouse was a surgeon who specialised in treating the clap. This earned him a withering look before she poured scorn on the idea that anyone could earn a living by writing poems. She held up her medal and exclaimed that real men had to show courage with a sword or a gun and not a quill. Before I could explain that Byron earned little from his poems and much from his massive estate, the man himself interrupted.

‘What did she say Flashman? She seemed very passionate about something.’

‘Oh, she says she does not like the look of Hobhouse, but she was very pleased that you were going to include her in one of your poems.’

‘Really?’ Byron looked absurdly delighted at my gross misinterpretation. He reached across and patted her hand. ‘I will make your story live for ever in poetry,’ he told her pompously. Then he turned to me. ‘What did she say about the medal? Was she given it for saving Zaragoza?’ But before I could answer he was distracted a disturbance in the crowd. A carriage was pulling up with two saddled horses tied to the back. ‘Ah, here are our horses for Cadiz.’

I was struck by a flash of inspiration, ‘Yes it was for Zaragoza,’ I guessed. ‘But she is on the verge of having to sell it,’ I told him. ‘The priests take what little money she is given, and she wants to return to the war. She really needs someone to give her some money when the priests are not about.’

Hobhouse looked at me with open suspicion but Byron, having given the priest in the crowd a dark look, turned to me with the solution I had been hoping for. ‘You will be in Seville for a day or two. Here, take this purse and I would be obliged if you would get it to her somehow.’ He pulled a leather purse from his coat and passed it to me across the table. I picked it up – it was impressively heavy – and dropped it in my pocket. Byron was giving the woman a final look of inspection, taking in the drab black garments she wore. ‘Make sure she gets some better clothes, Thomas,’ he added. ‘Maybe a soldier’s uniform if she wants to fight.’

Hobhouse turned to look at their baggage, but now he turned to Byron with what I thought was a cunning smile on his face. ‘Perhaps Thomas could also look after Viriatus; we have to find a new home for him before we board the ship.’

I was sure that Hobhouse had guessed that the woman would see little of the money, and anything he was pleased about was probably bad news for me. ‘Who on earth is Viriatus?’

‘Didn’t they teach you anything at Rugby?’ asked Byron with a grin. ‘Viriatus was a famous leader of the Portuguese, or Lusitanians as they were then. He beat several Roman armies before he was murdered by assassins.’ As he spoke I realised that a long dead chieftain was not the Viriatus in question. For Hobhouse had poked what I had taken to be an old fur rug in their luggage, and the thing had moved. It uncoiled itself from the bags and sat up beside Byron’s chair staring suspiciously at me. Even sitting, the beast’s head was taller than Byron’s, who now noticed its presence and reached from his seat to pat the animal. ‘Ah, here he is, Viriatus. He is an Irish wolfhound. They were given by Irish chiefs to honoured guests apparently, but this one was sold to me in Lisbon by a soldier from the Connaught Rangers. He is a good companion, but not particularly bright, he does not know any tricks.’

Having just accepted a purse full of gold I could hardly turn down the dog. Hobhouse gave a smile of triumph as I accepted the end of rope attached to its collar. ‘The bloody animal also has fleas and some disgusting eating habits,’ he grumbled. Hobhouse glanced round at Byron who had now got up and was talking to the carter about loading the luggage. ‘And if you try to lose him,’ he added quietly, ‘and deliberately leave him tied up at an inn, the bloody creature will chew through the rope and track you down over several miles.’

I could not help but grin, anything that annoyed Hobhouse was all right in my book. Byron had always been fond of dogs. I had heard him say that he wanted to be buried with a dog called Boatman that he had been forced to leave behind when he went to university. When Cambridge University had said that under their rules students were not allowed to bring dogs to the college, he bought himself a brown bear to spite them, as bears were not mentioned in the rules, and kept the creature in the stables.

With much hand shaking, back slapping and exclamations of undying friendship, Byron was soon ready to leave. ‘Good luck Thomas,’ he called. ‘When we are back from Byzantium we must meet again in London and exchange tales. You can bring Viriatus with you.’

He and Hobhouse rode out of the square with their baggage carriage following on behind. Most of the crowd stayed to watch the woman, which confirmed my suspicions that she had been the attraction in the first place. She was a fine looking piece, I reflected, and in a proper gown instead of the dour black smock she had on, I was sure she would certainly turn heads. As I sat down at the table again something I had in my pocket dug in my ribs. As I reached in to remove it I saw the priest coming forward to reclaim the woman. She scowled at him malevolently.

‘Apologies sir,’ said the priest in English to me, ‘but the lady must now come with me.’

I had finally dug the thing out of my pocket and I saw that it was the pasteboard invitation for the ball that evening. ‘I was wondering,’ I said in Spanish, looking at the woman, ‘if the lady would like to accompany me to the celebration ball this evening?’

Her face lit up with a smile for the first time and she nodded. But before she could say anything the priest gave an exaggerated gasp of astonishment. ‘That is impossible sir,’ he spoke again in English so that she could not understand. ‘She is a married lady and it would be most unseemly. She has been placed by her husband into the care of the mother church. She could not possibly attend the ball without her husband.’

‘Nonsense,’ I replied again in Spanish so that the woman could follow the conversation. ‘She has told me she left her husband over a year ago. She was allowed to defend the city of Zaragoza and beat back a French attack without him so I think she can be trusted to attend a ball without his company. In an event to celebrate victory over the French, I can think of no better companion.’

‘It is impossible,’ said the priest stubbornly now in Spanish, and he started to pull on the woman’s arm to get her to rise.

I rose to my feet as she wrenched her arm out of his grip. ‘You listen to me,’ I told him in my most officious manner. ‘I am General Wellesley’s personal representative, an officer and a gentleman. I have asked the lady to the ball and she has accepted. That is an end to the matter unless you want me to take this up with the president of your Central Junta, who I am meeting later. The Junta is looking for British support, so I do not think they would want General Wellesley’s representative insulted. I rather think that they may also want the heroine of Zaragoza at the ball too.’

The priest’s eyes glittered dangerously as he weighed likelihood of my words. But then he gave a grim smile of satisfaction as though the battle was not over yet, but he was grudgingly conceding the first engagement. ‘You can collect her from the convent opposite the cathedral.’ With that he pulled again on her arm, getting her to her feet.

‘Wait,’ I said. I turned to the lady, ‘Madam, I am Captain Thomas Flashman but I do not yet have the honour of your first name. I cannot call you the Maid of Zaragoza all night.’

She smiled hesitantly. ‘I am Agustina,’ she said, and then more confidently, ‘I am Agustina de Aragon.’ With that the priest led her away.

I should mention at this point that Byron was true to his word and did dedicate two verses of his epic poem
Childe Harold
to Agustina’s exploits. It is his usual turgid flowery nonsense of course, as you can see for yourself. I got my grandchildren’s governess, Miss Tuttle, to scour through it to find them. The poor woman is quite besotted with Byron even though he is now long dead, and was beside herself when she discovered that I had known him and the subject of these verses:

Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale,

Oh! had you known her in her softer hour,

Mark'd her black eye that mocks her coal-black veil,

Heard her light, lively tones in Lady's bower,

Seen her long locks that foil the painter's power,

Her fairy form, with more than female grace,

Scarce would you deem that Saragoza's tower

Beheld her smile in Danger's Gorgon face,

Thin the closed ranks, and lead in Glory's fearful chase.

LVI

Her lover sinks - she sheds no ill-timed tear;

Her chief is slain -- she fills his fatal post;