Flashman in the Peninsula (31 page)

‘Hey, Polack!’ I had been day dreaming of what I would write to Maria about her husband when the voice cut into my thoughts. For a second the word did not register and then I realised that the voice must be talking to me. I looked up and saw that a green coated dragoon had ridden part way up the hill towards me.

‘Polack, come here,’ the man shouted. He was middle aged with a big drooping moustache and sergeant’s stripes on his arm. Zeminski’s coat had no marks of rank, he was just a trooper, so I turned my horse towards him.

‘Yes, sergeant officer,’ I called back to him in halting French with what I hoped sounded like a strong Polish accent. He shook his head in resignation at my apparent misunderstanding of how to address a French sergeant.

‘You are riding too close to the woods,’ he shouted at me, clearly hoping that volume would add clarity to his words. ‘Some of the partisans have rifles; they can shoot you dead from there. You understand rifles?’ He mimed somebody shooting a gun and pointed to the trees. My look of shock as I realised that all this time I could have been killed by the partisans was all too genuine and he laughed at my evident understanding. ‘And take off that shako, it is too hot for that,’ he gestured to his own brass helmet that hung from a strap on his saddle. ‘Our officer won’t complain. Where is your unit?’

I had been prepared for this question. ‘I am reinforcement sergeant officer.’ The dragoon had started to ride slowly back to the column now and I brought my horse up to ride alongside.

‘New in Spain are you? Well make sure you do not get your damn fool head shot off before you meet up with your regiment.’

‘Yes sergeant officer,’ I replied.

‘It is sergeant, just sergeant. So what do you think of Spain, like Poland is it?’

I looked around, we were riding through a pleasant green valley with olive groves, abandoned farms and trees high up on the hill. ‘Not like Poland but very nice,’ I ventured.

The sergeant gave a snort of disgust. ‘It is a stinking shit hole, you understand that? No probably not. It is a bad country, you understand?’

I gave a nod of comprehension.

‘You cannot trust any of them, men, women and children. They all want you dead and will stick a knife in you or poison you any chance they get. Don’t turn your back on them, lad. Even the whores would stab you with a blade as you stab them with your cock. Got a woman have you?’

‘Magda in Poland.’

‘Best place for her lad, don’t bring her here. They kill French civilians as well as soldiers, they would treat Poles the same. Now come on down and ride with the rest of the cavalry.’

I followed him down the hill, but then he moved off to check on some other troopers so I continued to move along the line. I nodded in greeting to other horsemen I met but avoided conversation. Now I could see clearly the regimental numbers of infantry units, the size of guns and other elements of the army. I realised that if I did make it back to the British lines it would be helpful to have some idea of the force that was approaching. Reaching into my pocket I found one of Magda’s letters and the pencil stub and I started to estimate the guns, regiments and equipment I had already seen. As I rode on I memorised regimental numbers and the calibre of cannon and then when few horsemen were about to see what I was doing I would scribble them on my list too.

I had a long stream of numbers on that letter by the late afternoon when I finally came up on the head of the army. There was more cavalry at the vanguard, including lancers, but none with the distinctive red guidon flag of the Poles. I slowed down as I would need darkness to slip through the lines. To rest the horse I dismounted and walked alongside an infantry regiment. They seemed confident and relaxed but I kept just far enough away to discourage conversation. I had been walking with them for nearly an hour when I was passed by mounted infantry officers shouting at their men to smarten themselves up. The men straightened their lines, did up buttons and put back on their shakoes. Clearly somebody important was coming. I moved closer to the marching men to get out of the way. As a humble trooper I thought it wise to put my helmet back on and mount up. A few moments later a curly haired general rode past with a gaggle of gaudily dressed staff officers. None of them paid any attention to the dusty men marching along the road. The group rode to the front of the column and disappeared amongst the mounted troops that spearheaded the advance.

‘Do you know who that is?’ asked a nearby soldier who had seen me watching the general.

‘No,’ I said dismounting again. ‘I have just joined the army from Poland.’

‘That’s Ney. He will give the British some pepper.’

‘Is Massena up there too?’

‘Christ you are new here aren’t you? ’Ere lads, this Polack was just asking if Massena was at the front of the army!’ Several of them chuckled and shook their heads at my ignorance. ‘No lad, Massena is not here. Neither would you be if you were over fifty and had the eighteen year old wife of one of your officers to warm your bed.’ There were more ribald shouts at this and cries of ‘lucky bastard.’

‘You be careful,’ warned one of his mates. ‘When the girl tires of riding the marshal she dresses as a hussar and joins his staff. Don’t you go making eyes at her or you will be sent off like her inconvenient husband.’ There are few things soldiers like talking about more than the incompetence of their generals and women. With Massena they could combine both topics. He seemed quite a ladies’ man with a string of mistresses and a penchant for issuing commands from his bedroom window. According to the soldiers’ gossip he spent so much time locked away with his mistress, known as Madame X to avoid embarrassing her husband, that he was rarely seen at all. His men apparently had doubts that he had the energy to survive the campaign.

As we marched and talked I relaxed a little. It was good to enjoy the camaraderie of soldiers even if it was not the familiar redcoats. I was used to being disguised in armies; I had done it with three different forces in India. I knew enough to think before I opened my mouth and tried to keep the conversation on safe topics. A few times I pretended that I did not understand the French. When the conversation turned to women I described in my Polish accented French the attributes of the mythical Magda. I showed them the locket and then listened to their ribald suggestions as to whose bed she would be warming that night. For all I knew the real Magda could have been Jan Zeminski’s aged aunt, but that afternoon her exploits as a lover became legendary amongst the half company I was walking with.

But as the army finally came to a halt late that afternoon it was clear that my welcome was over. Rations were limited and in a firm but friendly way they made it clear that they did not have enough to feed ‘strays’. As a trooper I was expected to look after my own horse, so I watered him at a nearby stream, unsaddled him and left him hobbled to graze on the hillside. I had seen several large groups of men go up to the woods for firewood; those with axes taking plenty of armed guards to protect them from partisan ambush. We did not need the fires for warmth, but for light during the night. Boney also disappeared into the woods and came back a short while later with more bloodstains around his mouth, clearly having found some supper. I looked destined to go hungry. Another thorough search of the saddle bags, while keeping my red coat hidden, revealed only a small strip of food. Even now I am not sure if it was dried meat or old leather but it was all I had, so I spent the evening chewing and trying to swallow it.

As night fell the fires were lit all around the perimeter of the French camp and sentries were placed to shoot any intruders illuminated by the flames. There was the occasional shot and once the crackle of several shots, but these soon died out. They seemed to be due to nervous sentries. Those jumpy trigger fingers did not help my nerves as I judged it was dark enough to make my move. I had been sitting amongst two score of horses that were grazing on the hillside and quietly I now stood and returned the saddle to my mount’s back. He stood patiently while I unhobbled him, and then taking his reins I walked him through the herd, making soothing noises at any of the other horses that seemed disturbed by our presence. I had been feeling pretty pleased with myself during the afternoon as I walked along chatting to the other soldiers. It had seemed a lot safer than trying to avoid the huge French army or risk encountering murderous bandits, suspicious partisans or vengeful Polish lancers. But now my plan was not looking so clever. I had to get past jumpy sentries and then disappear into the darkness where partisans would be looking for any stray French troops.

I had wrapped a blanket around my shoulders and across my chest to hide my white shirt front, and kept my helmet hanging from the saddle to reduce my profile. For the same reason I held the lance horizontally. I was fortunate that the night was once again as dark as the inside of a tar bucket. The moon was obscured by some patchy cloud, which was also blocking out much of the starlight. The only illumination came from the perimeter fires. I saw that they did not form a continuous line around a single camp for the whole army. Instead there were various circles of light around bivouacs for regiments and battalions. Reaching the end of our perimeter, I could see that there were two more circles of light ahead of me to the west. I was leading my horse through the last of the other hobbled mounts and straining my eyes into the darkness for the French sentries when I almost stepped on them.

‘Look out!’ called a voice from virtually under my feet, and three figures started to rise from the ground in front of me. That was all I saw before the blinding flash of a musket shot virtually in my face destroyed my night vision, while the ball only narrowly missed destroying my head.

‘Don’t shoot,’ I yelled as I threw myself to the floor. I think I might have shouted it in English to start with but then remembered, ‘
Ne tirez pas,
’ and shouted that as well. A man fell on top of me and groped for my face and throat, but I managed to push him off and roll away shouting, ‘I am Polish lancer, I am on your side,’ again in my accented French.

‘Are there any more of them?’ called a voice.

‘No just this one,’ said another.

Feeling disorientated – I still could not see – my eyes were watering from the flash which still seemed reflected in my eyes. I reached up to feel my face to check it was not burnt.

‘He is a Pole,’ called the first voice. ‘It is one of our army saddles and I can feel his helmet hanging from it.’

‘Well, what the hell are you doing sneaking around at night then?’ asked the second voice, giving me a sharp kick in the ribs to make his point.

I blinked and could just make out a slightly darker silhouette standing over me. ‘I have a message for Marshal Ney,’ I gasped, using an excuse I had thought of earlier. I reached in my pocket and pulled out the letter from Magda, and held it up as proof. It was far too dark to read but you could just make out the white square in the gloom.

‘Well, you nearly got your damn fool head shot off. Don’t you know better than to sneak around in the dark like a damned partisan?’

‘I am Pole, new in Spain,’ I replied, strengthening the accent so that I could pretend not to understand any awkward questions.

‘What is it, corporal?’ called a new voice from the main body of the army.

‘Just some stupid Polack messenger that got himself lost, sir,’ called back the man standing over me as he reached down to pull me to my feet. ‘Ney is in one of those camps over there,’ he said, gesturing to the rings of fire ahead. ‘If you want to survive the night I suggest you go mounted with your uniform showing, and call out to the camp well before you get within musket range.’

Only now could I start to make out the features of the sentries in the darkness. They were three tough looking men; the one who had fired was busy reloading his musket. ‘I am sorry,’ I apologised haltingly, ‘I did not see you.’

‘That was the point,’ snarled the second man. ‘The bloody partisans like to sneak down and cut throats and steal horses. This way we can use the horses as cover to stop the bastards.’ He pushed my helmet into my chest before adding, ‘Now put that on and get out of here. We need to move because any partisan knows where we are now.’

I put on the helmet and then picked up my blanket from where it had fallen. ‘Thank you,’ I muttered, and if I sounded shaken then I damn well was. The shock of such an unexpected meeting had sent my heart rate soaring, but now I was starting to calm and my night vision was starting to come back. I climbed up in the saddle and was about to leave when I felt a hand grab my knee.

‘You might be wanting this too,’ said the second man sarcastically while handing me the polished black shaft of ash wood and shaking his head in dismay that a lancer could forget his lance.

I trotted forward a few paces as the corporal bawled at other nearby sentries that a single horseman was coming through. When I looked back over my shoulder at my former reception committee, they had already disappeared into the blackness. I sighed with relief. That, I naively thought, was the hardest bit over. Of course I had no intention of going anywhere near the rings of light ahead. I steered my horse slightly to the left to climb the slope. I would pass halfway between the woods to my left and the circles to my right and with luck nobody would know I was there.