Flashman's Escape (5 page)

Chapter 4

The evening before the French arrived we moved our bivouac from the village over to the other side of the ridge. The road the French wanted to advance along went right through the little town. So the huddle of buildings was likely to be in the front line of the battle. Encampments were marked out in the fields beyond the hill, but this served to highlight that quite a few were still vacant. The Portuguese cavalry had not reported when it would arrive and no one knew where it was. The Spanish army under General Blake had been expected that afternoon but had not appeared. That was worrying, but of more concern were the absent British forces that were expected to form the backbone of any defence. General Kemmis’s brigade was also missing, whereas the large part of the army besieging Badajoz was expected to make the sixteen-mile march from the city that night to arrive just in time for the action.

While some of the soldiers seemed excited at the prospect of a fight, my mood was matched by the low, dark clouds that seemed to be gathering over the battlefield. Nobody seemed clear on what was happening, how many of the French would arrive, where our missing troops were or even if we should fight at all. I discovered that for the last few days Beresford had been seriously debating with his officers abandoning Albuera and pulling back over the Guadiana, effectively leaving Badajoz to the French. All that evening the dithering Cyclops could be seen riding endlessly up and down the ridge that would form the spine of our position. He was still holding the now torn and dog-eared papers from Wellington and staring anxiously around with his one eye for his missing men. Hardly an inspiring sight.

It was a miserable night; not that I would have been able to relax much anyway, worrying what the dawn would bring. There was an intermittent, light rain that made everything cold and damp and we were continually disturbed by soldiers and units blundering about looking for where they should be camped. It was pointless even trying to sleep, and like most of the men I ended up crouched around one of the campfires, trying to keep warm.

“Have you been in many battles, sir?” asked Price-Thomas. He was sitting on a log next to me and tickling Boney behind the ears.

“A few,” I replied. Then, mentally, I started to add them up. There had been a crazy shore action at Estepona with Cochrane; Assaye, Argaum and Gawilghur in India; and Alcantara, Talavera and Busaco in the peninsula. Each had brought its own degree of terror, but this time I thought things might be different. Blake’s Spanish force had arrived that night and so it should be the first battle in the peninsula where we outnumbered the enemy. While our army might be confused and disorganised, the French would also be tired from five days of forced double marches. As I sat warming my hands by the fire I wondered how many of them were still strung out on the march coming towards us. If we could win on the ridge at Talavera when we were outnumbered, we could win on the ridge here, I thought.

Any sense of imminent danger escaped me and in fact I felt strangely complacent. We were in a strong position. I naively believed that not even that bumbling booby Beresford could mess things up, especially with all his written instructions. My men were well trained, fresh and prepared for battle, and as long as the British force from Badajoz arrived on time, it seemed victory was assured.

I put my hand on Price-Thomas’s shoulder. “Don’t worry if you are feeling frightened; everyone is before a battle. Just do your duty. I have a good feeling about this one; we will be all right.”

“That’s good, sir.” The boy’s teeth gleamed as he grinned in the darkness. “And I am not frightened, sir,” he added unconvincingly.

Dawn was just before half past four in the morning and so from half past three the army was roused so that it could ‘stand to’ in case the enemy attempted to attack at first light. As no one was asleep anyway this just meant huddling in a different place behind the crest of the ridge. But we could not take the fires with us and so we just stood there, shivering with the cold. My company stood in the middle of the battalion’s line but there was no point in trying to inspect the men. In the darkness I could barely see them. The long lines of soldiers talked quietly among themselves, with the occasional scrape of a sharpening stone as men honed their bayonets to an ever-finer edge.

As the sun crept over the horizon, bugles sounding ‘
reveille
’ could be heard from the far side of the valley. They were sounded in our camp as well to an ironic cheer from the men. As the grey light of dawn spread across the sky, not a sound could be heard from the east where the French should have been massing for their attack. I could see Major King and some other officers walking their horses along the crest of the ridge. I mounted mine and rode to join them.

“There were hundreds of French horsemen in the meadow between the river and the forest a few minutes ago,” called out King as I approached. “But now they have all disappeared back amid the trees. They must have been there in case we tried an attack across the river. But as they could see no one on the forward slope, they seem to have gone off for breakfast.”

“That sounds an excellent idea to me,” I replied as my stomach rumbled at the thought. “We are not going to attack and give up the advantage of the ridge and they are not going to attack as probably half their army is still arriving, footsore from a long march.”

“They are not the only ones waiting for stragglers,” declared King, pointing to our lines.

In the improving light I could now see the leading British units coming from Badajoz, approaching down the road. Our battalion was arrayed in a long line on the reverse slope of the ridge out of sight of the French. The village, with its two bridges over the river, was to our front. A couple of battalions of infantry occupied the village and an artillery battery was set up to cover the two bridges.

“It looks like we will be in the centre of the action,” pronounced King grimly.

I looked about. Beresford was moving various Spanish units to our right. Beyond the Spanish the rest of the ridge was empty and at its end stood two small hills. The first was just beyond the Spanish position and the second five hundred yards beyond that. As they were hills on top of the ridge summit they were the tallest points around.

“Should we not have men or guns on those hills?” I asked, pointing.

“We don’t have enough men to cover the whole ridge, and if the French attack over the bridges then any men on those hills will not be a lot of use.”

Hindsight is a wonderful thing and I confess that I did not think any more about King’s use of that little word ‘
if
’
.
As no attack at all seemed imminent, the battalion was stood down and my mind turned to breakfast.

The French can be damned inconvenient fellows and I had just been handed a hot mug of tea when the cannon fire started. Over three hours had passed since dawn and we had just been discussing if there would be a battle that day at all. While the sun was now well up in the sky, it was hidden behind dark and brooding storm clouds that promised a deluge before nightfall.

“Stand to,” came the call and I just had time to take a gulp of the hot liquid to warm me up before I was forced to abandon the rest. Men kissed their wives and children goodbye, did up belts, checked cartridge boxes and picked up their muskets and started to move to our earlier position on the reverse slope. I tried to ignore the fond farewell that Lucy gave her husband; she was wearing the corporal’s greatcoat over a red dress and with her hair blown by the wind she looked particularly fetching. The throng of women and children was calling final reminders to the men to take care, as I pushed my way through to find my horse. Swinging myself up into the saddle, I saw the fighting men of all but one company start to extricate themselves and move up the slope. Each battalion kept one company back to guard the baggage and protect its camp followers. Those fortunate men were already moving forward to strike tents, load carts and try to herd the women and children well away from the scene of any likely action. A handful of women without children followed some distance behind their men up the slope for a glimpse of what was happening, Lucy amongst them.

My company took its place between the second and fourth in the line. The men looked relaxed and confident; it was not a big cannonade, perhaps a couple of batteries of six guns firing on either side, probing defences. As we had done in battles with Wellington, I thought that we would stay on the reverse slope, protected from their guns, until the French launched their attack. In the past we only appeared on the crest as the French struggled up the hill, just in time to destroy them with rolling volley fire. But now Beresford made his first big mistake.

“Battalion advance,” ordered King, a call that was echoed by officers and sergeants along the line. Looking along the ridge, I could see that the whole army was moving forward, until we were called to a halt standing on the crest.

It is my belief that Beresford never wanted to fight a battle at Albuera. He had become a nervous old woman fretting at every detail. He had a strong position on the ridge and a big numerical advantage: he had ended up with thirty-five thousand men to the French twenty-four thousand, even though some British units had not yet arrived. I think he wanted to show Soult how many men he did have, to deter the Frenchman from attacking at all. If that was his plan then he had seriously misjudged his man.

Soult was a seasoned and tenacious commander. He must have watched the display with interest and may even have guessed what had prompted it. He was certainly not intimidated, but now he had the advantage of seeing the entire enemy disposition displayed before him. He saw clearly that he was expected to attack across the bridges and how far along the crest his enemy’s force extended. He would have seen that it did not reach far enough south to occupy the two small hills that were the highest points of the ridge. He would also have noticed that the troops on the southern end of the allied line were all Spanish.

The victor of Gebora would have quickly seen the potential of attacking from the south. He could occupy the southern hilltops with guns and march his men against the weak Spanish troops who would flee in panic and disrupt the resistance of the British troops further along the crest. With luck he would roll up the entire allied army and once again an emphatic victory would be his. But to do all of this he needed the element of surprise; he needed to get to those hilltops before his enemy had a chance to defend them. So while he sent most of his army south, hidden in the forest, to loop around the bottom of the ridge; he also did what his enemy expected and launched an attack on the village.

Chapter 5

From the British lines it seemed a slow start to the attack. The crest of the ridge was out of range of the French artillery and so we could watch in safety as the scene unfolded before us. The French batteries were concentrating on our guns which were covering the bridges over the river. As we had been given plenty of time to prepare for the battle and our guns were well dug in, they had little effect.

After half an hour of this fruitless bombardment, Soult sent over some of his cavalry. French horsemen cantered over the bridges and through fords to probe at the village. Our cavalry responded with troops of their own, and for the next half an hour there were various inconclusive skirmishes between the mounted men around the village. The British infantry in the village fired their inaccurate muskets at the fast-moving horsemen and had little to show for their efforts.

At one point some of the British horsemen crossed the river to the French side, but in response several brigades of French cavalry moved out from the forest and formed up in their squadrons facing the men in red. Even from a distance it was a magnificent sight. There were thousands of horsemen and their uniforms were a riot of colour. There were dragoons in green, Polish lancers with their strange square-ended helmets in blue, hussars in uniforms of various colours with their dolman jackets thrown over one shoulder and cuirassiers with their metal breastplates reflecting the grey sky above them.

Some of the women who had followed their men up the ridge were now standing in gaps between the companies to see the spectacle for themselves. They exchanged ribald comments with the men on the finery displayed before them. The show of force was enough for our cavalry, though, who retreated back to our side of the river.

“I wish they would get on with it,” muttered Lieutenant Hervey, who had ridden up beside me. “It looks like it will tip down soon. It will be difficult firing volleys in the rain, with the powder getting damp.”

“Perhaps that is what they are waiting for,” I suggested.

But no sooner were the words out of my mouth than trumpet calls indicated that the attack on the village was finally underway. A large French column slowly appeared from underneath the trees on the other side of the valley and started to march down towards the river. We looked for other columns, but there was just one for now. It seemed weak for a main attack, but I wondered if this first column had orders to secure the bridges and the village before the advance of the rest of the army.

We watched as the mass of men came on, with the drummers beating in the centre of the column like the heartbeat of a single creature. A hundred yards down the slope and the drummers gave a double beat and some two thousand men roared out their challenge:
“Vive l’empereur.”
It was a sound I had now heard many times before, although it still gave me a chill down my spine. Some of the newer men glanced about them to see if this was normal, but the old hands looked unperturbed.

“Don’t worry, lads,” shouted Corporal Benton to some of the recruits. “They don’t make as much noise when they are running away.”

“What do you think will happen, sir?” asked Price-Thomas, walking up to stand near my horse. I noticed that the conversation of the men in the line behind had stilled so that they could overhear the answer.

“Well, there are only two British battalions in the village to defend it and I would estimate six French battalions coming down the hill. So I guess that Beresford will send some battalions down to help defend the village.”

But for a while it looked like I was wrong as our artillery put up a strong defence of the bridges and the British infantry already in the village could easily deal with the few French troops that did manage to get across the water.

“It seems the French do not want to get their feet wet,” said Hervey as we watched the French move about on their side of the river bank. “The river is only waist deep. They could just wade across without using the bridges.”

In hindsight the French troops probably did not want to get themselves killed in what they knew was just a diversionary attack; but eventually they were ordered to cross the river as Soult wanted to draw more British troops away from where his main attack would strike.

Of course the great oaf Beresford swallowed the bait. He ordered our brigade as well as a Portuguese one to advance to the north of the village. For good measure he threw in some Spanish reserve units as well.

Major King rode along our line calling out to his officers, “We are to move forward. Fix bayonets; we will fire a volley and charge at any French who make a stand.”

“Fix bayonets,” called out Sergeant Evans without waiting for any command from me and grey steel seventeen-inch blades were attached to every muzzle in the company.

“Sergeant, we will advance,” I called out, seeing that the company next to mine had just commenced moving, and a solid line of redcoats started to descend slowly down the ridge. There were cheers from the few women still watching, but I was more distracted by the large raindrop that had just landed on my sleeve. I looked up as another drop splashed in my face; the promised downpour was about to start. The men were all loaded, and if rainwater got down the barrels, the powder would get damp and the guns would not fire.

“Sergeant,” I called again. “Secure firelocks.”

The men came to a halt again as they reached into their pouches for the tompion plugs, which they wedged into their gun muzzles to stop rain getting down the barrel. Then they took large patches of leather or oiled canvas, known as ‘cows knees’, and tied these over the locks of their guns so that the rain could not reach the priming or dampen the charge. In the short time it took them to complete these tasks the rain had got heavier and there were now damp patches all over my coat. Glancing along the line, I saw other companies had been forced to stop to take the same precautions. I waited for them to finish securing locks and resume the advance before I ordered my company forward, so that the battalion maintained a solid formation.

Along with the other senior officers of the battalion, Hervey and I were riding our horses in front of the line. It was our job to demonstrate courage and leadership to our men by leading the way. When I am only under fire from raindrops it is something that I am happy to do. I could see that we were out of range of the French artillery, and when the actual shooting started officers would retire behind their men so that they did not get in the way of the volleys. I looked over my shoulder to check that the company was keeping in line with the rest. Ensign Price-Thomas was walking behind the line with Boney. Sergeant Evans was shouting orders at men to close up ranks and keep the line straight and everything was clearly under control. I glanced across to the regimental colours. The two flags were being carried behind the fourth company and hung limp in the damp air. Nodding a greeting to Lieutenant Latham of the fourth, I looked past him to see three more sets of flags marking out the other battalions in Colborne’s division.

We were halfway down the slope when the French artillery tested the range by firing a salvo at our line. As I expected, all of the balls fell short and barely bounced on the wet turf.

“First three companies support the infantry in the village,” called out Major King. “The rest of us to push down to the river.”

“Damn,” I cursed under my breath as we were one of the first three companies.

Already the other two were changing the angle of their march to reach the buildings, and without any further orders from me my men followed suit. There was a steady crackle of musketry from the ruined buildings and I could see French infantry and cavalry milling about on the far river bank, looking to support their comrades fighting house to house. But the British troops were clearly well entrenched in the buildings and putting up a strong defence. There was no sign of anyone dressed in red pulling back from the narrow streets.

We had gone at least another hundred yards when the French guns fired again. With such a long line and relatively few French cannon, the odds of being hit were low, but not low enough. I did not hear a shout from the men; it was a distant scream from a woman that made me turn around. On the ridge top I saw a figure in a greatcoat and a red dress sink to her knees with her hands held to her face. Glancing back, I saw a body lying stretched out behind our line in the grass.

“Keep going! Close up now,” shouted the sergeant as the men moved on.

I turned my horse and the ranks parted to let it through. As I got to the body I dropped down from the saddle. I did not need a close inspection to see that Corporal Benton was dead. A shoulder and a quarter of his chest had been smashed to pulp. I looked up to Lucy still kneeling on the ridge top and shook my head to indicate he was not just wounded.

“You poor devil,” I whispered quietly to the corpse. Even though I had been cuckolding him I felt a sadness as I looked into the now glassy eyes. He had been a good man at heart, if a bit too trusting of his wife and his captain. “Don’t worry, I will look after her,” I told him and right then I meant it.

I turned back to the rest of my men; they were a hundred yards away now and reaching the outskirts of the village. A new crescendo of musket fire indicated that the French were still trying to push into its centre. I was about to remount when I hesitated. The last time I had been in a melee with French infantry, at Busaco, I had found that a soldier with a bayonet had a much longer reach than an officer with a sword. In skilled hands the bayonet would win every time. Benton would do me one final service: I reached down and grabbed his musket before I swung up into the saddle and rode off.