Free Flashman's Escape by Robert Brightwell Page A

would be chaos all along the ridge.
    A pair of flinty blue eyes surveyed me and I recognised General Stewart, commander of half the British troops, including our brigade. “Of course it is their main assault,” cried Stewart impatiently. He stared at the beleaguered Spanish and then seemed to make up his mind about something. “If we don’t support them, we will lose this battle. Colborne, I want your brigade to march past the Spanish right flank and along the side of the French columns and then attack the nearest one.” He made it sound as straightforward as feeding ducks in the park, but I was appalled. I had re-joined the battalion thinking it would be the safest place in a fighting withdrawal. But now, because the wretched Spanish were being so resolute in their defence, I was being dragged into a counterattack.
    I sat aghast for a moment as the implications of this order set in, but Stewart was impatient to begin. He glared at the column of men he was sending in to battle with the same compassion he might have shown for his breakfast boiled egg. “Come along, gentlemen,” he shouted over the rain. “We have not got all day; the Spanish will not stand for ever.”
    I looked around. The Buffs were the lead regiment in Colborne’s formation and so we would be among the first into the fray. The men were lined in a column, each company forming two lines with their officers on horseback in front. My company was the third in the column.
    “I will re-join my regiment then, sir,” said Colborne, who was colonel of the sixty-sixth, which was further back in the group. I certainly did not blame him for moving smartly to the rear; I was wracking my brains for a reason to do the same. How I yearned for the freedom of a staff officer at that moment, but now my place was fixed with my men. I turned reluctantly to join Hervey in front of the two wet and bedraggled rows of the third company.
    With Major King beside him, the captain of the first company ordered his men forward, followed a few seconds later by the captain of the second company. I wanted to think of a reason, any reason, not to give the next order, but my mind had gone blank. I turned back to my men. It was hard to see if any looked scared as most faces were turned away from the driving rain. Sergeant Evans stood at the end of the first line while Price-Thomas with Boney was now in the row behind. A few faces now looked up expectantly as I continued to hesitate.
    “Advance,” I croaked. My throat had constricted through fear and I doubt anyone heard the order. I cleared my throat and shouted much louder to compensate. “Advance, men, forward. Come along there.”
    We had barely covered a few paces when there was a double flash of lightning, followed by a crash of thunder that made me jump. It did not seem the best omen to march into a pitched battle. General Stewart watched us move off and glanced down at the men following us. I wondered if he was going to stay near the rear of the column; if he did then I would find some excuse to report something to him. Anything would do: I could claim to have seen a fresh attack on the village through a gap in the rain. With such poor visibility and the confusion of battle, they would never find out if it was true. As though the old bastard had read my mind, I saw him turn his mount in my direction and ride towards me.
    “I will ride with you, Flashman,” he called over the drumming of the rain. “Have you fought in a storm before?”
    “No, sir,” I replied. I looked at him. He must have been frightened too but he showed no sign of it. He was as rigid as an old maid’s starched drawers. I knew what he was up to, though, making conversation to take his mind off the coming dangers. Well, I needed the distraction too, and so I added, “This one is like a monsoon in India, only colder.”
    “Ah, you were with Wellington in India, were you? I think I recall hearing your name at Talavera too. Well, there will be no need