Free Flashman's Escape by Robert Brightwell Page B

for those heroics today. We just need to keep the men ordered and disciplined so that we cover the whole flank of their column. They won’t stand then, attacked on two sides.”
    We were moving partway down the reverse slope now to pass to the right of the Spanish line fighting the French columns. The rain was reducing casualties; only around half of the muskets on both sides seemed to be firing, with the rest of the men struggling to clear damp powder from fouled gun locks. The ground around the Spanish lines was littered with bodies but they still had plenty of fight in them. As we went past, one of their cannon barked another canister-load of death into the blue ranks opposite.
    “Viva!” shouted the Spaniards on the end of the line as we marched past and Stewart raised a hand in salute. Whether the Spaniards were simply pleased to have reinforcements or just glad that the French cannon would switch to new targets it was hard to say. But barely had we appeared around the Spanish than the French cannon started to take men from our column. Two balls whipped through the lines of the first company ahead, leaving trails of broken bodies for the rest of the battalion to step around.
    “Close up,” called the sergeant of the first company, a cry that was to become all too familiar over the next few minutes.
    Stewart was riding calmly beside me as though exercising in Hyde Park and I tried to affect the same level of unconcern while my guts churned in fear. A few moments later I resisted the urge to duck as another ball went whining over my head. There were screams and yells from the men where the ball had landed. I strained my ears and heard another voice calling for gaps in the line to be filled. With relief I realised that it was not Sergeant Evans. The ball must have hit a company beyond mine.
    Now, as the head of our formation came level with the front of the French column, I saw a new and more personal danger appear. We were at least a hundred yards away from the side of the nearest French column, and those French soldiers at the edge now readied themselves to fire. At that range and with damp charges they posed little threat, but further along I saw a company of skirmishers, or voltigeurs , being advanced to close the range. These soldiers were marksmen who did not fight in ranks, but in a much looser formation. They would be looking to disrupt our attack by shooting officers. I muttered a silent prayer as I glanced across at Stewart. He had seen them but honour demanded that he show no fear and so he continued to walk his horse forward at a steady pace. He was covered in enough gold braid to attract a flock of magpies and even in the rain the skirmishers were bound to see him. The general would be a prime target, attracting musket balls like bees to a honey pot. So why, I silently prayed to the Almighty, did the man have to ride next to me?

Chapter 7
     
    In just a few moments the lieutenant of the first company had thrown his hands in the air and fallen from his horse. “Oh Christ,” I heard Hervey mutter to himself. I glanced across at him. He was ashen faced and looking as terrified as I felt. At least, I thought callously, he would provide some cover, being between me and the voltigeurs . No sooner was the thought in my head than Hervey jolted in the saddle. “I have been hit,” he gasped. His left hand went up to his right shoulder and came away covered in blood while his sword arm hung uselessly at his side.
    “Go back, man,” snapped Stewart. “You will be no use in that state.”
    Hervey wheeled his horse away, staying unsteadily in the saddle, and for a moment I felt a twinge of guilt. It was almost as though my thought had caused his injury. If it had then it probably saved his life for he survived the battle. But then I remembered that I was now reluctantly the only person between the general and the voltigeurs .
    There was a steady crackle of musket fire from the side of the French column,