Free Flashman in the Peninsula by Robert Brightwell Page A

deserts, impenetrable forest or jungles full of hostile tribesmen. None of these were in Portugal of course, but what was there was just a dangerous.
    The journey started off well enough; the ferry took us across the river and we found a road, little more than a narrow track, heading in the right direction. Whereas the crowds in Lisbon had welcomed our presence, as we got further from the more travelled route, the populace were much less hospitable to strangers. We would normally be spotted approaching a village and by the time we got there the doors and shutters would be firmly closed. If we saw any people at all they would be old men and women who would glare at us from the village square with hostile faces. To them we were just soldiers, they did not care about politics or why we were there. They just remembered clearly the ones in blue coats that had travelled in the opposite direction and probably taken anything of value that they could find.
    As we were riding through one of these ghost villages, the window shutter in a large house opened slightly and an attractive young girl stared out and smiled at us. I grinned and waved back, but a second later a hand reached out and grabbed the girl by the collar, dragging her out of sight. The unseen pater familia then shouted at the girl and delivered such a resounding slap that several of us winced in sympathy. But it was good to know that not every woman in the region was a raddled old crone.
    With all this arctic hospitality, the bread, sausage and other supplies we had brought with us soon started to run out. Late in the afternoon on the sixth day we rode through another seemingly abandoned village, and while not a soul was in sight, a decent sized pig could be seen snuffling around a sty attached to one of the cottages. Our dinner the previous night had consisted of boiled beans, hard-boiled egg and the last of some spicy sausage. I don’t know if you have ever camped with thirty men who have only eaten eggs, beans and spiced sausage, but let me tell you after that repast they snore from both ends. I hardly got any sleep and when we threw the blankets off in the morning the stench was truly appalling. I could not go through another night like that, and when I looked around me I saw that most of our number were of the same mind. Nothing was said, but there was an exchange of glances which told me that with one exception, we were planning to have pork for dinner that night. Unfortunately the exception was our nominal commander John Downie. While we were both captains, Downie’s commission preceded mine so he was the senior officer. He barely gave the pig a glance as we went past and was prattling on in his usual enthusiastic manner. I can’t tell you what he was talking about as I had long since stopped listening.
    ‘What supplies do we have left for dinner, John?’ I asked.
    ‘Oh, we have plenty of beans left, no more sausage I’m afraid, but we still have enough eggs to make a meal. It might be our last night together before we reach Alcantara. I am sure we must be close now.’
    ‘There was a pig back there, we could buy it to supplement the rations,’ I suggested.
    ‘No, we have brought these supplies with us so we should use them.’ He laughed and added, ‘I am a commissary officer after all, so I should be making the best use of what we carry.’
    ‘Indeed,’ I agreed, thinking a more oblique approach would be required. ‘That forested hill up in front looks a good place to camp tonight. It will give shelter from the wind but will not be too damp.’
    ‘Isn’t it too early to stop?’ asked Downie.
    ‘I think Trooper Doherty is feeling a bit stiff after his fall this morning.’
    On cue Doherty, who had been listening to the conversation piped up, ‘Ah, yes sir, my side is right cruel sore, so it is.’ After a theatrical gasp and wince of pain he added in a brave croak, ‘But I could go on sir if we really have to.’
    I thought the daft bogtrotter