Flashman in the Peninsula by Robert Brightwell Page A

at this time of the year. This was crossed by a stone bridge directly below us that had a triumphal arch over the roadway in the middle of it. Then there was a sight that got my guts churning and had me looking over my shoulder to see the best route back the way we had come. The smooth hillside we could see facing this massive French advance was completely empty. Not a single Spanish regiment was arrayed on it, no guns were firing and not a horseman was in sight.
    ‘Christ on a stick,’ I shouted to Downie, ‘they will be over that bridge in no time and with Wellesley up north there will be nothing to stop this lot reaching Lisbon.’
    ‘They must be shooting at someone,’ argued Downie. Then he pointed, ‘Look there are some people on that bluff.’ He pointed to our left where there was a slight prominence overlooking the valley. Men could be seen moving amongst the broken rock that covered the ground. Before I could reply there was the blaring of trumpets as the French launched an attack across the bridge.
    From our vantage point high above the battle we watched in fascinated horror as a narrow blue column of men marched from the edge of the town towards the bridge. It must have contained at least a thousand soldiers as it moved forward like a short blue snake across the valley floor. The French guns seemed to go quiet and for the first time I heard the sound that would fill me with fear countless times in the future. The column did not move silently, there was the awful tramp, tramp, tramp sound of two thousand feet, which almost drowned out the beat of the drummer boys. Then on a double beat signal from the drummers a thousand voices would bellow out ‘ vive l’empereur ’. Even from half a mile away it was enough to send a shiver down your spine, especially when there seemed to be damn all between you and this massive enemy force.
    But then there was a series of four sharp cracks from the bluff to our left, and plumes of smoke. It was the sound of cannon of smaller calibre than the French were using, six pounders I guessed. My time sailing with Cochrane had taught me to distinguish between the sounds of cannon fire – the bigger the gun the deeper boom it made. But there were only four guns fired from our side and if they hit the French column they made no discernable impact.
    ‘When they get across,’ I called, reaching for the telescope in my saddlebag, ‘we had better get out of here.’
    ‘Yes,’ said Downie. ‘We should ride north to warn Wellesley that this force is behind him. This army and Soult’s could crush Wellesley like a nut.’
    I could not have agreed more. In fact I suspected that Wellesley’s nut might already have been crushed by the more experienced Soult without this lot to help. But I had no wish to get caught up in the wreckage, which is why I suggested, ‘That is a good idea, but we also need to warn the Spanish. I have a message from Wellesley to Cuesta, so if you ride north, I will take a few of the men as escort and ride south to Seville.’
    We were just agreeing on how we would divide the escort as the French marched onto the far side of the bridge. There had been no more firing from our side and now I had my glass focused on the bridge. The front rank of the French column reached the archway in the centre of the bridge. There for the first time I saw some disorder in the ranks as the width of the arch was narrower than the bridge and the column. As they squeezed though the archway their lines became ragged and uneven but still they came on. I caught the glint of gold in the archway, the imperial eagle standard of the regiment.
    Then the guns to our left cracked again and this time there was also the whoomp sound from two howitzers. I saw at least one of the cannonballs slash its way through the packed men and then one of the howitzer shells landed amongst them on this side of the arch. I could not see the shell itself from that distance but I saw men suddenly trying to get