Flashman's Escape Read Free

back down past the French again. If you think you can do all that, I would pay to see it.”
    We had all laughed at his expense that night. No one thought it could be done – well, almost no one. Imagine my surprise next morning when we heard that Grant had seen Wellington to propose the scheme; and that this normally sensible man had offered him a bag of gold to pay for the cattle if he got through.
    He left late the following afternoon, wearing his British uniform and on fast horse, hoping to get through the French lines in the dark. Having attempted the same feat less than six months previously, I knew this was no easy thing even in a French uniform. Surely, I thought, the French would not let a British officer ride clean through their lines twice, especially when on the way back he would be bringing livestock past the now hungry men in blue. Several of us rode to see him off and, in my case, make sure he did not back out on the wager. He really did not have a clue what he was doing; he had not even brought a proper map, just some notes on a scrap of paper. I could not help but chuckle at the thought of him riding through the middle of a French encampment as the sun rose the next day.
    I wasn’t laughing three weeks later when we received reports, sent down the semaphore signalling stations from the forward sentries, that a herd of cattle was approaching. I could not believe it. My friend Campbell and I joined some of the other staff to ride out and see for ourselves. There coming through the first line of fortifications we found an exceedingly smug Captain Colquhoun Grant, with a watchful partisan riding by his side. Behind them were sixty head of cattle with a couple of drovers moving them along. Beyond those a long mule train could be seen lumbering up the slope under a burden of grain sacks, and behind those the start of a flock of sheep, again with more mounted drovers. It was an astonishing sight, especially given that all of it must have been driven through the hungry French army.
    As the other officers rode forward to congratulate Grant, Campbell turned to me. “There is something not quite canny about this.”
    “Not canny!” I exploded. “This smells fishier than Billingsgate fish market. For Christ’s sake, the cattle are still wearing their bells. My aged, deaf Aunt Agatha could have heard them coming, so why couldn’t the French?” I wasn’t exaggerating either: while a few of the bells were made of thin metal, the rest were of the wooden clacker variety, but they still made a lot of noise as the herd moved towards us.
    “Congratulations,” shouted Wellington to Grant as he rode up. “I must confess I had some doubts as to whether you could pull this off.”
    Grant glanced triumphantly at me before he replied: “Captain Flashman is not the only one who can pass through French lines.” Then he turned directly to me before adding, “And you will see that I have done it honourably in my British uniform.”
    Several of the spectators shifted uncomfortably at the implication that I lacked honour. Of course it was true: I would do whatever it took to protect my precious skin. I also tried to protect my reputation, but it would not have been seemly to call him out for a duel at his moment of triumph. More importantly, I already had discovered that he shot straight.
    “Perhaps the French sentries were too busy killing stray cattle to shoot at you,” I suggested with a very fixed smile.
    “Ah no,” insisted Grant blithely. “We did not lose a single head, did we, Leon?”
    “No, señor, ” agreed the partisan as his eyes darted around the assembled company.
    “How much did you pay? Are there more cattle to be had?” asked Wellington, looking at the unexpected bounty.
    “I still have gold left, sir,” replied Grant, holding up a purse with some coins jingling in the bottom of it. “And I saw other cattle.”
    “That is good news indeed,” called Wellington. “But how much a head did you