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set his horse off at a trot towards the noise. Williams and Dobson followed and the merchant took care not to outstrip their mules. They were heading farther left, towards the higher ground held by the French.
    A battalion was advancing at a steady, controlled pace, the soldiers still with their muskets resting on their shoulders in the march position. All wore white jackets, but the facings were a mix of blue, green, red and black. Each man had a tall fur cap, with a richly decorated bag at the back matching the colours of their facings.
    ‘Are these not grenadiers like yourselves?’ asked Baynes,betraying the military knowledge Williams had always suspected he possessed. ‘The bravest of the brave.’
    The Spanish practice was to take the elite companies from their individual regiments and combine them into temporary battalions well suited to leading a charge. The grenadiers’ fur caps made them stand out from the rest of the army, but it was their pride that truly set them apart. The men were capable and confident, and simply their bearing marked them out from the raw soldiers in almost all other battalions.
    ‘Good lads,’ muttered Dobson.
    The French guns fired again. With the range little more than two hundred yards, the gunners were using canister. Each metal tin burst as it left the muzzle, spraying dozens of musket-sized balls in a cone stabbing towards the enemy. At this distance the balls were spreading widely and each shot was lucky to claim two or three victims. Williams watched as a pair of grenadiers were pitched back. The line closed around them and marched on. There was a tall officer at the rear, directing the sergeants, who kept the line steady. He turned for a moment, glancing at the flanking units, and Williams noticed that he wore spectacles. In fact, even from this distance he reminded him of a slimmer version of Pringle, with the same quiet competence.
    The battalions on either side of the elite unit wavered as men dropped. The one closest on the left stopped. A man brought his musket down to aim vaguely at the enemy and fired. Another followed, then two more, and in a moment flame and smoke ran along the front of the line. One or two men fell, and Williams suspected they had been hit by balls fired by the rear ranks of their own formation.
    A gentle breeze washed over them, bringing smoke and the stink of powder. Williams’ eyes smarted and he blinked to clear them. The grenadiers pressed forward, marching steadily.
    ‘Good lads,’ said Dobson again.
    The battalion to the right of the grenadiers checked, and Williams could see that some men were lowering their muskets. Then General Cuesta and his staff galloped up behind them. DonGregorio’s voice was loud, his manner commanding as he bellowed at the infantry. The battalion started going forward again, although by now it was some way behind the grenadiers.
    Again the battery fired. One gun commander must have adjusted for the range badly, because there was a strange whirring noise as a small cloud of balls passed a few feet over Williams’ head. Baynes looked up like an excited schoolboy having the time of his life.
    ‘Glad I’m not taller!’ he declared happily.
    The grenadiers marched on. Most of the gun commanders had aimed well and as the Spanish soldiers went forward they left behind clusters of dead and moaning men, fur caps strewn on the grass and their white uniforms torn and stained red.
    Three horsemen sped forward from the general’s staff to urge the grenadiers on.
    ‘There he goes, the silly fellow,’ said Baynes fondly, for Colonel D’Urban was one of them, charging with his sabre held high and view hallooing in a voice that carried over the noise of battle. General Cuesta led more of his staff over to the battalion on the left, yelling at the soldiers to stop firing and press on.
    Williams felt useless. The Spanish officers seemed to have everything under control but it would almost have been better to march forward