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musket in hand beside the grenadiers than to be a mere spectator.
    Baynes obviously sensed his mood and reached over to touch his arm gently. ‘You stay with me. Colonels are allowed to play the fool, but the same licence does not extend to ensigns, Mr Williams.’
    The French battery fired again and the range was now murderous. Holes were torn all along the front of the battalion, as men were plucked backwards in the first, second and sometimes even third rank. The line seemed to stagger as if it were a live thing.
    ‘Poor sods,’ said Dobson.
    One of the Spanish staff officers was down, but the manquickly kicked himself free of his dead horse and jogged forward. D’Urban was unscathed. Sergeants yelled at the grenadiers to close ranks. Their officers urged them on, their swords pointing at the enemy, who were now so very close. The battalion recovered as men closed to fill the gaps left by the fallen. At an order muskets dropped down to the charge. The men cheered and the cheer turned into a scream of rage as the grenadiers charged, bayonets reaching out for the gunners who had hurt them so badly.
    Perhaps it was instinct, a sudden blur of movement glimpsed out of the corner of the eye, or just blind chance, but Williams turned and saw that the French dragoons were moving forward to threaten the right of the attack. A glance in the other direction showed that the green-coated horsemen were also advancing against the left. Squadron followed squadron and he judged that there were four or five regiments aiming to counter the Spanish attack.
    The general realised the threat and, leaving much of his staff to steady the infantry, the old man galloped over to the brigade of cavalry which formed the far left of his own line.
    ‘That’s where it will be decided,’ said Williams, and without fully knowing why he urged his mule to follow the Spanish commander. Baynes was surprised, for he was still watching the grenadiers surging forward to reach the French guns, D’Urban riding among the leaders.
    ‘Come on, sir,’ said Dobson, and he and the merchant went after the ensign.
    ‘Not too close, Mr Williams!’ called Baynes. ‘You have no duty there.’ The three of them halted some hundred yards or so to the side and watched as Cuesta went to inspire his cavalry. Unlike the infantry they were formed in two lines of squadrons. One regiment wore bright yellow jackets and tight yellow breeches with cocked hats worn squarely east-west. Other dragoons were in dark blue. It was the closest Williams had been to the Spanish cavalry, and for all the bright colours there was much to prompt concern. Horses were of all sizes andshapes, and many looked scarcely broken, stirring in the formation, and snapping or kicking at their neighbours. Some of the riders seemed just as inexperienced. A few had no stirrups, or old bridles where the leather was tied together. There were dragoons without high black boots, wearing simple civilian shoes or even barefoot.
    The French dragoons were walking their horses forward, their lines silently immaculate. Spanish officers urged their men on, but the commands were often lost in the noise as many of their troopers shouted praise of the king or hurled abuse at the French. The front line of squadrons went forward at a walk, and instantly the lines were ragged as the untrained horses refused to stay in place. Officers raised their swords and then swept them down as the trumpet sounded for the trot.
    Their men abruptly halted. Then some began to turn, while others yelled encouragement and tried to persuade their comrades to go forward together. Officers joined in the shouting. The French dragoons kept on at a walk, their straight swords resting on their shoulders.
    General Cuesta rode between the two lines of his cavalry, calling out in his deep voice for the men to remember their country and drive the enemy back. Williams could not understand the words, but the force of the man’s determination was obvious