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get ready.’
    When the officers reappeared, the trumpets sounded, the drums rolled and the columns moved off, the regimental colours of the Coldstream Guards and the Third Guards held proudly aloft. Light companies at the front, line infantry and artillery in the middle, quartermaster and his long train of carts and fourgons at the rear. From the direction of the stables, a private, his pregnant wife hanging on to his arm, came hurrying to catch the last wagon. He bundled her in and ran to join his company.
    To the beat of the drums and cymbals, the deep bass of the serpents and the cheerful trill of the flutes, nearly two thousand men, horses, wagons and camp followers trundled into the town. Boots thumped down on the cobbles, wagonwheels clanked and rattled and nervous horses kicked and snorted their displeasure, their breath hanging briefly in the morning air. Along the way, they collected men and women from their billets, the men taking their places with their companies, the women joining the supply train. On street corners and from upstairs windows, ancient Flemish women in their strange long-sided caps gaped in awe and young ones, some still in their shifts, waved fond farewells from doorways and street corners. The most daring of them darted forward to thrust a cheese or a pie into a grateful hand or for a fleeting embrace. Many wore squares of orange silk or cotton over their hair.
    In the town square a score of latecomers, bleary-eyed and bad-tempered, appeared and found their places in the line. Down the Grand Avenue they marched to the steady beat of the drums. The town had woken and the going became slower through the crowds. By the time the light companies reached the edge of the town, the sun had risen in a cloudless sky. The day would be hot. They passed farmers bringing their fruit and vegetables to market and milkmaids returning from the fields. Any man who tried to grab a cabbage or an onion from a barrow or a dog cart risked the wrath of his sergeant. Macdonell, like Wellington himself, had let it be known that he would not tolerate theft from the local people. Everything must be paid for. Dawson and his corporals ensured, as far as they could, that the rule was enforced. Unlike the soldiers, small boys scrambled about grabbing whatever they could before scurrying home with their booty.
    It was the best part of an hour before the entire 2nd Brigade was safely out of the town and on the road south. A mile on they joined General Maitland’s 1st Brigade, which had been billeted on the other side of the town. Four thousand men of the 1st Division of Foot Guards were, at last, on their way to war.

CHAPTER FIVE
    As the morning grew hotter, they marched on through hamlets, across shallow streams and past farms and cottages. The road was seldom more than baked earth, broken by short stretches of embedded flint and chalk or a thin layer of gravel. Farm workers, traders and innkeepers stopped their work to watch them go by. Most simply stood and stared. A few waved orange flags and shouted enouragement. At the front of the column the 2nd Battalion light companies set the pace. Macdonell, riding at their rear, made sure it was not too fast. Exhausted men would not be much use when it came to fighting.
    Before taking up his commission in the Coldstream Guards, Macdonell had served as a captain in the 17th Dragoons. He was comfortable on a horse. Many infantry officers, Francis Hepburn among them, were not. For the march he had chosen a handsome grey who knew him well, beautifully turned out by the grooms. His saddle glowed, and his stirrups sparkled inthe sun. In clean overalls, he could almost have been a cavalry officer. At his side he wore his sword encased in a black leather scabbard. It was a fine weapon, given to him by his late father. At almost a yard of straight, pointed steel, with a bone handle covered in fish skin and a heavy brass guard engraved with his initials, it needed a strong man to wield it.