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animal, which fell and pitched the dragoon riding it on to the wet grass. The Frenchman with the slashed face screamed at him, spitting gobbets of blood and saliva through the gashes in his cheeks. He had checked his last blow and now raised his blade to lunge. Hanley’s horse bucked again, flinging him high and bringing him back down to slap hard against the saddle. The Frenchman watched him, taking careful aim, determined to make no more mistakes.
    One of the 13th appeared, Tarleton helmet gone, spatters of blood dark on his face and over the buff braid on the front of his tight-fitting blue coat. The Frenchman shifted his blade in time to parry the man’s first cut, giving Hanley time to regain his lost stirrup and then get hold of his sword. He saw sparks as the Englishman and Frenchman’s blades met again. The light dragoon was red faced and breathing heavily from the effort – the Frenchman’s mangled face made his state hard to read. Hanley pushed his horse forward and without really thinking thrust straight into the dragoon’s body. The tip of his sword was not very sharp and pressed the heavy cloth of the man’s jacket back for an instant before punching through and sliding between two of his ribs. Hanley was a big man and the blow had all the added strength of his fear. The dragoon made more odd noises, but his eyesfastened on the British officer as they widened. Hanley watched them, saw them flicker as the life faded from them. The man slid from the saddle, his weight dragging at Hanley’s sword because he could not pull it free. Only when the dying man was almost on the ground did the steel slide out with a ghastly sucking sound Hanley heard over all the other noise.
    ‘Bloody good, sir!’ the private from the 13th said, and then tugged his horse around to seek new prey.
    The crowd of horsemen was thinning. Hanley took one last look at the Frenchman he had killed and then pushed on to escape him. He sensed that the dragoons in green were starting to go back a little. Yet they were still fighting, and he was relieved when the corporal and another of the hussars closed on either side of him, sabres held at the guard save for when they actually delivered an attack. There was blood on the corporal’s sabre, and yet when he looked there was little on his own and that puzzled him. He struggled to accept that he had just killed a man – something he had never before done even after four years of campaigning. It did not seem real.
    There was a fresh shout and three French dragoons were spurring forward, urging the others to rally and return to the attack. Williams rode at them, beside him a squat, broad-shouldered man who wore the blue jacket of the 13th with the buff chevrons of a corporal on his sleeve. The Welshman was a little ahead, his normally simple, almost innocent expression, contorted with savagery – Hanley wondered whether he had looked like that a few moments ago, but doubted it.
    Williams took the attack of the first Frenchman on his blade, deflecting it and then flicking his own sword quickly to jab at the man’s face. His opponent went back, leaning away to avoid the blow but losing his balance for an instant and making the mistake of bending his arm. Williams got inside his guard and jabbed again, pricking the man on the inside of his elbow. A second dragoon closed with him, and the lieutenant hurriedly parried this fresh attack until one of the hussars appeared alongside him and evened the odds. The third Frenchman madefor the corporal from the 13th, who feinted left but went right, and opened the man’s throat to the very bone with a strong and very well-directed cut.
    ‘Vive l’empereur! ’ A French officer surged forward, his deep voice raised in anger as much as challenge as he went for the corporal. There were the gold epaulettes of a colonel on his shoulders, and his helmet had a leopardskin turban rather than the usual plain brown. The corporal pulled away and avoided his first