Arthur felt a chill of terror as the enemy muskets foreshortened.The possibility that he could be shot at any moment filled him with a perverse excitement. Only good fortune could save him now, but if he lived he would have the satisfaction of having stood up to the enemy’s fire. The French fired and the air was filled with the clatter of musket balls striking the walls. When the moment had passed Arthur looked round and was relieved to see that the only damage done was that one of his men’s shakos had been shot off its owner’s head.The soldier was now swearing bloody revenge at the French as he reloaded his musket, fired, and swiftly prepared the next round.

With a roar the French rushed forward.

‘Sir,’ Somerset called out.‘I think we should withdraw to somewhere less dangerous.’

He was right, Arthur knew. Commanding generals had no right to put themselves at risk when their men needed them.Yet this situation was different. If anything happened to Arthur, Sir Harry could take over the moment he heard the news.

‘Just a moment,’ he said.

The French had reached the wall and were locked in a desperate bayonet fight with the British soldiers defending the village. Badly outnumbered as they were, Arthur’s men would have to give way eventually, he realised, and with a quick gesture to Somerset to follow him he wheeled his horse round and rode back through the village to where the Twenty-Ninth and the Light Dragoons were waiting. Arthur rode up to the colonel commanding the dragoons.

‘Taylor, I aim to break the French attack once their formation is held up by the village. The moment I give the order I want you to charge them. Go in hard and fast and make as much of a show of it as you can.’

‘Yes, sir!’ Colonel Taylor’s eyes glinted with excitement at the prospect. ‘My boys will carve them up nicely.’

‘No doubt. But listen here,Taylor, we have too few mounted men to waste. Don’t let your men pursue the enemy too far. Rein ’em in once the enemy are making a run for it. Understand?’

‘Yes, sir.You can rely on me.’

‘Very well then.’

Arthur left the dragoons and trotted forward to the men of the Twenty-Ninth. There were barely more than a hundred and fifty survivors formed up in front of the colours, yet the battalion must suffer still more grievously if the centre of the British line was to hold. Clearing his throat, Arthur addressed them.

‘Men, I know you have tasted rather more of battle than you might like, but there is one last duty I would ask of you.’ He paused and glanced along the lines of sombre faces. ‘The French desire possession of Vimeiro. I will not have it, I tell you. So then, Twenty-Ninth, it is up to you to clear those rascals away!’