‘By God,’ Somerset murmured. ‘He’d better do something soon, or the Frogs will skewer him where he stands.’

Arthur did not reply and remained still as he watched the spectacle. Some of the French officers had placed their hats over the ends of the swords and were waving them high overhead as they shouted encouragement to their men. There was a band at the head of the nearest column and they struck up as they approached the crest, the strident trill of brass instruments accompanied by the pounding rhythm of drums. And still Craufurd did not flinch, even as the leading enemy ranks closed to within no more than thirty paces. Arthur felt his pulse quicken and willed Craufurd to act.

Then, when the enemy was within pistol range, Craufurd snatched off his hat and twisted round to bellow at his men. ‘Now, lads! Avenge the death of Sir John Moore!’

Arthur could not help smiling faintly. The Fifty-second had been Moore’s regiment for a long time, and Craufurd’s words were bound to fire their hearts. All along the crest of the ridge the men of that regiment, and the others of Craufurd’s division, scrambled to their feet and stood ready, muskets grasped firmly in their hands. Before them, close enough to read the steely expression in the British soldiers’ eyes, the French columns stumbled to an abrupt halt. The jaunty tune that the band had been playing broke down into a cacophony before it died away completely. The officers stood frozen, their swords slipping down to their sides as they stared at the ranks of their foe that had sprung up right in front of their eyes.

A few simple commands echoed down the British line and the muskets swung up, the firing hammers clicked back, and then the order to fire instantaneously dissolved into the roar of the first volley as thousands of tiny flames darted from the muzzles of the Light Division’s muskets and rifles. The effect was even more devastating than the one that had repulsed the attack along the ridge a short time earlier. At such a close range, far more shots struck home, cutting down the heads of all three columns like a well-honed scythe slashing through stalks of wheat. Craufurd did not order another volley, but immediately commanded his men to charge. With a bloodthirsty roar the Light Division swept across the crest, the bayonets of the leading rank lowered towards the reeling Frenchmen. Then they were in amongst the enemy, stabbing, clubbing and kicking like savage furies, sparing no one as they drove Masséna’s soldiers before them. Some fought back, but they were too few and too isolated to stem the flow of redcoats, and were swiftly struck down and killed where they lay on the ground.