He turned his attention to the correspondence, opening those letters marked official first. These were from the various departments dealing with the provision of engineers, supplies and artillery, all of whom claimed to be doing their utmost to meet his requisitions. While they recognised the urgency of his situation, they reminded the general that his was not the only call on their resources and his needs would have to be weighed against those of other commanders. Arthur shook his head irritably. It should be clear to the dunderheads in England that his army was the vanguard of the entire nation’s effort against the Corsican Tyrant. Resources should flow to the very tip of the sword that was lodged in Bonaparte’s side, not languish in warehouses far from the field of battle. He made a note to Somerset to send more requests, couched in far more robust language, and then turned his attention to the last letter.

As he picked it up he felt his heart sink. It was from Kitty. On the eve of Busaco he had written her a terse note detailing his finances back in England. He had come to have little faith in her ability to manage the family’s affairs and had spelled out what she must do if he was killed. Since then he had received a steady flow of letters asking his advice on all manner of minutiae. This time, she wanted to know if she could buy new curtains for their house in London.

‘Curtains?’ Arthur muttered. ‘Bloody curtains be damned!’

His hand spasmed momentarily as he clutched the letter, threatening to crumple the paper with its spidery writing into a tight ball. He took a deep breath, smoothed the paper out and laid it down on the table. Thoughts of Kitty and her inability to cope with the household in his absence weighed on his heart with the dull mass of a lead ingot. Their marriage was the gravest mistake he had ever made, Arthur accepted. But it had been his choice, and he could not reverse the decision, nor indeed was he prepared to admit to his error in public. Therefore he was bound to her while they both lived, for better or worse. He sighed. Then he reached for a fresh sheet of paper, dipped his pen in the ink, and composed his reply.