As Arthur had hoped, Marmont advanced towards Salamanca to attempt to relieve the defenders, but the allied troops on the hills barred his way. There followed a few wearing days when Arthur had the army stood to in the dust and the heat, waiting for a French attack that never came. For his part, Marshal Marmont contented himself with regularly sending a few batteries of horse guns together with some skirmishers to fire on any allied troops who were exposed on the forward slope. Arthur responded by ordering the greenjackets forward, and after a short duel the skirmish broke off and the two armies sat and watched each other as before.

The convents quickly surrendered once the siege guns began to pound the walls to pieces, and as soon as the last of them had been taken Marmont began to withdraw north, towards the protection of the river Douro. The allied army followed, camping on the southern bank. Arthur inspected the enemy through his telescope in frustration. A thin screen of pickets patrolled the far bank and the main enemy camp, its position marked by trails of smoke from camp fires, was beyond a low ridge that ran along the river for some way. His spies had told him that Marmont had already been joined by another division and was waiting for yet further reinforcements.

Then, on 15 July, a band of Spanish resistance fighters rode into the allied camp in an excited state, demanding to speak to the English general. They wore bandannas, short-cut jackets over their shirts and breeches, which were buttoned below the knee, and heavy boots. A formidable selection of carbines and pistols were visible in their saddle buckets, and swords, clubs and knives hung from their belts. The two sentries on duty outside Arthur’s headquarters, a disused barn, eyed the new arrivals warily as Somerset brought General Alava out to speak to them. After a few words, Alava beckoned their leader to dismount and follow him and Somerset into the barn.

He rapped on the weathered doorpost and Arthur looked up from the map he had been studying. ‘What is it?’

‘One of the local fighters, my lord. He says he has captured some enemy despatches and wishes to sell them to us.’

Arthur puffed his cheeks. ‘Very well. I can spare him a few minutes. Bring him in.’

A moment later the leader entered, carrying a saddlebag over one arm. Arthur rose to exchange a bow with him as Alava made the introductions. ‘Señor Jose Ramirez, or El Cuchillo, as he claims to be known along this stretch of the Douro.’

‘What has El Cuchillo,’ Arthur smiled at the man, ‘got for me, exactly?’