‘Yes, sir, of course,’ Somerset replied guiltily. ‘I apologise.’

‘Nonsense!’ Arthur forced himself to smile. ‘It is I who must apologise. The faults that provoke me into my present melancholy are not yours, Somerset. Be comforted by that at least. Now get that message off to Hill, quick as you can.’

Although the skies cleared early in November, the winter had begun to settle across the heart of Spain. The roasting landscape that the army had marched through the last time they had cause to make for Salamanca was now gripped by cold dawns and blustery days with a chilly wind that sought out every rip in a man’s uniform and cut through to his skin.

‘An army in retreat is never a happy thing,’ Arthur said ruefully as he watched a regiment from General Campbell’s division trudge along the muddy road to Salamanca. The men were in a sorry state. Unshaven, some in patched uniforms that barely justified the term, others, having discarded the remnants of the grey worsted trousers they had been issued nearly eleven months earlier, wearing an assortment of replacements. Their muskets, however, were well cared for and not a speck of rust disfigured the long, dark grey barrels.

Some of the men glanced at Arthur with surly expressions as they passed by, and there were none of the cheers that usually greeted him when the men recognised their commander. Their bitter mood had not been helped by the incompetence of Arthur’s new quartermaster-general, Colonel Gordon, who had managed to send the supply wagons to Salamanca by a different road and so denied the army its rations for the last three days. The men had taken to eating acorns and chestnuts gathered along the way.

Arthur’s own mood soured as he reflected on Somerset’s recent discovery that Gordon had been sending back defeatist despatches to the newspapers in London. Arthur had long since grown accustomed to such ‘croaking’ from some of his subordinates. It was an inevitable consequence of a long conflict. But what he would not tolerate was incompetence, and he resolved to have Gordon dismissed, regardless of the man’s political connections.

General Campbell helped himself to a pinch of snuff as his men marched past. When Arthur commented on their demeanour, he said casually,‘Oh, they’re miserable beggars at the best of times, sir. Especially the veterans. But they’ll be happy enough with a tot of gin in them and the prospect of a fight.’

‘Then let us hope that the French don’t disappoint us when we reach Salamanca.’

Campbell winced as he sniffed, blinked his eyes, and then turned to Arthur. ‘It’s your intention to offer battle then, sir?’

‘Why not? It will be as good an opportunity as any, once we add Hill’s strength to our own.’

‘What will that give us?’ Campbell paused to calculate the numbers. ‘Sixty-five thousand men to set against perhaps a hundred thousand Frogs?’