There was another shouted warning from the right and Napoleon and his officers turned to see a second party rushing from the forest on the other flank, angling out slightly to cut the Frenchmen off from the town. The dragoons had drawn out their carbines and were hurriedly steadying their mounts to take aim. There was a puff of smoke and a crack as the first dragoon fired. The shot went wide. As his companions joined in Napoleon saw one of the Cossacks’ ponies tumble over, pitching its rider forward on to the muddy field over which they raced towards the French Emperor and his small party. As soon as they had fired, the dragoons holstered their carbines and drew their swords, spurring their mounts towards the oncoming horsemen. On both sides of the imperial party the Russians charged forward, shouting their war cry as they leaned low over their ponies and swung their lances down ready to strike. The dragoons were heavily outnumbered and swiftly overwhelmed. As the last of them was cut down the Cossacks charged on, straight for Napoleon and his staff officers.

‘Draw your swords!’ Berthier bellowed. ‘Defend the Emperor!’

The ornately decorated blades rasped from their scabbards as the French officers drew out their light cavalry sabres and dress swords and formed a loose ring about Napoleon. A handful of them had pistols attached to their saddles and pulled them out of their holsters, cocked them and held them ready, aiming up at the sky in order to prevent any premature discharges from striking their own side. Napoleon watched the Cossacks race across the open ground towards him, close enough now for him to make out the long moustaches flicking out round each cheek as their lips curled back, mouths wide open as they cheered themselves on.

‘Brace yourselves!’ Berthier called out. ‘Don’t let them get through.’

One of the officers lowered his pistol, took aim, waited until the last moment and shot a Cossack in the chest. The man dropped his lance and toppled from his sheepskin saddle. A rapid succession of pistol shots followed and then the first of the Cossacks reached the cluster of gold-braided staff officers with their feathered and cockaded hats. He thrust out his lance arm and the point shot towards the chest of a young colonel on the topography staff. With a desperate slash the officer parried the head of the shaft and drew his arm back to strike as the Cossack drew level. The sweep of the highly polished blade hissed through the air, but the Russian swung his body to the side and hung low beside the saddle, and the sabre sliced harmlessly over his head.