The skirmish intensified as the Cossacks strove to cut their foes down before they were saved by the reinforcements. Another officer fell, pierced through the chest, the bloody point bursting through his back less than three paces from where Napoleon sat on his mount. He recoiled involuntarily at the sight, then the lance was yanked back and the officer swayed in his saddle, groaning in agony, before he began to slump forward. Another cried out as a lance pinned his arm to his side, passing on into the Frenchman’s ribs. Napoleon quickly rose in his stirrups to see that the dragoons were spurring into a charge to save their Emperor, pounding down the road in a muddy spray, their swords held high and glittering in the sunshine.

A sudden shout behind Napoleon caused him to swivel in his saddle, just in time to see another Cossack making for him, lance ready to strike.

‘No you don’t!’ a voice shouted back and an officer spurred his horse between the Russian and the Emperor. As the Cossack thrust the officer threw his sword into the man’s face and grabbed at the shaft of the lance with both hands. The Cossack clung on but with a swift, powerful jerk the staff officer wrenched the other man from his saddle and sent him crashing to the ground. A savage thrust to the throat with the lance finished him off.

The approach of rumbling hooves drew Napoleon’s gaze away from the officer who had saved him and he saw the Guard cavalry charging up to the mêlée. They were hand-picked men mounted on the best of horses, and they charged down those Cossacks who could not turn and flee in time. The rest disappeared across the field into the woods, pursued by the galloping Frenchmen.

‘Who is he, Berthier?’ Napoleon nodded towards the officer holding the lance. The man was no older than thirty, blond and with fine features.

‘Colonel Eblé, sire. An engineer.’

‘Then see to it that the colonel is promoted to general. A brave man, that.’

‘We will need all of his kind in the weeks ahead,’ Berthier responded quietly.

Napoleon frowned. He wanted to upbraid his chief of staff for his pessimism, but he knew that Berthier was right. Glancing round at the forests on either side, he could already see mounted figures stealing back towards the tree line, watching them. Abruptly, he turned his mount back down the road and a moment later Berthier fell in alongside him.

They were silent for a moment as Napoleon glanced from side to side.

‘I think we may have to reconsider our route,’ he said.

Back in the campaign wagon, Napoleon pulled a map of the Moscow approaches from its case and spread it out across the folding table. He leaned forward on his elbows and examined it briefly, then nodded to himself. He tapped his finger where the name of Maloyaroslavets was marked.