Within the hour the bridge at Plauen had been captured and covered with a battery of horse guns, severing the link between the allied left and its centre. Thousands of the enemy, caught in the mud and unable to escape in time, were pressed back against the swollen stream and trapped. Victor’s men stopped to deliver several devastating volleys at close range, and then the enemy began to throw down their muskets and surrender. A few hundred tried to cross the current, but lost their footing and were swept away, crying feebly for help before they disappeared from view and were washed down to the Elbe.

In the centre, St-Cyr and Marmont faced the greatest difficulty as they would be heavily outnumbered and the enemy had fortified every village and farmhouse that lay before the centre of the allied army. Sure enough, by eight o’clock they had been fought to a standstill and a thick bank of powder smoke lazily expanded for almost two miles as murderous volleys were exchanged at close range.

At midday the rain began to fall again and there was a brief lull in the fighting as the soldiers of both sides drew back a short distance to re-form their ranks, and steel themselves for the next onslaught. St-Cyr took advantage of the pause to bring his guns forward in readiness to blast his way through the enemy’s front line.

Napoleon rested his elbows on the parapet as he gazed over the battlefield. He felt a peculiar sense of detachment and realised that it was down to the nature of the battle. Aside from a small force of the Old Guard, every man had been placed in the line and there were no reserves for him to send forward if they were needed. His subordinates had clear orders and the enemy lacked the initiative and the will to do anything but sit on the defensive, so there was nothing for Napoleon to do but act as a spectator as his marshals drove in the allied flanks and attempted to break their centre.

A staff officer brought him a basket of cold chicken and some small loaves of the dark German bread that Napoleon had little liking for. As he ate, the enemy guns began to open fire on St-Cyr’s batteries as they unlimbered and soon a large-scale artillery duel had developed, the deep roar carrying across the battlefield.

‘There has not been much progress in the centre,’ Berthier observed. ‘I fear the attack might be forced to a halt, sire.’

‘It might.’ Napoleon nodded, then jabbed a half-eaten chicken leg towards the Pirna road. ‘Until Vandamme threatens their rear. Then the centre will break.’

‘I trust it will, sire.’

‘It will.’ Napoleon took another bite, chewed swiftly and swallowed. ‘Any news from Vandamme?’

‘The last despatch was timed two in the morning, sire. He had run into the enemy outposts.’