The deep rumble of drums drew his attention back to the enemy. The French skirmishers were already moving forward in pairs, warily stepping out over the open expanse of churned mud. There would be no cover for them as they approached the waiting Portuguese and British infantry. Behind them three brigades of infantry advanced in column, urged on by their officers and the insistent rhythm of the drums. Hope had recalled his light infantry earlier and his men stood their ground as the French sharpshooters halted and opened fire, steadily picking men off. As each fell, dead or wounded, his comrades closed up to the right and stood firm. They did not have to endure the skirmishers for long, as the French columns steadily climbed up the gentle slope, boots weighted down by the clinging mud.

As the columns came up to the allied line the skirmishers fell back, and for a moment the sound of firing ceased. The French halted and discharged a ragged volley, striking down a score or so of the allies. An instant later Hope’s men returned fire in a massed volley. As the range was close and almost every musket could be brought to bear against the heads of the French columns the effect was devastating. Men toppled down and staggered back all along the leading ranks of the columns. Then there was a pause, filled with the hurried rattle of ramrods as each side reloaded.

‘Interesting,’ Arthur mused aloud. ‘Do you see how the French remain in column instead of forming into a firing line? Those men are clearly poorly trained. Their officers don’t trust ’em with battlefield manoeuvres.’

‘They don’t need to, as long as the enemy outnumber us as they do,’ Hope replied.

‘Not for much longer.’ Arthur pointed out the approach of the First Division. ‘Nevertheless, I think that quality rather than quantity will win the day.’

He turned back to the battle just in time to see his men fire their second volley a few seconds before the enemy, and more men fell on both sides. Powder smoke wreathed the air between the line and the columns, slowly merging into one mass, illuminated from within by the orange flash of each volley as the soldiers fired blind. This was the test of each army’s mettle, thought Arthur. The side that took such punishment longest would win. As he watched, he noted with cold satisfaction that his men were firing three volleys to the enemy’s two. Before long the French were no longer firing volleys but in a constant rattle of musketry as each man reloaded and fired at a different rate.

There was a pounding of hooves as Somerset came galloping up. He reined in and dismounted, cheeks flushed from his exertions in the cold air. He touched his hat to Arthur and General Hope.