‘He can’t be serious, sir. Not without support.’

‘You know Lake, bull-headed and keen to make a name for himself.’

‘Yes, sir. As long as he doesn’t seek to do it posthumously.’

‘Get over there, and put a stop to that nonsense.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Somerset saluted and spurred his horse into a gallop towards the left of the line where the Twenty-Ninth should have halted. But, even as Arthur watched, Lake’s men marched into the gully and began to clamber over the steep ground towards the French. Somerset was never going to reach them in time to prevent the coming tragedy. Arthur opened his telescope and began to follow the action as the first men from Lake’s battalion emerged from the gully into the French line. At once the enemy turned to deal with the new danger, pouring volley after volley into the disordered ranks of the Twenty-Ninth as they clambered out of the gully. Soon the ground around the battalion’s colours was littered with redcoats and the survivors were desperately returning fire at will. Then the steadily thickening gunpowder smoke obscured the view and Arthur lowered his telescope. He glanced to each side of the valley and saw that neither of the flanking columns would be in place to make an attack for at least another half-hour. Unless something was done immediately, the Twenty-Ninth would be wiped out.

He turned to the nearest of his staff officers.‘Simpson! Ride forward and pass the order for a general advance.’

‘Yes, sir!’

Arthur took one last look at the unequal fight engulfing the Twenty-Ninth and then urged his mount forward, riding to join the rest of the army as it began to advance towards the waiting Frenchmen. With the skirmishers of the Rifles and the Light Companies of the other battalions leading the way, the British troops began to move up over the boulder-strewn slopes and gullies. As the skirmishers from both sides met there was a steady crackle of musket fire and shouted orders, and cries of pain and the wild exchange of insults and battle cries that echoed off the sides of the valley. Arthur joined the men of the central column as they struggled to advance with dressed ranks. The slopes were too uneven to permit the neat formations that the men had practised on drill grounds back in Britain. Slowly - too slowly, to Arthur’s mind - they made their way up to the crest, while all the time the sound of firing from the direction of the Twenty-Ninth steadily diminished. Ahead of the British line the skirmishers continued to fight it out, but as the first ranks of the leading battalions emerged on to the crest the guns of Delaborde’s single battery opened fire. Cones of lead balls tore through the ranks, opening gaps that were quickly closed by fresh men as the redcoats advanced on the main French position.

Now they were picking their way over the bodies of dead and wounded, British and French alike. A short distance ahead the British skirmishers had halted and gone to ground as they came up against the main French line. The British battalions halted to load their weapons and then continued forward until they were within effective musket range of the enemy, no more than fifty paces away. Then, as the French loosed their first volley and dozens of redcoats went down, the rest calmly halted, raised their muskets, thumbed back the firing hammers and waited for the order.

‘Fire!’

Hundreds of muskets spat flame and smoke in a thunderous roar and then the sergeants bellowed the order to reload.The French fired again and Arthur heard balls zip through the air close by as he strained to gauge the progress of the fight through the eddying smoke. With a pounding of hooves Somerset came riding up, and reined his horse in sharply.

‘How go things with the Twenty-Ninth?’ asked Arthur.

‘They’ve had it, sir. I wasn’t in time to save them.’

‘Had it? What, all of them?’

‘Lake’s dead. So are over two hundred and fifty of his men. The rest are wounded or routed.’

Arthur stared at his aide and muttered, ‘Good God.’

One officer’s vain moment of madness had cost the army half a battalion. Arthur was stunned. Then a fresh volley burst out from the British line and he collected his thoughts and stared towards the French positions.The enemy fire was already slackening, and as a breath of wind wafted down the valley the smoke cleared enough for Arthur to see that Delaborde’s men were falling back again, making for the pass behind them. Now that the main battle line of the British army had reached the crest there was no choice for Delaborde but retreat to try to save as much of his force as possible.

‘Keep the advance going!’ Arthur called out to each side. ‘Pass the word! Advance!’

All along the hill the line of redcoats pressed forward, straight into the volleys of French musket fire and the blasts from their six cannon. As Arthur followed the battle he saw that the French officers were handling their men well. The enemy companies kept their cohesion as they fired, fell back, and fired again, steadily giving ground as they came up on their own guns. Then the French gunners were ordered to withdraw, and started to limber their guns.

Arthur saw the chance at once. Now that the demoralising influence of French grapeshot was removed, it was time for the British infantry to use their bayonets.

‘One last volley!’ he called out. ‘Then charge home, boys!’

The order was communicated to left and right, and after the last British musket had emptied its lead shot at the enemy the sergeants bellowed the order.

‘Fix . . . bayonets!’

There was a distinct rattle along the line as the spiked bayonets were slotted over the muzzles and twisted into the locked position.

‘Advance muskets!’

The front rank lowered their weapons and the triangular steel blades with their sharp points angled towards the French.

‘Advance!’

In a staggered motion the entire line lurched forward, bearing down on the French, still hurriedly reloading their muskets a short distance away. Already a handful of the enemy were falling out of line, backing away from the approaching danger. More joined them as the others fired their last shots at the British.

‘Charge!’

A deep ragged roar sounded from thousands of thirsty throats as the British surged forward. The effect of the bayonet charge was as Arthur had hoped and the French line broke. The enemy turned and ran for their lives, many throwing aside their weapons as they raced towards the mouth of the pass at the rear of their position. The French artillery crews had not completed limbering their guns as their comrades fled, and after a brief glance towards the wild faces of the British charging towards them they abandoned their cannon and followed the others. Only the cavalry, a regiment of dragoons, still remained formed up to one side of the track, and they now drew their carbines and formed a line across the pass to protect the last of the mob surging past them. They fired from the saddle, and though many shots went wide enough struck home to cause the British infantry to draw up. As soon as their weapons had been discharged the dragoons holstered them and unsheathed their swords.