He twisted round in his saddle and looked back down the road to Ostend. A thick column of smoke rose lazily into the air above the depot. Lord Moira had given orders to burn all stores and equipment that could not be carried by his men and wagons. To Arthur, it seemed like a scandalous waste. Much of the equipment was brand new and was going up in smoke even before it had been used. But there was no helping it. How much worse it would be to permit the equipment to fall into French hands.The French offensive had caught the allies by surprise and now they were in complete disarray and falling back before the fanatical armies of the revolution. It was hard to believe that the fortunes of war could be reversed so comprehensively. Only a year ago the Austrian army, after inflicting a number of defeats on the French, could have rolled across the north of France and stormed Paris - the heart of the revolution. But Prince Frederick Saxe-Coburg had been content to inch forward across a wide front, and now the allies were paying the price for his indolence.

‘Keep the pace up there!’ a sergeant yelled at the men marching at the rear of the column. ‘Unless you want a French bayonet up your arse!’

Someone blew a loud raspberry and the men laughed as the sergeant came running up from the rear of the column to look for the culprit. ‘Which one of you bastards just signed ’is own death warrant?’

The soldiers fell silent, but could not help grinning.

‘Nobody, eh?’ the sergeant smiled cruelly. ‘Well, I ’as me ways of finding out.When I do, I’ll tear the bugger’s throat out, so help me.’

Arthur walked his horse on, and the column tramped away from Ostend, marching across the Austrian Netherlands to the safety of Antwerp. Even though they had been sent to protect these people from the armies of France, Arthur had seen that the sympathies of the locals were with the revolutionaries. He could understand it. The continent of Europe was a patchwork of kingdoms, principalities and provinces traded between the great powers like cards. Now France extended to them the prospect of revolution, a chance to decide their own fate. Except that the revolution was a sham. There was no brotherhood of man amongst the leaders of the revolution, just a ragtag collection of petty-minded despots clutching onto the reins of power at any cost. The people of the Vendée, Lyons, Marseilles and Toulon had discovered that all too clearly, and now the survivors of those who dared to question the power of the demagogues in Paris walked through a landscape of torched villages and putrefying corpses.

‘Penny for your thoughts, Arthur.’

Arthur looked round and saw Captain Richard Fitzroy and his mount moving up alongside. He touched the brim of his hat and Arthur responded in kind. Fitzroy was one of his company commanders and adjutant and had joined the 33rd just after Arthur had taken command. His brother had lent him the money to buy a lieutenant colonel’s commission and Arthur had been preparing the 33rd for war since the autumn of 1793. Despite the difference in rank Captain Fitzroy and Arthur were the same age and firm friends. Good enough for Fitzroy to dispense with the formalities when duty did not demand them.

Arthur gestured back down the road, towards the column of smoke. ‘Just regretting the waste.’

‘Yes, it seems absurd. Quite absurd,’ Fitzroy replied. ‘Here we are, having waited months to get into the fight, and the first bloody thing we do is bolt for cover. It’s no way to run a war.’

‘True.’ Arthur nodded.The 33rd had been given orders to join a convoy bound for the West Indies, before being plucked from their ships at the last moment to join the army being assembled by Lord Moira to invade Brittany. After long months of preparation the force had appeared off the French coast to discover that the uprising they had been sent to support had just been crushed. And so, finally, the 33rd had landed in Ostend, keen as mustard to get stuck into the enemy, only to find that their orders were no longer relevant, thanks to the sweeping advances of the French.

Arthur scanned the surrounding countryside and then his eyes fixed on a small group of horsemen watching the column from the top of a dyke some distance to the south. He raised his hand and pointed.

‘I think you might get your chance to fight rather sooner than you think. Look there.’

Fitzroy followed the direction indicated. ‘The enemy?’

‘Who else? Certainly not our men. And hardly likely to be the Austrians. Last I heard they were scurrying back to the Rhine.’

‘Scum,’ Fitzroy muttered darkly. ‘Take all our bloody money and then leave us dangling in front of Frenchie. Scum . . .’

‘Well, yes - quite,’ Arthur nodded. ‘But we are where we are, Fitzroy. Nothing we can do about it now.’

‘No. Suppose not. Still, eh? Bloody Austrians.’

‘Yes. Bloody Austrians . . .’

‘No doubt those Frenchies over there are going to be reporting on our every move.’

‘You can bet on it.’

‘Really?’ Fitzroy grinned. ‘How much?’

‘I distinctly said, you can bet on it. I’m no longer a betting man.’

‘So you say. But I bet if I offered you good enough odds—’

‘Fitzroy, you are becoming tiresome.’ Arthur was not in much of a mood for conversation, particularly over a subject that could only add to his sense of frustration. He glanced back at Fitzroy’s company. ‘Your fellows are already slowing down. I’d be obliged if you’d hurried them along, Captain.’

The adoption of a formal air caused Fitzroy to raise his eyebrows, but he saluted none the less and wheeled his mount round and trotted off.

Arthur breathed out a sigh of relief that he was alone with his thoughts once again. Such moments had been something of a luxury since he had left Dublin. Immediately his mind was filled with the image of Kitty.The familiar stab of anger was there in his chest as he recalled the humiliation he had been subjected to by her brother when the latter had refused to permit Kitty to marry such an impecunious prospect as Arthur. In the months that followed he had thrown himself into his duties, partly to enhance his understanding of military matters, but mostly to divert his mind from thoughts of her. Shortly before quitting Dublin he had endured one last humiliation and wrote to her, frankly acknowledging his unsuitability but asking her to reconsider his offer of marriage should the Pakenhams judge that his fortunes had significantly improved at some point in the future. He had concluded the letter by saying that he would always love her and would always honour the offer of marriage. Not that there seemed much chance of improving his lot at the present, Arthur grimaced. There had been few opportunities for anyone in the army to win their spurs, and those opportunities that had availed themselves had largely been squandered in defeat and disgrace. There was little sign that this campaign in Flanders was going to be any different.

Lord Moira’s force consisted mostly of infantry, with two batteries of six-pounders and a depleted regiment of light cavalry who were of little use apart from scouting and courier duties. Such a poorly balanced force would be vulnerable if the enemy managed to pin it down long enough to bring up sufficient artillery to finish them off. So they were kept on the move, driven hard by their officers and NCOs as they marched north-east under the blazing summer sunshine. In wool jackets, leather stocks and carrying over sixty pounds of equipment and supplies, the men were soon exhausted, and by dusk of the first day the column had already lost a handful of stragglers. Some would catch up during the course of the night, but those too unfit to rejoin their comrades would be at the mercy of the enemy.There were more stragglers on the second evening, and by now the French scouts were much closer to the column and Arthur heard the brief sound of distant shots as they finished off a small party of redcoats who had lingered behind the rest of the column.

The march resumed the next morning in an even more subdued tone and the light spirits that the men had evinced after quitting Ostend had gone, replaced by a sullen determination to keep going. At noon they halted a short distance from the village of Ondrecht where a bridge crossed over the Anhelm river, a small tributary of the Schelde.

‘Down packs!’ The order was relayed down the column and the men gratefully undid the buckles on the uncomfortable chest straps that restricted their breathing and set their packs down at the side of the road. The stoppers were pulled from canteens and the soldiers swigged a few gulps of tepid water into their parched mouths. Arthur made his way down the dusty road, exchanging a few words with the officers and trying to preserve the calm imperturbability that he believed a commanding officer should demonstrate to his subordinates.

As he remounted his horse, Arthur noticed a troop of British cavalry galloping across a field to the south. They approached the column at a tangent and then swerved towards the party of staff officers just behind the vanguard.

‘There’s trouble,’ one of the sergeants muttered.

Sure enough, as Arthur watched, the ensign in command of the troop was gesticulating wildly to the south-east as he made his report to Lord Moira.The general quickly consulted with his staff officers and then one of them rode down the side of the column, bellowing orders. Behind him, officers and NCOs hurriedly formed their units up on the road, ready to continue the march. The staff officer was still some way off but Arthur decided not to delay for a moment.

‘The regiment will form up!’

At once the men sitting along the sides of the road scrambled to their feet and struggled into their packs, snatched up their weapons and hurried into position. They stood still and ready to march as the staff officer reined in beside Wellington, scattering gravel and clods of dirt across the nearest men.

‘General’s respects, sir,’ the staff officer saluted. ‘Scouts report the enemy is approaching from the south. His Lordship fears the French might be trying to prevent us crossing the Anhelm.’

‘What is the enemy’s strength?’

‘Scouts report two regiments of cavalry, a battery of horse artillery, and several battalions of infantry following on a mile behind.’

‘How far away are they?’

‘Ten, maybe eleven miles. At least they were when the scouts observed them.’

‘Ten miles?’ Arthur frowned as he made some hurried calculations. The French were three hours away, at the most. The bridge over the Anhelm was at least four miles down the road. There was a good chance that the enemy cavalry would catch the column before it could cross to safety. The race was on.

Arthur smiled grimly. He looked at the staff officer and nodded. ‘Very well. My compliments to Lord Moira. Tell him we will do our best to keep up.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The staff officer saluted, wheeled his mount round and galloped back towards the head of the column, already moving off down the road and stirring up a dusty haze as they advanced at a fast pace. One by one the units of the British column edged forward, until at last Arthur gave the order for his regiment to march. Easing his horse out to one side of the road, Arthur watched his men pass by for a moment before he reached inside the saddlebag for his spyglass. He scanned the land to the south. Although it was a hot day with a heat haze along the horizon, he soon spotted the thick pall of dust that marked the enemy column.The French must be aware of the position of the British column. If their commander was quick-witted enough, very soon he would be giving orders for his cavalry to move ahead to try to cut Lord Moira’s column off from the bridge at Ondrecht. It would have to be a delaying action since the British would outnumber them, but if the French cavalry could hold the column back long enough for their artillery and infantry to come up in support, then, Arthur realised, the British would be in a very difficult situation. Particularly if . . .

He twisted in the saddle and turned his spyglass back along the road to the east. Sure enough there was another faint cloud of dust behind them. Snapping the spyglass shut he trotted back along the side of the regiment until he found Fitzroy and then eased his mount in alongside his friend. He leaned slightly towards Fitzroy and spoke quietly.

‘Get forward to the general. Tell him there’s another enemy column coming up behind us. Don’t be too hasty. Doesn’t look good in front of the men. They’ve enough to worry about already.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Fitzroy instinctively looked back over his shoulder, but the view was shrouded with dust kicked up by the men of the 33rd. He clicked his tongue and with a twitch of the reins steered his horse out of line and then trotted up the side of the road.

By the time the British column came in sight of the quiet village of Ondrecht the first squadrons of enemy cavalry were visible, trotting across the fields. A short distance behind them came the artillery, bouncing along as the gun crews clung to their caissons.Arthur nodded to himself grimly; the enemy commander had missed a trick in not sending these units forward at once. Now they would only be able to harass the British as they crossed the bridge. Much more worrying was the force approaching from behind them. The cloud of dust had rapidly closed on the rear of the column and it was clear that they were being pursued by a large force of cavalry. Even now, with Ondrecht in sight, Arthur could see his men glancing back with anxious expressions. It was time to put an end to that, Arthur decided.

‘Sergeant Major!’

‘Sir?’

‘I want the next man who looks back down the road to be placed on a charge!’

‘Yes, sir.’The sergeant major took a deep breath and bellowed to the men, ‘You ’eard the colonel! If I sees one of you so much as take a glimpse at them Frogs, then I’ll break yer bloody legs!’

The vanguard of the column quickly crossed the bridge and occupied the buildings on the far bank of the Anhelm, ignoring the angry shouts of protest and piteous wailing of their occupants. Lord Moira positioned another battalion on the southern fringe of the village to protect his flank as the rest of the column began to cross the bridge, an ancient stone affair that was just wide enough for the gun carriages to cross carefully. Even so, the bottleneck slowed the column’s progress to a crawl, and all the while the enemy force was swiftly closing on its tail where Arthur and the men of the 33rd Foot stood impatiently, willing the men ahead of them to hurry on.

The sudden dull thud of cannon fire drew Arthur’s attention back to the enemy’s advance force to the south of the village. A thin band of smoke hid the guns and their crews for a moment before the silhouettes emerged through the haze as the French loaded more shot. Some distance in front of them a screen of dragoons had advanced close enough to the village to open fire and the air soon filled with the crackling sound of the shots they exchanged with the British infantry guarding the flank. Still the column ahead of Arthur did not move. Behind, the first outriders of the enemy force pursuing them had ridden into view and now reined in, keeping close watch on the British column. There was no avoiding it, Arthur realised; they were going to have to fight their way across the bridge. He called one of his ensigns over.

‘Tell Lord Moira the enemy cavalry will be on us shortly. I’m taking the 33rd out of line to cover the rear.’

As the boy dashed off, Arthur gave the order to change formation and facing. He watched with some satisfaction as his regiment carried out the manoeuvre with a fair degree of proficiency. The 33rd had only recently adopted the drills set out by Sir David Dundas, and Arthur had been glad to be relieved of the task of drawing up his own drills, a duty that had been required of all regimental commanders before the advent of the Dundas code of military movements. Within minutes the regiment had deployed across the ground either side of the road and now stood in two ranks, ready for action. Half a mile down the road the French cavalry was forming up amid a dense cloud of dust through which twinkled the reflections of polished brass and steel. Arthur was aware of a dull rumble of iron-shod hoofs, and fancied he could almost sense it through the ground beneath his own mount.

A glance over his shoulder revealed that the British column had edged forward a little more, the regiment ahead of the 33rd having just entered the rough track that ran through the length of the village. But there was still no chance of the column crossing the Anhelm before the enemy cavalry attacked. Arthur quickly gauged the distance between his position and the village before he gave the next order.

‘The 33rd will retire two hundred paces!’

Once the order had been relayed the men turned about and began marching closer to the shelter of the crude buildings of the Flemish peasants, even now nervously glancing at the approaching soldiers through their shutters and doors.

‘They’re coming!’ a voice shouted, and Arthur turned to look as the French cavalry began to ripple forward, the first two lines distinct, those that followed lost in the dust. There was no mad pell-mell charge such as British regiments were inclined to make. Instead the enemy came on at a trot, which gradually increased into a canter - but no more - as the officers kept their men under control. An impressive spectacle, Arthur mused. And a deadly one.

‘Halt!’ he called out. ‘About face . . . Prepare to receive cavalry!’

The regiment drew up a short distance from the village and turned to face the threat.

‘Fix bayonets!’ The sergeant major bellowed, and there was a brief scraping cacophony as the men drew the blades from their scabbards and then mounted the bayonets on to the muzzles of their muskets. All the time the enemy cavalry was drawing nearer, and now Arthur could see that they were hussars: light cavalry armed with pistols or carbines in addition to their sabres. They faltered for an instant as the British turned to face them.

‘Prepare to fire!’ Arthur called out, and the officers relayed the instruction down the line. The men loaded their weapons and as soon as the last ramrod had been slid back into place the muskets came up into the firing position. The enemy cavalry drew closer, still at the canter, until they were no more than two hundred yards away.

‘Steady men!’ Arthur called out. ‘Wait for the order!’

There was always some hothead, or simpleton, who could not wait to discharge his weapon even though there was no hope of scoring a hit at this range.With a sudden blaring of trumpets and a great throaty roar the French cavalry at last launched themselves into a charge and the ground trembled under the impact of their mounts.

‘Steady!’ Arthur shouted.

The men waited, muskets levelled, as the cavalry rushed towards them, braided hair flapping out from beneath their caps and mouths agape beneath waxed moustaches as they cheered themselves on.The points of their swords flickered before them, pointed towards the British at full arm stretch.The instant they had closed to within a hundred yards Arthur bellowed the order to fire.

The volley crashed out, instantly obscuring the cavalry. Then the air was filled with the cries of injured men, the shrill whinnying of maimed horses and the harsh exclamations of men caught up in the tangle of destruction wrought by the withering hail of British musket balls.

‘Reload!’

As his men drew out fresh cartridges, bit off the ends and spat the balls down into the muzzles of their muskets, Arthur rose in his stirrups and tried to see over the bank of powder smoke drifting across the ground in front of his regiment. He caught a brief glimpse of a guidon waving in the air as the enemy rallied the survivors of the volley and attempted to renew the charge. As soon as the men had reloaded Arthur raised his arm, waited an instant and then swept it down.

‘Fire!’

The second volley rippled out in bright stabs of flame, more smoke, and a renewed chorus of screams and confusion.Again, the redcoats reloaded and then there was a short pause before Arthur heard Fitzroy’s voice calling out from nearby.

‘They’re falling back!’

His words were greeted by a ragged chorus of cheers from the ranks.

‘Silence!’ Arthur bellowed. ‘Silence there!’

The noise swiftly subsided and then Arthur heard for himself the sound of the enemy’s withdrawal. He waited a moment longer, until the smoke had dispersed enough for him to be certain that it was true, and not some French ruse, before he gave the order for the regiment to continue falling back towards the edge of the village.The 33rd moved at a slow pace to ensure that the line was not disrupted, the sergeants concentrating their attention on keeping the lines dressed as they passed over broken ground.

It did not take long for the French to recover their nerve, reform their line and come forward again. This time the line was extended and fresh units were added to each end.Their intention was clear to Arthur as soon as he saw them approach once again. He turned to his adjutant.

‘By God, they mean to flank us.’

‘Flank us?’ Fitzroy sounded alarmed, but he quickly swallowed, stiffened his back and tore his gaze away from the cavalry closing on the British line. ‘Sir, what are your orders?’

Arthur gauged the distance. The cavalry were nearly a quarter of a mile off, and would charge the redcoats before they could take cover in the village. There was only one thing to do, even if it did require a dangerous change of formation and a far slower movement towards safety if the manoeuvre was carried out successfully. Arthur glanced back at the cavalry, already breaking into a trot. There was no time for further thought.

He took a deep breath and called out as calmly as he could, ‘The 33rd will form square!’

Slowly - too slowly, it seemed - the line halted and the flanking companies folded back, as if hinged on the corners of the centre of the line that still faced the enemy cavalry. Then, finally the light and grenadier companies turned and completed the rear of the formation. Hardly a square, Arthur thought. More of a box, and the best protection infantry could afford in the face of enemy cavalry: an unbroken perimeter of bayonets that no horse could be persuaded to hurl itself against. As long as the perimeter remained unbroken the redcoats were safe. If the French managed to find a gap and exploit it, then the men of the formation were doomed.

The flat notes of the cavalry bugles blared out again and the riders forced their mounts into a charge at the oblong of British infantry. The horsemen on the wings steered their horses straight ahead, aiming to pass by the front face of the square, down the sides and then cut the 33rd off from the village - a simple plan, and effective provided they could eventually whittle down the infantry enough to force a break in the square.

This time Arthur held his fire until the hussars were much closer, intending to break the charge in one shattering volley.The hussars slowed momentarily as they negotiated the dead and injured of the first attack, and then flew at the British square.

‘Fire!’

The same savage blast of fire and the same carnage as before, followed a moment later by more fire from the sides of the square as the enemy careered past, and several more of them were shot from their saddles or were crushed as their stricken mounts stumbled and rolled across them. There was a brief hiatus as the French cavalry reined in and reached for their firearms. Arthur seized the opportunity.

‘The square will retire towards the village! Sergeants, keep the formation tight!’

As the sergeant major called the pace, the square crawled towards the village, one step at a time, not stopping to reload their weapons. Now the advantage passed to the enemy as the hussars drew their pistols and carbines and began to fire into the square at close range.The first of Arthur’s men began to fall, some killed outright and left sprawled on the ground as their comrades stepped carefully over them. The injured were hauled into the centre of the square where the men of the colour party and the bandsmen did their best to carry them along with the square as it inched towards the village.

Even as Arthur watched, a hussar, not thirty feet away from him, raised his carbine, calmly took aim along the barrel and the muzzle foreshortened until the barrel became a dot, and Arthur realised with a sick feeling of fear that the hussar had picked him as a target.The Frenchman smiled, squinted an eye and pulled the trigger. The muzzle flashed and Arthur instinctively snapped his eyes shut and waited for the tearing agony of the impact. There was a cry from close by and he felt a body lurch against his boot. Arthur opened his eyes and looked down as a corporal slumped to the ground beside his horse, clutching at his throat, from which blood pumped out in thick jets. The man looked up in desperation and for an instant their eyes met and Arthur felt a horrified panic seize him as he beheld the dying man. Then he shook it off and spurred his horse on towards the front of the square, not daring to glance back at the mortally wounded soldier. Captain Fitzroy was walking his horse up and down behind the front face of the square, shouting encouragement to his men as they endured the sporadic fire from the hussars between the square and the village. At sight of Arthur he reined in and forced himself to smile.

‘Hot work, sir.’

‘Indeed.’Arthur flinched as a shot smacked into the face of one of the men in the leading company. ‘We can’t have this. They’re hitting too many of our men. We must stop and reload.’

‘Stop? Is that wise, sir. It’ll give them time to bring up even more forces.’

‘Maybe, but I’ll not lose more men than I must.’

Arthur wheeled away and sought out the sergeant major. ‘Halt the square and reload.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The sergeant major saluted, drew a breath and bellowed out the orders, bringing the regiment to a standstill. At once the redcoats reached for fresh cartridges and began the steady sequence of movements to ready their weapons.

‘Fire by companies!’ Arthur called out and a series of volleys flashed out from each face of the square, scything through the hussars who had been tormenting them only a moment earlier. A scattered outline of dead and dying soon formed a short distance from each side of the square with only a handful of shots from the enemy in reply. After several volleys the French sounded the recall and the remaining horsemen swiftly wheeled their mounts and galloped out of range.

‘Cease fire! Cease fire!’ Arthur pointed towards the nearest buildings. ‘The regiment will retire towards the village.’

Once more the square slowly shuffled away from the enemy. This time the French did not intervene but shadowed the redcoats from just beyond effective musket range, ready to charge the moment the British formation was disrupted. However, the long months of monotonous drilling on parade grounds back in Britain proved their worth and the 33rd Foot gained the edge of the village. With buildings and fences to guard their flanks, the square formation was no longer required and Arthur was able to deploy one company across the narrow street as a rearguard while the others filed along the narrow thoroughfare towards the bridge.

Assured that his men were safe for the moment, Arthur turned his horse towards the bridge.The tail of the baggage train was still feeding across the narrow span, and some of the larger vehicles, too wide for the passage, had been unhitched from their draught animals and rolled down the steep bank into the river. Lord Moira and his small staff stood off to one side watching proceedings and looked round at the sound of Arthur’s mount clattering across the cobbles of the village’s market square.

Arthur reined in as Lord Moira waved a greeting. ‘What’s the situation, Wesley?’

‘We have enemy cavalry at the outskirts of the village, my lord. The 33rd has their measure and is keeping them at bay as we withdraw to the bridge.’

‘Good.’ The general nodded curtly. ‘That’s good. They’re still giving us a pounding with those guns to the south, and their infantry will be ready to assault the village shortly. But we should hold them long enough to complete the crossing.’

‘My lord, might I respectfully submit that we blow up the bridge, to prevent any pursuit?’

‘It’s already in hand.’ Lord Moira gestured towards the river and Arthur could see a handful of engineers stacking kegs of gunpowder on the buttress beneath the middle span of the bridge.

‘They’ll be ready soon.We’ll fire the charges the moment your men are across.’

‘Very well, sir.’

‘Well, no time to waste, Wesley. Return to your men and start falling back.’

Arthur saluted and turned his horse.

‘Quick as you can, Wesley!’ the general called after him.

Riding swiftly past the leading companies of the 33rd, Arthur drew up by the rearguard. A short distance beyond them, the French hussars had abandoned their horses and were fighting like skirmishers, darting from house to house to fire on the retreating ranks of redcoats. Fitzroy had given permission for the men to fire at will and the air was alive with the fizz and thud of small-arms fire. Arthur dismounted and beckoned to Fitzroy.

‘Take my horse and get to the bridge. I want every company but this in the buildings on the other side of the Anhelm.They’re to provide covering fire when we reach the market square. Got that?’

Fitzroy nodded.

‘Then go.’ Arthur turned back to his rearguard, looked past them to the French hussars ducking round corners to quickly fire their pieces before disappearing back to reload; though not so quick that they didn’t draw answering shots from the British line. As he watched, one of the hussars broke cover and sprinted diagonally across the street. He nearly made the far side when he suddenly jerked to a stop and was flung on his back as some of Arthur’s men found their target. Arthur nodded with grim satisfaction that this example would help discourage the hussars from pursuing the redcoats too enthusiastically. There was no need to keep the company formed up in the face of the limited threat posed by these hussars.

‘Break ranks and pull back!’

The soldiers at once moved to the sides of the street, firing and reloading from cover as they steadily gave ground to the enemy. Arthur, trying hard not to show fear, forced himself to remain in clear view as he strode steadily back towards the bridge. As they reached the market square he ordered his men to halt. The engineers were still preparing the charges and the last of the wagons was squeezing across the narrow span. A handful of men from one of the other regiments was defending the southern approaches to the market square and every so often there was a sharp crash and clatter of falling roof tiles as the French battery outside Ondrecht continued to lob shots into the heart of the village. On the other side of the river Arthur could make out the black hats and red jackets of his men taking up position in the houses that lined the far bank. As soon as the last wagon rumbled down into the street beyond the bridge Arthur turned back to his men.

‘Withdraw! Withdraw!’

The redcoats, hunched over their muskets, stepped back into the market square and fired their last shots at the approaching hussars, before turning and trotting back towards the bridge. Arthur drew his sword, and fell in with them, boots scraping over the cobbles as they ran. A cry of triumph rose up from the street behind them and, glancing back, Arthur saw the hussars start forward, chasing after the redcoats. At the sight of Arthur’s company falling back the handful of men from another regiment still firing at the enemy to the south began to retreat. Then one of their officers, a lieutenant, stopped and pointed.

‘Enemy infantry! There!’ He turned to his men. ‘Stand your ground, damn you!’

But already too many of them were hurrying towards the bridge for his authority to hold sway over their instinct for self-preservation. In any case, an instant later there was a crash as an artillery shot grazed the cobbles a short distance in front of the lieutenant before passing close beside him and smashing through a wall at an oblique angle. A shower of razor-sharp fragments of shattered cobble tore into the officer. He screamed and slumped to his knees, clutching his hands to the chopped-up flesh of his face.

‘My eyes!’ he screamed. ‘My eyes!’

Arthur started towards him, but before he’d taken more than a few quick strides the lieutenant was hit by a shot from the enemy infantry approaching the square. Pitching forward he hit the ground, twitched a moment and then lay still.Arthur stared at him in horror, until one of his soldiers gently took his arm and eased him towards the bridge.

‘Come, sir. Nothin’ yer can do for ’im now.’

Arthur nodded, then tore his gaze away from the fallen officer as he joined his men running for the bridge. As they flitted past the ends of streets he was aware of dim shapes in dark blue coats hurrying towards the square, and musket balls whined through the air or cracked off the cobbles as the French tried to cut down the fleeing redcoats. Then Arthur was on the bridge, lichen-covered stonework rising up waist high on both sides. He stopped himself and turned back, waving the last of his men past, and then trotted along behind them as the first of the French infantry burst into the market square and began to race towards the bridge.

‘For God’s sake, Wesley!’ Lord Moira beckoned to him from behind a wagon on the far side of the river. He was stabbing his finger towards the buttresses of the bridge. ‘Run, man! The fuses have been lit!’

Arthur ducked his head, clasping one hand to his hat to keep it jammed down, and ran for the cover of the nearest house. As he gained the stone doorway he pressed himself in and glanced back towards the bridge. Over the cambered surface he saw the cockaded hats and tricolour flag of the enemy on the far side. Then there was a great blinding flash, a deep booming roar and he was thrown back against the studded wooden door by the shockwave as the kegs of powder beneath the bridge exploded. The centre span of the bridge seemed to rise up intact for an instant before bursting into fragments that rose up and out and began to fall to the ground, showering the area in debris. As the roar of the detonation quickly faded away there was a moment’s silence as men on both sides stared at the pall of smoke and dust rolling over the remains of the bridge. Then the first shot was fired, there was a reply, and then a steady crackle of musketry as both sides renewed the fight. But it was already as good as over. A twenty-foot gap yawned over the rubble-strewn river and the British were, for the moment, safe.

The column pulled out of the village and resumed its march towards Antwerp. For a while the French artillery continued to harass them from the far bank of the Anhelm, but inflicted only a handful of casualties and smashed the axle of a supply wagon that was quickly set on fire by its driver and abandoned.

As the rearguard crested a ridge a short distance from the village Arthur stared back at Ondrecht for a moment, and wondered at his first taste of war. He suddenly felt weary. Weary, but exhilarated. He had stood up to enemy fire and come through it alive. He turned his gaze towards the men of his regiment passing by on the road.They were laughing and babbling away in excited tones, no doubt bragging about their deeds. For a moment he was tempted to have the sergeant major silence them, but then resisted the impulse. Let them have their moment of triumph. It would be good for morale, and besides, they had earned it.