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hussars.
    ‘ Qui vive ?’ a voice called out. The challenge was repeated.
    ‘Ignore them,’ said Lord Paget.
    ‘Well, we haven’t been introduced,’ hissed Williams’ companion.
    ‘ Qui vive ?’ The wind picked up, driving away the mist, and he could clearly see the French chasseur holding his carbine, and yet in spite of their refusal to answer, he did not fire. It began to sleet.
    The main body of the French had stopped. It took a moment for the general to see this, and then he halted his own column. There was movement in the French mass as they deployed into line facing towards the British. The sleet turned to snow, then slackened and died away to nothing.
    ‘ Qui vive ?’ Still no answer, and Williams began to think the enemy outposts quite stubbornly obtuse. Behind him the 15th wheeled left to form line to confront the enemy. He remained with the general and his staff, ahead of and just to the left of the centre of the new line. A small escort of a dozen men from Lord Paget’s own regiment, the 7th Hussars, guarded him.
    Williams reached down to loosen his sword in its scabbard, suddenly nervous that the frost would make it stick. It slid comfortably and he let it fall back into place. He had anticipated the order by only a moment.
    ‘Draw swords!’ There was a scraping as the hussars’ blades grated against the metal tops of their scabbards. The light cavalry-pattern sabre was curved and rather clumsy, but its heaviness lent power to the edge. Williams carried a Russian sword, less curved and lighter, but well balanced, and he was tempted as always to flick it through the air, enjoying its feel. Instead, he shouldered the blade just like the hussars. Williams had never fought with a sword, for in the battles of the summer his weapons had been musket and bayonet. He had shot and killed the sword’s owner, and now for the first time wondered whether it was an unlucky weapon. That was superstition, and he tried his best to dismiss the thought.
    ‘ Vive l’Empereur !’ A cheer came from the French cavalry. Williams almost smiled to hear again the familiar shout. Then there were flashes and puffs of smoke as the flankers fired their carbines, the noise of the shots coming almost instantly as they were so close. Williams did not see anyone fall, and the French horsemen were soon spurring their horses back towards their main body.
    Unscathed, the 15th gave a cheer of their own.
    ‘The Fifteenth will advance. Walk march!’ The line walked forward, the hussars in two ranks; the second waited until the first was a horse’s length ahead of them before following.
    ‘Emsdorf and victory!’ shouted the lieutenant colonel.
    ‘Emsdorf and victory!’ The chant was repeated all along the line, recalling a battle half a century before when the regiment had first made a name for itself.
    ‘Trot!’ They accelerated almost immediately, for the French were already less than four hundred yards away. Swords were still on the shoulder.
    The French were not moving, and then suddenly their front vanished behind a cloud of smoke as they fired a volley with their short carbines. The range was long. Williams would certainly not have thought to fire at such a distance. He did not hear or feel any of the shots go near him and guessed that they all went high.
    ‘Charge!’ They was already closing quickly, and before he used his heels Bobbie began to run, for once without her familiar lurch. She raced ahead, and Williams was riding abreast of Lord Paget, a horse’s length ahead of everyone else. The general looked more puzzled than irritated when he glanced to see the infantry officer beside him.
    Another volley, and this time a ball snatched the cocked hat from Williams’ head. A horse fell in the squadron behind them, the man tumbling to the ground, and somehow the hussar behind him jumped the fallen beast and man without checking. The men had their sabres high now, the point angled forward at the enemy. Williams was