The Colonel, trained in the proper management of war, diagnosed the General’s crude enthusiasm as excitement and gently tried to calm the old man by explaining that the sensible course was to wait until the artillery reached the town, and only then to mount an attack on the infantry who guarded the barricaded bridge. “Two volleys of cannon-fire will clear them away,” the Colonel explained, “and there’ll be no need for our side to suffer any casualties. I think that’s the prudent course, don’t you?” The Colonel offered the General a patronizing smile. “Perhaps the General would care to take a cup of coffee?”

“Bugger your coffee. And bugger you.” The Dragoon General seized the Colonel’s uniform jacket and dragged the man close so that he could smell the General’s garlic and brandy flavoured breath. “I’m attacking the bridge now,” the General said, “and if I take it, I’m coming back here and I’m going to tear your prudent bloody balls off and give your regiment to a real man.“

He let the Colonel go, then ducked out of the tavern door into the street. A Prussian musket bullet fluttered overhead to smack against a house wall that was smothered with posters advertising a fair, which was to be held on the feast day of St Peter and Paul. Someone had limewashed a slogan huge across the rash of posters: „Vive I’Empereur!“

„You!” The General shouted at an infantry lieutenant who was sheltering in an alley from the desultory Prussian fire. “Bring your men! Follow me. Bugler! Sound the assemble!” The General beckoned to his orderly to bring his horse forward and, ignoring the Prussian musketry, he pulled himself into his saddle and drew his sword. “Frenchmen!” he shouted to gather in whatever men were within earshot. “Bayonets! Sabres!”