Whose Business Is to Die by Adrian Goldsworthy

Dragoons and saw a cluster of horsemen in capes, cloaks and neat cocked hats behind them. Marshal Beresford stood out for his bulk, and because it was clear that he was at the centre of things. Williams slowed his horse to a walk, and as he made his way forward saw a familiar face.
    ‘Ah, Williams, it is good to see you.’ Colonel D’Urban’s smile was genuinely warm, but there was no time for other pleasantries. ‘You are with Colborne, I understand.’ D’Urban was Marshal Beresford’s quartermaster general, and so the head of his staff. The colonel noticed Baynes and raised a gloved finger to the peak of his Tarleton helmet, his smile remaining warm, if a little wary. ‘Ah, something is afoot, I gather. Well, I am sure we can speak privately later. Now, Williams, what does Colonel Colborne have to say?’
    ‘I am in with Colborne, sir,’ Williams said, at last able to get a word in to interrupt the flow, ‘but I come now with a message from General Long.’
    D’Urban’s smile faded. ‘Ah, then that is important. Come, you must report to the marshal.’
    Beresford proved as formidable in appearance as Baynes had suggested, his milky white left eye looking as if it stared off at some distant object. Williams struggled to resist the urge to follow its gaze. There was also a glumness about the man, his heavy features giving a sense of despondency.
    ‘General Long’s compliments, sir,’ Williams began, ‘and he asks that the Heavy Brigade advance to support him. If it advances then he says that we will have trapped the French column on the highway, especially if our artillery has arrived. General Long reports that the Thirteenth and the Seventh Portuguese are gone,and that he has only the First Regiment with him, hence his need for the heavy dragoons to complete the victory.’
    Beresford stared at him, the dead eye no longer focused on the far distance, but now seeming to bore into him. He did not seem pleased by the report.
    ‘No, sir, it will not do.’ The marshal shook his head, as if to reinforce his conclusion. In his heavy cloak there was something immense and bear-like about the man. ‘Where is Brigadier General Long?’
    ‘On the far side of the road by now, about three-quarters of a mile to our front,’ Williams said, and wondered why the staff were here behind the heavies. If they moved just a little to the side then Long and his Portuguese would be clearly visible.
    ‘He has the First Regiment with him. How steady are they after such losses?’
    ‘Losses, sir?’
    ‘Do you not know the meaning of the word, young man?’ The marshal’s voice was gruff and getting louder.
    ‘The First Regiment appeared steady, sir, and our losses are trifling.’ Williams used the word before thinking. It was the way of things to speak of such matters in this manner, but a little voice inside his head murmured that it would not be so very trifling to bleeding men waiting for the surgeons, or to the families of the dead. The wound in his hip began to ache for the first time in weeks.
    ‘Trifling, sir, trifling!’ The marshal’s face blazed red. ‘Damn you, young man, do you call a whole regiment taken a trifling loss!’ Men stirred in the rear rank of the 4th Dragoons at the scale of the marshal’s anger and the dreadful news. ‘The Thirteenth are lost. Surrounded by French cavalry and taken. You have just told me that they are gone, have you not, sir? Yet you see this as a mere trifle. Now, out of my sight, sir!’
    Williams was dismissed and for the moment stunned. As he walked his horse away to join Baynes, the marshal was issuing an order to one of his own aides, telling General Long to halt where he was. Williams could not believe it. Yet if the 13th LightDragoons were gone, what of the Portuguese and Hanley? Was his friend in French hands or dead?
    ‘I do not believe it,’ he said aloud, before realising that D’Urban was still beside Baynes. Now that he had spoken, there seemed no point in