Lieutenant-Colonel George Lake hurried his horse to and fro, impatient, feeling like a man restrained to sitting at the sidelines while glory and fame moved slowly away from him, and there was nothing he could do to prevent its escape. He tapped his hand in a random beat on his charger’s side. It was a massive horse, seventeen hands high, strong, proud, and it can run like a demon unleashed from hell. Before dawn he had given it a run, and the blood had pumped in his cheeks as it soared across the ground gracefully. He had named it Greyfell, taken from Norse mythology. It had fitted since its coat was that of deceivingly calm light grey.

But today wasn’t about horses. It was about beating the French, and from what Lake could see, he believed they were doing it the wrong way.

“We should attack, Edward! Attack, for god’s sake!” he had fumed to Major Way, his usual outlet of anger. “Move the battalion straight up the pass, smash into the French, catch them unawares, and give them a bloody nose!”

Major Way thought they were sitting nicely here, and had been depressed at the apparent needless deaths of so many men as they realigned themselves. He saw no need in losing more in a foolish charge. “I don’t think they’ll be unaware, sir,” Way replied, as tactfully as possible. He was riding Lake’s spare horse, Bashir, not as mighty as Greyfell, but impressive nonetheless.

“Nonsense!” replied Lake, using his favourite expression. Major Way, who had heard this countless times, rolled his eyes when the Colonel looked away. “They’ll be half-asleep after that little battle with us! We’ll run up there and give them hell, Edward!”

Lake’s enthusiasm wasn’t contagious, however, and the more cautious Major Way felt like telling the Colonel such a plan would only spell disaster for the battalion and it’s men. But in the same way, he was a meek man, submissive, and so just sat there and didn’t reply, and a silent battle of conscience was fought. There was only so far a Major could chide a Lieutenant-Colonel. Lake was going against orders to move up the passes, but that didn’t halt him. In truth the passes were more like gullies, narrow, steep channels dug into the ridge. They didn’t even look practical, thought Way. It was probable men would have to use their hands to assist them in climbing up. And when they got nearer and nearer the top, despite Lake’s claims, the muskets would be blasting death and pain constantly onto them.

Lake led Greyfell over to one of his aides, the young Lieutenant Bennett, who left to give the orders to the Captains. They were to march up the passes, as Lake called them, and engage with the enemy. Only half of the companies would implement the assault, the rest would be left in reserve half way up the tall ridge. Almost instantaneously the men began to move, still in column formation, shouldering their weapons and placing one boot after another forward. One boot closer to the summit of the ridge. One boot closer to the French. The light company were spread out in front, but realising the impossibility of skirmishing on such steep a ridge, it was decided they would be absence from the advance.

James was shaking again. “We’re attacking?” he had mouthed disbelievingly at Captain Featherstone, when the commands were passed through the companies. All he felt was utter incredulity, and fright, deeply rooted fright. It wouldn’t leave them; coming in physical form with the shaking of his hand, and his eyes must have showed it too, because they had begun to fill with water. He’d have to brave flying musket balls again.

The heat hadn’t yielded. If anything, it had increased, as the sun blazed almost directly above the troops. It was midday on the 17th August 1808, and the first British troops were climbing the ridge. They were sweating, they were tired and they were struggling. At first, the incline had been gentle, but after a while, it sharply went upwards, and the leading members of the column were being forced to half-go on their arms and knees. It wasn’t quick, and it only exhausted the men more. Some hurt their hands on the sharp ground, where the grass didn’t cover the dry ground, and only sharp, jagged rocks were to be found. The men were still wearing their heavy packs, which weighed them down further, and there were numerous occurrences of slipping and misplaced feet. But the column marched on regardless. James himself had just made it to the base of the steepness, and the end of his scabbard bounced annoyingly against the rocks, making his ascent even more difficult.

There was another problem though.

For all Lake’s promises, the French weren’t asleep. Instead, they were awake and waiting, and beginning to manoeuvre to combat this new attack. Swinging and wheeling round, the blue ranks high above the British, they began to point their muskets down into the gully. But luckily for the 29th, the deep sides of the gully prevented them from being targeted easily, and the French musketry was wild and badly aimed. It hit little and made no impression on the redcoats braving the awkward pass. Eventually the volleys became slow and lethargic and slowly rolled to a silent stop.

As they marched solemnly upwards, the beauty of the place became apparent. Around halfway up lay a pretty olive grove, basking in the lovely sunshine, their short wrinkled trunks and protuberant branches offering a little shade from the midday heat. The grass was longer too, sometimes half way up to a man’s knee, and it looked like a flowing sea of hair, waving slightly. Random adventitious rocks gave the gully and ridge a unique look, like small groups of coastal rocks standing out in the ocean. On any other day it would be a picturesque place for picnic or a morning walk.