Sir Gray showed no displeasure. No one expected Tatars to have any manners. Besides, the Duke of York had repeatedly instructed him that this time, he had to cooperate seriously with the Russian Army, so he did not want to quarrel.
"Are your men ready?" he asked, changing the subject.
"Of course." Kossakov nodded proudly. "The Yefremov Corps will probably sleep only four hours tonight. They'll begin preparing to maneuver before dawn."
"I hope we can take Offenburg tomorrow." The British man tugged at his collar. "This damned place is freezing..."
A rumble of cannon fire came from afar, cutting off his grumbling.
"What are the French doing?" Sir Gray glanced at his pocket watch. It was nearly six; both sides should have returned to their camps long ago.
The two positions were about two kilometers apart, and with darkness beginning to fall, it was nearly impossible for cannon fire to hit this place.
Kossakov smiled. "Novices are always like this. Once they get excited, they want to keep firing without stopping. At this rate, they'll use up their shells in three or four days."
As the two spoke, a convoy of carts slowly passed along a nearby path. Waves of agonized groans came from that direction.
Graham turned to look and saw wounded English soldiers filling the carts, lying or sitting within them. Walking wounded followed behind with their heads bowed. Not a single person spoke.
Graham frowned and generously instructed his staff officer, "Prepare some hot soup for them. Give everyone double rations of wine."
"Yes, General."
In the English Army camp, soldiers sat around bonfires, silently dipping dry bread into wine and eating it with cured meat.
Nearly everyone was somewhat downcast. They had thought today would be a one-sided slaughter of French recruits, yet the counterattack