Yet one night was nowhere near enough for Talavera to build a solid defensive line.
Early the next morning, led by Wellesley's elite 43rd Light Infantry Regiment, the Anglo-Portuguese Army launched a full-scale assault on the Spaniards. Marquis Talavera personally commanded the defensive line, but the United Kingdom's New Army held crushing advantages in both equipment and training, battering the Spaniards until they could not fight back at all.
Before noon, Talavera's remaining seventeen thousand soldiers had been driven into an extremely narrow strip along the riverbank.
English guns thundered everywhere around them, while behind them surged the rushing river.
Marquis Talavera had nearly fallen into despair. He traced a cross with his hand and prayed, already considering whether he should surrender.
On the other side of the battlefield, Dos Santos drew his saber and mounted his horse, ready to personally command the final wave of charges. Then he saw English Hussars ride over and report to Wellesley, "General, we have discovered French cavalry activity to the northeast."
Wellesley immediately frowned. "How many?"
"Still unclear," said the cavalryman. "Their defenses are tight. We have been unable to get close."
Wellesley hesitated for several seconds, then turned and waved to the Orderly Officer. "Order colonel Lecor to keep watch over the Spaniards here. All other legions are to withdraw immediately to Coimbra."
"Yes, General!"
Dos Santos's eyes widened at once, and he tried to dissuade him. "General, why stop the attack?
"We only need two hours—no, an hour and a half—to utterly crush the Talavera Legion. At this—"
The Englishman merely looked at him coldly. "I believe I made myself very clear, General. Withdraw immediately."
"This... yes, I understand."
Half an hour later, the Anglo-Portuguese Army began withdrawing from the battlefield in orderly batches, retreating along the Mondego River toward Coimbra.