As the first gun fired the Earl waved the servant forward and watched as the small cups were handed about to his staff. The Earl waited for the second gun to fire, then, as though these horsemen were about to ride to hounds, he gravely raised his stirrup cup. ‘Today’s fox, gentlemen. Allow me to give you today’s fox.’ The horsemen drank. Lord John Rossendale had to curb the temptation to gulp the sherry down. The third gun fired. The fox had broken cover, was running, and the blooding could begin. Every gun on the French ridge opened fire. The salvo showed as a volcanic eruption of smoke that blurred the far crest with yellow-grey smoke. In the heart of the smoke were the stabbing flames. Two heartbeats later the sound slammed across the valley; a thunderclap to tell Europe that the Emperor was at war. The majority of the guns had been loaded with shell. The cold barrels dropped the missiles fractionally short and most plunged harmlessly into mud that either extinguished the burning fuse or soaked up the force of the explosion.
