Sergeant Godinot notes grimly the three miles of heavily fortified cliffs, the Torres Vedras, lying between his regiment and Lisbon, the cliffs guarded by British forces. At an opening in the escarpment, 100,000 olive trees, torn from their roots, lie piled up in an impassible barrier. The lowlands through which the French soldiers march is swept bare of trees, rocks, and hiding places.

A British cannonball sails over their heads and strikes just beyond them; they angle their march farther from the cliffs, cursing quietly as they struggle across unforgiving rocky ground. Ahead, they see the Tagus river valley, its approach blocked by an artificial lake four miles long and guarded by gun towers. The defenders have blockaded the other end of the cliffs as well, near the sea. There’s no way onto the plateau where Lisbon lies.

Disheartened, the soldiers bivouac for the night in a cold drizzle. A few campfires burn smokily. There are no food rations tonight; the only food to be found is a small dog, shot, cooked, and eaten by a few of the men. The captain is offered a plate, but he turns it down, as there isn’t enough for the entire

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