A SKIRMISH.
Our young Cornet Keith never for an instant lost his presence of
mind, for he came of a brave stock, the old Keiths of Inverugie; thus
he was a near kinsman of Marshal Keith, who fell at the head of the
Prussian army on the plain of Hochkirchen.
"We must charge and break through those fellows," said he, coolly and
rapidly, "or we shall all be taken and cut to pieces."
"I fear, sir, it is impossible to break through," said Sergeant Duff,
as he cocked his holster pistol.
"Nothing of this kind is impossible to the Scots Greys!" replied the
young officer, proudly.
"Lead on, sir; and we shall never flinch," said Charters, with a
flushing cheek.
"Keep your horses well in hand, my lads," cried Keith. "We may not
_all_ be killed--so prepare to charge! spur at them--fire your
pistols right into their teeth, and then fall on with the sword.
Forward--charge--hurrah and strike home!"
We received a confused discharge of pistols from those French
Hussars. One of our horses fell and crushed his hapless rider. In
the next moment we were right among them--firing our pistols by the
bridle hand, and hewing right and left, or fiercely giving point to
the front, with our long straight broadswords, beneath the weight of
which their short crooked sabres were as children's toys. Here Big
Hob Elliot cut a Hussar's sword arm clean off, by a single stroke,
above the elbow.
Still they were too many for us. There was a brief and most unequal
hand to hand conflict amid the smoke of our pistols, and red sparks
sprang high as the steel blades met and rung. Cornet Keith clove one
Hussar to the eyes, ran a second through the breast, and being well
mounted on a magnificent grey horse, broke through the press of men
and chargers, and effected a retreat or flight--which you will--to
Dol.
Six others, of whom Jack Charters and Hob Elliot were two--succeeded
in following him; but three perished under the reiterated blows of
more than twenty sabres, while I, separated from the rest, had my
horse thrust half into a beech hedge by the pressure and numbers of
the enemy, whose leader, a brilliantly attired hussar officer, with a
white scarf across his shoulder, and golden grand cross of St. Louis
dangling from its crimson ribbon at his breast, attacked me with
great vigour.
Finding that I was quite his equal with the sword, he drew a pistol
from his saddle-bow and fired it straight at my head. By a smart use
of the spurs and bit, I made my horse rear up; thus the bullet
entered his neck and saved me. Then in its agony the poor animal
made a wild plunge, and bursting through the mob of hussars who
pressed about me, rushed along the road with such speed that I was
soon safe, even from their carbines, and found myself alone and free,
without a scratch or scar.
On, on flew the maddened horse, I knew not whither. There was a
gurgling sound in his throat, and with every bound the red blood
welled up and poured from the bullet-wound over his grey skin, which
was drenched with the flowing torrent.
I lost my grenadier cap as he flew on, past cottages of mud and
thatch, and chateaux with turrets, vanes, and moats; past wayside
wells and votive crosses, and past those tall grey monoliths and
cromlechs that stud so thickly all the land of Brittany; past fields
of yellowing buckwheat and thickets of pale green vines, till, at a
sudden turn of the road, near an ancient and ruinous bridge that
spanned a deep and brawling torrent, he sank suddenly beneath me, and
fell heavily on the ground.
Disengaging myself from the saddle and stirrups, I proceeded to
examine the horse's wound. His large eyes, once so bright, were
covered now with film, and his long red tongue was lolling out upon
the dusty road. My gallant grey was in his death agony, and thrice
drew his sinewy legs up under his belly and thrust them forth with
convulsive energy. At the third spasm, when I was stooping to
examine the wound, his off fore hoof struck me like a shot on the
right temple, inflicting a most severe and stunning wound, and I sank
senseless and bleeding beside him.
Half-an-hour probably elapsed before perfect consciousness returned.
Then I found my face so plastered by the blood which had flowed from
my wound, that my eyes were almost sealed up by it, and my hair,
which was curled (as we wore it so, and _not_ queued, like the troops
of other corps), was thickly clotted also.
In the mêlée, or race, I cannot remember which, I had lost my sword
and pistols, so concealment was my first thought; my second, anxiety
to reach Dol or the camp at Paramé. How either was to be achieved in
a country where my red uniform marked me as a mortal foe and invader,
to be shot down--destroyed by any man, or by any means--was a point
not easy to solve. Moreover, I knew not the language of Brittany, in
only some districts of which French is spoken.
I left my dead grey--poor Bob, for so he was named--with a bitter
sigh; for daily, since I became a soldier, had the noble horse fed
from my hand, and he knew my voice as well as the trumpet call for
"corn" or "water."
I walked along the road unsteadily, giddy, faint, and ill. After
proceeding about a quarter of a mile, I came upon a four-wheeled wain
laden with straw, and standing neglected, apparently, by the wayside.
No horses were harnessed to it, and no driver or other person was
near. It seemed to offer, until nightfall, a comfortable place of
concealment. I clambered up, and, nestling down among the straw,
tied my handkerchief round my contused head to stop further bleeding,
and in a few minutes after, overcome by the sleepless patrolling of
the past night, the excitement and peril of the recent conflict, the
long and mad race run by my dying horse--a race perhaps of twenty or
thirty miles, for I knew not the distance--the pain of the wound his
hoof had given me, and the consequent loss of blood, I fell into a
deep and dreamless stupor, for I cannot call it sleep.
While I was in this state, it would seem that the proprietor of the
wain had come hither, yoked thereto a pair of horses, and, all
unconscious that there was anything else there than straw, forage for
the cavalry of the most Christian King--least of all a
"sacré-Anglais"--in the wain, drove leisurely and quietly off, I knew
not whither, as I neither stirred nor woke.