After the bullocks were unharnessed, they began jumping and frisking about, to the no small amusement of our men, but to their danger, as it afterwards proved. The French seeing the bullocks grazing, commenced firing on them, as well as occasionally sending a twenty-four-pounder at our little party then stationed on a rising ground, amusing ourselves at the random twenty-four-pound shots as they hopped about. At night, placing our advanced picquet near the town, the remainder of the party turned into the tents of the sappers for the night, but their slumbers were not so sound as they anticipated, for at the dead but not silent hour of night, a round-shot came whirling through one of the tents, striking the pole, and brought it down on those within. Their cries having awoke those of the adjoining tent, they immediately flew to their assistance, and having relieved them from this new-fashioned man-trap, rats never flew with more agility than did the poor sappers from their lair. I could not forbear laughing at the scene, although attended with bad consequences, as one man had his thigh broke, and another his leg taken off at the calf. While helping to raise the tents every eye was intent, looking out for another French visitor in the shape of a twenty-four-pounder, but the drollery of a countryman of mine gave some zest to their serenity; instead of bolting like the rest, he coolly said, “Where the devil are you all scampering to? Sure you don’t think the French took aim? I wished they did, for if they had, by Jasus they wouldn’t hit our tent in a week! You may be easy then, for they never hit twice in the same place.” The two poor fellows thus dangerously wounded were comrades, and natives of Coventry, one named Green, and the other Gea. The next morning the sappers having put the pontoons to rights, the guns passed over, and we arrived safe at our own camp.