Frank Mildmay; Or, the Naval OfficerMarryat, Frederick
History
Frank Mildmay; Or, the Naval Officer
Marryat, Frederick
Great Britain -- History, Naval -- 19th century -- Fiction; Great Britain. Royal Navy -- Officers -- Fiction; Sea stories
The word was given to take good aim, and a volley from the masked guns
and musketry was poured into the thick of them. They paused--deep
groans ascended! They retreated a few paces in confusion, then rallied,
and again advanced to the attack; and now the fire on both sides was
kept up without intermission. The great guns from the hill fort, and
the Swiss sharpshooters, still nearer, poured copious volleys upon us,
and with loud shouts cheered on their comrades to the assault. As they
approached and covered our mine, the train was fired, and up they went
in the air, and down they fell buried in the ruins. Groans, screams,
confusion, French yells, British hurras, rent the sky! The hills
resounded with the shouts of victory? We sent them hand-grenades in
abundance, and broke their shins in glorious style. I must say that the
French behaved nobly, though many a tall grenadier and pioneer fell by
the symbol in front of his warlike cap. I cried with rage and
excitement; and we all fought like bull-dogs, for we knew there was no
quarter to be given.
Ten minutes had elapsed since the firing began, and in that time many a
brave fellow had bit the dust. The head of their attacking column had
been destroyed by the explosion of our mine. Still they had re-formed,
and were again half-way up the breach when the day began to dawn; and we
saw a chosen body of one thousand men, led on by their colonel, and
advancing over the dead which had just fallen.
The gallant leader appeared to be as cool and composed as if he were at
breakfast; with his drawn sword he pointed to the breach, and we heard
him exclaim, "_Suivez moi_!" I felt jealous of this brave fellow--
jealous of his being a Frenchman; and I threw a lighted hand-grenade
between his feet--he picked it up, and threw it from him to a
considerable distance.
"Cool chap enough that," said the captain, who stood close to me; "I'll
give him another," which he did, but this the officer kicked away with
equal _sang froid_ and dignity. "Nothing will cure that fellow,"
resumed the captain, "but an ounce of lead on an empty stomach--it's a
pity, too, to kill so fine a fellow--but there is no help for it."
So saying, he took a musket out of my hand, which I had just loaded--
aimed, fired--the colonel staggered, clapped his hand to his breast, and
fell back into the arms of some of his men, who threw down their
muskets, and took him on their shoulders, either unconscious or
perfectly regardless of the death-work which was going on around them.
The firing redoubled from our musketry on this little group, every man
of whom was either killed or wounded. The colonel, again left to
himself, tottered a few paces further, till he reached a small bush, not
ten yards from the spot where he received his mortal wound. Here he
fell; his sword, which he still grasped in his right hand, rested on the
boughs, and pointed upwards to the sky, as if directing the road to the
spirit of its gallant master.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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