Beside me stood Jack Charters, tall, erect, and soldier like. One hand grasped his horse's bridle, the other rested in the steel basket hilt of his long broad sword. With a keen, bright eye, and a proud smile on his lip, he was looking at the shore, where--like myself--he hoped to regain by bravery and courage the position he had lost by his own youthful folly and the injustice of others. At last we were alongside the rough pier of Cancalle, and some of Kingsley's Grenadiers, who were ordered to assist in getting the Cavalry and Artillery disembarked, ran the landing stages on board for our horses. The first of ours, on _terra firma_, mounted, and sword in hand, was our gallant leader, Captain Frank Lindsay. "Quick, my lads--get on shore and join the captain," said Charters, who, although a corporal now, could not forget the authority he had once wielded; "he is a man to stand by, for true it is that a good officer to lead makes a good soldier to follow." "Ay, ay," added Kirkton, as he, too, leaped joyously into his saddle, and made his horse curvet, while he sung:-- "'Tis he, you, or I, Cold, hot, wet, or dry, We're always bound to follow, boys, And scorn to fly." "Fall in, my lads--fall in as you come ashore--and take up your dressing by the standard," cried Captain Lindsay. A seaman, a good-natured fellow, was assisting me with my horse across the landing stage, when there was a whizzing sound, and a shot that came, no one knew from where, shattered his right elbow. He uttered a groan, and would have fallen between the boat and pier, had not Sergeant Duff, of the Greys, caught him in his arms. "Never mind, mates," said he, cheerfully; "tie up the stump, some one--I'm in for a pension at Chatham Chest, boys!" I remember that my first emotion was a selfish thankfulness that the shot had not struck _me_. So strong was the ground by nature, in the neighbourhood of our landing, that two thousand determined men might have cut to pieces ten times their number from behind the thick hedgerows, the houses and the rocks; yet we encountered not the slightest opposition, save from the little battery already mentioned. By the noon of the 6th of July, everything belonging to our small army--its whole material of war--was ashore, and we encamped on an eminence which was crowned by a picturesque old windmill. It overlooked Cancalle, from whence the people--all hard-featured, ungainly, and squalid-looking Bretons--had now entirely fled, leaving their houses to the mercy of our soldiers and sailors, who pillaged them of everything they could find or destroy.