Thus the day dragged by in stifling heat, until at last that fatal night came on which was to usher in such awful carnage. Again, ’tis no part of my plan to give a detailed story of the fight. To begin with, I have not the wherewithal to do it; a man who fights in battle has quite enough to do, it seems to me, to use his weapons properly, and so can know but little of the whole design. At least ’twas so in my case; and even were it otherwise I would scarce attempt it, for the tale has been already told full oft by abler men than me, and in such glowing words as I could never hope to compass. Still, as one who fought upon the side of victory (if such a butcher’s shambles can be rightly called so), I would make bold to say that but for some blind blundering on the part of Monmouth’s scouts and guides, together with the accidental firing of a pistol, a vastly different story might have come down to your ears. For ’tis certain that we had no previous knowledge of this well-planned night attack, and therefore, but for an eleventh-hour warning, should have been taken unawares by an army which, notwithstanding all its ill-armed, untrained state, yet outnumbered ours by two to one, and moreover, was aflame with burning zeal. With that statement of cold fact I will content myself, and so press forward, hot-foot, on my own affairs. It was a full-mooned, starry night, yet for all that a fog so low and thick hung over marshy Sedgemoor that naught was visible at fifty paces. The night was still, with scarce a breath of wind to stir the rushes which abounded; and save for the dismal booming of a bittern, a roughly-given password or command, and the far-off, muffled sound of revelry, where heedless officers still sat at their wine--except for these, I say, no sound was to be heard. As many of you know, the moor is drained to some extent by means of broad, deep ditches (called Rhines in those parts), and crossed here and there by causeways. For the most part they are filled with mud and water, and on the bank of one of them (that called the Bussex Rhine--a name which surely might have been found graven on poor Monmouth’s heart)--I, who had now joined Feversham, stood with my men that night. ’Twas nearly one o’clock, and I was pacing idly to and fro, full sick of everything, when suddenly a pistol shot rang out upon the silence, followed quickly by the deeper note of muskets; then came loud, warning cries, the furious galloping of horses; and in a moment all was turmoil and confusion. In this manner did we first get news that Monmouth’s army had crept close upon us in the darkness. But, alack for such a well-planned scheme, they had either overlooked or clean forgot the Bussex Rhine; and as they now pressed on, they found their way barred by a great broad ditch some twenty feet across, with no near means of crossing it; and thus it was that we were saved from a surprise attack which might have cost us dear enough.