the soldiers who held the
position, and my heart beat anxiously and proudly as I recognized the
Guards. In the orchard and the garden were stationed some riflemen,--at
least their dress and the scattered order they assumed bespoke them such.
While I looked, the tirailleurs of Jerome's Division advanced from the
front of the line, and descending the hill in a sling trot, broke into
scattered parties, keeping up as they went a desultory and irregular fire.
The English skirmishers, less expert in this peculiar service, soon fell
back, and the head of Reille's Brigade began their march towards the
chateau. The English artillery is unmasked and opens its fire. Kellermann
advances at a gallop his twelve pieces of artillery; the chateau is
concealed from view by the dense smoke, and as the attack thickens, fresh
troops pour forward, the artillery thundering on either side; the entire
lines of both armies stand motionless spectators of the terrific combat,
while every eye is turned towards that devoted spot from whose dense mass
of cloud and smoke the bright glare of artillery is flashing, as the
crashing masonry, the burning rafters, and the loud yell of battle add
to the frightful interest of the scene. For above an hour the tremendous
attack continues without cessation; the artillery stationed upon the height
has now found its range, and every ringing shot tells upon the tottering
walls; some wounded soldiers return faint and bleeding from the conflict,
but there are few who escape. A crashing volley of fire-arms is now heard
from the side where the orchard stands; a second, and a third succeed, one
after the other as rapid as lightning itself. A silence follows, when,
after a few moments, a deafening cheer bursts forth, and an aide-de-camp
gallops up to say that the orchard has been carried at the point of the
bayonet, the Nassau sharp-shooters who held it having, after a desperate
resistance, retired before the irresistible onset of the French infantry.
"A moi! maintenant!" said General Foy, as he drew his sabre and rode down
to the head of his splendid division, which, anxious for the word to
advance, was standing in the valley. "En avant! mes braves!" cried he,
while, pointing to the chateau with his sword, he dashed boldly forward.
Scarcely had he advanced a hundred yards, when a cannon-shot, "ricocheting"
as it went, struck his horse in the counter and rolled him dead on the
plain. Disengaging himself from the lifeless a