m the meagre details of the captain's note-book. My
personal observations, however, assisted by an easy imagination, suggested
quite enough to make at least a plausible story, and I wrote away without
impediment and halt till I came to that part of the action in which the
retreat over the bridge commenced. There I stopped. Was I to remain
satisfied with such a crude and one-sided explanation as the note-book
afforded, and merely say that the retreating forces were harassed by a
strong flank fire from our batteries? Was I to omit the whole of the great
incident, the occupation of the "Fels Insel," and the damaging discharges
of grape and round shot which plunged through the crowded ranks, and
ultimately destroyed the bridge? Could I--to use the phrase so
popular--could I, in the "interests of truth," forget the brilliant
achievement of a gallant band of heroes who, led on by a young hussar of
the 9th, threw themselves into the "Fels Insel," routed the garrison,
captured the artillery, and directing its fire upon the retiring enemy,
contributed most essentially to the victory. Ought I, in a word, to suffer
a name so associated with a glorious action to sink into oblivion? Should
Maurice Tiernay be lost to fame out of any neglect or false shame on my
part? Forbid it all truth and justice, cried I, as I set myself down to
relate the whole adventure most circumstantially. Looking up from time to
time at my officer, who slept soundly, I suffered myself to dilate upon a
theme in which somehow, I felt a more than ordinary degree of interest.
The more I dwelt upon the incident, the more brilliant and striking did it
seem. Like the appetite, which the proverb tells us comes by eating, my
enthusiasm grew under indulgence, so that, had a little more time been
granted me, I verily believe I should have forgotten Moreau altogether,
and coupled only Maurice Tiernay with the passage of the Rhine, and the
capture of the fortress of Kehl. Fortunately Captain Discau awoke, and cut
short my historic recollections, by asking me how much I had done, and
telling me to read it aloud to him.

I accordingly began to read my narrative slowly and deliberately, thereby
giving myself time to think what I should best do when I came to that part
which became purely personal. To omit it altogether would have been
dangerous, as the slightest glance at the mass of writing would have shown
the deception. There was, then, nothing left, but to invent at the m