"Ay—grenadiers and Number 4. Why not? It's cruel hard."
I asked in my ignorance what was happening. My neighbour turned to me with a grin. "Happening? Why, you've a-lost your chance of death or victory, that's all. Here you are, company bugler for twenty-four hours by the grace of Heaven and the sergeant's contrivance, and because everyone's forgot you and because, as it happens, for twenty-four hours there's no bugling wanted. To-morrow you'll be found out and sent back to the band, where there's five supernumeraries waiting for your shoes. And the bandmaster'll cuff your head every day for months before you get such another chance. Whereas, if No. 4 Company had been chosen for to-night, by to-morrow you'd have blown the charge, and half the drummers in the regiment would be blacking your eyes out of envy. See?"
I did not, very clearly. "Is there to be an attack to-night?" I asked. "And shan't we even see it?"
"Oh yes, we'll see it fast enough. I reckon they won't go so far as to grudge us free seats for the show."
Sure enough, at eight o'clock, we formed up by companies and were marched over the dark crest of the hill and a short way down it in face of the lights of Ciudad Rodrigo. Right below us, on our left, shone a detached light. We ourselves showed none. The word for silence in the ranks had been given at starting, and the captains spoke in the lowest of voices as they drew their companies together in battalion. The light company having been withdrawn, we found ourselves on the extreme left flank, parted by a few yards only from another dark mass of men—the 43rd, as a tallish young bugler whispered close beside me.
"But how the hell do you come here?" he went on, mistaking me in the darkness, I suppose, for one of the youngsters in the band.
"Shut your head, bugler," commanded a corporal close on my right.
The men grounded arms and waited, their breath rising like a fog on the frozen air. Their two tall ranks made a wall before us, shutting out all view of the lights in the valley. The short or supernumerary line of non-commissioned officers on our right stood motionless as a row of statues.
Suddenly a rocket shot up from below, arched its trail of light, and exploded: and on the instant the whole valley answered and exploded below us. Between the detonations a cheer rang up the hillside and was drowned in the noise of musketry, as under a crackle of laughter. Forgetting discipline, I crawled forward three paces and tried to peer between the legs of the rank in front, but was hauled back by the ear and soundly cursed. The musketry crackled on without intermission. Away in Ciudad Rodrigo the walls seemed to open and vomit fireworks, shell after shell curving up and dropping into the valley.
"Glory be!" cried someone. "The old man's done it! The Johnnies wouldn't be shelling their own works."