Thus passed the long night, far more terrible to me than all the dangers of the storm itself, with all its death and destruction dealing around it. I know not if I slept: if so, the horrors on every side were pictured in my dreams; and when the gray dawn was breaking, the cries from the doomed city were still ringing in my ears. Close around me the scene was still and silent; the wounded had been removed during the night, but the thickly-packed dead lay side by side where they fell. It was a fearful sight to see them as, blood-stained and naked (for already the camp-followers had stripped the bodies), they covered the entire breach. From the rampart to the ditch, the ranks lay where they had stood in life. A faint phosphoric flame flickered above their ghastly corpses, making even death still more horrible. I was gazing steadfastly, with all that stupid intensity which imperfect senses and exhausted faculties possess, when the sound of voices near aroused me.
“Bring him along,—this way, Bob. Over the breach with the scoundrel, into the fosse.”
“He shall die no soldier’s death, by Heaven!” cried another and a deeper voice, “if I lay his skull open with my axe.”
“Oh, mercy, mercy! as you hope for—”
“Traitor! don’t dare to mutter here!” As the last words were spoken, four infantry soldiers, reeling from drunkenness, dragged forward a pale and haggard wretch, whose limbs trailed behind him like those of palsy, his uniform was that of a French chasseur, but his voice bespoke him English.
“Kneel down there, and die like a man! You were one once!”
“Not so, Bill, never. Fix bayonets, boys! That’s right! Now take the word from me.”
“Oh, forgive me! for the love of Heaven, forgive me!” screamed the voice of the victim; but his last accents ended in a death-cry, for as he spoke, the bayonets flashed for an instant in the air, and the next were plunged into his body. Twice I had essayed to speak, but my voice, hoarse from shouting, came not; and I could but look upon this terrible murder with staring eyes and burning brain. At last speech came, as if wrested by the very excess of my agony, and I muttered aloud, “O God!” The words were not well-spoken, when the muskets were brought to the shoulders, and reeking with the blood of the murdered man, their savage faces scowled at me as I lay.
A short and heart-felt prayer burst from my lips, and I was still. The leader of the party called out, “Be steady, and together. One, two! Ground arms, boys! Ground arms!” roared he, in a voice of thunder; “it’s the captain himself!” Down went the muskets with a crash; while, springing towards me, the fellows caught me in their arms, and with one jerk mounted me upon their shoulders, the cheer that accompanied the sudden movement seeming like the yell of maniacs. “Ha, ha, ha! we have him now!” sang their wild voices, as, with blood-stained hands and infuriated features, they bore me down the rampart. My sensations of disgust and repugnance to the party seemed at once to have evidenced themselves, for the corporal, turning abruptly round, called out,—
“Don’t pity him, Captain; the scoundrel was a deserter; he escaped from the picket two nights ago, and gave information of all our plans to the enemy.”