“Why, he ordered me to picket two squadrons of the Seventh, and a supper was waiting. I didn’t like to leave my quarters, so I took up my telescope and pitched upon a sweet little spot of ground on a hill; rather difficult to get up, to be sure, but a beautiful view when you’re on it. ‘There is your ground, Captain,’ said I, as I sent one of my people to mark the spot. He did not like it much; however, he was obliged to go. And, would you believe it?—so much for bad luck!—there turned out to be no water within two miles of it—not a drop, Charley; and so, about eleven at night, the two squadrons moved down into Grammont to wet their lips, and what is worse, to report me to the commanding officer. And only think! They put me under arrest because Providence did not make a river run up a mountain!”
Just as the major finished speaking, the distant clatter of horses’ feet and the clank of cavalry was heard approaching. We all rushed eagerly to the door; and scarcely had we done so, when a squadron of dragoons came riding up the street at a fast trot.
“I say, good people,” cried the officer, in French, “where does the burgomaster live here?”
“Fred Power, ‘pon my life!” shouted the major.
“Eh, Monsoon, that you? Give me a tumbler of wine, old boy; you are sure to have some, and I am desperately blown.”
“Get down, Fred, get down! We have an old friend here.”
“Who the deuce d’ye mean?” said he, as throwing himself from the saddle he strode into the room. “Charley O’Malley, by all that’s glorious!”
“Fred, my gallant fellow!” said I.
“It was but this morning, Charley, that I so wished for you here. The French are advancing, my lad. They have crossed the frontier; Zeithen’s corps have been attacked and driven in; Blucher is falling back upon Ligny; and the campaign is opened. But I must press forward. The regiment is close behind me, and we are ordered to push for Brussels in all haste.”
“Then these despatches,” said I, showing my packet, “‘tis unnecessary to proceed with?”