As this seemed a somewhat curious legacy from one brother officer to another, we could not help calling on the general for an explanation,—a demand Bubbleton never refused to gratify.
“It happened in this wise,” said he, pushing back his chair as he spoke, and seating himself with the easy attitude of your true story-teller. “The night before the assault—the 24th of July, if my memory serves me right—the sappers were pushing forward the mines with all despatch. Three immense globes were in readiness beneath the walls, and some minor details were only necessary to complete the preparations. The stormers consisted of four British and three German regiments,—my own, the Welsh Fusiliers, being one of the former. We occupied the lines stretching from L'Hérault to Damies.”
The French officer nodded assent, and Bubbleton resumed.
“The Fusiliers were on the right, and divided into two parties,—an assaulting column and a supporting one; the advanced companies at half cannon-shot from the walls, the others a little farther off. Thus we were, when, about half-past ten, or it might be even eleven o'clock (we were drinking some mulled claret in my quarters), a low, swooping kind of a noise came stealing along the ground. We listened,—it grew stronger and stronger; and then we could hear musket-shot and shouting, and the tramp of men as if running. Out we went; and, by Jove! there we saw the first battalion in full retreat towards the camp. It was a sortie in force from the garrison, which drove in our advanced posts, and took several prisoners. The drums now soon beat to quarters; the men fell in rapidly, and we advanced to meet them,—no pleasant affair, either, let me remark, for the night was pitch dark, and we could not even guess the strength of your force. It was just then that I was running with all my speed to come up with the flank companies, that my cover-sergeant, a cool, old Scotch fellow, shouted out,—
“'Take care, sir! Stoop there, sir! stoop there!'
“But the advice came too late. I could just discern through the gloom something black, hopping and bounding along towards me; now striking the ground, and then rebounding again several feet in the air.
“'Stoop, sir! down!' cried he.
“But before I could throw myself flat, plump it took me here. Over I went, breathless, and deeming all was finished; but, miraculous to say, in a few minutes after I found myself coming to, and except the shock, nothing the worse for the injury.
“'Was that a shell, Sergeant?' said I; 'a spent shell?'
“'Na, sir,' said he, in his own broad way, 'it was naething o' the kind; it was only Lieutenant Stopford's head that was snapped aff up there.'”