Hardly had they started when two shells burst in amongst them, and Tommy Gallon, who had been riding in the rear near his captain, was seen lying on the ground. The squadron went on; but Jack, seeing his friend down, galloped his horse towards him, and, though under a heavy fire of both artillery and musketry, dismounted and raised his friend’s head.
‘Tommy, old boy, where are you hurt?’ asked Jack.
For answer, poor Tom Gallon pointed to his left arm. It seemed to be smashed. He had been struck by a splinter of shell, which had first killed his horse, then smashed his left forearm.
‘You must get on my horse, Tom,’ said Jack desperately.
‘No, no; leave me, Jack,’ said the wounded trumpeter. ‘See, the troop is retreating, and, ah—look! the Russians are on us.’
This was the case, for the Russian Hussars had hung on to the rear of the Lancers. Seeing the two trumpeters, several of them were trotting up, brandishing their swords.
‘I’ll save you or die with you, Tom,’ said Jack grimly; and he grasped his sword firmly.
The Russians came circling round, making a curious hissing noise, some slashing at Jack, while others bent over in their saddles and tried to reach the wounded trumpeter with their points.
‘Cowards! brutes!’ cried Jack furiously, ‘to try and kill a wounded man!’
But the Russians, supremely ignorant of what he said, continued their attack, Jack keeping them off by performing the moulinet with his sabre. He felt himself slightly wounded once or twice; but he had determined to be cut to pieces rather than desert his fellow-trumpeter.