There was another shot, close at hand, and then a shrill voice rang out:—“Oh, don’t shoot—don’t shoot!”
“My boy Dick!” shouted Mrs Beane, and she rushed out, as torn and bleeding, the boy staggered up between two of the men, and the next minute was surrounded by the officers, but could not speak for exhaustion: but he made signs for water, drank some thirstily, and one of the sentries stated to the Major that he had seen something crawling up towards his post and fired.
“And then I see it, and fired too, sir,” said the other.
“Poor boy,” cried the Major. “Where are you hurt?”
“I don’t know—everywhere. I’m scratched, and I tumbled, and my knees are sore. But do go directly, oh! Do go, or he’ll be dead.”
It was some time before in his weak, half-starved state the poor boy could make them understand, for he had completely broken down: and it was not until he had swallowed a little biscuit soaked in wine, as he lay with his head in Mrs Beane’s lap, that he at last told hysterically of how he had managed to crawl by the French outposts and reached his friends.
His last words were, “Why don’t you go?—the Colonel—you’ll be too late.”
There was silence for a few minutes, all present watching the little messenger as he lay back insensible in Mrs Beane’s arms.
Then the Major walked away: the men were formed up in a hollow square: and he addressed them and told them that their Colonel was lying wounded and dying away yonder, on the slope of the ravine, and he called for volunteers to fetch him in.