"Which, my lad?"
"Why, that splendid officer, talking to the pale little man, in a gray surtout and leather breeches."
"Ah, no, my little comrade," replied the other drummer, laughing, "that is Murat, General of Cavalry,—the little man in the gray surtout is General Bonaparte. However, you need not blush for your hero; he is a wonderful fellow at the head of a charge. Wherever his white plume goes, victory follows. You should see Bonaparte watch it, gleaming above the fight, as the French cavalry goes thundering up against Austrian bayonets or batteries. They say the mad general sometimes shouts to the Austrian dragoons, 'Ho! who of you wants Murat's jewels? Let him come and take them!' And they come one after another, to go down under his sword, which falls upon them swift and sure as the lightning. Ah! he is a terrible fellow."
Leopold found a battle to be something yet more awful than he had imagined. The roar of artillery, the rattle of musketry, the clang of swords and bayonets, the stormy gallop of cavalry, the groans and shrieks of wounded and dying men, appalled his very soul. But though his cheeks grew deathly white, and his eyes large and wild, he had not one cowardly impulse to fly from his duty. Again and again, he gave the quick drum-beat for the advance.
In the height of the battle, Murat dashed forward in one of his overpowering cavalry charges. Leopold, in the midst of the horrors of the fight, gazed with wonder and admiration at the plumed and jewelled officer, on his magnificent white horse, with its trappings of gold and azure. It was like a beautiful vision in that awful place, and a wild huzza broke from the boy's lips. Just then a cannon-ball rushed before him, like a small whirlwind, and carried away his drum, in a thousand fragments. He saw the same ball pass harmlessly between the legs of the white horse of Murat, who was then engaged in a hand-to-hand combat with a tall Austrian dragoon. Relieved from duty, the boy stood watching the fiery general, forgetful of danger, scarcely hearing the horrible singing of the bullets through the air. He saw the tall dragoon go down, and another dash forward to fill his place. While General Murat was dealing with him, Leopold saw an Austrian officer spur forward, and wheel sharply a powerful black horse, with the intent to attack the rash French hero from behind. While his followers were engaging those of Murat, he plunged forward, with his gleaming sword lifted high in air. Leopold never know how he did it, but he broke frantically through the ranks of infantry, in among the furious, trampling cavalry, at the last moment, seized the Austrian's black horse by the bit, and throwing his whole weight upon it, brought him to his knees. As he did so, he screamed at the top of his voice, "This way, General Murat!" The consequence was, that the sword that would have struck down his general, fell on his own presumptuous arm, nearly severing it from his shoulder. But on the instant, the white-plumed hero wheeled, with his avenging sword uplifted, and the next thing the drummer-boy saw, as he lay bleeding on the ground, was a great black horse dashing riderless away.
General Murat saw at once the great service Leopold had done him, and all that the daring act had cost the poor lad. He paused there, and stood guard over the boy, till he had seen him carefully removed to the rear. Then with his sword in one hand, a pistol in the other, and the bridle in his teeth, he dashed forward again in a last wild, tremendous charge, which carried the day for the French.
The next morning, Leopold found himself an inmate of the crowded hospital, surrounded with the wounded and the maimed, the fevered and the dying. But he was especially well cared for, at the command of General Murat, to whose interest perhaps it was owing that his arm was saved, as at first the surgeons were for taking it off, and so making an end of a troublesome job. But with skilful treatment, aided by the lad's youth, good habits, and patience, the great wound healed at last.
One day, while Leopold yet lay on his cot, forbidden to stir, and feeling very lonely and homesick, the dreary hospital was illuminated by the entrance of General Murat, accompanied by his beautiful young wife, who was a sister of General Bonaparte. After bowing graciously to the other patients, they came to the little drummer-boy. The General inquired kindly after his wound, and Madame Murat thanked him in the sweetest manner for saving the life of her husband.
"Glory gives you a rough hand-shake at first, eh, my lad? But, never mind; it is a brusque way she has," said the General, smiling.
"I am thankful that she did not shake my hand off altogether, my General," replied Leopold. "I fear as it is, 't will be long ere I can hope to help drum the way to another victory."