"Dundas, you shall see how I will unhorse that fellow," said the officer commanding our artillery, as he coolly adjusted the quoin under the breach of a long nine. He meant old Bourmont, who, like a brave fellow as he was, retreated in rear of his column, and was jogging along on his charger, whose drooping head, mulish ears, curved face, and shambling action, shewed the thorough French horse. Before I could speak, the match fell on the vent, the gun was fired, and the aim was true—fatally so.
"A splendid shot, and a jewel of a gun," exclaimed my friend, exulting in his gunnery, as both horse and rider tumbled prone to the earth. "Will you try a shot, Dundas?"
"Thank you, no: you have killed the only man, amid all those ranks, I would have spared."
"By Jove! he is not settled yet," said Lascelles, with an air of disappointment, as the colonel disengaged himself from his fallen horse, and, heavily encumbered by his jack-boots, scrambled over the hill with as much expedition as his short legs and rotund form would permit. Both Oliver and the artillerist were chagrined at his escape; and yet, in their quiet moods, both were men who would not have killed a fly.
At that moment, so critical to Bourmont, I heard a splitting roar—the rock shook beneath us, and we knew not which way to look. Shaken and rent by the salvos of heavy shot which for four successive days had showered from the French batteries, an immense mass of wall, the curtain of our strongest bastion, rolled thundering to the earth; burying the poor artillery officer, Gascoigne, Sergeant Gask, a number of soldiers, and all our best cannon, under a mighty mountain of crumbled masonry. I was dismayed and grieved by this terrible catastrophe, which the French hailed with shouts of rapture and triumph: they redoubled their battering, with such effect on the shattered walls, that every time a ball struck, other masses gave way, burying soldiers and cannon beneath them. By sunset every gun was entombed under the prostrate walls, and we had only musketry to trust to, in case of an assault; which I had no doubt would be attempted that very night, as the breach was quite practicable, and the continual cannonade prevented us from repairing it by fascines or any other contrivance.
Some were now despairing, and all more or less dispirited: many an anxious glance was cast to Sicily, and to the sea which raged between us, as the lowering yellow sun sank behind the Neptunian hills, and the waves grew black and frothy.
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE FALL OF SCYLLA—CONCLUSION.
Night descended upon Scylla, upon the dark Apennines and the tempestuous sea; and my mind became filled with anxiety: our means of defence were greatly diminished, our shelter ruined. The stormy state of the weather cut off, equally, all hope of succour or escape, and I anticipated with dread a surrender to General Regnier, my personal enemy: by his orders Santugo had little mercy to expect from Napoleon: and I knew not to what indignities Bianca, as an Italian lady, might be subjected, if taken prisoner. Though crippled in means of resistance and reduced in number, my few brave fellows would have defended the ruined breach till the last of them perished; but I saw that, ultimately, Scylla must become the prize of the enemy, and only trusted that, during a lull of the storm, we might effect a retreat to Messina by the flotilla of Sicilian gun-boats.
How changed now was the aspect of the venerable Scylla, since that morning when the French batteries first opened on it! The massive Norman battlements and its beautiful hall had crumbled into rubbish, or sunk in ponderous masses beneath the heavy salvos: every window and loophole were beaten into hideous gaps, and yawning rents split the strong towers from rampart to foundation. The well was choked up by the falling stones; and want of water increased the miseries of sixty wounded men: whom, ultimately, we had to abandon to the care of the enemy. Every cannon was buried under the mighty piles of ruin beyond recovery—all, save one thirteen-inch mortar, which I ordered to be dragged to the summit of the breach; where it afterwards did good service.