Struck on the breast by a shell, the gallant Nolan fell back on his saddle, with a wild and harrowing cry, as his horse swept round, and bore his body to the rear, with his feet still in the stirrups, vindicating, even in death, his reputation as one of England's noblest horsemen.
Man after man, horse after horse, are now going down, thick and fast, and shrieks, and prayers, and curses rise together to Heaven; but the rest close in from the flank, and firmer, denser, wilder, and more resolute than ever we ride the race of death!
On, and on yet, steeds snorting, lances rising and falling, pennons fluttering, and sabres flashing in the sunshine.
"Steady, lads, steady!" cried Lionel Beverley, as another shower of grape tore through the squadrons, and many more went down, though some of the horses remained riderless in the rank, and galloped mechanically on. For a moment, amid the confusion, I saw the colonel for the last time, as he led us—that noble heart, that polished gentleman and gallant lancer. He was deadly pale, for he was mortally wounded in the left side. His life-blood was ebbing; but his sword was still uplifted, and a light was flashing in his eyes, which already could see "the glories and the terrors of the unknown world."
"Close up, gentlemen and comrades! Keep your horses well in hand; but spur on—charge, and charge home! Hurrah!"
A ball hummed past—a twenty-four pound shot, apparently—and where was Lionel Beverley?
Doubled up, a dead and ghastly heap, under a dying and mangled charger! The next who fell was my friend Wilford. If he was somewhat of a dandy in England, there was no want of pluck in him here. Leading his troop, he fell close by me, and I leaped my horse over him as he rolled past, churning a mouthful of grass and earth, his features awfully convulsed, and his limbs trembling in their death agony. Poor Fred Wilford!
On and on yet! Many a familiar face is gone now; the gaps are fearful, and men who were on the flanks now find themselves in the centre. Yet, withal, it is impossible not to feel how—
One crowded hour of glorious life
Is worth an age without a name.
On we still gallop towards that mouth of fire—on, and fearlessly. The best blood of the three kingdoms is in our ranks, all well and nobly mounted, the flower of our gallant cavalry—on yet like a whirlwind, the hearty British "Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!" ringing in our ears; the heart's blood seems mounting to the brain; and now we are upon them!—now the red flashing muzzles of the cannon are passed; the gunners are throwing themselves under the wheels and limbers, where we cut them down, and spear or pin them to the turf. Others are rushing for shelter to their squares of infantry, under whose rifles they lie flat and securely, while sheets of lead are tearing through us!