"Fall in—the Scots Greys!" added Captain Lindsay, coming up at a trot; "we are ordered to the front."
So Tom's dainty rasher was eaten in a trice; the last of Charters's wine was drained, the keg tossed into the nearest watch fire, we sprang on our horses, and at the first ruffle on the kettle-drum, formed line on the left of our standard.
CHAPTER XIX.
THE SACK OF ST. SOLIDORE.
Like all who are so subordinate in rank, we fell in and formed, in total ignorance of where we were going, or what we were to do; who we were to attack, or by whom we might be attacked; and, perhaps, not caring much about the matter, provided we were to do something.
In the dusk the roll was called; the troop "proved" and formed in column with the other light troops under Elliot, the future "Cock of the Rock." We loaded our carbines and pistols, and then the order was given—
"Threes right—forward—trot!" and away we went.
Though we had been imbibing only French wine, we three comrades were not in a very reputable condition; but, fortunately, this could not be perceived in the twilight; though Charters was unusually lively, and my skill was frequently tested, as I was generally the flanker of a squadron, being completely master of my horse.
In the leading section of three, there was a gigantic trooper before us, named Hob Elliot.
"By Jove, Hob, what a noble pair of shoulders you have!" said Charters, as we trotted on; "what a mark your back will be for our friends the French!"