By sheer force of numbers, the Prussians, while giving and receiving a storm of musketry, pushed into the woods, driving the French skirmishers before them. Those who were spectators saw the little scarlet kepis of the latter dispersing in succession amid the white smoke and green foliage; then the dark-coated Prussians, with their spike-helmets and goat-skin packs, disappeared also in pursuit. What happened in this part of the battle no one knows, or ever will know, as it was entirely in the dense woods and deep valleys, and thus no general view could be obtained; yet it is to this part of the field we have to refer, for there fought the 95th regiment.
From one wooded slope to another the French fell back, fighting desperately. In the valleys, the din of war rang with a hundred reverberations. Shrieks, cries, and hoarse cheering shook the very woodlands, and the smoke curled up from the latter as if they were on fire. White puffs and red flashes seemed to burst from every bush and tree. Now and then the bayonets flashed, or a tricolour appeared amid the foliage; but on, almost without check, went the Prussians, over ground strewn with the terrible debris of men, gun-carriages, limbers, and horses, in many instances blown literally to pieces, for the whole ground was ploughed by shot and shell, and sown with rifle bullets.
Charlie's regiment, with the 40th, 67th, and 69th, was ordered to surround and storm a cottage mid-way on the Gorze road. The reason of four battalions being sent to storm a mere cottage was that it was held by a half-battery of French mitrailleuses, which did frightful execution in their ranks as they advanced.
Forward they went at a rush, the living tumbling over the fast-falling dead, these dreadful cannon belching death and destruction from amid the foliage in front, with that horrible shrieking sound peculiar to their discharge, and Charlie felt the streams of shot as they passed him.
A wild cry of agony, amid many others, made him look to his right. There lay Schönforst and half his company writhing or dead in one bloody heap; and the next moment it was Charlie's turn.
He felt as if a hot sword-blade had entered his breast—there was a heavy blow, a sharp tearing of the body, an emotion of rage or anger—a loud cry escaped him, and he fell on his face, enduring terrible agony. He staggered up, just as the attacking force swept over him to assault the battery, but fell over on his side, and lay with the blood pouring from his chest.
Wounded at last—perhaps mortally! was his first reflection; for he could feel that the bullet was in his body still. Life, death—the past, the future—'the possible heaven, the impending hell'—all flashed upon him, with thoughts of his own misery in lying there dying, helpless, and so far from Ernestine!
A faintness came over him, from which he was roused by feeling some one opening his tunic.
'Where are you wounded?' asked a familiar voice, and Charlie found the doctor of the regiment—with all of whom, we have said, he was a great favourite—bending over him kindly, with the hospital attendant of his company.
'In the breast,' he gasped.