"The battalion will form line on the grenadiers," cried Fassifem,—"double quick!" The movement was performed with the rapidity and precision of a home-review. As the covering-serjeant of the light company took up the ground of alignement, holding his long pike aloft, a shot struck him in the head, passing through his right eye, and he fell dead. The line formed across his body, and the word of command from Seaton, "Light company; halt,—front,—dress!" had scarcely been heard on the left, before the orderly bugler, who stood by Cameron's side, sounded to fire, and the hoarse braying piobrachd now rang along the line.
The first volley of the Highlanders gave a temporary check to the enemy, and enabled the 34th and "old Half-hundred" to reform in order. The French line was now, as I have said, within thirty paces, and every lineament and feature of their dark and sallow faces could be distinctly seen at so short a distance. They were now in the midst of all the uproar, the smoke, the blood, the danger, the mingling of hideous groans and cries,—in short, the hell upon earth of a hot engagement, in which both parties became so heated by the slaughter around them, that all the softer passions were forgotten, and they longed, with a tiger-like feeling, to bury their blades in each other's hearts.
Ronald felt his pulses thickening, the blood tingling in his ears, for the sound of the musquetry had deafened them to every thing else, and his heart rebounded within his bosom until he could almost hear it beat; but it was with feelings the reverse of fear,—a wish to leap headlong among the enemy, to cut them down with his sword as he would whinbushes, and to revenge the slaughter the terrible fire of so dense a column was making among his gallant and devoted regiment. So thick was the smoke become, that he could scarcely see the third file from him, and only at times it cleared up a little. What was then revealed, served only to infuriate him the more. The Highlanders were lying in heaps across and across each other,—piled up just as they fell; while their comrades fought above them, firing and reloading with all the rapidity in their power, until struck by a shot, and down they fell to perish unnoticed and unknown. Almost every shot killed; for the distance was short, and the wounds were hideous and ghastly, the blood spouting forth from the orifice as if through a syringe.
Now and then Ronald felt his heart momentarily recoil within him when he beheld some poor soldier, while in the full possession of life and energy, toss aside his firelock, and fall suddenly backwards across some heap of corpses—stricken dead. But a battle-field is no place for sympathy, and the feeling lasted but for an instant.
"Shall we never get the word to charge?" cried Seaton fiercely. "O Stuart! this is indeed infernal work,—to be mauled thus, and within a few feet of their muzzles."
"A charge would be madness, and our utter destruction. A single regiment against thirteen columns of Frenchmen—"
"We possess the pass, though. Poor Macivar is on the turf, and Macdonuil is shot through the heart. Hah! see to the left: the 50th are giving way—God! I am struck!" He sunk to the earth, with the blood gushing from his mouth and nostrils. A shot had pierced his breast, beating in with it a part of the silver breast-plate, and in great agony he rolled over several times, grasping and tearing the turf with fruitless efforts to regain his feet.
"Never mind me, light bobs, but stand by Cameron to the last. Hurrah!" Convulsively he strove to raise himself up; but another bullet passed through his neck, and a deadly paleness overspread his countenance. He gave his claymore one last flourish, he cast a glance of fury and despair towards the enemy, and expired. Scarcely a minute had elapsed since he was struck, and now he was dead!
"Poor Seaton!" muttered Ronald, and turned away. He had now the command of the light company; the other lieutenant lay bleeding to death a few yards off, and in the intervals of pain crying fruitlessly for water. One soldier, who had been struck by a shot across the bridge of the nose, became blind, and rushed frantickly among the enemy, to perish under their bayonets. Another, who had his lower jaw carried off, presented a horrible spectacle as he lay on the ground, vomiting up blood through his open throat, and lolling out his exposed and swollen tongue.[*]
[*] This man lived for many years afterwards, having the loss supplied by a mask, through which soups were induced by a pipe for his sustenance. For pension he received the sum of nine-pence per day.