Click-clock, click-clock!
Here came the news. A heavy dragoon, sweating from every pore, his face portraying the satisfaction of a man first shot over, came galloping in. He handed to the general a slip of paper from the subaltern in command of the advance-guard:—
"11.55. Enemy firing on my left flanking patrol—about fifty mounted men advancing towards me. I am on a rise 500 yards to the south-west of the farmhouse."
"That is a good boy," said the brigadier musingly, as he swung round on his heel and took in the topography of our position at a glance. "A very clear report. Here! you tell the officer commanding the pom-pom to take his gun up on to that rise. And you" (turning to another of his staff), "tell Colonel Washington to send a squadron with the pom-pom! Wait, don't be in a hurry; hear me out, please. Tell him that the squadron is to extend, take the rise at a gallop—dismount just before it reaches the top. Now you may go."
Then turning to the chief of the staff, "Have you got a match? Thanks. Now, tell Freddy[15] to send two of his guns on to that rise south of the dam. Send a troop with him. I will be here with the rest to await developments!"
"Order given, sir!" and the Intelligence officer touched his cap.
"Good. Now you go with the pom-pom. I shall be here; let me know developments. Get along. Don't argue!"
Already the pom-pom is trotting out of the farmhouse enclosure and the squadron of Dragoons extending on the plain beyond. The faces of the gunners are as impassive as if they were about to gallop past at a review. They have been doing this sort of thing for months; it has no novelty for them. But with the Dragoons it is different. This is their first engagement; you can see it in the countenances of the men nearest you. The excitement which whitens men's cheeks and makes every action angular and awkward.
"Second Squadron 20th Dragoon Guards—Gallop!"
"Pom-pom—Gallop!" comes the echo.