“By my faith,” said I, “it’s time now that I should return you my compliments for all your civilities, you vagabonds.”
I stooped to take a musket from a dead Russian for my own defence. The piece was a rifle, and it was yet warm in his hand from the last discharge.
“By your leave, my poor fellow,” said I, “I’ll borrow your firelock for a shot or two, seeing that you have no farther use for it at this present time.”
But dead as he was, the last gripe of departing life had made him hold it so fast, that I was obliged to twist it round ere I could make him part with it. I took off his cartridge-box by pulling the belt over his head. He had fired but two cartridges, and eighteen still remained. I loaded and fired twice; and I was just in the act of biting off the end of my third cartridge to fire again, when a musket ball took me in the left cheek, and knocked me over as flat as a sixpence on the ground. The captain of the company looked behind him, and seeing that I was still able to move my hands, he very humanely ordered a file of men to carry me to the rear. They lifted me up from the ground, and the whole world seemed to be going round with me. They supported me under the arms, and I staggered along like a drunk man. They took me to a barn, where I lay insensible for some time, until coming to myself somewhat, as I lay there, I saw two surgeons employed with the wounded. “You will have little trouble with me, gentlemen,” thought I within myself; “I shall be dead before you can get at me.” Just at this moment I heard one of the surgeons say to the other,—
“I believe I shall die of hunger.”
“I am like to faint from absolute want,” said the other.
I could not speak, but I beckoned.
“By and bye,” said one of the surgeons, shaking his head.
“Your turn is not come yet,” said the other.
I beckoned again, and pointed to the wallet at my side.