With a considerable amount of adroitness, they had succeeded in placing a little river, called the Oued-el-Kebir, between our camp and their own. We were compelled therefore to cross this river, in order to force them to move farther on, and abandon to us the territory that we both coveted.
We had resolved, once our morning’s work was over, to enjoy a much needed repose on our hardly earned mountain; but, towards noon, everybody was on foot, excepting several badly wounded soldiers, and the little group of officers, who had chatted together near the General’s tent the preceding evening, were invited to drink a cup of coffee with him in the most picturesque smoking room that I have ever seen, although the picturesque quality is by no means rare in Algeria.
It was an enclosure walled in by rocks in the shape of heaps of large pennies, arranged side by side, so as to form an amphitheatre, the slope of which permitted us to see, by the aid of our glasses, the new field on which we were soon to operate.
The country, which was beautiful so far as the scenery was concerned, presented no insolvable military problems; it was wooded, but not impenetrable.
We would of course have much preferred not to be separated from the place of attack by a long, serpentine strip of water, which, swollen by the recent melting of the snow, added materially to the defence of our adversaries. It goes without saying that we possessed neither artillery to protect our passage nor boats to effect it. In pursuits such as now occupied us, a train of artillery could only be an encumbrance, and the river which flowed sometimes in a valley, and sometimes between high, steep banks, made it almost a certainty that we should get a thorough wetting before we reached the other side. We knew that the General had sent the necessary men to measure the depth of that barrier of water, and to see if we should have the good luck to find a place for fording it. In default of this, we should be forced to make use of our temporary bridges, but we did not wish to count absolutely on them. In making war, one can usually tell best what to do on the spur of the moment. While waiting for the necessary information to be brought in for making such preparations as were possible, and for the night to come, fully half a day must elapse. The General had thought that crossing at night was less dangerous. Little Jacques, grown up, had no longer a horror of shadows, and even liked to utilize them. When we had considered, found great fault with, and speculated upon the meditated expedition, we returned to our conversation of the preceding night.
The General had had the imprudence to speak to us of two stories; we had heard one; what about the other?
Captain Robert,—the officer with whom the General sometimes quarrelled, perhaps because he felt that he had an especial partiality for him,—being slyly urged on by the rest of us, had the indiscretion to ask him for it.
“Oh, as to that one, my children, you must not insist,” said the General. “It is only a story of childhood, which has none of the qualities which made the other acceptable to grown men. I have no taste for failures,—you will cause me to be guilty of one.”
“General,” replied the obstinate captain, “you have just called us your children, therefore a child’s story is quite suitable for us. It will rejuvenate us. Children are amused by everything, you know, and if by chance your second tale is a trifle more gay than the first, very well,—we shall enjoy it.”