Throughout the day I had been busily employed. I occasionally carried orders; and the steadiness with which my noble horse faced fire, attested the value of the Empecinado’s present. I had procured at Frenada a very respectable animal, on which to mount Mark Antony; and, to do him justice, the fosterer seemed to follow like a shadow where I went. Just as we crowned the height, General R———— who was leading the column, beckoned to me, and I was directly at his side.
“Gallop back. Tell ————— to launch the cavalry boldly—see!— the French infantry are mobbed, and running!”
I had half wheeled round to convey the order, when, suddenly, my gallant charger gave a convulsive shudder, and sank under me. I sprang from the saddle before he had time to roll over, and called on the fosterer to dismount—made one step to take his horse, and execute the order, when a sharp stroke smote me on the head. All around became confused—memory fled—and for a time I recollected nothing but indistinctly.
When I did recover, I found myself under a small knoll, which sheltered us from ranging shots: the fosterer on one side, a twentieth grenadier on the other; and my excellent and valued friend Peter Grotty, seated on a dead horse, vis-à-vis, and giving orders for my resuscitation.
CHAPTER XXXIX. SAN SEBASTIAN.
“But, hark! that hewy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat;
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!