I looked upon myself then as certain of death, but used every precaution in my power to preserve what little life was left to me as long as possible. I seized two of my dead comrades, for they were thick around me, and with great difficulty dragged myself between them, so as to have some shelter from straggling balls.
I did not remain long in this danger, however, as the enemy, at the second fire from our people, left their ground and galloped out of sight.
I now began to suffer the torments of thirst in addition to my other pains, and called to every one who passed near me for a drink; but from the heat of the day, and the length of the action, their canteens and calabashes were all empty. At last I saw a grenadier of the Swiss guards, whose uniform was very much like ours, with a large calabash, and asked him if he had anything in it. "Yes, brother," he said, mistaking me, I suppose, for a Swiss.
I took a hearty draught of excellent wine and offered it back to him.
"No, no, brother," he said, "I am unhurt and you cannot help yourself," and thereupon he left me.
I was greatly refreshed, and on looking about me saw poor Lieutenant Butler, whom I had not before observed, lying near me on all fours. He was sadly wounded, and begged me in the name of God to let him have a drink. I drew myself a little nearer him, for he could not move, and handed him the calabash. He seized it eagerly and would have certainly finished it, had not I, observing from the horrid nature of his wound it was only a question of minutes till the end, pulled it from him, saying, "It is easy to see, my poor fellow, that your bread is baked. I cannot let you waste this when I may perish for the want of it." It is not that war makes men unfeeling, as many have urged, but in it they attain a judgment in the value of life not so readily acquired elsewhere.
It was now getting towards evening, and I must have fainted or slept somewhat, for the next I remember was feeling what I took to be rain falling, and, on opening my eyes, there was the big face of Father O'Rourke over me. He was crying like a child, and the first words I made out were: "Oh, Giovannini, darling! My poor boy! You're not dead—you're not dead, after all!"
"Who's beaten, Father?" I asked, as soon as I could speak.
"Faith, we're all beaten! First we were smashed into tatters, the King all but taken, and would have been had it not been for Sir Balthasar Nihel. We were beaten at every point of the compass, only we didn't know it! But now we've the town again, and sent General Browne off with a flea in his ear, and all the Croats and Hungarians, Pandours and Talpathians, hot foot after him. But oh, the poor souls that have gone to glory this night! Faith, promotion will be the order of the day now." And all this and much more he gave out, half crying, half laughing.
And there the good man sate, talking his nonsense to keep me up, holding me in his arms covered with his cassock, which he had stripped off when first he found me, in no little danger from the rascally camp-followers and the miserable peasants, who were prowling about ready to put a knife into any one who offered the least resistance. Indeed, the peasants killed, resistance or not; for each soldier dead, no matter what side, they looked on as one enemy the less.