I saw them stagger to their feet, and it was
evident that they were both very drunk. One stood swaying in the
middle of the road.
"It's Boney! So help me, it's Boney!" he yelled. He ran with
his hands out to catch me, but luckily for himself his drunken
feet stumbled and he fell on his face on the road. The other was
more dangerous. He had rushed into the inn, and just as I passed
I saw him run out with his musket in his hand. He dropped upon
one knee, and I stooped forward over my horse's neck.
A single shot from a Prussian or an Austrian is a small matter,
but the British were at that time the best shots in Europe, and
my drunkard seemed steady enough when he had a gun at his
shoulder. I heard the crack, and my horse gave a convulsive
spring which would have unseated many a rider. For an instant I
thought he was killed, but when I turned in my saddle I saw a
stream of blood running down the off hind-quarter. I looked back
at the Englishman, and the brute had bitten the end off another
cartridge and was ramming it into his musket, but before he had
it primed we were beyond his range.
Pages:
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316