"Where are you going! Hey! Scouting? Well scout to the front,
damn you! . . . Where are _you_ going, young man? For ammunition?
Go back to the front or I'll shoot you! Get along there you
malingerers! or, by God, I'll have a squadron of Arran's
pig-stickers ride you down and punch your skins full of holes!
Orderly! Ask Colonel Arran if he can spare me a squad of his
lancers for a few minutes----"
The orderly saluted, coughed up a stream of blood, fell backward
off his horse, scrambled to his feet, terror-stricken, both hands
pressed convulsively over his stomach!
"Damn them! They've got me. General!" he gasped--"they've g-got
me this time! There's a piece of shell inside me as big----"
He leaned weakly against his mild-eyed horse, nauseated; but it was
only a spent ball on his belt plate after all, and a few moments
later, swaying and sickly, he forced his horse into a trot across
the hill.
A major of Claymore's staff galloped with orders to the Zouaves;
but, as he opened his mouth to speak a shell burst behind him, and
he pitched forward on his face, his shattered arm doubling under
him.
"Drag me behind that tree. Colonel Craig!" he said coolly. "I'll
finish my orders in a moment.
Pages:
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439